Her smile was lopsided, crooked
And her eyes had lost their shine
In a wheelchair bound and broken
Sat this mother dear of mine
Once the one that they called “Sunshine”
Now was bowed with grief and care
Garbled speech and eyes unfocused
Made the people stop and stare
Yet in this woman there was hidden
Beauty of the rarest kind
Love for God and for her family
Love for words all graced her mind
She was brave and she was noble
Took the falls and burns and smiled
Knowing that her child, a daughter
Lived with fear so justified
People did not see the beauty
Hidden in her crumpled form
All that they could show was pity
Perhaps that is just the norm
But in her dear withered body
MS had so brutalized
Was a mother’s lasting beauty
That her daughter eulogized
Once a flower brightly blooming
In the garden of my home
She remains my flower ever
In the memories where I roam
I grew up knowing my mother was ill and that she would eventually die due to MS. I lost my Mama on March 19, 2000. I still miss her...Her name? Angel. That was my Mama's name. When she was younger, they used to call her Sunshine because of her dazzling smile....
More poems I've written about my Mama:
I have several poems up about my Mama, Angel Manassian. Mama died on March 19, 2000 at the age of 74. She battled with MS for most of her life. She had me at 41...a surprise!
Turns out, Mama had MS even before she and dad got married, and she didn't know it. My childhood in Iran was the best. We lived in a big compound and had lots of fruit trees, a pool, and wonderful weather to enjoy it all. In winter it snowed. My brothers would jump down from the roof of the house into the snow. In summer, we'd swim all day. Mama taught language at the school Dad was principal of. Ignorance IS bliss. I didn't know Mama was sick. She burned herself once. Really badly. Needed skin grafts....I still didn't know. We moved to Lebanon.
During my early teen years, I had to come to grips with the fact that Mama was sick....Mama would fall, Mama would get stitches...Mama would burn her face. It scared me. It scared me because I saw Mama getting worse....She'd need help walking, then there was the walker, then there was the wheelchair. Oh...I can't go too much into this...the bruises, the choking fits, the catheters, the slurred speech, the crooked smiles....It broke me. Through it all, Mama tried to give us a semblance of normalcy. She'd smile after every fall...She'd smile to hide the pain; I'd cry to relieve the pain.
My Mama was a brave, caring, kind woman. She was well loved by her students, and she instilled in me a love for words, for singing, and a belief in my abilities. I watched a video on youtube today that reminded me of her and made me cry...again...for the woman who is no longer with me. This video is so powerful.....It's about a young girl's battle with MS. She is an accomplished runner, but after every race...something incredible happens.
This one is for my Mama and in honor of Kayla. Watch if you have a spare minute..... Mama finished her race. She had a firm belief in the goodness of God and in the saving power of Jesus. She was an ideal pastor's wife and a fervent prayer warrior. She could say with Paul, " I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 8 Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing."
(2 Timothy 4: 7 & 8) I believe with all my heart that one day my Mama will be whole...body and spirit. You make of that what you want, but I believe she will be awarded eternal life one day.
Here is the story of Kayla:
It had me in tears....I hope she finds the inner strength to keep running for as long as she can....Bless God for people in whose arms we can fall....
She is the mother of every poor people, injured people, ordinary people...
Always we remember the great news
'Mother Teresa will get the Nobel Peace Prize.'
It was one of the best moment in our life...
She lived in our city Kolkata (Calcutta) .
She ate our Bengali foods.
She loved us so much...
One day, I was twelve years old
I met her at Mother House along with my parents.
I looked at her heavenly eyes.
I touched her sacred feet and hands.
I heard her divine speeches.
I love her innocent smile.
I told her only the sentences,
'You are the mother of the world,
Mother of my parents.
So you are my grandmother.'
My father hesitated. My mother was silent.
Mother Teresa said to me with smile,
'GOD BLESS YOU MY SON'
Today my eyes are full of tears
Mother, I miss you.
I love you so much....
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
(Mother Teresa founded the Missionaries of Charity, a Roman Catholic religious congregation, which in 2012 consisted of over 4,500 sisters and is active in 133 countries. They run hospices and homes for people with HIV/AIDS, leprosy and tuberculosis; soup kitchens; dispensaries and mobile clinics; children's and family counselling programmes; orphanages; and schools. Members of the institute must adhere to the vows of chastity, poverty and obedience, and the fourth vow, to give "wholehearted free service to the poorest of the poor".
Mother Teresa was the recipient of numerous honours including the 1979 Nobel Peace Prize. In 2003, she was beatified as "Blessed Teresa of Calcutta". A second miracle credited to her intercession is required before she can be recognised as a saint by the Catholic Church.)
Vacations, in her knowledge, don't exist
India would progress with people like her,
Dear or not, she cares for all -
Yearning to do good for another
A wonderful person, selfless and wise
Really, for praise, words would not suffice.
Written on March 18th, my mother's birthday.
For Tammy Reams's contest
A woman belongs to God, not to man
Created from Adams rib
She was made to be by man’s side
Not above or below or just a ride
She is not to be treated any lesser
She is the life giver
Yet man continues to test her
She bares the pain that no man can bare
Man should be fair and care
To see that in today’s world is unfortunately rare
How much more can she take
Overtime she has cried and cried
Man is blind to this because of his pride
Man should protect and provide
Her sorrow will not end but continue into tomorrow
To hurt a woman is to hurt God himself
A Rose with No Thorn
In the Garden, the bouquet of life
There bloomed a rose whose beauty caught my eye
Incomparable is this rose’s design
Unlike the others, she is not the prickling kind
I know they say that every rose has its thorn
But here blooms the exception, of the spirit she is born
One of a kind, the rarest in form
For she is a rose with no thorn
Oh what a fragrance, so lovely and fair
A scent of sincerity sweeps through the air
A pristine beauty from the realms up above
For she is the flower primeval of love
And as I bask in her blossoms of compassion
I find I am fashioned by love that’s everlasting
And in my heart she’ll always be adorned
For she is a rose with no thorn
Though weeds, thorns and thistles have tried to choke her
The rain has wet her; the sun has even scorched her
But she’ll not wither, neither will she wilt
For she is rooted in the love that God has tilled
Amidst great turmoil, never to be foiled
Arrayed in glory that could never ever toil
One of a kind, yes the rarest in form
For she is a rose with no thorn
Copyright2008 by Kenneth J Thompson
I stand at your grave.
I do not know your name.
I know not where you are from.
Where you fought,
nor where you died.
The horrors and pain you suffered,
were not in vain.
The death and destruction brought you pain.
I weep at your grave,
for the life you gave.
I weep for the Mother,
that gave you that life.
I kneel before your grave.
I bow my head in gratitude to you,
The Unknown Soldier.
Elegy to Child Lost
Passion's love oft tempts despair
Casts a prideful cosmic dare--
Like Prizing Joy's most intimate caress
Babe snug beneath a mother's breast
Senses at this time are keen
There's no secret kept between
Loving mother, wriggling babe--
Wanted , dreamed of, much delayed
But entwined twin was also loved--
Some say Nature's method proves
That one twin may give all to mate---
But this fatal sacrifice must decimate.
Only mother's eyes would feel babe's smiles--
or sense those legs that wandered miles
And daring feet that danced in tunes while
Arms swam in gentle Celtic croons.
When babe vanished--not a sound.
Mother 's grief was not allowed.
Tempted so to trail behind
Escaping shattered troubled mind.
Squelching sorrow's hungry arms
She Tried erase babe's fluttering charms
Never spoke of-- never mourned.
By her husband she was warned
Was best forget a child so early lost--
Funerals, gravestones--such a cost--
But the years have called babe near,
Mother's journal writ in tears:
'Please forgive my selfish heart.
Repressed from all --this tragic part
I felt your sacrificial act--
You left your cherished twin intact'.
There is no law of random acts
Doctors examine data facts
It may be --that in the womb
When both spring flowers cannot bloom
One bold twin refrains to eat
Compels the other to complete
Hardy growth that life requires---
Sparks survival's crucial hours.
Not an accident 'tis sure--
Boldest spirits blossom pure.
Victoria Anderson-Throop ©
A strong woman doesn’t have to have the body that only society wants.
A strong woman doesn’t have to run a marathon.
A strong woman doesn’t have to wear a size zero.
A strong woman doesn’t have to have marvelous muscular masculine legs.
A strong woman doesn’t have to bike up a mountain.
A strong woman doesn’t have to work out for hours to make her tough.
A strong woman has the look of confidence written across her face.
A strong woman still stands tall when she is full of sorrow.
A strong woman does everything at a steady pace.
A strong woman won’t be afraid.
A strong woman keeps her head held high.
A strong wouldn’t care about what she weighed.
A strong woman never gives up.
A strong woman through hard times.
A strong woman is always tough.
Working long hours to make money,
She still makes time to ask,
“How was your day, honey?”
Instead of having a tall, strong stance,
She goes crazy
And she does the Carlton Dance.
She will turn your frown
She will always be there to help you-
For everything you go through.
She will have that shoulder to cry on.
Always- dusk until dawn.
She gives you the clothes on your back.
She gives you the food in your stomach.
She gives you the shelter above your head.
Even when she’s hanging by a thread.
You may say your super-hero is Spiderman…
But my hero is my mom…
Because my mom is a strong woman.
There's not much to say.
I knew her, know some things,
but certainly not all.
I know how little she put up with fools,
how her cooking surpassed so many others',
how simultaneously sweet and hard she could be.
I know about her smoking,
about her jewelry, her faith,
all these I'll hold close to me.
Every single spark, every star,
shines with such a glow, such a marvelous radiance,
that we can't gaze too closely at it,
lest we cause ourselves pain.
And yet, despite ourselves, again and again,
because it's not within us to resist
the sheer beauty of it all,
of stories and of life.
A bouquet of tulips for you.
We all miss you already, Grandma.
I miss you.
I know Heaven's got you, taking no guff as always,
making sure we're all doing alright.
I love you.
Andrew James (McGillicutty) Sprouse
My mother, my grandmother before has always held a place in my heart.
My father, and my grandfather before has the same part.
I was young and very active with unwillingness to listen fully to what they had to say.
I had a problem, never could be solved without my parents and grandparents till today.
With patience they all come to my aid when I fall on my face.
With little dishonor I listen to them and what they had to say, I embrace.
Over the years I go to them with no doubt a feeling of no dismay.
Over the years I go to them and they help me solve problems that to me is O.K.
Now I am getting a bit more aware of what had happen to me when I was growing.
Now I remember how the ride was in my beginning: it was a trial of not knowing.
With the guided words of my parents and grandparents I survive through them all.
With it some being a problem that I remember I recall.
My mother and my grandmother always said to be patient and it will be easy to solve.
My father and my grandfather always knew that I would grow and evolve.
I could wonder everyday what if my parents and grandparents was not in my life.
I could just think that would be fatal like a stab with a knife.
With knowledge that they had past on to me of what they had experience.
With their proof of teachings they had past on to me is their self existence.
Over the years I grew with life so full of happiness that was because of my families love.
Over the years it showed me the path that led me to all the above.
Now cherish those words that help me through my troubles in my new family.
Now I listen to my parents healing words of wisdom and except them gladly.
You have always been my rock
when all else has seemed to fail!
I thank you from the utmost depth
of my being for being a supportive,
listening ear when I didn't deserve
it, realism in the face of fickleness,
truth when it seemed as if there
was none to be found, and
The strength I needed to recognize
there are unresolved issues and
problems within my own life.
I love you with all of my heart
and appreciate your daily,
I owe you my life and promise
I will do better and be all
I can be within reason!
Love Always, Julie
c2013 Julie Rasley
If it is off, I must turn it on.
If it is on, I must turn it off.
If it is folded, I must unfold it.
If it is a liquid, it must be shaken, then spilled.
If it a solid, it must be crumbled, chewed, stepped on or smeared.
If it is high, it must be reached.
If it is shelved, it must be unshelved.
If it is pointed, it must be run with at top speed.
If it has leaves, they must be picked.
If it is plugged, it must be unplugged.
If it is not trash, it must be thrown away.
If it is in the trash, it must be removed, inspected, and thrown on the floor.
If it is closed, it must be opened.
If it does not open, it must be screamed at.
If it has drawers, they must be rifled.
If it is a pencil, it must write on the refrigerator, monitor, or table.
If it is full, it will be more interesting emptied.
If it is empty, it will be more interesting full.
If it is a pile of dirt, it must be laid upon.
If it is stroller, it must under no circumstances be ridden in without protest. It must be pushed by me instead.
If it has a flat surface, it must be banged upon.
If Mommy's hands are full, I must be carried.
If Mommy is in a hurry and wants to carry me, I must walk alone.
If it is paper, it must be torn.
If it has buttons, they must be pressed.
If the volume is low, it must go high.
If it is toilet paper, it must be unrolled on the floor.
If it is a drawer, it must be pulled upon.
If it is a toothbrush, it must be inserted into my mouth.
If it has a faucet, it must be turned on at full force.
If it is a phone, I must talk to it.
If it is a bug, it must be swallowed.
If it doesn't stay on my spoon, it must be dropped on the floor.
If it is not food, it must be tasted.
If it IS food, it must not be tasted.
If it is dry, it must be made wet with drool, milk, or toilet water.
If it is a car seat, it must be protested with arched back.
If it is Mommy, must make her dirty
If it is sibling, must slap,kick,and fight.
If it has four legs, must squeeze tight until makes noise
If big person is on phone, must make lots of noise
If tv is not on cartoons, scream until they are
If food is not good, throw it, refuse to eat it and cry until big people give you something good
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 "
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)
She was a loving gardner growing four boys, she was called home by God when her love had taken root, now she is a gardener for His flowers.
I pray for mother
You could have stayed
Forever was my longing
Does it really have to be you?
Mothers are too special to lose
You gave me life mother
You raised me into a man I am today
I will forever be grateful to you
Out of nothing, you gave me food
Out of nothing, you clothed me
Out of nothing, you sent me to school
You were the best
In your shadow I had shade
You called me Father.
For I carried grandfather’s name
Now I understand how special I was to you
You felt grandfather in me
Who will ever call me that again?
I forbid my thoughts to go deep
For the deeper it goes, the deeper it hurts
I can still hear your voice mother
I can still see you in my dreams
You left without saying good-bye,
Were you mad at me mother?
Deep in my heart, you will always have a home
My sisters and brothers are heartbroken
They are all grown up
But they still need you Mother
Do you still remember your grandchildren?
The youngest is not yet a year old
She will never see your beautiful smile mother
You could have waited
So she does something for you
Fetch water or call you grandmother
We all miss you mother
It’s hard to know you are never coming back
One after another
We will join you mother
We are not afraid of death any more
For we have a place with you
God almighty will meet us someday
Then I will see you for myself again
We will talk and laugh
Just like we used too
Now you live in a far away land
We can’t change that, not even God almighty
I will teach my heart to live without you mother
Though it is hard
I will learn to miss you
I will learn to live without you
But I will never forget you
It’s the body I will never see
Your time is gone Mother
Now you live in a new world
There you will never grow old
There you will never die
I have peace in my heart
For I am reconciled by God’s mercy
My father in heaven comforted me
Now I know you are happy there
The pain I felt
The pain that tortured me
Will never torment me again
You departed with all my tears
With all my strength
With all my hope
And with all my faith
But God gave me a thousand reasons to smile
In am now back on track
Rest in peace dear mother,
It was the will of God
Who am I to question him?
I never did when you were given to me
And somehow I knew this day will come
Let his name be exalted
We meet again Mother
This I know.
The gracious woman grows through her own self-reflection
Everything she goes through in life is a lesson
Her beauty is of essence such as her presence
Full of integrity, compassion, and optimistic guessing
The courage that she brings
Screams a strong woman destined
With the passion of a soldier at war
She is honorable, respectful, worthy and more
Qualities that must be adored
I do not know?
(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)
Her Father and brother appear smaller and smaller
through the tear blurred back window of the Austin A40
the separation of Mother and Father was for her good...
so they said.
The memory scars the heart
dulls the feminine senses.
These graves in the mind
bring her strength of soul.
The wisdom of her times
are transferred by affection and not words of advice.
Her flowered kitchen apron
expresses her love and mind.
Her faith in Christ: her strength yet purpose
are preached by wordless sermonettes.
This is a life that reaches
deep into the unreachable .
Those lonely roads lined with touch-me-not's
rain smudged walls and thatched roof tops
long walked paths between the grass
hearty smiling faces that pass
a tiny spec at a distance far
looming high in the clear blue sky
a close glance at the house so dear
with flowers blooming nearby
The coconut trees swaying with the breeze
tranquil river flowing on with ease
fishermen holler and row on
the sun up high its already noon
the cattle rustling in the shed
tired farm hands toiling for bread
the smell of fresh baked rice cakes
and of smoke that emanates
Grannys dear face lit up bright
crooning pleased at my sight
hugged me close enclosed in warmth
i ventured on inside
The familiar room bathed in light
I lay face up on the old cot
ravishing the familiar feel
fading into slumber longed
I wake from a distant dream and ache
pining for the long lost home
however i may move on
for within me my home lives on.
© (25 Jan '15)
A Poem for Mama
Gnarled hands that caressed a dozen face,
Wrinkled eyes of aging, a woman full of grace.
Through thick and thin, she stood by me,
Lucky and grateful, ‘til death I will be.
When I was younger, she would say,
“build your dreams, never fall astray”.
Those words she uttered, I pondered thoroughly,
The principles she taught, I followed faithfully.
I tumbled, I stumbled, as years went on,
She never left me, from dusk ‘til dawn.
My teenage struggles, the heartbreak it brought,
Instead of judging, my feelings she thought.
Sooner I recovered, I matured, I grew,
In her arms I mended, all bitterness I threw.
She made me realize, that love is not life,
Beyond relationships, true happiness rife.
Now I’m full-grown, by myself I can rise,
Due to her guidance, I’m prudent and wise.
My mother, my hero, can’t compare you to the rest,
It’s true what they say, that mother knows best.
Mother is the light of every home
Heart full of compassion
Empowers us with her unconditional love
Responsible and hardworking
Hera precious, gorgeous queen of splendor,
of mighty Ares,and Enyo,the mother,
to thee I write my gratitude and thanks
for all thy blessings showered upon my head.
Thine is the pomegranate and the diadem,
with which you rule all worlds and human lands,
with magnanimous mercy and charity.
of rainbow colors dressed divine thou art,
the sunny smiling matron of the arts,
Thou,queen, who favorest the pure of heart.
I love you with all my heart we will never be worlds apart
If by chance you went away
Please just trust in what i say
Your in my heart each and everyday
My love for you will always stay and it will never sway
Even if time stood still my love for you never will
You are my hero I must admit and that I will not forget
You held my hand when I was in pain and it was not in vein
I could not ask for more
Your the reason I was born...
I meant to tell about my travelling aboard.
Of my visit to West Africa
For genealogy purpose, I wanted to see my great grandfather homeland.
He was from Guinea.
He loved dance and drumming.
I submit this missed poem!
Lenny was polyrhythm.
He loved his total body dance.
He beat his drum to articulate his movements.
His Sub-Saharan music traditions were practice.
The Hills of Mississippi is where he meaningfully existed.
His life formed many cultures there.
Wolfe’s Plantation is where he lived.
I submit this missed poem.
To a competition, I am entering.
Emma was his wife and a short woman to Lenny’s height that reached over six feet.
They married when she was only sixteen.
Emma gave birth to five children.
Their names are Donnie, Mae Emma, Jeb, Lenny, and Coleen.
Emma was the teacher of The Wolfe’s Plantation.
Through her wisdom and knowledge, she departed education.
A missed poem is written to enter a contest that overlooked my thoughts.
Once called “A Tribute to Guinea, West Africa,” is now entered as “A Missed Poem.”
This is part of the original…
The love of my great grandparents brings me here.
To Guinea, West Africa, I pay tribute.
Their culture in dance and drumming is our heritage.
My great grandfather family is from that history.
West African slaves to European’s whites of Eastern Hemisphere.
United States of America is where they lived.
Lenny’s parents stayed true to the tradition.
He danced to the polyrhythms.
Motif: Heritage/Family/Origin/Mixed Blood/Contest Name
~Please read About This Poem~
Sad girl rising
Let me tell you about this girl I know
My cousin, this girl be
Her life has been so very sad
But how wonderful is she
She was a wild child, till she married
And had her first born child
When she found out that his brain was damaged
It really drove her wild.
She took the Doctor through the courts
Then fought for ten long years
To get the money she deserved
And she cried so many tears
She gained a million pound at last
To help her with the lad
And yet the damage it was done
And it really drove her mad.
Her and her hubby cared for he
And gave their lives to him
It was a twenty four, seven job
But at times it got real grim
She would do just anything
To make his life more sweet
But when she got that Parkinson’s
She was close on to defeat
But no, she struggled with the odds
And though it’s ten years on
Never does this girl give up
When all her hope seems gone
She smiles, and carries on with courage
Like I’ve never seen before
She’s something kind of wonderful
She’s a hero, that’s for sure.
30 July 2o13 @ 1043hrs.
A mother's holiday should be everyday,
To show you the thanks I wish to repay.
A million word poem could never consist,
Of all that you do - a lifetime of lists.
So Ill keep it short - a miniature report.
To convey my gratitude for all your support.
Preparing this thank-you, builds tears in my eyes.
The bulletproof bond we share never dies.
Countless memories we've made as a pair,
Has given me more than I can compare
Your lessons of chivalry I've cherished so dear.
You've molded my heart to love with no fear.
Your lullaby songs that put me to sleep,
Created a herd of infinite sheep.
Happy Mother's Day Mom, I hope you enjoy.
Much love from your son, your grown baby boy.
- Yours Truly
The soul of the crab
Oh how she hides behind that shell
Lets no one see her feelings
She’s practical in everything
But those feelings have her reeling
She’s sensitive, and hurt easy
And her moods they be so many
And yet she has not one bad bone
Malice, she has not any.
She be the one for queen and country
Digs into history
She’s always loyal to her kin
She loves her family
She’ll protect them with her life
Don’t no one touch her man!!!
She has a brilliant memory
And she’ll get you when she can.
Her mother, she loves very much
But her children more than that
Wherever there be family
That’s where she would be at
And how she loves to entertain
And cook delicious food
And always she will be a mother
In her heart will be her brood
9 August 2013 @ 2000hrs.
Threshold(s) Hail thee
The path that delivers I will elevate;
For the life that lives deserves whole eternal,
In the place of rest that saints will dominate.
The many battles fought to safeguard a trait,
To let a brood with no lore of nominal.
The path that delivers I must elevate.
Not she rests assured by nature’s salvage date.
This life yet renders bosoms for cardinal:
To nourish…, enrich this trait to dominate.
From ‘yes’ I breathe to still ‘no’ I defecate.
These, I owe house of notional tribunal.
For that life’s deliverance I will elevate.
Progenies I, owe this life that promulgate
News of me to flora and fauna’s astral.
I owe this life for those gifts to dominate.
Nerve not she got, to stand tests to procreate
Won’t my lines have been thrown in lone nocturnal?
This path that delivers I will elevate,
To the place of rest that saints will dominate.
Dedicated to my mother and my father. And parents alike.