Thank you – Zamreen Zarook
Thank you is a sweet word in the nature,
You may be a guy of adventure,
May be you are a person of agriculture,
What matters is your architecture.
Never forget the people, who guided you,
In no degree neglect who were with you,
Don’t ever overlook a creature, who gave a smile to you,
Because, you will meet them above you.
People forget the past due to selfishness,
They have no time to remember their unawareness,
Society, most of the times behave in awfulness,
They will understand when their lives come in to bitterness.
Be a person to thank and remember,
Don’t consider them as December,
Because, you might need them in November,
So, always be as a good subscriber.
The poem is dedicated to my Mom..My bestest buddy ever..
wrote by Mrs.Madhavi.Suyog.Pagare
Mom - You are my harmonious World!!!!
MOM you are a beautiful angel who always had an great heart of making my problems simpler..just cant compare you with anyone in this world..You have been moonlighting in my life since many years..you are my shadow,you are my strength,you are great friend of my mine..thanks for being the bestest mom ever in my life..you struggled so hard for curving my career,u painted ma life with colourful rainbows,thanks for ur patience when I get panicked,you knw how to handle me..My life will be incomplete without you..I can't spend a single day without having thought abt you..you always shower with an unconditional love..you are the mesmerised persona..who lime lighted my life..my world..Wish you a very happy birthday and happy mother's day too..Love you mummy..
Mrs.Madhavi Suyog Pagare
I do not know?
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...
(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 Painful Thanksgiving Night…
As I sit here this Thanksgiving night
I can do nothing else but write.
My family’s in the other room
So, why do I feel all this gloom?
When we arrived late last night
I thought for sure I would be alright.
Even though it took everything in me
To take that 3 hour drive you see.
Each and every time I come
All I want to do is run.
Run away and never turn back
A family bond I sure do lack.
A mother’s love is what I crave
But a hug and money is all she gave.
My sisters and I we try and try
To understand mother as the years go by.
But nothing about her ways makes sense
She’s cold and hard and always on the defense.
Through the years she’s done much wrong
But the love of my mother I still do long.
Though the bad memories of her will never erase
I prayed through my kids they might be replaced.
Maybe they would chase away her pain
And my love for her would not be in vain.
When they’re around her it’s clear to see
There’s nothing left, no mystery.
Who she is; is what she’ll be
All I see is a repeat of history.
A history filled with hurt and pain
To protect my children I must break the chain.
This chain has bound me in so many ways
It almost claimed my life - on several days.
My mom was a strong woman, and stubborn too,
Yet she had a soft side, between me and you.
That side she would show, when you least expected,
But let me tell you, she was well respected.
Mom was quite unique, and was one of a kind,
She was set in her ways, so keep that in mind.
The youngest of nine, she had gotten her way,
Spoiled by her siblings’, almost every day.
Right out of high school, she had married my dad,
Blessed with three children, plus fifty years they had.
They both were hard workers, in all that they did,
My dad taught himself, from when he was a kid.
My mom was a smoker, for forty-six years,
Some day it would happen, she’d face all her fears.
Lung cancer she had, and inoperable too,
Her time on this earth, would be shortened we knew.
Radiation and Chemo, had done their thing,
Remission set in, tears of joy it did bring.
We would go out at night, to shop and to talk,
I knew she enjoyed, getting out for a walk.
Two years had gone by, after Thanksgiving Day,
Her pain had returned, but was afraid to say.
She’d lie on the couch; it was strength she did lack,
We knew in our hearts, that the cancer came back.
We shared lots of laughter, but many a tear,
I tried to assure her, she’d nothing to fear.
“Please watch over your dad, this one thing I ask.”
“I know it will be, quite a difficult task.”
One morning in March, Hospice called us to say,
You may want to come, for she’s slipping away.
For the night before, mom told me to stay home,
“Be there for your kids, you can call me by phone.”
When we all arrived, for a moment she woke,
Her eyes said it all, not a word had she spoke.
We stayed by her bedside, just holding her hand,
“It’s time to let go mom, we all understand”.
A few days had passed, not ready to let go,
For it had been raining, but letting up slow.
The sun began shining, the clouds disappeared,
Opening the heavens, for mom’s time has neared.
We gathered together, her forehead we kissed,
Whispering so softly, how much she’d be missed.
“Your time has arrived mom, just follow the light”,
She left us so peaceful, she gave up her fight.
It was time to drive home, in the car we got,
Then something had happened, while leaving the lot.
Huge drops of rain falling, it had to be fate.
They were tears of joy; she was at heaven’s gate.
An Ode to Turkeys
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
There was a time, year one thousand A.D
U.S. turkeys faced a brand new plight.
Native American's hunting delight.
The white meat of a turkey is quite lean.
So much healthier than man knew before,
Nothing one ever could say,
In any way,
Would make Americans free turkeys anymore.
Thanksgiving comes and goes.
Wild turkey gobbling slows.
Ben Franklin watched their plight.
Nominated, though laughter did flare.
Turkeys beneath the moonlight
Were beautiful out there.
Ben suggested, turks as the nation's bird.
But eagles know, it was not so.
And turks in history endured this nations birth.
Although wild turkeys can run fast and fly,
Toms might in spring be found.
Fluffing, dancing around.
Caruncle and waddle shiny, bright red
Courting the hens, showing off, prancing, not dead.
Although turkeys fly strong,
The hunters by day kept watch in the fields.
Until, Old Tom, no more sang passion's song
And hens under bushes sat on eggs long.
When chicks hatched out and played their mother shields.
But on Thanksgiving Day...
Note: Carolyn, thanks for the video suggestion. It is very funny. I decided to post the link
here. The HISTORICAL one is found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1213z9KHNs
(TIME HEALS ALL: We do LOVE you, MOTHER ENGLAND... from you we were BORN.)
The HYSTERICAL one is found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnLyqBtU_F8
ENJOY the FUN!
The time has come to step aside.
It’s been a very lovely ride.
I trained my darling daughter well.
It’s she who rings the dinner bell
on holidays and lets me rest.
She aces each and every test.
Proving herself every bit as able
as I to set Thanksgiving table,
she feeds her twenty-two hungry guests
without a sign of being stressed.
So I feel needed, I surmise,
she allowed me to make the pies.
She never loses her sweet smile.
For each grandchild she stops awhile
to hug, to listen and to praise
as I did in the olden days.
Daughter, mother and grandmother,
she’s as good at one role as the other.
The day will come I know it’s true
when she will give soup ladle to
her own sweet daughter next in line.
She’ll step aside this child of mine,
to sit and rest and watch her daughter
do as her loving mother taught her.
I watch her now with love and pride
this woman whom I helped to guide
to the super mother she became.
Her daughters now are in the game.
They’re teaching the new generation
to be the next great mom sensation.
And so it has been through the years,
moms giving love and shedding tears,
each passing on her mothering lore
learned from mothers who came before.
It's funny how we associate things. They become one with each other. Who can imagine an Easter without the bunny, or losing a tooth and not being paid a visit by the tooth fairy. And Christmas would be unthinkable without Santa. So that is why, I guess, that I still remember one particular Thanksgiving from my youth.
Back then, turkeys at the market were fresh, not frozen and encased in plastic as they are today. They also represented an extra expense on an already tight food budget. So my mother made arrangements with the market manager to set up a layaway of sorts, paying some each week, and they promised to hold one for her.
I remember when, on the afternoon before Thanksgiving day, she sent me over to the grocer to pick up the turkey. I jumped on my bike and rode downtown to Converse Market. Walking up to the door, I found it locked. Shading my eyes, I pressed my nose against the window and saw that all the lights were off. Turns out they had closed early that day to give their employees a little more time to spend with their families.
When I returned home and told my mother what had happened, the look on her face was one of devastation. What would Thanksgiving be without a turkey? I thought my dad would be mad, but instead he just said “we've got food in the house don't we”? And we did.
So, although the letdown of a Thanksgiving without the traditional bird could have been a disaster, on that particular day, we chose instead to give thanks for what we had, and, as a family, dived into our pork chops with all the fixings.
Mom is just mom when she wants to be,
I wish she was more independant in life.
What I write is the truth, she'd probably agree.
Maybe she didn't do a good job as a wife,
Put down the alcohol and look towards God.
Because He is the one who will make things right.
This past Thanksgiving I didn't sense your love
You didn't cook Turkey, no family was present.
I left and you didn't even give me a loving hug.
Since I became a Muslim, I'm not feeling your presence,
You also act different in front of my girl,
I guess mom is just mom, that's my life's lesson.
Hopefully situations will get better for you
And one day you'll realize in this world what is true.
Over your head is a shining light,
Oh mother Mary what a blissful sight.
You came to the world to bless us all,
You brought a son to save the world.
You appear to the sick to give them hope,
To bless them and comfort their soul.
So gentle mother Mary, please bless me
And my family in this life’s journey.
A journey of hope that the ever lasting place
Is a better place for us all.
Please mother Mary help the sick,
Heal them with your blessings this i wish.
I kiss the ground where you walked,
The land of the Cedars that stood so tall.
You are there in every place,
On our hearts we engraved your face.
Lord in answer of prayer
Child of mine. I must admit I don’t hear from you very often,
Your brother though is quite devout, to him your heart should soften.
He say’s he works hard to me - but that you will blame him.
For anything you don’t do, and you will try to shame him.
Your brother, put in a plea for you, and not for a new bike.
You had better try harder, boy before I give you what you like.
I even hear from your teacher, he’s his own wits end,
He prayed for the cane to come back, so your ways you better mend.
Your mother tries so very hard it’s not her cooking at fault,
Its you and your picky ways, so they had better halt.
Your mother works hard and has little time to bake you pumpkin pie,
You're lucky boy to have gravy, never mind the turkey dry.
Your granddad needs a rest, don’t be a pest, he’s getting on you know.
As for grandma she puts up with all of you, so let the wines flow.
Your big sister, her father has already requested the boyfriends’ disappearance.
I’m working on that and everything else, so just give me a chance.
The neighbour’s - well they have not said, anything about you.
They just prayed that your family would go out, and then come back without you.
So listen boy the lord has spoken, and you better hear me well.
Cos come next thanksgiving year, You may hear from him below.
She has always loved jigsaw puzzles
as far back as he can remember
she gets at least one a year
and leaves it on the kitchen table until it's done
she gets the 1000 piece puzzles now
her latest one is of lighthouses
They talk a lot on the phone
he started college a couple months ago
she loves to hear about his day
anything, everything he does
it doesn't matter what they talk about
because all she really wants to hear
is his voice
"I've been working on this thing since August"
he can tell she's really irritated
"1000 pieces, and I can't find the last damn piece"
he tries not to let her hear him chuckle
she has no idea how funny she is when she gets mad
it's November and after all the time she's put into it
she's sitting there on the other end of the phone
totally pissed because one piece is missing
"And it's right in the center where it's glaringly obvious"
When he walked in the door, he could smell the pumpkin pie
it was great to be home for Thanksgiving
he almost fell over when he came in the door
because she ran through the kitchen
and threw herself at him, laughing
and crying, and he spun her around
She's so happy he's home for a few days
he's going to help her put up the Christmas tree
just like they've been doing for years over the Thanksgiving holiday
she's also hoping she can talk him into steam cleaning the carpet
and replacing the balcony screen door
"Tomorrow I'm getting the turkey in early so we can eat by noon"
Any time was fine with him, as long as he can be here
"I'll make you a sandwich while you put your stuff away"
He walked past the kitchen table towards his room
"And if I'm lucky, maybe he'll find that damn puzzle piece" she mumbled under
With his bag slung across his shoulder
He glanced at the jigsaw puzzle
"That's great" he thought to himself as he noticed
The center piece isn't missing anymore
Of all the people in my life that I am thankful to
I know there's not alot but one stands out among the few
If teachers rated people you'd score high among the curve
But since they don't, you never get the credit you deserve
You're known for giving freely, asking nothing in return
Even when no "thank you" comes your way you don't feel spurned
The love you show burns like a light as brilliant as the sun
More reliable than AT&T, It reaches everyone
I'm that sure you are wondering who I am talking about
I'll speak it in a normal voice, Although my heart will shout
The person I want to dedicate this Thanksgiving Day to
Is my Grandmother whom I love so much, and honestly... THANK YOU
I do not know?
Sign of the Cross (poem)
O my God
I offer you all my prayers
In union with the Sacred Heart of Jesus
For the intentions
Which He pleads
Offers Himself in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass
In thanksgiving for Your favors
In reparation for my offenses
In humble supplication for my temporal
For the conversion of sinners
For the relief of the poor souls in purgatory.
Sign of the Cross (Poem)
In the lovely Campanian countryside, amid
verdant hills and mountains...where Virgil
stopped to rest,while jeourneying to visit Cybele's temple,
lie a fertile valley where chestnut and walnut trees
abound...there is hidden the bustling town of my birth!
Narrow streets overlooked by bell towers,
and whenever the sturdy bronze bells ring
in the fragrant air of early spring:
young and old from windows and balconies,
in the twelfth hour, engage
in the sweet thanksgiving prayer...
while the tricolor flags sway in the warmest breeze!
The town's friendly people will welcome you with song,
untill you feel wonderful and touched by all;
this town has seen invasion, pestilences and a dire year...
an almost fatal hurricane that prevented a fierce battle
from being fought during World War II;
was Divine Intervention a factor to be acknowledged?
It spared this town being bombarded by air,
and it saved my mother's life to tell this truth!
God blessed this unknown place,
and sent Mary with the infant Jesus,
four days after He was born,
on a long jeourney through that valley
filled with peace and beauty:
to find a revered and holy mountain...
much closer to Heaven!
And She shed many tears
to give all the dull flowers
a brilliance of their own!
Deep in the hills there was a very special place I choose,
where I would rever the magnificence of the valley...
revealing a superb panorama with the Vesuvius in sight,
was there another creation as magnificent as that ?
And that owesome view perked up my inspiration inside,
teaching my tiny fingers to write with a human heart!
O Baiano, don't strip this name from your walls and stones:
I am a forgotten native who will return before he'll die!