To a Child -- The Thinker
Enraptured child in contemplative
Apollo Pose
Head resting by jutted elbow's knee-supported
hand on chin
Whose world is this anesthetized by wonder's glow
he's looking in
As it so quickly disappears in an
invaded atmosphere
Of delight and pleasure explained
in factual memories
Teased, let go, and returned again
as a whim or metaphor
This visiting with self
and the spirit of the age
What a priceless glimpse of an awakening
to genius's
Path of exploration with this child's
hypothesis, conclusions, returns
In the quiet of the garden's
flowers and urns.
poem by Katherine Young
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Save A Wonder
A child's hand That I held
To show the world anew,
From the wonders that I've seen
To the beauties that I knew.
We walked a country path,
With wonders all around
And the child's grip grew much tighter,
With every sight and sound.
We saw the birds in the trees
We felt an April breeze,
As she came through the leaves
As though to greet, the child and me.
We then saw the April showers
Which cleansed the April flowers
And trees and grass we did see,
As they became our friends.
Then out came a rainbow
And out came a child's glow,
And then the questions, began to flow,
With the answers I'll never know.
With ' how come this',
Or ' why did that',
Kept ringing from ear to ear.
But then the more he asked
The less I laughed,
Happy was I, the child was here.
More wanders had we saw
The further that we walked
Down a wooded path,
Upon the virgin grass.
We saw creeks with her fishes,
And clovers, with their wishes
And then more questions to me were asked.
Then I looked upon youthful eyes
And I heard a worried sigh,
And then the child, he answered please,
Save, a wonder for me.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Playing With Technology
What happens when a child plays with a razor?
What happens when a child plays with fire?
What happens when a child drives a car?
Man in his pursuit of technology is in the same pose
In his hand is a tool of technology, powerful and dangerous
But he’s acting like a child and doesn’t know its purpose.
Man’s still a child, no sense of purpose, no vision of the future
For a child the razor, the fire and the car are just for pleasure
It is obvious, for this same reason man pursues technology.
Man’s still a child, so selfish, self-centered and irresponsible
Doesn’t care about the world, his possessions is all that matters
But his mind, his most precious one, is neglected and in tatters
We’re like a child mesmerized by technology, by its power
Creating for us so much stuff, we feel much richer
But we’ve forgotten our world is delicate, our life fragile.
We’re like a child mesmerized by technology, so tempting
So much pleasure, so much convenience to us it’s giving
But we’ve forgotten our goal in this hostile universe is survival.
We’re like a child mesmerized by technology, so exciting
Faster and faster now we are driving it, not hesitating
It’s just a matter of time, it will crash! It will crash!
Now, we can see the destruction on the horizon looming
It’s been scientifically determined our planet is warming
Because, technology, that’s meant to save us, we abused it!
poem by Leonard Sims
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Seeds of Destruction
if you can watch a child cry
without being touched by its innocence,
you need more help than the child.
if you witness a child of any colour
at play and are not touched by its
inquisitive spirit and bubbly energy,
you need to run through your heart and soul
for any streak of racism that may have eaten
up your propensity to love.
if children in a country
are not playing and having fun together
in their exploration of this wonderful world
and adults do nothing to encourage
them to get to know each other
they are planting seeds of destruction
which will blow up all their dreams
in their future world.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Borellus
Essential Salts of animals may
Be so prepared and preserved
That an ingenious man
May have the whole Ark of Noah in his own
Study and raise the fine shape of an animal
Out of its ashes at his pleasure
Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood
Bring only fear and sadness
Old years of play
Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours
In vast and dismal chambers
With brown hangings
And maddening rows of antique books
Watch them in twilight groves
Oh in twilight groves
Oh in twilight groves
By method from the essential salts of humane dust
A philosopher may call up the shape of any dead ancestor
From the dust where into his body has been
Incinerated incinerated incinerated
You're under pressure baby
Christ has returned he's returning
In every new born child
In every new born child
You're under pressure baby
Christ has returned he's returning
In every new born child
In every new born child
In every new born child
Essential Salts of animals may
Be so prepared and preserved
That an ingenious man
May have the whole Ark of Noah in his own
Study and raise the fine shape of an animal
Out of its ashes at his pleasure
You're under pressure baby
Christ has returned, he's returning
In every new born child
In every new born child
You're under pressure baby
Christ has returned, he's returning
In every new born child
In every new born child
song performed by by H.I.M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Child
Child. Old child,
No longer wild;
No longer speaking,
No longer beguiled;
I have become
A quiet old child.
Child. Old child,
No longer cold;
Never an old man,
Always too old;
I have become
An old child tenfold.
Child. Old child,
Forever a child;
Always rethinking,
Always exiled.
I should become
A happy old child.
Child. Old child.
Always soft-spoken;
No longer breaking,
Still being broken;
I have become
An old child, unspoken.
Child. Old child,
No longer bold;
By thinking, rethinking
Of stories untold,
All through my childhood,
I've become... old.
poem by Mihai Cosmescu
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Child of Zar'roc
Child of Zar'roc
Born during the storm
Raining down blood
Striving on hate
Drinking the tears
Of those in pain
Poor child
Born of Zar'roc
Sheath your sword
And bow your head
Dont take the path
Thats set before you
Turn dear child turn
Run down the path of good
Hurry child of Zar'roc hurry
For fate may soon come
Crashing down on your world
I pity you child of Zar'roc
Truly I do
To be born in such a life
I truly pity you
poem by Janelle Morehart
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A Question About Art
Our world forgets – has never known, perhaps –
that questions are a treasured magic wand:
the question asked, the answer may, most like, come freshly said
out of a space that’s new alike to teacher and to taught;
your question is today – how factual should I leave
my verse, or should I seek to ‘colour’ it with metaphor? …
this image comes to mind: ‘old master’ in his studio,
famed painter of Madonnas with attendant Child;
demand’s incessant; so he draws the outlines in,
and passes on the canvas to his studio hand;
coloured then, maybe he adds the master’s touch of life -–
the smile of angel’s sweetness on the Madonna’s face;
the glimpse of future in the Christ Child’s eyes;
and off it goes to some great patron’s church,
to comfort all of womanhood in woes and joys,
its colours gleaming candlelit in sacred prayer;
and yet, how connoisseurs may treasure that quick sketch
on scrap of hand-made paper, where the very touch
of sanguine chalk or silverpoint, reveal the immediate mind
of that old master, as it found the new track of the line;
the world will praise, admire, your coloured image of Her face;
but She will see, in pencilled sketch, how love springs from her grace..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Her
I was a laughing child
That did not know and
Did not fathom
Time was catching up with me when
Everywhere behind me
Whether looking towards the future or
Leaving the past behind,
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadow and
Her hair, thick, with wisps of gray,
Would frame her countenance,
So young and beautiful, and
Her hands, thin, delicate and pristine, as
Those of an artist…
Rain would fall in torrents the day
I decided no longer to fear the
Raucous sounds about our home-
She would bake bread and sing tunes,
Leaving me to wonder why
She had stayed in bed for days and nights past-
Those days went by quickly as
The second hand spun around the clock
Above the kitchen table- under which
I would play-
Though always in solitude,
I was an Indian, a princess or
On the best of days a queen-
It was a wonder that
Years later
I was the same laughing child
Weeping tears of despair,
Dark shadows cast upon the walls of
My bedroom would
Obliterate any sunlight left in our lives…
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadows,
Now tear filled as her hair,
Now gray in the dark of the world outside …
Her laughter, now was transforming to deadly silence;
Flowers stood limply in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table where
She would sit, her head resting between her hands-
Long and thin as those of an artist,
Wrinkled, now, years later-
A tear cascading down her cheek-
I hardly understood
Life’s meaning-
My life was far from under that same table-
My world so very small,
But all mine and mine alone-
I had picked those flowers-
Wilted dandelions- and a single rose
From father’s garden-
Though always alone,
Never laughing, never weeping,
Never smiling-
At night, stars were falling and
My thoughts were screaming
“Come back! Come back! ”
That was the moment I first heard them-
The unfamiliar voices-
She would sit at the same table,
Not noticing the dandelions, but only the rose-
The second hand spun as quickly around the clock as
My world was spiraling out of control-
And she would sit on the edge of her
Wrought iron framed queen sized bed
Her head resting in her hands
Still long, thin and like those of an artist-
Frozen
Still…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Child Had No Trust
The child was given a fruit
But the child did not eat
The child was given a shelter
But the child did not sleep
The child was given love
But the child did not take
The child was shown a path
But the child did not go
The child was promised a future
But the child did not believe
The fruit could be poisoned
The shelter could be a tomb
The sleep could be a nightmare
The love could be abused
The path could be an abyss
And the future smelled of the past
The child had no trust
Can anyone make the child believe
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Song Of Life
In the rapture of life and of living,
I lift up my head and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving
The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather,
In the sweet-scented, sensuous air,
My burdens seem light as a feather –
They are nothing to bear.
In the strength and the glory of power,
In the pride and the pleasure of wealth
(For who dares dispute me my dower
Of talents and youth-time and health?) ,
I can laugh at the world and its sages –
I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise in all ages
Who knows how to be glad.
I lift up my eyes to Apollo,
The god of the beautiful days,
And my spirit soars off like a swallow,
And is lost in the light of its rays.
Are tou troubled and sad? I beseech you
Come out of the shadows of strife –
Come out in the sun while I teach you
The secret of life.
Come out of the world – come above it –
Up over its crosses and graves,
Though the green earth is fair and I love it,
We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises –
But only the perfume of flowers –
And your life shall be glad with surprises
Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is
Apollo distills in my sight,
And your life shall be happy as mine is,
And as full of delight.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Broken Child
A broken child hides at night.
A broken child cries in fright.
A broken child hides the bruise.
A broken child is pushed and refused.
A broken child always with heartache.
A broken child who cannot fake.
A broken child who has no treasure.
A broken child used for sinful pleasure.
A broken child is so scared.
A broken child has no faith to bare.
A broken child lost in dispair.
I am the broken child, the one that no one cares.
poem by Haley Brown
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What might be taken for a precocious genius is the genius of childhood. When the child grows up, it disappears without a trace. It may happen that this boy will become a real painter some day, or even a great painter. But then he will have to begin everything again, from zero.
quote by Pablo Picasso
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A child's Suffering
The intense flame of withering blooms,
In deep essence of those in tombs.
A child like figure in darkness's shadow,
As his eyes as yellow as cat's eyes glow.
Death takes him home into the deep,
to a never ending painful sleep.
The child's voice heard through my dreams,
His voice so painful as he screams.
Why an innocent child has to suffer,
no child deserves this life so hard and so much rougher.
But the father's disgrace chose the child's path,
Taking the child into a blood bath,
the child cries as the burning goes on,
Forever from dusk to dawn.
poem by Krystle Kyriakou
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Be quiet Child! ! !
Be quiet child, be quiet I say
No one listens to you today
Your voice is unheared and
not of importance
Be quiet child I say
Let your Brother speak
Be quiet child
I can not hear his voice
I don't have time to listen to you
Be quiet child I say
My Brother speaks
The very words, I was about to say
But Mother she won't listen
Be quiet child she says
I have now grown with babes of my own
but Mother continues to say
Be quiet Lady Be quiet I say
Your voice is unheared and
not of importance
I will not listen to you today!
poem by Tracey TEE
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When A Child Is Lost
When a child is lost,
lost to unknown circumstances,
lost to suspicion of persons
with evil intentions,
then to the eyes of the parents
the lights of sun, moon and stars
have ceased to shine,
the blooming flowers in October
lose their fragrance,
and food doesn't taste
in the tongue.
When a child is lost,
then parents who plea
for their child's return
move us to tears
because children are not
goods to be stolen
but priceless treasure
to be cared for.
When the child is lost,
we share the universal pain
of losing our beloved.
Let us pray that the human goodness
in the heart of the person
who stole the child prevail
and that the lost child
be found.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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A Christmas Carol
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast,
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at him.
And all the stars looked down.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Child smiles
Only in a world of freedom,
Can a child unfold and bloom.
Only with the sun piercing right through the dark hut,
Can a child see the wonderful sights of this world.
Only in an ocean of unprejudiced love,
Can a child speak to its heart's content.
Only through the eyes of soft empathy,
Can a child see its true reflection.
Only in surroundings of unadulterated society,
Can a child open its mind wholesomely and dream.
Only when applauded at its tiniest achievement,
Can a child come to know its hidden potential.
Only in lanes without propagation of caste,
Can a child recognize its own identity.
Only in the cradle of happiness,
Can a child fantasize and create.
Only in vicinity of the learned,
Can a child imbibe the essentials of life.
Only in the pages of medieval history,
Can a child understand its ancestors better.
Only in unpolluted waters of the Ganges,
Can a child splash its hands and wholeheartedly swim.
Only without discrimination of gender and status,
Can a child flourish to achieve its goal.
Only in the gentle hands of its mother,
Can a child shield its eyes and sob.
And Only in an atmosphere of complete equality,
Can a child stimulate his urge for learning, prosper
and SMILE.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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After Viewing Helnwein's Epiphany II
Enraptured
mouths agape, they gaze
on the child.
They don’t see her ivory breasts.
Gleaming virginity
eludes Aryan dreams
as she presents them with their
Destiny.
With shadowed arm,
in the harsh glow of
klieg-light,
he teaches them to
submit.
They cannot know
how quickly falls
night's
blackest pall.
____
Gottfried Helnwein, Ephiphany 2, deYoung Museum, San Francisco
poem by Steven Federle
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Give a Child...
Proudly for Seth ~ Ryan who graduated as
an Aerospace Engineer last week!
Give a child a great education
You give them the world
Give a child science and math
You give them access
Give a child a sense of wonder
You give them joy
Give a child poetry, paint, l.e.d.s, aluminum foil and sparkles
You give them creativity
Give a child accountability
You give them integrity
Give a child an understanding of spirit
You give them faith
Give a child an entire community
You give them responsilbility
Give a child your undivided time
You give them security
Give a child a life by example
You give them the map for success
Give a child hugs
You give them love!
~May 26,2006
Mountaintop Cottage, Tennessee
poem by Debora Short
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Little Nell
GLEAMING through the silent church-yard,
Winter sunlight seemed to shed
Golden shadows like soft blessings
O'er a quiet little bed,
Where a pale face lay unheeding
Tender tears that o'er it fell;
No sorrow now could touch the heart
Of gentle little Nell.
Ah, with what silent patient strength
The frail form lying there
Had borne its heavy load of grief,
Of loneliness and care.
Now, earthly burdens were laid down,
And on the meek young face
There shone a holier loveliness
Than childhood's simple grace.
Beset with sorrow, pain and fear,
Tempted by want and sin,
With none to guide or counsel her
But the brave child-heart within.
Strong in her fearless, faithful love,
Devoted to the last,
Unfaltering through gloom and gleam
The little wanderer passed.
Hand in hand they journeyed on
Through pathways strange and wild,
The gray-haired, feeble, sin-bowed man
Led by the noble child.
So through the world's dark ways she passed,
Till o'er the church-yard sod,
To the quiet spot where they found rest,
Those little feet had trod.
To that last resting-place on earth
Kind voices bid her come,
There her long wanderings found an end,
And weary Nell a home.
A home whose light and joy she was,
Though on her spirit lay
A solemn sense of coming change,
That deepened day by day.
There in the church-yard, tenderly,
Through quiet summer hours,
Above the poor neglected graves
She planted fragrant flowers.
The dim aisles of the ruined church
Echoed the child's light tread,
And flickering sunbeams thro' the leaves
Shone on her as she read.
And here where a holy silence dwelt,
And golden shadows fell,
When Death's mild face had looked on her,
They laid dear happy Nell.
Long had she wandered o'er the earth,
One hand to the old man given,
By the other angels led her on
Up a sunlit path to Heaven.
Oh! 'patient, loving, noble Nell,'
Like light from sunset skies,
The beauty of thy sinless life
Upon the dark world lies.
On thy sad story, gentle child,
Dim eyes will often dwell,
And loving hearts will cherish long
The memory of Nell.
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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