En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Our Nephew Thomas

Our nephew Thomas Duggan died at twenty three
And he is one I'll never meet or see
For he is one i never met before
And he is at rest now forever more
In distant Chicago in the U S A
From where i live a half a World away
His loss to his family time can only heal
My late brother John's son he has one brother Neil
I met his mother Nancy years ago
A lovely lady this for her a tragic blow
A devoted mother and to John a loving wife
She has a heavy cross to bear in life
He died in an accident in April of this year
Such sad news one would rather not to hear.

poem by Francis Duggan
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On Hearing Of The Death Of Kevin Hickey

Sad news a news that travels far and wide
And I was told of how young Kevin Hickey died
On the Shannaknock road of his car he lost control
And the reaper claimed his body not his soul.

He was pre-deceased by his Mother Kathleen
And his better days in life he had not seen
And his father John is left to bear sorrow's cross
And grieve the tragedy of his heart-breaking loss.

And though the accident that claimed young Kevin's life happened a few years ago
The scars of grief to heal are always slow
And the pain at the loss of his son in such a tragic way
With John Hickey till his own end will stay.

At the spot where Kevin died John erected a grotto as a memorial to his son
And it would seem that is as much as anyone could have done
To honour some one that they loved so dear
Such stories of love are heartening to hear.

I have heard of how young Kevin Hickey died
And such sad news does travel far and wide
And his remains will rest in peace forever more
But his soul lives on the soul has wings to soar.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Our Brother John

He left Ireland in nineteen fifty two
Our brother John the man I barely knew
He was the eldest of the family
And the Homeland he was never more to see.

In life our brother John he journeyed far
He lived through peace time and he lived through war
In Korea with the Air Force of the U.S.A.
Far distant from the fields of Claraghatlea.

One of my sisters Mary wrote to me
She said our brother died with dignity
In death as in his life he showed his bravery
And at least now of his sufferings he's free.

Our brother John left two sons and a wife
And he worked hard all of his working life
Only in his sixties he seemed young to die
He was my hero when I was a boy.

From Millstreet thousands of sea miles away
Our brother John in a distant graveyard lay
And though I'd not seen him for more than thirty years
The news of his passing reduced me to tears.

He was the quiet man never spoke too loud
And of our brother John we felt so proud
In his death from his sufferings he found his release
And may he rest forevermore in peace.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Another Young Soldier

Another young soldier has died far away
An army representative will call on his mother today
For to tell her your son on the course of his duty has died
He served and died for his Country with his mates at his side.

Another war mother will grieve for her son
It will not matter to her if the battle was won
And it will not matter to her if her boy died brave
She will weep every time she will visit his grave.

Another young soldier to join the war dead
A bullet from a sniper hit him in the head
On his next birthday in June he would be twenty three
His loss a heavy cross to bear for his parents and members of his family.

Another young soldier may he rest in peace
At least from further suffering he has found release
Just one more to die in another man's war
On a bombed out back street in a city afar.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Torturous

In April - quite some time ago - her
mother died in a sea of flames, but
the wound is still raw, she cannot
forget how little time they spent
together

In April last year her partner died in an
accident that left her knee injured for
life; this April brought the death of his
mother also - my child, the only thing
left is trying to

Load the dice on your behalf, impossible
to know the cause of your torturous route
through a tragic life - by visualising future
happiness in meditation, I'm trying to
enlist the help

Of universal forces and love - to attract more
prosperity and joy for you; take shelter with
us as a safe refuge - start to focus on visions
that will lead to fulfilment of dreams…

****************************** ***

Carine's partner Nico died on 29 April 2011
and we have received word that his mother,
Katinka, died this morning 4 April 2012 -
and Carine's own mother Leonie also died
in April quite a few years ago - April has
become such a scary month for her; the
only recourse left for her stepmother is
to pray for her future happiness…

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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He Was My Brother

He was my brother
Five years older than I
He was my brother
Twenty-three Years old the day he died
Freedom writer
They cursed my brother to his face
Go home outsider
This town's gonna be your buryin' place
He was singin' on his knees
An angry mob trailed along
They shot my brother dead
Because he hated what was wrong
He was my brother
Tears can't bnng him back to me
He was my brother
And he died so his brothers could be free
He died so his brothers could be free

song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He Was My Brother

He was my brother
Five years older than I
He was my brother
Twenty-three years old the day he died
Freedom writer
They cursed my brother to his face
Go home outsider
This town's gonna be your buryin' place
He was singin' on his knees
An angry mob trailed along
They shot my brother dead
Because he hated what was wrong
He was my brother
Tears can't bring him back to me
He was my brother
And he died so his brothers could be free
He died so his brothers could be free

song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For Bill - My Brother

Who was aged five when I was born
My brother
Who hid my toys and broke my dolls
My brother
Who avoided his sister at school all day
My brother
Who tolerated my teenage years
My brother
Who as an adult became a friend
My brother
Who mellowed with each passing year
My brother
Who supported my desire to immigrate
My brother
Who was there when others weren't
My brother
Who buried our parents while I was gone
My brother
Who cherished every visit I made
My brother
Who had his ticket to visit me here
My brother
Who unexpectedly died this year
My brother

poem by Evelyn Macdonald
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Louis

He speaks with a very strong accent though his English seems quite good to me
The man from the fishing Village in Malta by the Mediterranean sea
He likes to go rod and line fishing and cast his line from rocks on the shore
In the low tide in the early evening he fishes for two hours or more.

Louis is a likeable old fellow he looks quite well for eighty two
Though his life has never been easy and his sorrows he has been through
He does his best for to keep active he tends his garden every day
And nothing in life to him has come easy his gray hair he has earned one might say.

His wife Rina died in her mid sixties going back some fifteen years ago
She was suffering from stomach cancer her end it was painful and slow
For four decades they were together and he loved her his devoted wife
The final parting for him was heartbreaking though he still got on with his life.

Their only child Paul died in Vietnam in the sixties their cross of grief heavy to bear
A handsome young man in his early twenties with brown eyes and wavy brown hair
His comrades tell of how he died bravely but that of little comfort to them
Their son's loss to them was heartbreaking and for many years they grieved for him.

Louis lives in his seaside cottage with Blue his dog a Kelpie x Heeler cross
And though the death of his son and then his wife to him was a heartbreaking loss
He still gets on with life and with living and he goes fishing every second day
And it can be truly said of him that he has earned his hair of gray.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Lie

For William Verdun Harris
My late brother.

It started years before I was born,
but the lie came into being after.
I knew nothing of it, why should I?
You never question your parents,
what they tell you, you believe.

Therefore, the lie grew and grew
as years folded into one another.
The lie became accepted as the truth.
Its hurt would not be felt
before four score and more had passed.

A Christmas card with a note from an Aunt.
Your half brother Bill would love to hear from you.
Half brother? I have no half brother.
He is your adopted brother
and my adopted uncle, so I was told.

No, he is your half brother.
I investigated what was said.
Soon the truth of the lie was revealed.
The lie had split two brothers,
to the other sides of the world.

Through urgent phone calls, I found him.
I had to see him, too many years had passed.
Who knows how long we had?
Travel plans were made,
the journey was now set.

After forty-two years, we came face to face.
Hug, tears and a family get together.
Those lost faces from the other side of the world.
We talked and talked into the night,
so much to learn and so little time.

Two weeks went quick and we parted again.
The telephone a communication line,
but how do you make up so many years,
with such little time?
The answer is you don’t.

The next year we extended our visit,
but still it wasn’t long enough.
We would never get another year,
within months my brother was gone,
and for months, I missed his calls.

But the lie was never retracted,
and my sister never got to know,
the other brother that she had.
She still believes the lie,
and won’t accept the truth.

She does not talk to me,
not out of anything either of us has done.
The long distant lie is at fault,
the guilt no one could admit to,
because they felt it would bring great shame.

Now a family lies in tatters,
a sad story all that remains,
about a lie, which almost the truth became.
What will the future bring, that’s something we can never tell.
I for one, hold no one with any ill will.

poem by David Harris
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On Receiving A Letter From Marie

I wrote to the Sullivan family on the death of family member Catherine it seemed for me the proper thing to do
They were my friends and neighbours when I lived in Millstreet and to our old friends we must remain true
I was not expecting a letter in return and it came as a big surprise to me
When I received a letter from Catherine's elder sister Marie she now is Mrs Cregan from Tralee.

Marie from Claraghatlea one I remember her shiny wavy hair was chestnut brown
A cheerful and a very friendly person one of the nicest west of Millstreet Town
A warm hearted and a charming lady she always greeted with a big smile and hello
And hearing from her in her time of sorrow brought back the memories of long ago.

When she and Catherine and their younger brother James were going to school in Millstreet all three I recall were younger than I
Those were the happiest days that I remember but on looking back the years just seemed to fly
And our youthful Seasons for us went too quickly and the lust for wander carried us away
From Duhallow and the meadows west of Millstreet where in Summer weather we made cocks of hay.

She told me in her letter how she grieves for her sister Catherine they always were a close knit family
Our crosses to bear can sometimes prove quite heavy and how sad so very sad this life can be?
But time as we know is the greatest healer and though the pain of loss to heal may seem quite slow
As time goes by from her grief she will recover and her ache of loss from her eventually will go.

A surprise letter from Marie for to thank me for sympathy in writing I'd expressed at a family loss
The passing of Catherine at a young age tragic and on the family such a heavy cross
For Catherine her suffering is over though she did not live on to grow old and gray
And for Marie grieving for her beloved sister the ache of loss in time will fade away.

poem by Francis Duggan
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My Brother Bill

This is the sad true story about my brother Bill
who was four years older than me.
He was born and then tossed aside by his mother
who left him to his father’s parents to raise,
then promptly disappeared out of his life forever.
My grandparents brought him up
hoping his father would take care of him
when he returned from the war.
His father also my dad returned from the war
married with another son and didn’t want to know.
They gave him a nickname in private
so no one else would know.
In private, they always called him Dopey.
My sister and I were told
our grandparents had adopted him
and he was nothing to do with us.
When my dad’s parents died in 1958 and 59
plans were made to come back to England
where my mother’s parents were still alive
and leave Bill far behind.
Then as his mother had done eighteen years before
his father abandoned him as well.
For a while, he had to live on the streets
taking handout from where ever he could.
He was arrested for vagrancy and sent to jail.
Getting out he got himself a job and began to build a life.
He got married and started a family,
until one night he came home
and found his wife in bed with another man,
and a divorce followed and he was alone again.
Then after 25 years, his job vanished
and he had to find another.
One day in 2000, he got a telephone call
and did not know whether to believe it or not.
It was a call he never thought he would ever get,
a call from his younger brother - me.
As we talked on the phone, some truths came to pass
his brother and his sister did not know about him.
They were told he had been adopted
and were nothing to do with them.
However, I had found the truth,
which incensed my mother enough to disown me.
We met one another for the first time
after forty-two years in 2001 and again in 2002.
In 2003, this sad story ends,
in the March of that year
Bill succumbed to a heart attack.
His final words were a testament to his life.
No one loved me enough to care.
The sad truth is someone did
and that someone was me.
We never had enough time together,
circumstances kept us apart,
but he was my brother
and will remain in my heart.

2 November 2009

Authors Note:

The facts are as Bill told them to me. A sad refrain to a wonderful guy who was tainted by my parents as being bad and no good. If the truth were known he was probably better than the both of them. He was a guy who would give you the shirt of his back if you needed it. My brother Bill, may he now rest in peace.

DVH - 2009

poem by David Harris
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William House and Family

Come all kind friends, both far and near,
Come listen to me and you shall hear --
It's of a family and their fate,
All about them I will relate.

They once did live at Edgerton,
They once did live at Muskegon,
From there they went to Chicago,
Which proved their fatal overthrow.

It was William House's family,
As fine a family as you see --
His family was eleven in all,
I do not think it was very small.

Two children died some years ago,
Before they went to Chicago,
Five children there he had with him,
When death his home there enters in.

The small-pox then was raging there,
And Oh! it would not their house spare,
For all but one was sick of them,
A dreadful house it must have been.

The eldest girl was married then,
The eldest boy was in Michigan,
The second boy he was at home,
And took care of them all alone.

His father and his mother dear,
And dear sister, too, I hear,
Were very sick and in his care,
And no kind friends to help him there:

Two little brothers, and a baby too,
Made six in all -- what could he do,
He had to take care of them all,
The baby, too, was very small.

As he would go to his father's bed,
And try to soothe his aching head,
"My son, I pray you leave me, do
Go take care of poor mother, too."

"Your mother and sister need your care,
And your little infant brother there;
Oh! Charlie, Charlie, take care of them,
My son, do all for them you can."

It seemed as though he did not know
That his poor soul so soon must go,
And leave his little ones he loved,
To go to that bright world above.

But God he called his soul away,
It had to leave, it could not stay --
He never more on earth will be,
His soul is from sin and sorrow free.

Charles helped the sexton, I am told,
To lay his form in the coffin cold --
How sad, how sad, poor soul was he,
When last his father's form did see.

Minnie May House she had to go,
And leave her friends that loved her so --
She was a girl in her teens,
A lovely flower as e'er was seen.

Minnie and her mother lay on one bed,
And when Charles said, "our Minnie is dead,"
His mother then she did grow wild,
And early after knew her child.

They buried Minnie by her father's side,
And left them there where they had died --
Charles took his mother and brothers then
And brought them back to Michigan.

For the mother and the baby too,
Kind friends did all that they could do,
But those poor souls they could not save,
For now they're sleeping in their grave.

Oh! what a noble son was he,
His age was then only sixteen --
Charles House's name I have told before
God bless his soul forever more.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Rose Of London

She now lays in the cemetery though life for her was hell
And her life a tragic story though that story I must tell
She migrated to here from London in nineteen fifty two
When she was only twenty brown haired with eyes of blue.

She was known as Rose of London Rosemary was her name
A car accident in her early fifties had left her slightly lame
And in that tragic accident her husband Jim and their daughter died
Her happy life until then by cruel fate was destroyed.

Her husband Jim was fifty two and Ann their only child was twenty three
But Rosemary put her misfortune behind her and she overcame her tragedy
And she soldiered on bravely though her cross heavy to bear
Still the broken dreams of her life even time could not repair.

I often see her at the superstore she always wore the brightest clothes
Her silver hair and lovely face she did look like a rose
With her beautiful cockney accent she was cheerful and free of guile
And she would win the heart of Satan with the warmth of her smile.

In her battle with cancer poor Rose did not win through
Still she was a noble person and her equals all too few
Pre-deceased by her nearest and her dearest she battled on till the end
She was loved by many people and I miss her as a friend.

A kind hearted cockney lady and she wore the brightest clothes
She was known as Rose of London and she surely was a rose
She lost her nearest and her dearest and her's was a painful end
But she was admired by many and I loved her as a friend.

poem by Francis Duggan
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I Know This Poor Bloke

I know this poor bloke in the mood for suicide
And he has felt heavy hearted since the day his wife died
Some five years ago his ache of loss from him not gone
And till the day of his death his grief with him will live on.

I do meet him often though not every day
And for words to him I always feel stuck to say
He always talks of his dead wife and the grief that he feel
And for him I feel sorry since his sorrow is real.

On his sense of loss with him I sympathize
And each time I see him he has tears in his eyes
My condolences to him I already did pay
But the grief that he feels it is with him to stay.

The price of true love it can come at a great cost
And he is left to mourn for what he has lost
One in his late sixties his hair silvery gray
And the clock on his life it is ticking away.

A man due to grief in the mood for suicide
Though he is one now I would rather avoid
Since each time I meet him he talks of his dead wife
And I am one who needs laughter in my life.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Bear

I watched him grow from a baby to a boy
from a boy to a man
but as he lay there as if he was a sleep
so peacefully
tears began to run wildly down my face
for it was all over
why so early in life
he was barley a year

as he soared to the heavens
he took more then his
heart and sole
he took a little bit of everyone’s in my family
he was like a nephew to me
and her son
why was he taken from her
so early

Tido
lost more then a companion
he lost a friend
a play mate
and a brother
but she has lost a son

what will she ever do with out him
no one will ever know
but her

I’ve lost a nephew
our mom and dad a grand child
Tido a brother
Sierra a play mate
Maggie and Katie a friend
and
Cassie a son

p.s. I dedicate this poem to Bear
Cassie’s dog that died 3-25-07
from being hit by a car

poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Family Man

Written by lindsey buckingham and richard dashut.
Walk down this road
When the road gets rough
I fall down
I get up
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
Walk down this road
In the cool of the night
Dont know whats wrong
But I do know whats right
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...
I am what I am...
A family man
I am what I am...
A family man
Mother... father... brother...
Mother... father... brother...

song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rednecks unite!

My father is my brother
My sister, with three ears,
Is his significant other.

My sister is my mother
And somehow, also my brother
My father's father am I
The vile thought makes me shudder.

Grandma was a mule,
Grandfather's sperm, she used as fuel
A french aristrocrat,
Made love to my mother, for he prefered his women fat

A letter written for my eyes
Containing news of demine
Said my true mother was some other
And my father, not her brother.

Jubilant and joyous,
My wife is what used to by my sister.. Or brother?

poem by Thy Mother
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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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To Doris

She said I come from a land flanked by the warmer seas
A flat brown land that stretch for miles with hardly any trees
In my dreams I see the big game parks and the open plains I see
'Oh' Africa my Africa I hear you calling me.

I hear the male lion cough and roar and the wild hyena scream
And the Natives dance before my eyes so real to me they seem
I hear them singing in the night and their drumming I too hear
And Africa close to my heart though miles away from here.

Doris accent is a give away as accents often are
You'd know that to get to this great Land that she's had to travel far
Her lovely South African accent one never should mistake
The migrant may live far from home but ties that bind are hard to break.

A farmer's daughter from South Africa her life story ought be told
A woman close to eighty years though she doesn't look that old
A teenager in the thirties the hard life she has been through
Her only brother a prisoner of war in Europe in world war two.

Her ill mother convinced her son had died lost the will to live on
And he returned home to the tragic news that his mum was dead and gone
There's sorrow blood and tears in war and tragedy as well
And for mums with sons on battlefields life must be living hell.

She raised five sons in South Africa and one died at twenty five
Brain damaged by measles as a child she helped him to survive
And Doris with great sadness says that her son's life was far too brief
There's ups and downs in life she says and there's happiness and grief.

With her son and daughter in law she lives east of Melbourne now by road off 'One Tree Hill'
A woman from a far Country and suppose she always will
Feel homesick for her home Country, I love Australia she say
But my homeland is South Africa the brown Land far away.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Pope John Paul II (A Biography Poem Sequence)

Karol Josef Wojtyla was
Born in Poland’s town, Wadowice,
On May,18th,1920,
Grew up to be remarkably!

The son of Pole army father,
And loving school-teacher mother,
He was athlete, soccer-player,
A dare-devil river-swimmer!

He loved to be a good actor;
Love for literature, a factor;
He worked part-time as stone-cutter,
As Nazis downed every shutter!

When eight-years’ old, his mother died;
When still quite young, his brother died;
When twenty years old, father died;
The loss of dear lives, he couldn’t hide!

His mother, brother, father died;
Nation was Nazi-occupied!
A quarry work, gave him the buck
The war deprived Karol good luck!

His mother’s death affected his
Life on earth that had turned amiss;
The violent blows opened up new
Spiritual depths of heart to view.

His father fell upon his knees
In prayer, asking God for peace;
This man had taught him what’s duty,
And explained things of mystery.

He saw the frenzied Nazis kill;
Yet, it was also holy will;
He drew from God his strength while ill;
His faith gave him a hearty fill!

He helped the Jews from Nazis’ hands;
He loved to travel across lands;
When call to priest-hood came one day,
From accident, in bed, he lay.

Ordained as priest in ’46,
Became Bishop in ’58,
Vicar capitular, even,
Cardinal in ’67.

He rose to be a good leader;
He was a poet and writer;
Communism was his one hate!
He was made Pope in ’78!

He was the first pope from Poland;
And shot in Peter’s Square, his land!
He prayed to Mother Mary and
Recovered through her divine hand!

He met assassin in prison,
Forgiving him, his murder-sin;
His talk to him was kept secret;
To youngsters, he opened his heart!

First World Youth Day was held in Rome;
With people young, he was at home;
They were to live by Bible’s Word,
And spread the message of Christ Lord.

He went to see the Holy Land!
His life was linked home Poland,
That gave him his Christian vision,
And on earth, his papal mission!

His heart had roots in Polish soil;
His antecedence, made him toil;
He was a modern global pope,
Who gave mankind, a special hope!

He was an intellectual man,
Who came out of the Vatican,
And founded churches everywhere;
And breathed for long, a friendly air!

He worked to make peace with all Jews;
He was a pope always in news;
He was the most popular pope;
Despite all darkness, he didn’t grope!

He raised his voice against evils;
He cautioned all against devils;
He listed out the mortal sins
That filled the modern man’s soul-bins!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-01-2009

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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