Related quotes: I My father spoke of...

Vino Rosso Della Guerra

I
My father spoke of eating rats
to stay alive in World War I
as he lay in bloodied fields
while in the distance
he watched the vineyards glinting in the sun.

His mother had wailed as she watched him go
while his father’s bony finger
traced a purple cross

bare feet wedded to the grapes

marching
marching
marching

to the beat of the drums

II
My mother said Mussolini was good
because he made everyone
throw their pigs out
of the house and made sure
everyone got pasta every day
but no meat.

By then the pigs had all been slaughtered
to feed the army.

In the garden behind her shack,
broccoli withered in the hot Sicilian sun,
water doled out like vino rosso to dying alcoholics.

'One liter too much and Il Duce’s soldati
might die of thirst, ' the peasants would hiss,
rolling their eyes, while huddling in dark cellars
where wine presses used to dwell.

The purple grapes that once graced
the countryside had all been razed
the culls remaining
just so many
rotting raisins.

poem by Allesandra Patti
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Related quotes

Parantha’s Dream

He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.

The twelve year old boy
Parantha Parapanjani
yearned to be a drummer
in the Royal Indian Army.

Using two wooden sticks
and a biscuit tin so old,
he imitated the drummers
and their drum rolls.

He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.

A thief stole his drum
leaving him with nothing to play,
but his father’s old tin leg,
stepped in to save the day.

From a string around his neck,
it swung about his waist,
as he practiced with the band
outside the military gates.

He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.

One day a limping man and boy
walked down the busy street,
as Parantha drummed up
a leg moving kind of beat.

The regimental sergeant major
recognised the sound,
and saw the leg being played,
as it made its way to town.

So impressed was the sergeant
he enlisted the boy in the band.
A new side-drum he was given
and a stick for each hand.

He marched up and down
with his Indian army band,
so proud to be a drummer,
with a stick in each hand.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Battle Hymn of the Republic

. Howe's Final version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His Truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.
His Day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
'As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.'
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
2. Howe's First Manuscript Version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
He is trampling out the wine press, where the grapes of wrath are stored,
He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword,
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watchfires of an hundred circling camps
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps,
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His day is marching on.
I have read a burning Gospel writ in fiery rows of steel,
As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal
Let the hero born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Our God is marching on.

He has sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat,
He has waked the earth's dull sorrow with a high ecstatic beat,
Oh! be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet
Our God is marching on.

In the whiteness of the lilies he was born across the sea
With a glory in his bosom that shines out on you and me,
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
Our God is marching on.

He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave
He is wisdom to the mighty, he is sucour to the brave
So the world shall be his footstool, and the soul of Time his slave
Our God is marching on.

poem by Julia Ward Howe
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The Pigs and the Charcoal-burner

The old Pig said to the little pigs,
'In the forest is truffles and mast,
Follow me then, all ye little pigs,
Follow me fast!'

The Charcoal-burner sat in the shade
With his chin oil his thumb,
And saw the big Pig and the little pigs
Chuffling come.

He watched 'neath a green and giant bough,
And the pigs in the ground
Made a wonderful grisling and gruzzling
And greedy sound.

And when, full-fed, they were gone, and Night
Walked her starry ways,
He stared with his cheeks in his hands
At his sullen blaze.

poem by Walter de la Mare
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Oh, FATHER! - FEEL MY Untold LOVE! (Part-1)

At schooltime, my father left me at house gringo!
Yet I Kept my tender heart at home of lingo!
When I quested, for fate “he is right as rain.”
Tender tears exploded like MISSILES yet in vein;
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

While I missed mother’s love and father’s stories
All the night I stood without sleep with many worries
I asked the god, why two legs and hands!
Why not two bodies and two souls for errands!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

Sugarcane Juice, peanuts and berries!
Our green fields, summer holidays and holy tours!
When thousand memories flashes in mind, now,
How much I miss mom's care! How much I miss dad’s love!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

The small buns you bought for me still smell good,
The grapes brought, coming from city is still my favorite food;
The fruits you brought me with roots; are they heaven sent?
Yet I didn’t pay any rent pay as you are my parent!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

Do you know who my MAHATMA is? Oh, my brother!
He is not Mandela, nor Gandhi but my father
Who taught me A to Z rather?
What to do and what not to do, I gather!
Mother, oh mother, I am still your little son!
Father, Oh father, I love thee till I am done!

When I think of all the things you gave to me:
Your sacrifices in food; love and affection are some to name,
............................................. ................................................. .....
*A big NOTICE BOARD: Oops! Sorry the poem is NOT completed. This is just break time! Now continue Your reading in part 2 the poem.

Oh, FATHER! - FEEL MY Untold LOVE! (Part-2) contin'd in part 2.. Read it.

poem by Harindhar Reddy
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The Reckoning

My mother was carried to heaven
On the day that I turned six,
She died of tuberculosis
Spitting blood in a coughing fit,
She'd been so ill for a long long time
That I couldn't recall her smile,
My father, he just grumbled, said:
'Your Ma will be gone for a while.'

'She's gone to sing in a choir up there,
Who knows how long she will be? '
But I saw the coffin that carried her out,
The hearse and the burial tree,
I watched as it sank down into the ground
And my father just left it there,
Went off to visit my 'aunt', he said,
A woman with long, blond hair.

I stayed at home, such a lonely child,
And went to a place in my head,
Where mother was fit and without a care
She laughed at the things I said,
My father left me alone a lot
So mother would tell me, 'Shush! '
We'd laugh and giggle when he went out
But talk in a sort of hush.

I played outside at other times
Where the grass grew long and wild,
I'd catch the skinks as they darted past,
I was always a curious child,
I'd bring the Sleepy Lizards home,
My father didn't mind,
He said I could keep the pets I caught,
I thought he was being kind.

But then one day he came on home
With this 'aunt', who moved right in,
He said they were married now, so I
Should call her 'Mum', not Jen.
I scowled, and went to my room to cry,
My mother was looking sad,
She said, 'just do what your father says,
I'm your Mother, but he's your Dad.'

This Jenny, she was all right at first
She tried to make me smile,
But I was feeling rebellious then,
And turned my back for a while,
I kept my rabbits and guinea pigs
And fed them out in their hutch,
But Jenny came out to look at them,
And she didn't like them much.

I knew, she wrinkled her powdered nose
And said, 'Oh pew! They stink!
We'll have to find you a hobby, one
That's pure and clean, I think.'
I heard her talking to father, say
That she thought I was rather slow,
She wanted the garden tidied up
So my animals had to go.

It was just about that time, I think
That my mother said goodbye,
She couldn't stay in that house, she said,
It was time for her to fly,
She left me alone in a great big world
So I brought a Lizard inside,
And put it under my bedclothes
Thought it a perfect place to hide.

When Jenny made the bed, she screamed
And shook me like a rag,
She went and got a kitchen knife
And a plastic shopping bag,
She made me put the Lizard in
Then she took the bag outside,
And stabbed and stabbed 'til the Lizard bled,
'Til my Lizard friend had died.

'Now bury it! ' she said to me,
'And don't you ever dare
Bring filthy animals into this house,
For if you do, I swear...'
At this she put the knife to my throat
And stood and watched me scream,
I saw the hate in her powdered face
It was like an awful dream!

Whenever my father left the house
She'd always scream and shout,
Knock me around for the slightest thing
Then drag me, throw me out,
Lock the door so I couldn't get in
And give me nothing to eat,
She said if I told my Dad on her
It would only get me beat.

She killed my rabbits, cooked them up
And served them from a pot,
She gave me a crooked, evil grin:
'You'd better eat the lot! '
I found myself in a black, black rage
Inside, at the things she'd done,
And hoped that my father would go on out
And buy himself a gun.

He never knew what she did to me,
I never would dare to say,
I knew that she'd get me on my own
And then there'd be hell to pay,
So I stayed outside in the barren fields
And found me a hessian sack,
Then went for a hunt with a long, forked stick,
It was time to get her back!

I waited until he'd gone away,
Was gone two days or more,
Then bit my tongue as she raved at me,
Spat hate from the kitchen door,
The morning came, and there wasn't a sound
To come from that angry head,
And I will never regret the day
I put a snake in her bed.

10 March 2009

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mother Exultant

Joy! Joy! Joy!
The hills are glad,
The valleys re-echo with merriment,
In my heart is the sound of laughter,
And my feet dance to the time of it;
Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder,
Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days,
For this is the hour of the vintage,
When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

Look, little son, look:
The grapes are translucent and ripe,
They are heavy and fragrant with juice
They wait for the hands of the vintagers;

For a long time the grapes were not,

And were in the womb of the earth,

Then out of the heavens came the rain,

The sun sent down his warmth from the sky,

At the touch of life, life stirred,

And the earth brought forth her fruits in due season.

I was a maid and alone,

When, behold, there came to me a vision;

My heart cried out within me,

And the voice was the voice of God.

Yea, a virgin I dreamed of love,

And was troubled and sore afraid,

I wept and was glad,

For the word of my heart named me blesse'd,

My soul exhalted the might of creation.

I was a maid and alone,

When, behold, my lover came to me,

My belove'd held me in his arms.

Joy! Joy! Joy!

Now is the vision fulfilled;

I have conceived,

I have carried in my womb,

I have brought forth

The life of the world;

Out of my joy and my pain,

Out of the fulness of my living

Hath my son gained his life.

Look, little son, look:

The grapes are ripe for gathering;

The fresh, deep earth is in them,

And clean water from the clouds.

And golden, golden sun is in the heart of the grapes.

Look, little son, look:

The earth, your mother,

And the touch of life who is your father,

They have provided food for you

That you also may live.

The vineyards are planted on the hillside,

They are the vineyards of my belove'd,

He chose a favorable spot,

His hands prepared the soil for the planting;

He set out the young vines

And cared for them till the time of their bearing.

Nopw is his labour fulfilled who worked with God.

The fruit of the vineyard is ripe,

The vintagers laugh in the sun,

They sing while they gather the grapes,

For the vintage is a good one,

The wine vats are pressed down and running over.

Joy! Joy! Joy!

Now is the wonder accomplished;

Out of the heat of the living grape

Hath the hand of my belove'd

Wrung the wine of the dream of life.

Belove'd,

My little son's father,

Together we have given life,

And the vision of life;

Shall we not rejoice

Who have made eternal

The days of our living.

Look, little son, look:

The grapes glow with rich juice;

The juice of the grape hath in it

The substance of the earth,

And the air's breath;

It hath in it the soul of the vintage.

Put forth your hand, little son,

And take for yourself the life

That your father and your mother

Have provided for you.

Joy! Joy! Joy!

The halls are glad,

The valleys re-echo with merriment,

In my heart is the sound of laughter,

And my feet dance to the time of it;

Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder,

Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days,

For this is the hour of vintage,

When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

1905

poem by Adelaide Crapsey
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In Vino Verities

Think of it as a thirst for Truth
That can’t be quenched by dry Vermouth.
Those souls who in the bottle find
a sauce of solace for troubled minds.

Because I can conceive of wine,
Somewhere there grows a fruitful vine.
Existence made certain by concept possible-
an essential premise Ontological.

From the grapes sweet nectar flows
To please the palate and charm the nose.
Its mysteries bring blurred speech and vision
At bottle’s bottom they find religion...

Some seek their Truth on distant peaks
From Fakirs dressed in linen sheets.
Some in bare ruined choirs dwell
With thoughts of Heaven spiced with Hell.

Still others have declared wine evil
An attitude I find Medieval
Their wine grapes meet a sadder fate
reduced to raisins on a plate.

From Vine to press, from field to glass
A boon companion to Life’s repast.
Red or White, no cause for Schism
A sommelier hears your catechism.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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When The Saints Go Marchin' In (Live)

WHEN THE SAINT GO MARCHING IN
Louis Armstrong
I: We are trav'ling in the footsteps
Of those who've gone before
But we'll all be reunited (But if we stand reunited)
On a new and sunlit shore (Then a new world is in store)
D - - - / G - - - / D - - - / A - - - /
D - - - / G - - - / D - A - / D - - - //
V: O when the Saints go marching in
When the Saints go marching in
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
D - - - / / / A7 - - - / D - - - / G - - - / D - A - / D - - - //
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the moon turns red with blood
When the moon turns red with blood
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
On that hallelujah day
On that hallelujah day
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
O when the trumpet sounds the call
O when the trumpet sounds the call
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
B: Some say this world of trouble
Is the only one we need
But I'm waiting for that morning
When the new world is revealed
(As Intro)
V: When the revelation (revolution) comes
When the revelation (revolution) comes
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the rich go out and work
When the rich go out and work
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the air is pure and clean
When the air is pure and clean
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When we all have food to eat
When we all have food to eat
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When our leaders learn to cry
When our leaders learn to cry
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
Bo Peterson

song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bread & Roses

This song appears on three albums, and was first released on the higher ground album, and has also been released on the gift you are and the john denver collection - rocky mountain high albums.
As we go marching, marching
In the beauty of the day
A million darkened kitchens
A thousand mill lofts grey
Are touched with all the radiance
That a sudden sun discloses
For the people hear us singing
Bread and roses, bread and roses
As we go marching, marching
We battle too for men
For they are womens children
And we mother them again
Our lives shall not be sweetened
From birth until life closes
Hearts starve as well as bodies
Give us bread, but give us roses
As we go marching, marching
We bring the greater days
For the rising of the women
Means the rising of the race
No more the drudge and idler
Ten that toil where one reposes
But the sharing of lifes glories
Bread and roses, bread and roses
Words by james oppenheim (1912), music by john denver

song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree

Don't sit under the apple tree
With anyone else but me
Anyone else but me
Anyone else but me
No no no
Don't sit under the apple tree
With anyone else but me
'til I come marching home
Don't go walking down lovers lane
With anyone else but me
Anyone else but me
Anyone else but me
No no no
Don't go walking down lovers lane
With anyone else but me
'til I come marching home
I just got word from a guy who heard
From the guy next door to me
The girl he met just loved to pet
And fits you to a "T"
So don't sit under the apple tree
With anyone else but me
'til I come marching home
Don't give out with those lips of yours
To anyone else but me
Anyone else but me
Anyone else but me
No no no
Watch the girls on the foreign shores
You'll have to report to me
When you come marching home
You're on your own
When there is no phone and I can't keep tab on you
Be fair to me I'll garuantee
This is one thing that I'll do
I won't sit under the apple tree
With anyone else but you
'til you come marching home
Don't sit under the apple tree
With anyone else but me
I know the apple tree
Is reserved for you and me
And I'll be true
'til you come marching home

song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Saints Go Marching In

We are traveling in the footsteps
Of those whove gone before
But well all be reunited (but if we stand reunited)
On a new and sunlit shore (then a new world is in store)
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the moon turns red with blood
When the moon turns red with blood
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
On that hallelujah day
On that hallelujah day
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Some say this world of trouble
Is the only one we need
But Im waiting for that morning
When the new world is revealed
When the revelation (revolution) comes
When the revelation (revolution) comes
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the rich go out and work
When the rich go out and work
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the air is pure and clean
When the air is pure and clean
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When we all have food to eat
When we all have food to eat
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When our leaders learn to cry
When our leaders learn to cry
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Benjamin Fraser

Their spirits beat upon mine
Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes
Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes,
And when they turned their heads;
And when their garments clung to them,
Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
Their spirits watched my ecstasy
With wide looks of starry unconcern.
Their spirits looked upon my torture;
They drank it as it were the water of life;
With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes,
The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt,
Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
And they cried to me for life, life, life.
But in taking life for myself,
In seizing and crushing their souls,
As a child crushes grapes and drinks
From its palms the purple juice,
I came to this wingless void,
Where neither red, nor gold, nor wine,
Nor the rhythm of life are known.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Surprised

'O son of mine age, these eyes lose their fire:
Be eyes, I pray, to thy dying sire.'

'O father, fear not, for mine eyes are bright
I read through a millstone at dead of night.'

'My son, O tell me, who are those men,
Rushing like pigs to the feeding-pen?'

'Welcomers they of a statesman grand.
They'll shake, and then they will pocket; his hand.'

'Sagacious youth, with the wondrous eye,
They seem to throw up their headgear. Why?'

'Because they've thrown up their hands until, O,
They're so tired!-and dinners they've none to throw.'

'My son, my son, though dull are mine ears,
I hear a great sound like the people's cheers.'

'He's thanking them, father, with tears in his eyes,
For giving him lately that fine surprise.'

'My memory fails as I near mine end;
How _did_ they astonish their grateful friend?'

'By letting him buy, like apples or oats,
With that which has made him so good, the votes
Which make him so wise and grand and great.
Now, father, please die, for 'tis growing late.'

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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On His Father's Side

On his mother’s side
Born in Bethlehem
On his Father’s side
No one before him
On his mother’s side
Growing and learning
On his Father’s side
All knowledge showing
On his mother’s side
Stuck in one location
On his Father’s side
Present in every nation
On his mother’s side
He was hungry
On his Father’s side
The multitudes he did feed
On his mother’s side
At Calvary he died
On his Father’s side
He was the essence of life
On his mother’s side
Buried like other men
On his Father’s side
He rose again
On his mother’s side
Human and weak
On his Father’s side
The God of eternity.

poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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I Watched

Pediatric E.R, R.I.P 11/5/09 (Volunteer work can be tough)

I watched…
A heartbreaking scene today
But I couldn’t take
my eyes away

I watched …
I feel shamed to say
I watched
a little girl die today

I watched …
an anguished EMT cry
I watched nurses drawn faces
I watched a little girl die

I watched …
Just outside the doors
The Frantic CPR applied
With frantic, futile force

I watched
Her mother fearfully enter the room
To be seated by her side
To share in her impending doom

I watched
A strange, unsettling scene
Upturned faces as if in prayer
hopefully watch the vitals screen

I watched
A life dissipate and fade
On a bed
That I had newly made

I watched…
At least a half hour they tried
With wondrous machines, marvelous medicines
Yet still, this little girl died

I watched…
Then I heard a small whimpering cry!
But It was only the mother
As she saw her child die

I watched…
Her arms outspread, her mom at her side
Young staring eyes so angelicly appealing
I watched, sadly watched….then I also cried.

poem by David Whalen
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Marching Through Georgia

Bring the good old bugle, boys! we'll sing another song --
Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along --
Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong,
While we were marching through Georgia.