The Other Brother
It was a hot day in the field
when, returning at last
bone-tired, sore from
tending your stiff-necked flock,
I saw bonfires,
extravagant blazes lighting
the way to our house,
but not for me
home late from
work,
so I asked your servant
“why such celebration? ”
That’s when my anger exploded;
…poor fellow, he bore my rage
and yelping away
cried it wasn’t his fault!
No, it wasn’t.
It isn’t.
It’s You.
You ask me to obey
and obediently I honor you every day.
With sweat and callused hands,
I cajole this stingy land
to give up a little wheat.
With my blood
I water these fields;
but when I wanted to show
my friends a little generosity,
I asked you for a stingy goat,
a meager feast, and
you said “no.”
So here he is, come home at last,
profligate brother…prodigal,
wastrel, drunkard,
sinner!
He’s back
and suddenly the prize calf
I worked so hard to make so fat is slain,
a royal feast for your favorite son
(though somewhat late) come home again!
But,
as always
my anger fades
in the glow of your summer love.
I don’t like this!
but you tell me
that your love does not diminish
but increases with the giving…
and, after all,
it is not every day that one’s brother
is to life recalled.
So for you, Father,
I’ll look him in the eye
and let him back
into my life.
poem by Steven Federle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Take Me Home Oh Father
Take me home oh Father, take me home,
For I've wandered this land You made alone.
No one understood of what I am,
Wasn't loved it seemed by beast or man.
Take me home oh Father, take me home,
My lifes' work seems over for me now.
I have done all You have asked of me,
Oh Dear Father do You hear my plea?
Take me home oh Father, take me home,
The pain is more than one can bare.
Take me home oh Father take me home,
To a place You promised if You care.
Take me home oh Father if You would,
For all my life I've tried to do what's good.
Take me home oh Father my life is done,
All has ended please now take me to Your Son.
poem by Linda Winchell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On A Seven-Day Diary
Oh I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and talked and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and watched a show and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate steak and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and fucked and went to sleep.
Then it was Saturday, Saturday, Saturday!
Love must be the reason for the week!
We went shopping! I saw clouds!
The children explained everything!
I could talk about the main thing!
What did I drink on Saturday night
that lost the first, best half of Sunday?
The last half wasn't worth this 'word.'
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and went to sleep,
refreshed but tired by the weekend.
poem by Alan Dugan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Back Home
Yeah yeah yeah
Well Im going back this summer to ohio
Im gonna seek out all my friends Ive always known
Im goin back to that farm that I remember
Well Im goin to spend this summer back home
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Back home (back home)
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Back home (back home)
Im gonna get up every morning before the roosters
Ill run downstairs fix my breakfast all alone
Ill milk those cows feed the chickens and the horses
Well Im gonna spend this summer back home
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Back home (back home)
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Back home (back home)
Ill eat everything that ma puts on the table
When I get back you wont believe how Ive grown
Ill hit the sack early everynight thinkin bout tomorrow whoa oh
Well Im gonna spend this summer back home
Back home, back home, back home
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Thats what Im gonna do thats where Im gonna be, thats this summer
Back home (back home)
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Gonna get up, gonna get up, gonna get up every morning
Back home (back home)
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Hey woo feels okay back home
Back home (back home)
Back home (back home, back home, back home)
Ill spend my summer (back home)
Back home
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
My aunt gave me a turkey to give to my brother who
lived in the neighbouring town, I cooked the fowl first
to stop it going bad and put it in a bag, went down to
the post office to send it, but the place had closed for
the day. Took the bus to my brother’s town, but when
arriving I had forgotten his address, asked the doorman
at a hotel, who new my brother, to show me the way,
only to find when we got there that I had left the bag
on the bus. Got lost trying to find the bus terminal,
I didn’t know brother’s phone number I also resented
the fact that aunt had given him the bird because he
was the oldest, leaving me with all the work, so I got
fed up and left; but I couldn’t get home as no bus was
going my way. Down at the docks there was a steamer
ready to sail for Djibouti, with a cargo of frozen turkey
for the presidential army, she needed a cook, so I sign
on, but did sent brother a cable telling him where his
turkey was. Too late, the bus driver, since no one had
claimed it, took the bird home and had a feast.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Home is where our bed is
We can fight all we want
You may even call me names
Telling me how much you hate me
But home is where our bed is
Home is where you forgive me
Home is where i let go of all the pain
Home is where we come to
When we show all our love
You can tell me how stupid i was
I can even show you all my anger
I can vent thru you
And you will feel like walking away
But home is where our bed is
And our bed we most come to
There i will tell you how sorry i was
And there you will forgive without no holding back
You can tell your friend
How bad I've treated you
You can even make some up
And they find it hard to forgive me
But baby home is where our bed is
Home is where you take my crip and still says i love you this man
Home is where you tell your friends that they are wrong
Home is where you tell them all to go to hell
Home Is where we wake up to
Home Is where you forgive
Home Is where you don't sleep 0n me baby
Home Is where our heart is
H0me is where all doors are closed!
Curtains are drawn!
Blinds are shielded! And 'its just you and me
Home is where you forgive no matter how big the sin is
Cause home is love
And i love you!
poem by Hontonnu Dominic
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John Robinson
AIR -- "The Drunkard"
Come listen, friends, and hear a song,
It is a doleful one,
About a young man, dead and gone --
He died far away from home.
John Robinson this young man's name,
His age I cannot tell,
And he was loved by all his friends,
And he was known full well.
His father and mother being dead,
It left him an orphan boy,
When he was with his brother
His health failed him, poor boy.
Kind friends they thought 'twould do him good
To travel for his health;
To California he did go
With his Uncle Zera French.
He was not gone but a short time
When a letter his friends received;
It told how homesick Johnny was,
How he for home did grieve.
It said that he was getting worse,
And his money was nearly gone,
And if he did not soon return
Never more would he see home.
It said, "Dear Brother, will you please
Some money to me send,
For I fear I have not got enough
To bring me back again.
The doctor says I must soon return,
If I wish my home to see,
For if I stay my life is short,
For the air disagrees with me."
His brother Will the letter read,
It made his eyes grow dim.
"Dear brother, he shall soon return,
For I will go and fetch him."
This brother dear was very kind;
With money, he went with haste
For to bring him home again,
But Oh! he went too late.
For he was sick, and very bad --
Poor boy, he thought, no doubt,
If he came home in a smoking car
His money would hold out.
He started to come back alone --
He came one-third the way --
One evening in the car alone
His spirit fled away.
No friend was near to speak to him,
Or hear his dying moan;
How sad, how sad it must have been
To die there all alone;
No loving friends to soothe his brow,
Or ease his weary form;
Poor soul, poor soul is now at rest,
For his soul to heaven has gone.
Telegraph dispatch was sent his friends --
How sad were they to hear --
How their loved one died all alone,
In a car with no one near.
The brother brought his body home
To his friends that loved him best.
He's sleeping in their grave yard now
Let peace be e'er his rest.
poem by Julia A Moore
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J32 The Parables 5
“I’m going out, Father,
Give me my property-share,
For I wish to seek my fortune
Abroad, ” said his second son.
His property, he sold
For a value in gold,
And took his journey
Into a far away country
All his gold had been spent.
He was thrown in wants,
With his riotous living
And no support coming.
His search for job went in vain
As a servant, he fed swine.
The swine’s husk food, he ate,
In repentance, he cursed his fate.
He recalled those days bygone,
When his servants, one by one,
Stood before him with folded hands
And obeyed all his commands.
Realizing his sin against heaven,
He wished to go back again
As a servant, not as a son,
And seek his father’s pardon,
As he went out in quarrel,
He now lost his rights moral
So, he went to the farmhouse
To be a servant of that house.
Seeing his homecoming,
His father went running.
He hugged him tightly
And kissed him fondly.
”I’ve sinned against Heaven,
I’m unworthy to be your son.
Forgive my sin, ” cried the son,
“As a servant please take me in.”
His words, father ignored
And orders then he issued
“Give my son the best robes,
A gold ring and new shoes.”
For him, he held a grand feast,
And a calf cooked, the one fattest,
Everyone enjoyed the treat,
And said that was the one finest.
“A dead son came alive again.
He was lost and found again.”
Like this, he welcomed his son,
Whose love again he had won.
When the elder son came,
His servant then told him
Everything that happened,
On which, he became displeased.
In anger, he stood outside,
And refused to come inside.
He said, “I’m a loyal son, yet a feast,
Similar one, I never had in the past.”
“My son, with me you stayed long,
All that’s mine, to you they belong.
My dead son has come now.
My lost son is found now.”
“You join us in this grand meet
You give him this welcome-treat,
Let us forgive and forget
What he did, as he knew not.”
poem by Simple Simon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Prodigal Son
Afflictions, though they seem severe;
In mercy oft are sent;
They stopped the prodigal's career,
And forced him to repent.
Although he no relentings felt
Till he had spent his store;
His stubborn heart began to melt
When famine pinched him sore.
What have I gained by sin, he said,
But hunger, shame, and fear;
My father's house abounds with bread,
While I am starving here.
I'll go, and tell him all I've done,
And fall before his face
Unworthy to be called his son,
I'll seek a servant's place.
His father saw him coming back,
He saw, and ran, and smiled;
And threw his arms around the neck
Of his rebellious child.
Father, I've sinned - but O forgive!
I've heard enough, he said,
Rejoice my house, my son's alive,
For whom I mourned as dead.
Now let the fatted calf be slain,
And spread the news around;
My son was dead, but lives again,
Was lost, but now is found.
'Tis thus the Lord his love reveals,
To call poor sinners home;
More than a father's love he feels,
And welcomes all that come.
poem by John Newton
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Cotton Fields
When i was a little bitty baby
My mama done rock me in the cradle
In them old cotton fields back home
It was back in louisiana
Just about a mile from texarkana
In them old cotton fields back home
Let me tell you now well got me in a fix
I caught a nail in my tire doing lickitey splits
I had to walk a long long way to town
Came upon a nice old man well he had a hat on
Wait a minute mister can you give me some directions
I gonna want to be right off for home
Don't care if them cotton balls get rotten
When i got you baby, who needs cotton
In them old cotton fields back home
Brother only one thing more that's gonna warm you
A summer's day out in california
It's gonna be those cotton fields back home
It was back in louisiana
Just about a mile from texarkana
Give me them cotton fields
(it was back in louisiana)
Let me hear it for the cotton fields
(just about a mile from texarkana)
You know that there's just no place like home
Well boy it sure feels good to breathe the air back home
You shoulda seen their faces when they seen how i grown
In them old cotton fields back home
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Wasn't Enough
It Wasn't Enough
It wasn't enough [x3]
I will try to believe in the things I cannot see
But my faith is shaking now like it's never been before
When I call
And you don't come
I don't know what I should do
Should I call?
Should I even count on you?
I'm giving all I can
It wasn't enough
To keep you in my hands
Should I give up?
I try to understand
Was it ever enough?
I don't understand
So here I am once again
With my back against the wall
Afraid to show you
Afraid to tell you
I don't know you like I did
I've never been so alone
I've never felt so insecure
And now I don't know where I'm going
In my life I'm not so sure
I'm giving all I can
It wasn't enough
To keep you in my hands
Should I give up?
I try to understand
Was it ever enough?
I don't understand
Giving up tonight
I won't let go
Won't let go of you
Giving up tonight
I wanna show you
Wanna show you
Am I giving up?
Giving up
I don't wanna give this up
I won't
[Chorus]
Everything you want from me
I fought so hard for everything
Everything you want from me
I tried so hard could never be
Anything you want from me
Anything you want from me
I gave it all
song performed by by Good Charlotte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'll Be Back
Messages come, and make us suffer
A letter comes, and keeps on asking…
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty
The one's I trust
A form of rose
Has written me this letter
And has asked me
Someone's breaths, Someone's heartbeat
Someone's desires, Someone's smile
Someone's dull mornings, sleepy evenings
Lonely nights, unsaid words
Longing arms
And have asked her
Longing eyes
That...
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty
The ones with love
My best friends
Have wrote and asked me
My village, my people
Old trees, White clouds
Green grass, my soil
My celebrations, my religion
My farms, my land
My parents and
My wife has asked
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this country is lonely and empty
Sometimes a motherly river's letter comes by
And brings along
My childhood days, my games in the backyard
My mother's support, being protected
My mother's lullaby, the softness of her hands
The desire in the eyes, the worries in her words
Hard on the outside, Lovely from the inside
Acts my mom
And asks me in each letter
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you my lap is empty
Hey the passing wind tell me
Will u please do a little favor for me?
Go to my state and salute to my friends
In that state there's a road
Where my wife and kids live
Just tell them that I love them
Just tell them that I love them
Further down that road
Is my old mother
Just touch her feet and
Say my name in her ear
Hey the passing wind
Just to my friends
My wife and kids,
And my old mother
Send them this message
And tell them that…
I will come home
I will come home
The promise I made to…
My soil
To its colorful nature
To my mother lap
To my blossomed flowers
And to someone's heart…
I will fulfill it
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
poem by Kiara Davar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My parents took an interest in nothing, at home no books, no records. My mother and my father are the emblem of indifference, dryness and bad taste. My father is also terribly stingy, in life as well as in feelings: I have never seen him filling up the bathtub. To save, he used to put the water 4 inches from the bottom. At home everything was ugly, casual, lacking in love, from furniture to clothes, to behaviors...
quote by Vincent Gallo
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Alive And Killing
I once knew this boy
Who was in his teens,
A dog tag around his neck
A pair of low waist jeans
A ragged shirt, streaked hair
Branded shoes, the thuggish stare
It all fitted him very well
Yet his darkest secret he would never tell.
There was one little piece
The jigsaw was missing
That one thing that seemed out of place
That one thing that didn't fit in.
He had everything,
Yet he seemed depressed
'Is it your marks? Your studies? '
'Why are you looking so stressed? '
His parents would give him
Everything he needed and more
Yet his wasn’t as bright
As the clothes he wore
He was always missing from class and home alike
No one knew where he went
Except his little brother
He had followed him that day
To see where he went alone
He followed him to a house
He followed him back home
He saw what his brother did
He saw his brothers near death
He knew he had to stop him
He would fight till his final breath
Seven years of mystery
Was uncovered that day
But only his brother knew
When his motionless brother lay
His brother was dead
Dead of drugs
That seventeen year old
Had been dealing with thugs
The brother didn’t reveal
The information he had
He knew his brother wasn’t the only one
What he knew was driving him mad
He was going to do something
About these killing things
Going to take action
Going to spread out his wings
He was only thirteen
What could he do?
Nothing was in his hands
That he knew
Then he decided to take his stand
For his brothers sake and all like him
He knew what power lay in his hands
He knew how he could inspire a change
He knew precisely what he had to do
He walked to his brother’s room
And picked up his pen
And with a firm mind
And an urge to make a difference
He began to write....
Alive and killing.
poem by Abhishek Vishwanathan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wild Montana Skies
(john denver)
He was born in the bitteroot valley in the early morning rain
Wild geese over the water, heading north and home again
Bringin a warm wind from the south, bringin
The first taste of the spring
His mother took him to her breast and softly she did sing:
Oh, montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
His mother died that summer and he never learned to cry
He never knew his father and he never did ask why
He never knew the answers that would make an easy way
But he learned to know the wilderness and to be a man that way
His mothers brother took him in to his family and his home
Gave him a hand that he could lean on and a strength to call his own
And he learned to be a farmer and he learned to love the land
And he learned to read the seasons and he learned to make a stand
On the eve of his 21st birthday, he set out on his own
He was 30 years and runnin when he found his way back home
Ridin a storm across the mountains and an achin in his heart
Said he came to turn the pages and to make a brand new start
Now he never told the story of the time that he was gone
Some say he was a lawyer, some say he was a john
There was something in the city that he said he couldnt breathe
There was something in the country that he said he couldnt leave
Now some say he was crazy and some are glad hes gone
But some of us will miss him and well try to carry on
Giving a voice to the forest, giving a voice to the dawn
Giving a voice to the wilderness and the land that he lived on
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wild Montana Skies (feat. John Denver)
(John Denver)
He was born in the Bitteroot Valley in the early morning rain
Wild geese over the water, heading north and home again
Bringin' a warm wind from the south, bringin'
the first taste of the spring
His mother took him to her breast and softly she did sing:
Oh, Montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild Montana skies
His mother died that summer and he never learned to cry
He never knew his father and he never did ask why
He never knew the answers that would make an easy way
But he learned to know the wilderness and to be a man that way
His mother's brother took him in to his family and his home
Gave him a hand that he could lean on and a strength to call his own
And he learned to be a farmer and he learned to love the land
And he learned to read the seasons and he learned to make a stand
On the eve of his 21st birthday, he set out on his own
He was 30 years and runnin' when he found his way back home
Ridin' a storm across the mountains and an achin' in his heart
Said he came to turn the pages and to make a brand new start
Now he never told the story of the time that he was gone
Some say he was a lawyer, some say he was a john
There was something in the city that he said he couldn't breathe
There was something in the country that he said he couldn't leave
Now some say he was crazy and some are glad he's gone
But some of us will miss him and we'll try to carry on
Giving a voice to the forest, giving a voice to the dawn
Giving a voice to the wilderness and the land that he lived on
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come Back Home!
Come back Father!
come back Home!
see your daughter
come back home
request is long,
though words are meager,
heart is tired,
eyes are eager,
to see you again
but cannot find
a single glimpse of your face
full of grace...
O! kind and tender!
come back home...
with your image
dreams are pregnant
dreams are rich
but inadequate,
for this craving heart.
i have portraits of your figure fine
but these photos are unkind.
they don't let
your tender hands
reach my head.
so come back home...
why don't you hear
my mute cries...?
tho' these are knocking
upon the higher skies.
don't you know
that in my heart
your memory lies.
my anxious soul
and silent sighs
call you Father
come back Home...
see your daughter
come back Home...
poem by Shahzia Batool
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Come Back to the Farm!
Brother, come back! come back!
Dear brother, what can be the charm,
That holds you so strong -- that keeps you so long
Away from your father's able farm?
Poor Father, he tells how he needs you --
And would it be more than is due.
His labors to share, his burdens to bear,
Who once bore your burdens for you!
'Tis the voice of your sister -- she calls you,
In tones both of love and alarm!
"By dead mother's prayers -- by father's gray hairs --
Dear brother, come back to the farm."
Father, tho' years ago
The ablest and strongest of men,
Is failing at last -- you know he has past
The milestone of three-score and ten.
He's feeble, he's trembling, he's lonely,
Who once was so fearless and brave;
Yet you are away, while day after day
He totters on down to the grave.
Come from the wide, wide world,
Where dangers and perile abound!
Oh how can you roam so far from your home,
Where safety and comfort are found?
Come bring us the light of your presence,
Come give us the strength of your arm;
That we may once more see joy, as of yore,
Sit smiling upon the old farm.
poem by Henry Clay Work
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Back Where It’s At
Too many a day I’ve travelled
thinking there was a pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow.
That the farthest fields were
greener than my own,
but the myths I’ve followed
have disappeared like ripples on water
and now I’m heading home.
I’m going back where it’s at,
where the fires warm glow
eases the tired brow.
Back where it’s at,
a loving, loving home,
back where friends are friends
and neighbours help one another.
Back to the bosom of my family,
back where it’s at.
(1 August 1995)
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Holiday
The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.
The Husband
Impossible! You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.
The Wife
The feast will be like Hamlet
Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack –
The love-light in your eye.
The Husband
Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.
The Wife (turning)
He does not mean to wound me,
I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
And frighten care away!
Tho’ poor my lot in some small cot
That were a holiday.
The Husband (musing)
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex –
Zounds! but ‘tis difficult to please the sex.
I’ve housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Thoughts on an Old Man at Work
Late one evening, I sat in my car - outside a fast food joint.
Outside, there was a silver-haired old man in a white button-down shirt and a black apron washing windows - and I couldn't help but stare.
What was an old man like him doing washing windows at a crumby fast food joint?
The man looked to be in his sixties, but his hard hands and wrinkled grimace added ten years. My guess was he wasn't there for a sense of purpose.
My mind began to wonder
Had the old man fallen upon hard times? Was he struggling to make ends meet?
Was the harsh look smeared across his face his way of letting me know that he'd rather be sitting in his backyard sipping whisky and smoking a cigar?
Horrible visions of shattered dreams come to mind.
For a moment I slip into his apron.
My back hurts from being hunched over all day - and my hands are sore from gripping the wiper.
A good life can only get so bad
Where do I go from here?
I snap out of my daze when my brother opens the car door.
I get to drive home and away from this place - and if I wanted too, I'd never have to come back
But the old man couldn't be so lucky
Youth is the single most unappreciated gift
poem by C.S. Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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