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Memory Husband Poems | Husband Poems About Memory

These Memory Husband poems are examples of Husband poems about Memory. These are the best examples of Memory Husband poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |

A Beautiful Reverie

Here I lie beside you
My heart goes thump.thump.thump.
My soul dances inside you
Reveling in the texture of your own.
Electric and flowing 
The currents of our love
Glow like neon lights
Illuminating the hope in my eyes.
Though we're not moving
I feel so incredibly alive
Invincible to my past
Untouchable by all who lack
That gentle touch of when 
You lean in and brush my face
Your lips grazing my skin
Softer than a butterfly.
And then you gaze into my eyes
I fall into your depths 
Twirling like the autumn leaves
Melting into your smile 
Your soul reminiscent of summer.
You pull me into your arms 
And for a moment I'm lost 
Breathless and in awe
Staring in the face of pure exquisite love 
And there you are - holding it 
Glowing in the moonlight of my stare.
My heart beats - its drum pounding away
Echoing a song thats lost its words
I touch your cheek and smile
My hands cant stay away
My lips s l o w l y, draw near yours
Hovering, and then - 
Part, a soft warmth against them.
My eye lids pulling shut
Dragging me into a silent heaven
I pull away - and what seemed millennia
Lasted only a moment, a second in time
But this is our love
This is what you do to me
You make me invincible and fragile
Lost forever in a beautiful reverie.


Details | I do not know? |

Daddy is a bi sexual barebacker

Daddy who are you?
 
Son I am a bi sexual man..
Dad what does bi sexual mean?
It means I like to have sex with men & women.
Why?
Because its how I  feel inside.
Did you love my Momma?
Yes...I did!
What happened to momma?
She died...
How did she die?
She died of AIDS!
How did she get AIDS?
I gave Hiv to her..
Why would you do that?
Because I am a Bi Sexual BAREBACKER!
 
 
 
 WRITTEN BY TG GREEN
 
 
 This happens too much!
If your playing with him be safe..so she can stay negative.. 
 
 
 


Details | Light Poetry |

ONCE AGAIN THANK YOU

I was just trying to remember the past
 trying to remember the good people
 and the bad people,
 that i came across on my way,

i want you to know
that you are among the good people
 that left a good trace in my life,

once again i just want to say thank you
for passing through my life,
is so short but is wonderful
i want you here forever.


Details | I do not know? |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


Details | I do not know? |

The Women



The Women



(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)



Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,

they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.



They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,

and white was right in South Africa back then,

but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,

you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.



You, my mother, would not, could not break,

You stood firm, you stood tall.

You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.



You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,

the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,

my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,

by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.



You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.

You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,

you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,

you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.



Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,

all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.



I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,

the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.



I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,

you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,

of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.


I salute you!



(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)






Details | I do not know? |

Sugar Daddy

He came in all flashy
He sat down in room with Papa
He pointed at me
I want her
cash was exchanged
I cried
Know one listened
He drove me to a Hotel
I was so scared
In the room...he took me
Took my innocence..
I wasn't alone he had more girls
Time flew by...
Daddy lent us out...to strangers
the strangers raped us
I started to feel sick
was taken to the doctor
doctor asked if I used protection
he washed his hands
He said you have AIDS
Where did you catch it from? 
Daddy?
Whats your daddy's name?
Sugar Daddy
 
 WRITTEN BY TG GREEN


Details | Couplet |

It seems I wanted too much

It seems I wanted too much:
or may be just a touch.
May be a little bit more:
happiness with the one I adore.
May be a good morning kiss,
or sweet words: “My honey I miss”.

It seems I wanted too much:
to be happy as such,
to fly in the sky like a bird,
to be understood without a second word,
to listen to the songs of my Lord,
to give a smile and behave like a child.

It seems I wanted too much:
to live without any mistakes,
without any heart breaks.
I wanted my soul not to be cold,
to live without any storms,
to feel your heart warmth.

It seems I wanted too much:
to turn into a dove,
to swim on the waves of love,
to meet with you every dawn,
to have the wings of a swan
and never be alone.

It seems I wanted too much...

Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)


Details | Bio |

A Man Stood Part III

 
A Man Stood part III Story/poem A man stood by his window, thinking of what went wrong. He was old and alone. He has two daughters, but they don't get along with him. the one close to him, hasn't talked to him in over two years. He tries to concentrate now on his new found daughter - But she has a life of her own. In nine years since we found him - she has seen him five times. She talked to him on and off on the phone, but not much. I saw him four times. He had changed a lot. He said that he wished that I would live there close to him. I lived over 1000 miles away and to my husband - I was faithful. In 2006 he ask to meet my husband. He wanted to know what, kind of man I had married. I told him, I had married a good man. We had to go up there for my granddaughter's wedding, so we went to see him. My husband also wanted to meet him too. To my surprise, they liked each other. To me that was strange, but then - life is strange. My husband and I came back home. Both of them kepted on talking on the phone. I talked to him too on and off. In November of 2009 Thanksgiving Day, my husband passed away. That was a very hard year for me, since I had heart surgery, earlier in the year. My daughter and I went up North to see the family in 2010. We stopped by to visit with him. He told me then how much he had loved me and how he had made a mistake many years ago. But the past can not be changed. I never saw him again. We all have a date with destiny. He passed away three days after Thanksgiving in 2012. Sometimes he would sit by his window too. This man was the love of my life, but our love could never be. now I will end this chapter of my life. A man won't stand, or sit by his window anymore. The end...
01/2013 written by Lucilla M. Carrillo Comments: All that is written here is true and part of my Life. When you reach a certain age, you have to have a past and a story to tell. The first two chapters I had already written, but I needed to write one more. This was very hard for me to do. I hope you have enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.


Details | Couplet |

If I Remember You

If I feel your heavenly touch in the flutter of a swan You will know that my passion for you has never been withdrawn If I see your sweet face in the blue sea we traveled upon Such magic will just come in the most colorful hues of dawn If I feel the spray of waves when I climb out on the jetty I’ll sense the passion of your kiss when all cares did seem petty If I wade into the sea, I’ll remember our last Christmas The wading boots I bought you to fish filled you with so much bliss If I leave footprints in the sand, I’ll recall days at the beach When the warm, bright rays of a summer sun caused our hair to bleach If I hear your gentle voice in limbs rustling through the forest I’ll remember hearing you say, “Nature’s the premier florist” If my eyes fill with tears as I recall your great loyalty I’ll remember your strong intelligence; you seemed like royalty If I sense your presence accompanying me as I walk I’ll miss the sound of your deep voice and recall each time we’d talk If our song is played on the radio, I’ll miss you even more “Without You” by Nilsson recalls the sad day life shut the door And if I meet you again in the blessings of afterlife I’ll see your sterling-blue eyes and hear words that made me your wife
Written Monday, 3/23/14


Details | I do not know? |

For Anene Booysen 1996 - 2013

Hamba Kahle Anene Booysen! (1996 – 2013)


Dead at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,

 

at a construction site in Bredasdorp.

 

‘horrific’, ‘repulsed’,
‘brutally raped’, ‘shocked’,

 

do these words mean anything,
to anyone,

anymore.

 

Not to Anene Booysen,

 

murdered at 17, brutally raped and left to die,

in the dirt,

 

at a construction site in Bredasdorp.

 

Anene was raped,
savagely mutilated,

 

Her 17 year old body tossed aside,

 

by the hands of men.

 

Men, always men,

 

cowardly, beastly, perverted, twisted men.

 

‘Beastly’, ‘perverted’, ‘twisted’,

 

do these words mean anything,
to anyone,

anymore.

 

Not to Anene Booysen,

 

who now lies cold and dead.

 

How many Anene Booysens will it take,

 

for us,
society,
families,
people,

 

human-beings,

 

and,

 

men, especially men,

 

to excise the ghastly menace,

 

of the heinous capacity that resides,

 

within men,

 

always men,

 

to brutalise, rape, mutilate, and murder.

 

‘Brutalise’, ‘murder’, ‘rape’,

 

do these words mean anything,
to anyone,

anymore.

 

Not to Anene Booysen,

 

murdered at 17, brutally raped and left,

 

to die,

 

in the dirt,

 

at a construction site,

 

in Bredasdorp.

 

 

Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013)

 

* – Hamba Kahle – “Farewell, Travel Well” in Zulu

 

** – Bredasdorp is a small town near Cape Town, South Africa


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