In The Church
the mother sits beside
the daughter as the sermon
of the priests goes on
for an hour or more
the father at the other end
beside a woman with a white face
closes his eyes
dreaming for the moon cohabiting
with the brighter stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Father And Daughter
on a chair father sits
and daughter sits on his lap
mother is away
and father whistles a song
it was a long time
and mother dies earlier
than father
the daughter sets on a sail
far away
no one knows where
but everyone remembers
the talk becomes the official story
of the town
pretending to be happy just like any other
town in our history
the father dies and daughter
comes back
bringing the flowers
she lights a candle
she sheds no tears
poem by Suki Nakamura
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Broken people
I know them from an old photograph-
my father sits on a stump in knickers
stern father by his side
mother in black and white
scattering chicken feed
I remember my father drove us to
the island where he is buried
parked in front of an institution
that reminded me of a prison
a woman in white brought Ann to us
we say her in a hallway
a woman with a placid face
who was somewhere nowhere
he spoke to her in calm tones
she looked beyond
we never met
poem by Walter Durk
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On the First Night
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.
I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
'second sex'
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you 'second'
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my breasts,
growling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.
You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second sex,
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.
poem by Erica Jong
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Nursing You
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.
I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
'second sex'
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you 'second'
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my breasts,
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.
You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second sex,
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.
poem by Erica Jong
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The Daughter Yet Met
sits he a pondering
the years fate has dealt
knowing in his heart there be
a daughter
yet met
mother’s have their plans
bound in unvoiced intentions
reasons in her eyes
he did not see,
needs,
till a future was to be conceived
sits he a pondering
the few words she had spoken,
a puzzle solved after
their last kiss
still, it was her test
the answer be
a daughter
yet met
long red hair has she
like mother’s no doubt,
a wicked smile
a haunting laugh
holding, she the gate keeper,
her mother’s future cast
sits he pondering
does she know of him
a father’s love does she feel,
but even more,
will one day they move
this precious stone
weighing on his heart,
it be the daughter
yet met
(Copyright Steven S. Walsky 2011, all rights reserved.)
poem by Steven S. Walsky
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Nursing You
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.
I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
"second sex"
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you "second"
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my breasts,
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.
You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second sex,
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.
poem by Erica Jong
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Half my father
Half my father
Half my mother
My mother white as a ghost
My father black as coal
In my face the mixture glows
My skin is white
Still I am a black man
By the make of my nose
My hair is curly
My eyes are gray
Within me both if them lives
My mother’s race
Did enslave
My father’s race
Was never paid.
Still within I bare the two
Am O the new American?
My father is white
My mother is Korean
They met during the war
And I was born
Their only son
By my tone of skin
And by my eyes
You can tell
That there is a divide
And by my blonde hair
It is there for you to spy
Am I the new American?
My mother is German
My father polish
I learned three languages
As I grew older
Both of them
Did love me well
And of each country did tell
That I could draw
From each well
Am I the new American?
My father is Chinese
My mother Spanish
Both crossed over the Rio Grand
I am in the make of my father
But I have my mother’s brown skin
Am I the new American?
poem by David E. Patton
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Real Life Tale Of An Ungrateful Daughter
an ungrateful poor daughter blames her father
her mother sad died thirty-two long years ago
her mother did not choose to suffer illness die
was not mother’s fault choice to daughter leave
daughter in bitterness hate life torments father
her father worked two three jobs her education to pay
her poor father said study succeed attend university
she wanted to spend money work in Texas chicken
she married a shiftless dreamer saying play party angles
her father helped raise their two children in his home
she appreciates nothing saved not never to buy her home
she appreciates not years her family lived with her father
she appreciates not her eldest daughter her father raised
this daughter her husband accept no responsibility blame
daughter says if mother were alive life would be different
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Father's Day
Masquerade sits beside
his daughter: white face and
slender body
she looks like a flamenco
that evening
she feeds him some
yakosoba noodles
using the chopsticks
it's father's day and i look at them
with envious pity
at the 39th floor
i look at the city: lively like
stars twinkling
at the ground
inside is the sound of emptiness
hissing like a snake whose tail is cut
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Old Woman And Her Loyal Maid
the old woman is very rich
she has two children, a lovely daughter and a very naughty son
the lovely daughter dislikes her
and the naughty son wants to kill her
she slaps her often and the more the daughter wants to go away from her
the son is disturbed and furious because he did not know his father enough
the daughter married a gentle man
and the son went away with no know address no known destination
he never came back
while she lives her own life away from the rich woman
the old woman has a loyal maid
who has no memory of humiliating words that the old woman more often
inflicts in her person
the old woman is dying
but the son and daughter have no respect anymore for such word
as mother.
meanwhile the loyal maid keeps swallowing the pesters of the old woman
expecting a part of the wealth
as her pay and legacy
well, this story cannot have an ending yet
the old woman is still alive and the son and daughter are still making up
their minds
what to do next.
Life is a comma. The ending always waits
for something that will be a happy one.
But who knows, except this one, something tragic may happen
at the end. Who knows?
I will for sure.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Women
This world is, because of the woman
this universe is, because of the woman
nothing exists without the woman
our existence is, because of the woman.
Why being a woman then
should be humiliation?
Why a woman then
should face indignation?
always the woman becomes the prey...?
always the woman has no say.....?
The woman is a mother, also a mother–in-law
the woman is a sister, also a sister-in-law
the woman has many roles to play
a daughter-in-law perfects that night & day.
Why then a woman does
torture another woman?
Why does a ma-in-law
torches a daughter in-law?
Why does a woman destroy another’s world?
Why does jealousy overcomes a sister-in-law?
In the woman, power is manifest,
yet she is unaware and that is a jest.
she becomes Durga when in rage
telling everyone, she is no sage
the woman is where, awakening is there
her absence creates crematoriums everywhere.
Why do then a woman abhor the birth of a female?
Wants a child, whose gender is male?
the male is indebted to her for the courage and life
yet no rewards for the woman, her entire life.
This is the story of the woman, full of anguish
Plight of a woman is because of another’s wish
Exploitation of the woman could not have taken place
Had a woman given the other a little more space.
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Father Daughter Moments
My daughter said something the other day
We were sitting on the front steps, talking
Someone wanted to enter the building, she stood up and said 'we're just having a father daughter moment'
My daughter is still young, only 27
And hearing her say that, my heart swelled with pride
She still wants to have moments with her father
My adult daughter still needed me
So much is said about the mother-daughter bond
But there's an even stronger bond between a father and a daughter
No matter how old she is, she's still daddy's little girl
And he always wants to be there for her
Father daughter moments last a lifetime
From playground accidents to a broken heart
You do your best to help her pain go away
Because when she's in pain, you are too
poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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My Father’s Son
Once
when I was still a baby boy
obsessed, thrilled with dark night sky
father said, shut your eyes tightly
then sailed I into dark night sky
dreaming of my arms
dipping in deep, dark-blue velvety
palpating golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatching twinkling stars.
But
i fell like lead
just before hard ground
to my father’s arms- veinated, calloused
his chirped nails safely grabbed
then
i opened my eyes
stretching my empty arms, pink nails
for a earnest glimpse of
a dip of deep, dark-blue velvety
golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatched twinkling stars.
and I felt sad.
Then-
father buried his head on my nape
his grizzly beard tickling my face
making little ‘blurp’ ‘blurp’ sounds
my shrill laughter
accosting his deep throaty laughter
echoing my disappointment into dark night sky
before sailing me into dark night sky
back to his rough-gentle arms
again
again
and again
to dip in deep, dark-blue velvety
palpate golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatching twinkling stars.
“Drink all Ma’s omena* soup
to be taller, reach the dark night sky”
father said, following my gaze
into the dark night sky
static radio bleating reggae
golden full moon bathing us in golden sheen
just me and my father
sleeping in his rough-gentle arms
dreaming of my arms
dipping in deep, dark-blue velvety
palpating golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatching twinkling stars
poem by Manuel Odeny
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A Fourtunate Father With His New Daughter, -Dedicated To Joyce Loba Flores. by Ray Subrata
The unquenched thirst,
Of Father, for daughter’s love,
Fountains with a call, -Baba,
From a voice of distant land,
While I am in India, my daughter,
In the farthest Philippines stands.
The face of youngest daughter Hamma,
Appears in Jhoy Loba’s image,
I send her a request, and wait.
‘Good evening sir, its my pleasure ‘
‘Thank you sweet little daughter like friend’,
And my psychic lingered willing suspense.
‘It is my pleasure Baba’, -came the message,
Moment made eternity, opening a father’s passage ‘
I felt a touch, as soothing as much,
From the voice of my new daughter,
A flower divine, by nature shines,
By her beauty in my Father’s bower!
The Father in Man remains hidden,
And it opens with a daughter’s call,
It is more than a glory to a Man,
As in the daughter, -the mother resembles!
poem by Bazi alis Subrata Ray
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The Shadow-Child
Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother?
Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?
Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,
And rumble-grumble ever.
Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother,
While sunshine children are at play?
And must I work forever?
Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Your hands must pick the threads away,
And feel the sunshine never.
Why do the birds sing in the sun,
Mother, mother,
If all day long I run and run,
Run with the wheels forever?
The birds may sing till day is done,
Daughter, little daughter,
But with the- wheels your feet must run—
Run with the wheels forever.
Why do I feel so tired each night,
Mother, mother?
The wheels are always buzzing bright;
Do they grow sleepy never?
Oh, baby thing, so soft and white,
Daughter, little daughter,
The big wheels grind us in their might,
And they will grind forever.
And is the white thread never spun,
Mother, mother?
And is the white cloth never done,
For you and me done never?
Oh yes, our thread will all be spun,
Daughter, little daughter,
When we lie down out in the sun,
And work no more forever.
And when will come that happy day,
Mother, mother?
Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play
Out in the sun forever?
Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Where green grass grows and roses gay,
There in the sun forever.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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License To Kill
Man thinks 'cause he rules the earth he can do with it as he please
And if things don't change soon, he will.
'Cause man has invented his doom,
The first step was touching the moon.
Now, there's a woman on my block,
She just sits there as the night gets still.
She says who will take away his license to kill?
Now, they take him and they teach him and they groom him for life
And they set him on a path where he's bound to get ill,
And they bury him with stars,
Sell his body like they do used cars.
But there's a woman on my block,
She just sits there facin' the hill.
She says who will take away his license to kill?
Now, he's hell-bent for destruction, he's afraid and confused,
And his brain has been mismanaged with great skill.
Until all he believes are his eyes
And his eyes just tell him lies.
But there's a woman on my block,
Sitting there in a cold chill.
She says who will take away his license to kill?
Now he worships at an altar of a stagnant pool
And when he sees his reflection, he's fulfilled.
Oh, man wants it all his own way,
And he is opposed to fair play.
But there's a woman on my block,
She just sits there as the night grows still.
She say who will take away his license to kill?
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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License To Kill
Man thinks 'cause he rules the earth he can do with it as he please
And if things don't change soon, he will.
'Cause man has invented his doom,
The first step was touching the moon.
Now, there's a woman on my block,
She just sits there as the night gets still.
She says who will take away his license to kill?
Now, they take him and they teach him and they groom him for life
And they set him on a path where he's bound to get ill,
And they bury him with stars,
Sell his body like they do used cars.
But there's a woman on my block,
She just sits there facin' the hill.
She says who will take away his license to kill?
Now, he's hell-bent for destruction, he's afraid and confused,
And his brain has been mismanaged with great skill.
Until all he believes are his eyes
And his eyes just tell him lies.
But there's a woman on my block,
Sitting there in a cold chill.
She says who will take away his license to kill?
Now he worships at an altar of a stagnant pool
And when he sees his reflection, he's fulfilled.
Oh, man wants it all his own way,
And he is opposed to fair play.
But there's a woman on my block,
She just sits there as the night grows still.
She say who will take away his license to kill?
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Was The Child of The Night
I was the child of the night
Dark is my father
The moon is my mother
Star of stars was my sister
I was the child of the night
My father is a symbol of fear and helplessness
My mom is the charm
My sister is the beauty of the night
I was the child of night who afraid of the dark night
Mom, please tell to father i would not like the darkness
But my mother said, need not be afraid, my daughter, my light will always protect you from the dark night.
I always give you a glimmer of light in the darkness.
And see your sister, she was very beautiful among the dark of night.
My daughter, the darkness is tranquility.
Many people would like stay in it although it will make them are scared and helpless because
They are find peace in the darkness.
Mother and Daughter Love
Mother and daughter love can be so fun...
A mother should love her daughter at all time
A mother have connection with her daughter
A daughter should love there mother with in and with out
A daughter should talk to her about anything with each other
A mother and daughter should love each other
That what some people call mother and daughter love.....
poem by Valentine White
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My Real Goddess
Today my mother
Came to my house
With lots of blessing
And full of good wishing
To live long
Happy and healthy
Progressive and wealthy
My mother
My sweet mother
My beautiful mother
My loving mother
My real goddess
My ever goodness
My first lady I loved
My life my mother
My soul my mother
My God-gift my mother
My pride my mother
My aim my mother
My teacher my mother
My friend my mother
My preacher my mother
My daughter's face look-like my mother
My daughter my little mother
O the Absolute Almighty
Give me my mother
Again and again
And again and again
My mother
Only my mother.
poem by Dr. P. K. Verma
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