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Daughter Inspirational Poems | Inspirational Poems About Daughter

These Daughter Inspirational poems are examples of Inspirational poems about Daughter. These are the best examples of Daughter Inspirational poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Ode |

For Mama

She showed me the clouds
and how to walk on the ninth one. A dreamer.
In the absoluteness of her mind, no barriers
exist within existence
as if her battles have
been won. I think she craves to fly,
past those clouds---another possibility
to make possible, a challenge
to challenge. Or dream about.
She probably thinks that when I complain
I cannot see the clouds,
the way she did when things got rough
in life. Of course, I beg to differ.
She dreams. I live. I don't
keep my eyes on clouds all day
as if there is nothing else to see
to make me understand the world better.
I suppose I'll rest one day, exhausted
by the what-ifs and whys, while Mama smiles
and points upward.


Details | Quatrain |

The Whispered Song

The warrior lays her weary head, 
With heavy heart she cannot bear, 
Burning tears stream down her face, 
As whispered memories touch the ear.

Her armour tarnished by remorse, 
Her battle-cry a wimpered row, 
Her wounds, of which bleed solitude, 
Will never know forgiveness now.

The song began two score ago, 
When two came knocking at her door, 
In need of refuge from the world, 
Of that, and love, and little more.

Forced to fight for every smile, 
Her only solace found in song, 
She longed for love to rescue her, 
And plant her where she could belong.

Jealous tongues are seldom kind, 
Self-seeking hearts know nought of love, 
The caged canary only sings, 
When coaxed to praise from up above.

For the steely spine that now I own, 
Forever shall I grateful be, 
A gift from her, and from her own. 
Courage mounted inwardly.

I'll not forget how I have loved thee, 
And youthful memories I will prize, 
Til on the shore of His forgiveness, 
Whereto now, we both shall rise.



Details | Marsiya |

I'm my Daddy Made Over

Dedicated to my Dad Jerry W. Niday 3/20/1952 - 6/18/2013


I am who I am because of him
He’s the reason for my son’s name
He gave me my courage & my strength
To stand tall even when standing wasn’t easy
Stand for the ones who can’t
To think and fend for myself
I’m my Daddy made over

Taught me to fight back 
To never back down
How to pick myself back up
When I’ve been knocked down
Fight for what I believe
I’m my Daddy made over

He gave me my stubbornness 
Gave me my pride
Gave me my temper
Taught me not to take crap
To speak my mind no matter who
Work for what I want
I’m my Daddy made over

How to keep my emotions in check
How to handle large amounts of pain
When in trouble he always had my back
He knew how my mind worked better than anyone
I got it from him
I’m my Daddy made over

Even though he’s gone
I’ll stand and continue on 
I may stumble I may fall 
May even get hurt along the way
But I’ll pick myself back up
I’ll dust myself off and stand tall
I’m honored and proud to say
I’m my Daddy made over


Sabrina Niday Hansel



Details | Dodoitsu |

White Wedding

Confetti flutters the sky
A bride dressed in pearly white
Footprints pave bright virgin snow
Steps to her future


Details | Narrative |

Eat Pray Love

On the edge 
of the evacuation zone
Miyuki holds her daughter 
tip-toeing in pink sneakers 
her small hands fragile 
blossoms opening
to the man with the beeping wand 

They were outside in the karesansui 
washing and raking 
rocks, when the school 
heaved, convulsed 
then pressed into silence
one-hundred-and-seven 
voices rising inside

So now they wait with strangers
in ordered lines of sorrow 
for bread and drinking water 
as an adolescent, eyes downcast
sees the small pink laces and
offers up his only ration 
of precious onigiri

Hooded and white masked they walk 
three days and bed-less nights toward 
Ishinomaki by the ocean
to family, friends, and home forever 
transformed 

The landscape jumbles unfamiliar
with plastic wreckage 
and automobiles 
detritus flooded in a field
where Japonica once grew
while moon-suited men 
and women gather
albums for the living

And after sunset Miyuki moves 
her little girl away 
from a white-taped blue-bagged 
lifeless form 
toward the humming black-robed Monk, his
prayers for light 
and workers burned
exposed to radiation ten 
thousand times too high 

And in the shadows one old man kneels
beside a fetid pool and scoops  
rice to carry back to neighbours 
moved to higher ground, un-opens 
one last bottled spirit
bows his head and offers
Miyuki and her first and only 
everything  he has 

At last they reach the shelter’s glow
beneath the starless robe of night 
not used to wearing 
shoes indoors
Miyuki helps her daughter fold
sheets of painful news into
an origami box to hold
her last and only pair

And in the morning as they face
the stretch of road for home 
to unknown love and losses there 
they turn and gaze toward the east 
awaiting still 
spring’s warming breeze 
to rise with brilliant red once more
new light of wondrous dawn 


      ~~~~~~~~~

'karesansui' is a Japanese rock garden or 'dry landscape'.  Rocks are often washed.
'onigiri' is the emergency rice being distributed to survivors in Japan.
'Japonica' is a type of (short-grained) Japanese rice.



for Debbie Guzzie's contest, 'Tribute to Japan'

by ~Soulfire~ 

 


Details | Narrative |

Passing On of Little Bee, Ojibway, Thunder Bay

Little Bee, Deaamoo, grandmother of the Crane Clan, lies staring. The light of 
winter’s first full moon falls into the room. Through a ghostly haze of tobacco and 
sage smoke, she sees her loved ones. One withered hand clasps a cowrie shell, 
mee-ghis, tightly to her heart and in the other she holds a small dreamcatcher for 
her youngest granddaughter Little Aamoo. Strands of gray white hair escape from 
her braids which trail down beside her bird-frail form touching the fringe of her 
parting dress. Her clan has been in the sweat lodge praying for her safe journey 
home, some appear red-cheeked; others are a pale as the shades of her 
ancestors.  It is the end of her days, a time for passing on.

Outside of the house near the fringe of balsam pine a circle of stones are laid, each 
one blessed and bringing an anchoring comfort to man, lodged between earth, and 
sky. The four directions are marked and her way west is clear for her. Soon, she will 
ask loved ones to lay here amongst the gifts laid for Pacugu, The Great horned Owl, 
near the spirit house.

The veil is thin now between this world and the next. The smoke branches upward, 
showing the way to sky world where Gichi Manidoo waits. The songs are being sung 
for her now. The Shaman’s rattle is crisp and clear. All about her is beauty. Drums 
keep the beat of her heart. They wait. Remembering one last story, she calls her 
family to her, she must leave them with all the knowledge she has. "Ah, what was 
that story? Well, that is not for you." 





Details | I do not know? |

The Dandelions Were Listening

I never did the 
''He loves me not....
He loves me'' game
with flowers.
I already knew nobody loved me
so why should I listen 
to a stupid flower? 

I did make wishes 
on dandelions 
after the bloom died
and it was tiny spikes of fluff
waiting to blow away 
till next year.

I hated wasting my time
but I couldn't resist.
I figured
''If there's even a small hope
that this will work....
I've got to try! ''

I would find a spot
where nobody could see me
and I'd whisper
my one wish
the same wish
every time.

Thousands of dandelions 
blown away 
by my pleading breath.

I never told a soul
my wishes.
Until now.
I wished to be happy
one day...
with a husband 
who loves me
and kids who love me.
I wished so hard...

I never thought
those dandelions
were listening.


Details | Narrative |

MAMA CRY NO MORE

MAMA CRY NO MORE

The most tender I have ever known
The world of never you created
Best example of love a lesson learnt
Mama cry no more

Stranger no more am I to this world
Mama I have learnt its tricks
The hills are lower now, the tunnels are brighter
Mama cry no more


Mama let me dry your tears
I will pop the toaster, crunch the flakes
Spread the marmalade, bubble your bath tub
Mama cry no more


The jet is ready, your ticket at hand
The line will dress you up with the queen’s taste
The fruits of your labour, its time you had the taste
Mama cry no more.


Details | Personification |

The Little Piece of Crumpled Silver Paper

John Weaver 2000 (Emily has cerebral palsy)

Her room is not the sort of room you’d quite expect to find
For a little girl whose love of life is clear
No toys or games or bats or balls, or fun things of that kind
No bicycle or skateboard will appear
But the little piece of crumpled silver paper

It's very cheerful and bright with pictures everywhere
A pump to feed her through the night and a big adapted chair
Though pretty dolls sit on the shelf and teddies on her bed
She cannot play with them herself so she holds them tight instead
And the little piece of crumpled silver paper

It was Christmas day some years ago with excitement in the air
When we opened her presents and then found
That she couldn’t play with them and it didn’t seem quite fair
That she would always be so cruelly bound
To a life without the toys that all children adore
And then we heard a new sound that meant so much more
A crackle from the little piece of crumpled silver paper

The expensive gifts didn’t matter to this special little girl
Her joy came from quite another caper
As the parcels and the packaging slowly started to unfurl
All she wanted was the silver wrapping paper

You see, she could grasp it tight to make a funny noise instead
And so it fast became a dear friend
And she holds it close beside her even when she goes to bed
And the lesson to be learned is, in the end…

Happiness is not always found in gifts so big and costly
And often simple things can bring the joy you need
Contentment is a state of mind and the choice is yours mostly
To be content with what you’ve got and with every little deed
Or, to always be in want and never satisfied

And so for me the real belief will never taper
That the truth of life is clear and very closely tied
To the little piece of crumpled silver paper.


Details | Rhyme |

"I WAS NOT BORN LIKE THIS BY CHOICE"

"I WAS NOT BORN LIKE THIS BY CHOICE" 

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
My eyes enjoy all they see,
And on most days I am quite happy.

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
My voice, although not quite loud,
Can always melt hearts in a crowd.

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
Please don't judge me because I am unable,
I don't deserve that kind of label.

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
My mom says it's part of Gods plans,
I believe her, we're His biggest fans!

Are your eyes your voice?
Were you born like that by choice?
Is your voice quiet or is it loud?
And can it be heard, or felt, in a crowd?

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
Some people think I am broken,
But others say, no, just soft-spoken.

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
My smiles and giggles are not misplaced,
They are there on my pretty face!

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
I have feelings like all the rest,
I am me at my worst, and my very best.

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
Researchers are searching at a steady pace,
Rett Syndrome cure is their race!

My eyes are my voice,
I was not born like this by choice,
Look into my voice, it's plain to see,
A cure is needed for my Rett sisters and me!

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ~ Ronna G. Reid


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