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Mother History Poems | Mother Poems About History

These Mother History poems are examples of Mother poems about History. These are the best examples of Mother History poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Couplet | |

The Seamstress of Time

I have a special story I wish to share
About a seamstress beautiful and fair

She would fade away turning into smoke
Of her amazing beauty, no man would joke

The spiraling smoke would then re-form
I know only an angels face could be so warm

Before her a beautiful quilt was spread
Upon it the story of my life was said

As she once again started to dissipate 
She said, “Mike this quilt records your fate”

As the smoke traveled over to a new place
And then formed together creating her face

Looking over her shoulder back at me
She said, “This area will hold what has yet to be”

Most of the quilt looked like twisted evil tattoo
Simply because, my life’s quilt was quilted true

I looked the quilt over and then met her gaze
She was so beautiful in so many different ways

The last part of the quilt way over to the right
Showed the beauty of someone changing their plight

Upon her beautiful hand, which seemed so nimble
I noticed she was wearing my grandmother’s thimble 

From a young maiden so beautiful to see
My grandmother appeared right in front of me

I guess up in heaven we return to our youth
My grandmother was beautiful; such is the truth

I thought of the price grandma was asked to pay
The shame of knowing I had turned out that way

I thought of her sitting there stitching my shame
My grandmother didn’t deserve an eternity of pain

She said, “Michael be still with the pain in your heart,
Your story encourages others to make a new start.”

“The deeper the wrong the stronger the right
I always knew my boy would take up the fight”

With a smile much brighter than an ice covered sea
She said, “I love the man my boy has grown up to be”

As she turned to the quilt and started to sew
She said, “Michael, its now time for you to go.”

“Believe in your story believe in your truth
For Salvation is the true fountain of youth”

One night in a dream, which I’ll hold forever divine
I learned; my Grandmother is now,” The Seamstress of Time”


When I was a boy I would help my Grandmother roll
her quilt, find her glasses, as well as, her thimble. I 
never thought about how amazing her art truly was.
From a pile of rags she would make the most beautiful
quilt's. I sleep under one of her quilts to this very day. 



Details | Couplet | |

Marble in Columns on Green

On a slope graced with green
White marble stands in proud salute

For beneath these engraved pillars of memory
Lie the resting places of heroes

A solitary green fir looks down
As if sheltering the lost and the taken

So many names, from all walks of life
A father, brother a girlfriend or wife

On a sunny day, they glow radiant like their lives
On a dull day, they stand out against the greys

For the living, life goes on 
Tomorrow is another day


Details | Rhyme | |

Christmyths

If we read the gospel well,
We notice no one rang a bell,
To announce the saviour’d come,
And then when we learn of his mum,
There’s no mention of her donkey ride,
Or of the animals inside,
The stable were the child slept,
It does not tell us if he wept,
And of the weather? Did it snow?
Well we simply do not know,
It rarely snows in the West Bank,
Would be unlikely, to be frank,
And was Jesus born at night?
Did they at least get that part right?
Well it simply does not say,
It mentions not the time of day,
And that’s not all, not by far,
Shepherds saw Angels, Not a star,
It doesn’t say they gave a sheep,
(They were poor and lambs weren’t cheap!)
The Bible tells us many things,
But did not call the wise men Kings,
It doesn’t even call them men,
It only calls them magi then,
It says nowhere they numbered three,
Or if from the Orient they’d be,
It does say that our Lord arrived,
Lived a good life, was crucified,
Just to take away our sin,
So heaven will allow us in,
And this is the truth I will defend,
But just how can a footstep bend?


Details | Ballade | |

WAVES MOTHER ME

                                              

                           Helen Lorraine Allison, 2, Titanic Victim


                                                    Oh, they swung the lifeboats out
                                                    O'er the deep and ragin' sea,
                                                    When the band struck up with
                                                    "Nearer My God to Thee."
                                                     Little children wept and cried,
                                                     As the waves swept o'er the side.
                                                     It was sad when the great ship went down.

                                                ~ The Titanic (Husbands and Wives), Folk Song ~



          __________________________________________

At first, the waters were so very cold,
And the night was filled with horrid weeping,
Some men were shouting like when Mamma scolds,
But others lay still like they were sleeping,
Then warmth I felt, oh, what a sweet creeping,
The sea called to me with almost a sigh,
Down, down I went, a treasure worth keeping,
Now waves mother me and sing lullabies.

A ship is my playground, rotting and old,
Krill float through my home, so shyly peeping,
Starfish do what they want, are somewhat bold,
Anemones sway, forever sweeping,
Over still things, my spirit is leaping,
Though I’m in darkness, here I can fly,
The hull thins with its rusticles heaping,
Now waves mother me and sing lullabies.

The ocean is quiet but stories I’m told,
Lost memories, tales of sadness seeping,
But I’ve no company, no hand to hold,
My doll is broken, my toys are steeping,
I’m so sleepy and my lids are drooping,
I remember how once I used to cry,
And then came the deep’s heartless kidnapping,
Now waves mother me and sing lullabies.

Careless were they, I was for safekeeping,
Children shouldn’t be heard, please tell me why,
Hushed and rushed with death’s untimely reaping,
Now waves mother me and sing lullabies.


Details | Rhyme | |

MAMMA ANNA MADE THE BEST BABBA' AL RHUM

Mamma Anna made the best Babba' al Rhum,
you should have seen me how it made me slightly drunk;
and jumping and screaming I danced to the beats of a drum...
then grandma joined in and she sang a classical song!


And the sweet cream was on my lips and cheeks, 
the Babba' al Rhum was delicious and I topped it with chocolate;
everybody began shouting, "It came from Paris,
but we Neapolitans reinvented it by improving its shape and taste!"


Mamma Anna made the best Babba' al Rhum, soaking it in that liqueur much longer;
and Papa' always told me to eat more of it...saying with a suppressing laughter,
"It's a man's dessert, after you eat it, you'll be strong!"
Oh, did he really tell me the truth? No, he was wrong!


It's so very sad that they aren't here,
and I am eating pretzels and drink a beer,
the harmony that stirred their passion can't possibly return...
as they danced on the terrace to celebrate the day I was born!


Mamma Anna knew how to make the best Babba' al Rhum,
and I licked the dripping rum with my finger...not my tongue!
She spoke calmly...when she should have gotten mad and picked up a broom;
no, she was never mean and rude, or ever said to me, " Go to your room!"


Details | Narrative | |

GREET THE LITTLE KING

Greet the little King,
who has been born in a cold manger
on the holiest of nights;
and by the glitter of a descending star,
He will spread peace in the land...
follow the shepherds and find that sight! 


My gift to Him is my joyful song,
and with this clarinet I will usher in His coming...
walk side by side with the pretty angels and rejoice;
bring Him your gift, and surround Him with joy!
See the three Magi arriving on jewel-draped camels,
holding in their laps the gifts of His destiny.  


A winter's night has always been completely bright,
every hill is hidden by darkness, but an heavenly light 
appears across the frosty sky of Bethlehem, while divine
voices announce Emmanuel's glorious birth,
everyone wakes up and sees that star and follows it;
and where it stops, they find a baby without a crown.   


Greet the Son of the Highest, the Wonderful Redeemer, 
whom the Virgin Mary has borne in the humblest of places...
in the small town without a temple, or a palace for the Emperor,
where Mary and Joseph will train their child in Godly ways;
greet the little king, He will smile and invite you in,
and His smile will spread peace beyond the star-lit hill. 
 

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci


Details | Free verse | |

Momma

I know all the stories that she'd told she been livin in lies she knows shes doin 
wrong.All i know is she need to do right. I can't keep oncryin momma s do it just 
please no more fights. I tell myself that she will do better, momma we are a 
family ain't we supposed to bo together. What happened to our happy fun. Every 
since that doy violence but more guns. You used to give me hugs what 
happened to all the kisses, all the good times yes we allmisses.We can forget 
abut it momma thanks to you. You can't play me nomore i'm not a little fool. I try 
so hard but why can't you stop. One day i just wish you will and IT gonna drop.


Details | Monoku | |

Grandma

Threaded memories, the smell of my grandmother seeps from the pillow


Details | Free verse | |

Ode to my daughter on her birthday - 26

My Sarah
When I looked at you last week trying on your new boots
Those almond eyes sparkling at something new, a gift
I saw my little pink girl, a princess, playing dress up again
Your long hair draped your high cheekbones
Life still a game, tinged with drama and theatre 
As you look for fun in all your pursuits!
A player in life with a passion for cooking and music
You have become a kind, loyal, vivacious young woman
Self assured, grounded with a love of tradition
I looked at you and felt an overwhelming pride.

Sunday’s child is ' bonny, blithe, good and gay' they say
Befitting my Sabbath girl, a model child of few demands
Your bedroom a vast sea of Barbie and friends
A Passion for story-time and books
Your Dutch life with Irish sea-touched roots, 
You are a real continental
A great scholar with degrees in Law and Psychoanalysis
You have found your true love with Luis, a Spaniard
As you both prepare to leave the Emerald Isle
I wonder at the achievement of you!


Details | Rhyme | |

Elenor Quine

Elenor Quine


Elenor Quine was her name, but they just called her Nellie. My late mother said.

She was born in 1909.She was always apparently the last one up to bed


She was one of my  Mothers sisters, who died when she was just  twelve years old.

Because she got soaking wet then caught a cold

It then turned to Pneumonia. The year was 1921.

There was not a lot that could be done 

My Mother was just ten, at that time. Her other sister was Winnie, Her brothers Bill and Tom.

But they are all now long since gone.

She did have another sister born years  after Nellie died.

She was called Bunty When she arrived everyone cried.

She too has long since gone. Throughout the whole of her life my late mother kept a little white dish with two handles on it.

Because it used to be Nellies, I can’t bear to bin it.

This afternoon I just got it down to dust. Then all the memories of what I have been told 


Came flooding back to me,. So much history it has. It is so old.



Now it is going back on the top shelf again.


A little dish that holds a story of pain.


So although Nellie I never knew you. 

I just wanted to write a little verse about  you.




 


Details | Free verse | |

The Old Salt

The Old Salt was a special man who came along in a time
when he was needed most.

A time that is now gone forever.
When men believed and sacrificed, when hero’s walked the earth in mass.

When patriotism was not just a word
but,
by what men lived and judged the worth of each, 
a man who lived a life most of us cannot comprehend. 

An era now gone as this warriors tour of duty ends at this station, 
and begins anew in the heavenly fleet. 

Sail on Sailor into your unaccompanied tour,
we salute you.

What greater honor, that when a man moves forward, 
he leaves behind in each of us the best of what he was. 

A defender, protector, supporter, victor, a warrior, 
the last of the breed from an era when ships were made of wood
and men were made of steel.

The Old Salt has reported for duty that takes him away from us for now. 

Those of us who remain behind,
remember, and will continue to remember, 
because he now resides forever in our hearts.

As I look up at night, I envision The Old Salt,
a beret draped just above the eye, 
as he draws upon his pipe, 
quietly he waits.
The guardian of heaven’s gate.



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 | Dramatic Verse | |

The number the brand

When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child,  chai .

I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met 
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .

Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?

It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History 
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .


The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.

It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing ,  cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .

There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love,  and reunited with the ones they lost .

The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time . 
You could not,  but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see . 
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet,  of the Hostility .

I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish,  chosen Religion.

There as I held her frail , old hand  , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago .   In 1945  , once in our distant, yet Frightening  past . 

We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
                                " Etta Babooshka Kofman  "


Details | Blank verse | |

Mother, Forgive Us

Mother,
I used to walk in dark places and know that I was safe.
Because I knew that I loved you.

Mother,
I have abused my brothers and sisters.
I have contaminated your purity with murder.
I have raped your daughters.
I have kidnapped your children.
I have brought your blessed bosom to the brink of destruction.

And now, even when I walk in daylight I do not feel safe.
For now I am aware of what I have been to you.
Worse than a prodigal, I have endeavored to exploit the very mother who nurtures me.
And now that I have worsened whatever imbalance was in you before I arrived,
I endeavor to flee you like a coward through the grace of an oblivious savior.

Mother,
I have dreamed a dream of water.
I have dreamed a dream of living water.
And in this dream Jesus, my Savior, told me that he was not oblivious.
And in this dream Jesus told me that he was fully aware of my crimes against you.

Mother,
I have dreamed a dream of fire.
I have dreamed a dream of unquenchable fire.
And in this dream Jesus reminded me that I was sent here to heal you as you taught me of manhood.
And in this dream Jesus told me that if I could not love you, my mother, who I could see, then how could I love my Father in heaven who I could not.

Mother,
I have dreamed a dream of air.
I have dreamed a dream of whirlwinds.
And in this dream I breathed in the breath of forgiveness and I realized that it was not too late for us.

Mother,
I have dreamed a dream of earth.
And in this dream, Mother Earth, I see you and us together, fighting for our freedom.
Fighting against the delusion that our fates are not eternally intertwined.

Mother earth,
Please forgive us.
For true, we have betrayed you.
But it is not too late.

Mother,
I promise you that as sure as my savior is in heaven we are going to make it.

Mother,
I present myself to you as a living witness.
The Lord has not forsaken us.
For within our DNA is the secret to your healing and the end of our insanity.

Mother,
Thank you for loving and protecting me, even as I raped and wounded you.
And now it is my turn.

“In the name of Jesus, the earth and all of the earth’s inhabitants are one mind, heart, and body.  In the name of Jesus, we are one person, one planet, and one purpose.  In the name of Jesus, the lion will soon lay down with the lamb and this beautiful sound, this sound of the sacred Gaia will know harmony!!” 


Details | Free verse | |

Will We Know Him

Will We Know Him?

Will we know Him if He stood in front of us?
If He walked by us on the street?
Will we know Him?
If we have a chance to meet Him in our  lifetime?
In that split second that we meet Him?
Our eyes met for the first time?
Will we know Him?
Yes reading the moment we stood side by side?
Our smiles are very clear
Our heart jumps around
Yes we do know Him?
That look, and that feeling
When we know we've found our home
Yes we do know Him
Yes we know what to say to Him
As we walk away together
Yes we know Him as He knows us His children
We are finally together

Rev. Samuel Mack, OMS
Copyright 2013

http:paladinnews1.blogspot.com


Details | Free verse | |

Victorian poverty crime and squalor

Born into a life of poverty crime and squalor
where hunger and cold winds bite
and disease is rife
and it was a daily battle to stay alive
and find some food to stay alive.

Uneducated illiterate caught in the poverty trap
drinking polluted water
from the same polluted cholera riddled tap.

An impoverished woman
sells her body for a cheap bottle of Gin
and a lodging for the night
while a pickpocket and mutcher
ever watchful
look for a pocket to alight.

The deafening clunk and clatter
of horses and carts on the cobbled ground
and shouts from the street market traders
echo all around.

Children play and run through the narrow
crowded streets
dressed in rags no shoes upon their feet
The putrid stench from the gutter
and thick choking bellowing
smoke from factories
make one heath and make it hard to breath.

Dilapidated hovels and buildings
covered in black soot
horse manure and raw sewage 
under foot.

Beggars with large mournful eyes
reach out pleadingly to the passing gentry
to fill their empty bowls with plenty.

A peeler pins a notice of a forthcoming hanging
at the local Gaol for the few who can read
upon a rusty nail.

A  Mother desperate to feed her hungry children
steals a loaf of bread from a market stall
but is soon captured  in the sprawl.

The judge sentences her to 10 years
penal servitude far over sea in Botany bay
but she dyes aboard the ship of fever
upon the way.

Her 9 children are sent to the workhouse
for the poor to gain some education
and work hard behind it's hellish door
never to see their Mother or escape poverty
ever more.


Peter Dome.copyright.2012.


Details | Classicism | |

Esther Louise Arbuthnot

    ESTHER LOUISE ARBUTHNOT'S PHOTOGRAPH - Taken about 1876 or so
       Great great great (?) Grandmother
(My own mother was named after her)
While the rain is falling gently on the roof it makes the sound
of a time that's long forgotten though it seems to hang around
I can hear you breathing lightly from an Celtic dream I've known
it has come to Pennsylvania where you've found me here alone
       and I can feel you when you cry.
       So far from home, you wonder why,
       and it makes me want to die.

All the way from County Down there was a dream you had to find
you were long ago and far away, but always on my mind,
in your photograph your eyes are reaching out perhaps for me,
I can feel you when I see you but I never really see,
       what makes you think you have to cry?
       You must have known I'd wonder why,
       Yet it makes me want to die.

Can you hear the raindrops falling? County Down's so far away,
or perhaps it's just forgotten, like a dreary Celtic day,
I can feel it when you're smiling, in the Heaven of your eyes,
love is gone before you know it, and it's then I realize,
       it's made you think you have to cry.
       And through it all, not wonder why,
      I will never let you die.
 © Ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Basically the events of the poem are history, although
Esther Louise Arbuthnot was not actually born in
Scotland. I just took a little poet's privilege and the poem
in its entirity came from observing the beauty of her 
photograph.


Details | Couplet | |

Home

I can hear the horses snorting, outside my bedroom window,
Even though it comes, from so many years ago;

Cotton from the cottonwoods flying through the air,
Making whitened dapples on my palomino mare;

The hounds are all out baying, it must be dinner time;
In my tiny little neighborhood, I was never scared of crime;

Family surrounded me, aunts and uncles all around,
It was quiet on our little street, no sirens made a sound;

My cousins and I would play outlaws, and we’d hide out for a day;
Making mighty forts from the fifty tons of hay;

It never really changed much, as I grew up through the years,
And remembering that it’s gone, always brings me close to tears.


(My Parents sold the house I grew up in last year - It still breaks my heart)


Details | Rhyme | |

Oh! Humanity,

Oh! Humanity,
How you’ve completely lost your sanity.
 
Did you forget how to grow?
Every one of you was planted row by row.
Did your heavenly Father not nurture you with love?
Did He not make the rains fall from up above?
Oh where is your heart?
Who gave you your first start?
 
Oh! Humanity,
What vanity!
 
Oh! Humanity,
What profanity!
 
Daylight hours just wash ashore,
With simple lives from once before!
Have you forgotten your heavenly Mother?
And what about your heavenly Brother?
Where is your Godforsaken mind?
What happened to being loving and kind?
 
Oh! Humanity,
How you’ve provoked such a calamity!
 
 
® Registered: Ann Rich   2006
 
 


Details | Quatrain | |

Grandma's Legacy

My grandma had a green thumb
She loved to garden, plant and grow
Didn't matter where they're from
Snatching cuttings wherever she'd go

Her pockets filled with seeds from trips to and fro
Labeling the envelops with names as she was home
Plant variety was something she would know
She also knew specific times when seeds should be sown

Her garden was her solace throughout her hardened life
She planted seeds and grew her plants anywhere she stay
Always fed her family through depression and strife
Many rows of vegetables were planted in her day

Years have passed and she is gone her love of planting seeds
Was passed on through her family who now are pulling weeds. 

Jennifer Marie Oliver


Details | Lyric | |

Alone

Me... I was standing on that stranded Island...... alone........ Looking back..... into my Life... the past...... I felt.... I was not alone in those..... I was surrounded with my friends, relatives and all... But here in the end.... I became alone...... For ever.... I felt like I was a romantic poet those days..... I looked into the mirror of time..... The past... I knew that I was a poet..... An artist..... A performer...... More than all, I was a clown to all..... I went back to to the time along with my memories.... There I saw her..... She was with me...... She was Crying, Laughing, Teasing me..... I felt....... I was in her lap..... for decades or more.... But today even she left me....... and I am alone...... Again I went back along with my memories...... There I saw my mother...... I was with her ..... for more than several years..... Now, I feel........ My mother was better any way... But I missed her..... All I know is I left all my fellow beings only for my love...... But today even she left me....... and I am alone......


Details | Pantoum | |

Penny Thoughts

A penny for your thoughts my mother used to say
I wondered if she thought my thoughts just worth penny
Conversations at our house were mostly one-way
She would say children are seen not heard, times_many

I wondered if she thought my thoughts just worth penny
She didn't encourage me  to speak anyway
She would say children are seen not heard, times_ many
Those thoughts just bounced around in my head everyday

She didn't encourage me to speak anyway
I asked many questions as high priced attorney
Those thoughts just bounced around in my head everyday
Because I was not free to speak mind went on journey

I asked many questions as high priced attorney
Conversations at our house were mostly one-way
Those thoughts just bounced around in my head everyday
A penny for your thoughts my mother used to say


Sponsor: Cyndi MacMillan
Contest: Rhonda & Cyndi's Penny Pantoums


Details | Narrative | |

MEMORIES OF AN AUSTRALIAN CHILDHOOD

From England's dark blackout
We came to these shores
I and my siblings
In refuge from war.
How enchanted we were
With all we saw.

First Sydney's fine harbour
And her bridge of one span
Then the azure blue sea
The long beaches of sand
The beautiful city lit up at night
To our youthful eyes a wondrous sight.

The Aussie soldier in his famous slouch hat
The long train journey to the far outback
The Cockies screech the Kookaburra's cackle
New sights and sounds for my brain to tackle.
The grazing sheep the fields of wheat
The fun of the master the blistering heat
The long hot summers with respite at the sea
Where we swam and surfed in unspoilt glee.

School days were spent in city or mountain retreat
Strict was the discipline our uniforms neat.
Happy the friendships spacious the grounds
Nuns telling rosary beads flitting around.
With firmness and patience they taught us well
Recreation was announced by the tolling bell.

Oh the joy when the holidays came
What fun we had on the old school train.
It trundled along past wilga and gum
Past meandering creeks and billabongs
Past Emus grazing and Roos hopping along
Through wide open spaces rich in bird song.

At the graceful homestead with veranda surround
Stood the welcoming grandmother so recently found.
With parents far off she gave care and love
How proud we were of her pioneer blood.
She cooked and scrubbed and chopped the wood
She could do everything she really could.

But tragedy stuck
With her soldier son killed.
She grieved and withered and lost her will.
No longer in her life
Would he take part
Months later she died of a broken heart.

There came a time when with many tears
I bade farewell to this life so dear.
I had no choice I had to go.
The years passed on
I missed it all so.

This time when I came
I touched down by plane.
New visions flood my startled brain
Australia I find is absorbed in change
it makes me feel so very strange.

The laid back Aussie with his old world charm
A computer wiz now and amazingly calm.
The coastline is cluttered highrises abound
The noise of the traffic an ugly sound.
But the song of the Bellbird is still a wonder
It soothes my senses as I ponder.

For no land on earth has so much to offer.
So I’ll settle here I will not hover.
Perhaps the maternal ancestors smile from above.
For at last I'm here In the land they loved.
And I'll spend the twilight of my years
In this country I've always held so dear.


Details | Free verse | |

A True Credo Of Love

(To All Who Believe It Can Be Achieved)


Caucasoid, Mongoloid,and Negroid
Colour the conscience progression 
of Man's ethical Truths...
The cultural aggressions of violence
and ignorance must end!
Extend your heart, hand and life
Towards the Precious Don of Honour...
Freely, keeping the sincere
Brotherly Creed


 

Comments:  Brothers and Sisters it is time that we stand up and let the Love of God in, after 
all we are all one in the same under the skin, so why not give it a grand try... One Love and 
Many Blessings in Him Always, Adell


Details | Elegy | |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 1)

I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze

I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.

Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.

From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.

On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.


Details | Quatrain | |

The Birth Of A Girl The Birth Of A Boy

In a forest a girl was born   
A girl born oh so poor
This girl then caused this world now torn
Her birth opens a sore

But we do not now this girl mourn
She was left some money
A thrifty woman not to scorn
Then a taste of honey

She met a man she was forlorn
Bore a son Alois
Unwed and aging, no ring worn
No ring, so still a Miss.

Her bastard son none could be warned
When his mother did wed
He gave a name the world did scorn
A name that all wished dead

If his mother knew what was born
Hitler the name we know
I wonder would she have  been torn?
To give him birth, or no.

© 09/01/2013 ~GG~

Contest Entry.


Details | Free verse | |

marking time....to my friends on poetry soup.- the Lord helped me fight death and won.

i don't want to be just marking

time.  i died on november 20,

2008, during surgery.  i was

on a vent when i awakened 

december 2, 2008....my sisters'

birthday. what made me llive

i'll never know.  i know there

are things to do on this side

of death.



i have no time for marking time.

i have a stupid bag hanging from

my side now.  i am supposed to

"get comfortable with it".  well

that was a laugh.

that was a laugh until i thought

of the people that had these

things with no hope of ever

getting away from them.



i am so lucky.  14 days i laid

on a vent, then 22 more.

i came home 3 days, 



then 


i had
great pain in my chest...
.
well this is great i said,

a pulmonary emboli, 15 more

days, three days home.



then back to e.r. blood pressure

too high.  this bought me 

4 more days in e.r.



i am home now and finally 

have spent 19 days home.

i feel every pain and i feel

every time that i feel good



yes, i am never marking

time again.....there is

something about fighting

for your life and your sanity

that straightens things out.



i don't recommend it but

i wish i could let your hearts

know what i know.

janetta


Details | Monorhyme | |

No One Told Me

No One Told Me
A cement block is tied to my heart
Need a running start
At night my voice carries like a lark
Death’s arrow has hit its mark
My life is so dark
The side of the ocean is full of sharks
Some days I feel like such a tart
I used to be such a sweetheart
No one told me life would be so hard.


Details | I do not know? | |

You call yourself a father

Growing up was hard for me,
I think i grew up to soon,
I had to take charge in the big brother role,
But also i had to take hold to the father role somehow.

My mom was the only one who was there for her children,
We knew that she loved us,
She was in love with my father but he wasn't faithful,
So she found someone else who showed her true love.

My siblings never truly understood it,
I tried my best to encourage them to behave,
Which they listened but to a certain point,
Finally my mom married her true love and the caos began.

My father tried to step back in the picture,
My siblings began to side with my father not knowing the seriousness,
I decided to talk to them one-on-one but neither of them listened,
They wanted for my mom and father to be together.

One day my mother sat them down,
Telling them the hurt and pain she experienced with my father,
She explain to them the whole nine yards,
They understood then and began looking at my father differently.

Getting to the stage of middle school,
We began to see less of our father,
It was his choice...not ours,
He wouldn't call for our birthdays or holidays,

So we leaned mostly on our step-father,
They wouldn't accept him as father,
He would do all he could for us,
But instead the only one(s) who really let him be a father figure was me and the 
youngest brother.

My step-father loves my mom and has been there for her going on Fifteen years.
He is a firm talk like he's a policeman or something,
But he is a nice person.
My mom loves him and so do we.

So this is a message for all of the children out there who has a no good father....if 
your mom has a man or husband, please treat him right because he is there to 
protect your mom and you all. Thanks for listening!!


Details | I do not know? | |

The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims

The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims.


When hot lead tears the flesh of a 14 year old girl,

ripping through her skull,
leaving her to bleed out and die,

does Allah not recoil in horror,

to see His child whimper,
to see His daughter cry.

Where is the indignation,

the anger that often boils over and manifests itself as flags and books and videos are burnt in mass orgies of hollow piety,

where are the voices that scream so loud,
that denounce all but their own creed,

where are the men, the impotent men who crave for nothing more than their fascist egos to feed,

where are the voices that so loudly proclaim,
enemies here and enemies there, always quick to condemn,

where are those voices when the enemy walks amongst them.

14 year old Malala Yousafzai was shot in cold blood,

her crime?

Advocating the rights of girls to an education.

Shame on you, men of bigotry and men of cowardice.

Shame on you, silent and mute accomplices in this carnage.

Shame on me,
for my inaction,

Shame on us all,
who proclaim lofty ideals,

yet are conspicuously silent,

when a 14 year old girl is shot in the head,

by fascist fundamentalist bigots who only worship bullets of hot lead.

Not in my name!

Not in my name,
shall the cowardly men rain down abuse,

Not in my name,
shall the bigoted men light the communalistic fuse,

Not in my name,
shall Malala Yousafzai be shot in the head,

left to bleed out,
while countless mothers' tears are shed,

not in my name,
shall religious murderers,
be left to wander free,

not in my name,
for I dare all believers to open their eyes,
to see!

To see,
the innocence of a 14 year old girl,
wanting only an education,

as the men of the cloth,
prance around with their pathetic self-righteous indignation.

I write this today,
the anger raging in my veins,

yet I fear,

that I shall write more of this,

unless we stand up and say 'no more',

I fear that I shall be writing this again,

until we all,

reclaim the true principles of humaneness,

until we silence the voices of bigotry,
of rage,
of fanatical insanity,

I fear I shall be writing this again,

and,

until the muck-ridden bile,
is not excised,

I shall continue to say,

NOT IN MY NAME!

Or else I shall have nothing,

but my unending shame.



(for Malala Yousafzai, 14 years old, in a critical condition after being shot in the head by the Pakistani Taliban, for her work as a young activist advocating the rights of girls to attend school)