Do others think of you the way I do,
the embryo that grew beneath my heart?
There is so little proof you lived . . .
a metal marker on a grave,
a lighter, a wallet
that they gave . . .
two certificates, official,
like parentheses -
I sometimes see your friends . . .
on those days,
you seem alive in little ways.
Do others think of you the way I do,
the boy who grew into a man,
unspoken dreams, unfinished plans.
There is so little proof you lived . . .
some childhood books
and art, and yet . . .
how deeply carved
your living marked my heart.
© March 5, 2014, Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
I passed beneath the bridge today
close by the place you once called home,
and I sensed your latent footprints
still lingering upon the stone.
I wonder . . . did you pass that way,
mysteriously, in the night,
as guardian angels carried you
across the galaxies toward light?
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, July 24, 2014
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
The snow fell on bloody ground
turning the white to red, eating the silent
flakes till they disappeared into red dust.
The hand lay still...hopelessly bound
in death. Warm red snow was not meant
to melt and cover white life with lust.
No breath melted the blanket of white
dancing playfully on the mother's son
who lay coldly quiet 'neath nature's cover.
He had wanted to stay...not feel the splice
of war...taking him beyond the red sun
atop the earth where the hawks hover.
Copyright © Patricia Langston-Moran | Year Posted 2008
LIFE AFTER SUICIDE
In our barrenness, mourning reigned in our bosom
Our wait conquered years, filled our bucket with tears.
My wife taught me to give up,
But Chidi’s arrival widened our joy-horizon.
His birth birthed our real lives,
Reflected his mothers image in my likeness,
My pretty-smart son made us a home.
Twelve months later started the civil war,
Dodging bullets, we forgot our greatest asset
In running for our lives, we ran from our life
Risked it back to the battlefield, my boy was gone.
My heart wept from his mother’s eye, another covenant with pain.
His birthday was our only sweet memory,
Hoping to celebrate his heroic return someday, but
It wasn’t enough consolation for our undeserving loss.
Years later, poverty and vengeance introduced us to a life of crime,
We built a mud house by the village entrance,
Entertaining strangers with death to possess their substance.
One day, the lot fell on a certain man in clergy regalia,
He acted like a lost son of the soil tracing his origin
Such patriotism kills my zeal to send souls beyond,
But my wife insisted I do the usual, again I gave up.
Did the usual; he kicked that bucket of tears.
But unusual was, his death interfering with my peace,
Reluctantly I ransacked his luggage, found a photo
An image of a smiling-innocent infant boy,
I remembered snapping Chidi in that pose, just like him.
As I observed and pondered, I heard my wife from behind
‘How much is in the bag’, my confusion responded with silence.
When her curiosity sighted the cause of my dreary mood,
It loosed a scream from her tongue, she ran to the cadaver,
Stripped its panties, the butt birthmark was not faded.
Confirming my suspicion, she fell dead after another scream.
Still staring at the photo, I saw the image lying lifeless before me,
Only then was I convinced that I killed my reason-for-living.
At that point I didn’t wish for death, I wished I wasn’t born
Wished we remained barren, wished the war ate him up.
My son Chidi was my life, his death was my suicide
That day turned my world to a morgue, I am a walking corpse.
Copyright © Kingson Ahaneku | Year Posted 2015
“Row-row-row your boat gently down the stream
Merrily-merrily-merrily-merrily life is but a dream”
Wake up Dad! Wake up!
That nightmare again, huh?
I’m starting to take this personally
You tryin to get rid of me or something?
I just ran over to Jason’s to give his CD back
C’mon outside, I’ll show you
See? Not a scratch or a scar
Don’t you understand? It never happened…
(Oh yeah, can you drop my suit by the cleaners?
BIG occasion…Once in a lifetime ya know
Gotta look sharp and stylish
That girl I like might come
Yeah I know , I’m kinda dreading it too
but He says they can’t start without me)
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2014
FATHER TO SON...
(APROPOS A QUADRIPLEGIC SON WHO LIVED AND DIED BEAUTIFULLY)
In the stillness of your own
you taught us
the circadian rhythms of life
and its meandering flow
cascading life's tempestuous realities
year to year gracefully
wrapping pain into neat little packages
to be opened in the still of night
where you lay motionless
while spiritual healing moved
from one solution to another
as your soul communed with God.
How cleverly He disguised you:
a bud in waiting.
When blooming synchronized itself
with your unfolding
you became a radiant sunshine of joy:
then you gracefully slipped away.
a gentle breeze blew baptismal bliss
over my every being
and i felt your sweet soul soaring
in the winds of time
and heard your redemption song
of peace and unity with Jah.
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015
Within a flicker your life sailed away like the rushing tide upon a purple sea
it carrying you along to be placed by God's side setting your soul free
If only your eyes could tell me of the splendor you now see
and emit your light of purple brilliance so as to ease my sad heart of agony
In silence I lite a purple candle for you knowing forever you are near
my arms reach out to hold your shadow while my eyes are covered and veiled
Your candle starts to dim the melting wax dripping into the shapes of a thousand
consuming my heart of the sadness and deprivation that you are not here
In paradise you now belong as the Angels sing your warrior song
today is your birthday and I know the greatest gift was God calling you home
But as your Mother my heart continues to suffer with grief
as I lay upon my bed with your blanket and savor your lasting scent
Watching your purple candle flicker and glow as it vibrates my lost heart
my love for you Son forever ablaze knowing for only a short while we are apart
Speak softly to me in my dreams while giving me visions of a young child at play
the purple candle continues to burn my sweet child, 'Happy Birthday'.
We miss you Caleb. Happy Birthday
copyright 2016 From Aunt Tammy Reams- to my Sister
Copyright © TAMMY REAMS | Year Posted 2016
for René Etiemble (Jan. 26, 1909 – Jan. 2002)*
Barely a few speechless moments before your first words
burned the « Coplas por la muerte de su padre » :
‘Nuestras vidas son los ríos
que van a dar en la mar,
que es el morir ;
y llegados, son iguales
los que viven por sus manos
y los ricos.’
Is the open back door which emboldens courage
No untarnished name to be remembered by
No selfless mate to lay by your honour
No issue laying about themselves for your prize
Decidedly it was a door of stealth
As if choosing it you let it be known
you were only merely passing by
and stopped to hang your hat here for a while
Yet you let your kin and callers believe
your whims were worth putting up with
your mischievous tantrums and gripes
merely the mental athlete’s unwinding antics
The poïetic birth pangs of imminent glory
just the mounting stones in the monumental lighthouse
that ages from hence would pick forth
your works your unfathomable literary resource
You upheld dozens who did leave behind a name
a lasting name not quite torn from solitary pain
Yet who could deny you could have bettered their fame
What undisclosed pain you harboured in your brain
Oh so strangely were you endowed with the intelligence
of the Chun Tzu - that uncanny eagle’s scan
To rout out of the mazes of your students’ past lives
just that one passqge through their Tierra del Fuego
But then you who completely espoused the rigours
of that step by step mounting of respectful steps
Were unsparing in your demands of adherence
to old Master Kung’s hierarchical obedience
An open hand ready to sign any cheque
to succour the caller’s needs
was alas ! also the whip hand
To keep the renegades in constant check
You were possessed of a rare brand of anger
which shook the land about you
At those who bent justice to their unsavoury will
such thunder boiled from the guts of the earth
Now you’re gone and empty lecture halls echo your
uncontainable ire where forged resounding silence
You said at the start of a seminal master-seminar :
« Nul n’est prophète dans son pays ! »
With the distaff side hanging on your every word
wondering if your plans were for something yet undone
No stray notes lie about to record your travail
No visible correspondence to make it all credible
Only books and books files magazines and books
and an overcrowdedly conquered mental pad
jumbled words scratched into shaded inchoate sketches
ganglia synapses shot-up neurons
no clues to a ragingly flailing mind
none to record the lives you succoured
nor even the beneficiaries’ hurriedly scribbled thanks
nor besides to the beclouding relations with one and all
not even a hint at why you may have refused
to forge a name beyond the beaten path of fame
Would going by the front door
in a fanfare of tv talkshows conference papers prize-giving ceremonies paper- interviews in ample studied poses and thoughts for future auto-memoirs volume one to seven the rest put-together posthumously in an omnibus
expurgated version with prefaces notes introductions critiques eulogies
would it have been less like you
to exit by the side-door
the baywindow leading to reflected glory
in a cool cloister of loosened leaves
stray poems in the tradition of your schooled masters
or did you burn them all
in a fit of (cou)rage
tore them to bits incinerated by your fiery mind
or squashed within yesterday’s leftovers
not caring who thought what
the mocking condescension
* The late Professor René Etiemble held the Chair of Comparative Literature at the old, pre-1968 Sorbonne University but retired in 1978 while a professor at the Sorbonne-Nouvelle University. In later life, he even refused nomination to the French Academy of Letters, though he did accept the Academy’s Prize. He was a prolific critic, essayist, and memorialist, having published some poetry and three novels. A renowned linguist and grammarian (a graduate of the prestigious and elite Ecole Normale Supérieure de Paris), he remained until his very last days an inveterate Sinophile. He edited the Gallimard-instituted UNESCO oriental literary classics series, a fitting tribute to his encyclopaedic learning.
© T.Wignesan, 6 novembre 1997, Fresnes-94, France (from the collection : Poems Omega Minus, Paris, 2002)
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012
She sits alone in darkened room
Listening as the wind shakes the thatch,
Peat fire reek hangs in the air
As candle glow reflects in her eyes,
In her arms wrapped in a shawl,
Her bairn sleeps innocent with a smile.
She sings to him sweet and low .
Mmmmmmmmmmm ochone,ochone my little one,
Sleep deep, sleep sound my darling son,
Beneath the stars, dream for me,
Your daddy is lost on some foreign land
So little fingers grasp my hand,
You have his hair, golden brown
With waves and curls hanging down
Features fair and handsome too
Smiles in his sleep just like you.
I loved him so much as i love you
He would have been proud baby boy,
To watch you grow and reach for the sky.
He left to defend his country fair
It was hard to leave, left his heart sair,
To fight in foreign fields and woods
And there he lies, alone in the cold.
When you grow remember him,
Ill tell you all that you should know
Youll plough the ground and seed you,ll sow
And hear his laughter amid the winter snow.
So sleep sound my pretty young son
Don’t let the dark invade your dreams
Rest now and grow strong and tall
Remember your daddie come the fall.
Copyright © Andrew McIntyre | Year Posted 2016
BeAdab gustakh jab aulad ho jaye
Chain sukh maa'n baap ka barbaad ho jaye
Cheen le budbakht jo walid ka sarmaya
Jeete jee kion baap na barbad ho jae
Aasteen ka saamp that beta nhi the woh
Maut ae usko woh barbad ho jae
Baap kee jo he raza Allah kee bhi he
Aashna is qaul se aulad ho jae
Maa'n ke hee pairoan talay jannat ko kar talash
Rah se bhatka jo too barbaad ho jae
Beta boorhay baap ka baazu he kehlata
Beta ye na samjhay toh barbaad ho jae
Nek o taabaydar ho aulad to wallah
Walideen ka dil khushi se shaad ho jae
Kia karein woh waladeen jab nakhalaf beta
Mayel e jaur o situm eejaad ho jae
Qibla o Ka'aba kuch kumtar nhi maa'n baap
Kaash hurmat aashna aulaad ho jae
Deen o dunya chin gaee naKhalf betay se
Baap per jo mayel e bedaad ho jae
Tu ne mera dil dukhaya to he mere lal
Hashr tak tu unsuni faryaad ho jae
Kion na ho jae pidar phir zinda dar-goar
Jab pisar badbakht hee sayyad ho jae
Copyright © mazhar butt | Year Posted 2014
Dear Mother—I longed for your love:
so when you passed away I wept;
as your spirit rose up above
my stinging tears, which were inept,
flowed as we began to remove
your cold, silent corpse as it slept—.
Days passed—they gathered for your wake,
a soothing time that was not sad
or grave as they tried for my sake
to pay their respects and seem glad:
as you laid there (to never take
a breath again), I could’ve gone mad!
The hour arrived—the funeral
took place on a cold, winter morn
as if dream-like, strange and surreal.
Distraught, I felt bereaved and torn
as the last rites and burial
made me shrill with grief from Death’s scorn!
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2016
Sparkie was our collie dog.
With us since Dee was three.
Gentle, obedient, never wild.
Perfect dog for growing child.
Late in life she grew a lump
on one of her many breasts.
Vet said "Best let her have a litter.
Before she pops off, poor critter."
Out popped Mutley, favourite son.
Soon he was out on the run.
Chasing sheep with mum in tow.
Farmer said, "They'll have to go."
Down to our chemist shop father went.
Into our "dark hole".
Appeared back with tablets of old.
Label read PHENABARBITONE.
Concocted a delicious doggie treat.
Phenobarbitone mixed in with meat.
Instructed me to give half to Sparkey.
While he hand fed Mutley.
Into the shed they went,
for two days and three nights.
Not dead yet, but paralysed.
Me the only one to sympathise.
Eventually the vet was called.
A quick shot into the heart.
Mutley died without a murmur.
Dad to church, it was November.
Sparkey still breathing shallow.
In the shed all alone.
I nursed her head in my lap.
Tears blinding me as I sat.
Dee returned from college term.
Up to grave when she learned.
Grave too shallow without a doubt.
As she was greeted by two snouts.
Copyright © JEAN MURRAY | Year Posted 2015
(LAMENTATIONS BEFORE DEATH BY A DEPRESSED SON)
YOUR DREAM FOR ME WAS SO DEEP
THAT IS WHY I WAS BORN FOR KEEP.
YOU WANTED ME TO BE A TRUE SON
AND WANTED ME TO SHINE LIKE YOUR SUN-
YOU WANTED ME TO FOLLOW YOUR VALUES;
YOU WANTED ME TO BE IN THE RULES,
AND BE A MASQUERADE OF YOUR OWN
SO THAT YOU BE PLEASED; A SON LONE.
YOU WANTED ME TO BE A CHRISTIAN
AND WANTED ME TO ENTER YOUR TRAIN
OF HOPE AND GOOD LIFE.YES GOOD LIFE.
OH FATHER!HOW I HAVE STRIVED!
I BELIEVE YOU GAVE BIRTH TO THE WORST
OF CHILDREN IN THE MENTAL FROST;
CHILD 'MONG THE WORST, AN ACCURSED.
I AM THAT CHILD WHO IS CURSED-
FORGIVE ME FATHER.I AM SORRY.SORRY .
CAN'T FULFILL YOUR DREAMS;I'M NOT HOLY-
I'M INSTEAD A CHEAT;THIEF,DISGRACE.
I AM A BAD AND BAD FACE-
I AM THAT USELESS SON YOU HAD.
I AM THE BAD CREATURE WITH CRUEL HEART.
FORGIVE FATHER.FORGIVE ME, FORGIVE-
I CANNOT STILL BE YOUR SON;HOW I GRIEVE.
YOU HAVE NO HOPE,DON't DREAM-
YOUR CHILD IS BAD AS ALL SEEMS.
FORGIVE ME FATHER,SWEET FATHER.
GOOD BYE (WEEPS), SORRY FATHER....
Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2010
We put you down to sleep in your crib
We awakened to find, you were taken by SIDS
It was Sudden Infant Death Syndrome
That took you away from our home
So early in life, you were taken away
We're left behind with so little to say
The question of "Why?" fresh in our minds
The answers, we may never find
The pain will linger on for many years
We just have to fight, to hold back the tears
For we must go on with the rest of our lives
We must look at this tragedy through God's eyes
Our baby is in Heaven, He's our little Angel
We must look to our memories and be very thankful
We miss you, Our Angel, so very much
In our hearts, you'll always be loved
In Memory Of My Son Joshua
Copyright © 1997 Shari E Davis
Copyright © Shari Davis | Year Posted 2007
My boy, a young lad, died fighting the Iraq war.
It could be any war, could be my son,
Your son or anyone's son, what does it matter?
All wars are same, all sons are same.
A lot of decorum, a lot many bravery medals
His name was in the newspapers-
Stop! Why can't everyone stop this superfluity?
I didn't ask for it! When did he ask for martyrdom?
Or for posthumous limelight?
Or a monument in the heart of the city?
Why build it? For your fame? Or his memory?
Nations, why can't your red hot coal hearts
Promote peace? My boy won't come on holidays-
He is on a perennial holiday!
He lies deep down in the earth to be smothered
By the cruel, cold stone erected above his uniform
And he, my son, in his uniform,
Fought to save some adamant men.
I lost my boy! Do you have memories
Of him laughing with his tilted head?
No one to feel my pain!
No one to see the pillow of my heart
Soaking in bloody tears when his bullet rid body
Was honoured and saluted!
Your war is over and my arms are empty.
I live in this empty house full of his photographs.
My bonnie gave your vengeance peace.
Your ego is fluttering in your triumphant flag.
You have won the war and I have lost the war!
October 25, 2015
Contest: Any Sad Poem
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Third-Promote peace not war
Copyright © Balveen Cheema | Year Posted 2015
Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked.
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.
Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!
When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.
Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.
Copyright © Muzzaffar Ahmad Shah | Year Posted 2010
Her words had meant a thousand meanings but still i felt no self healing
for i had hurt her, done her wrong, called her a slave and nothing beyond
she was african but i be white, does that make us different
to see through the eyes of life and feel the nature hell bent
So many days had i been white, to insult the african woman who worked so hard
her skin, dry from the planting seasons, her hair so ratted from the water loss outside
but that same night i had called her worthless and slave she bowed her head
and i as well for it was her last wish, and that made it sacred
"Dear Lord" she said as she began her prayer and her eyes filled with tears
her silent stature, blissed with love and pure confinement, shone though
she was african but i be white, does that make us not afraid to die
to fear the darkness of the night and worship all who makes light no questions no why
"May all who recieve thy lord's love, cry to the bloodshed moon
for if man and woman be forgotten the balance of evil and good
will perish and i have seen this for my eyes turned blind by work
but here i sit with the same girl who did so and wish her no harm"
To stand up felt wrong but as she did so i followed out into the pasture
looking about i noticed the cows this african had milked 'um so many
but she was confident and bent down to the dirt that had one blue rose
i bent also not knowing if what i did was because i felt anything that arose
"And dear lord let her memories have soem of my son's
let the very feet he walked with be hers for i know they were strong
fast and smart he was but none know of he except me
but this girl right here will now know of his eternity"
And with that silent prayer sent to the heavens, i too began to cry
our shoulders shaked and our heads bobbed as the night engulfed us once more
she be african but i be white, does that make us sisters
yes, for we have both suffered and lost, loved and cherished, stood and cowered, worked till
death with blisters
Copyright © Faire Lucas | Year Posted 2010
breast cancer runs rampant within me late mother side
whar moost every female diagnosed with emotional ride
into the depths of despair where metastatic cells pried
their way into the appendages whar din o suckling provide
did initial sustenance prior to malignant growth lied
Innocuously within fleshy tissue til oncologist could not hide
Truth from females that birthed and availed motherly guide
among most ever Harris heiress, whence treatment fried
will power to live (I can only imagine) as rogue growth did elide
as nemesis to body politick where no boxes of tissues dried
the river of tears when such news shell shocked me – I cried
for indiscriminate injustice whence fate snatched me father’s bride
shunting any trivial tit for tat resentments re: grudges aside.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
no other priority but being alive matters when surgeon knife
for malignant curse forces impending mortals to value life
purposeless double mastectomy performed when invisible mass rife
with errant duty to destroy sense and sensibility commanding strife
whether circumstance involved me eldest sister (still alive) or the late wife.
me octogenarian widower father summoned breastworks when last breath
o me long deceased mother – vehemently opposed being sentenced to death
no matter visualization practiced – such as furiously swapping with broom
who truthfully cursed with ovarian cancer, which spelt her actual doom
an unstoppable toxic brew within her being that coursed as meandering flume
Time elapsed, yet still difficult to espy wedding pictures with handsome groom
that would be my 20 plus year old father unbeknownst ill fate would loom
occupying cellular wall street where awry growth jostled for room
a harbinger of lifelessness, whereby she chose creation versus burial in a tomb
many fifty odd decades after my youngest sister exited the womb!
by: matthew scott harris
Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2015
In your arms I held so tight
to feel the warmth of your skin
you made me feel so bright and alive
I yearned for the next day you held me again
there was so much happiness when I saw your face
when I held your hand I never wanted to let go
you gave me so much joy there was nothing to lose
everyday was something special to me and so much more
when that last day came for me god was waiting by my side
he told me that the time had came and I couldn't stay
the life he had helped you make for me is something that was great
he assured me I'd be an angel to look over you and protect you
when I got to heaven I watched the pain you had when I left
I didn't understand because you had something so precious to remember
but when you look at my pictures and hold my blanket tight
I see that I gave you more than just a memory but a piece of something in your
but never would I have been there so long if you weren't there for me
as time goes by don't think of the pain of losing me
Copyright © sarah koziol | Year Posted 2008
When the storm clouds gather
and the thunder rolls,
when the chips are down and the blood runs cold,
I hear the click of the walking stick
and I know I'm not alone.
Your life with us was long
and now you live
elsewhere but still your calm and strength you give
To us who miss you right down here
for I know I'm not alone.
So as the sea swells high
and the birds take flight,
and the still is gone from the starry night,
I hope that now you can see,
how much you mean to me.
Copyright © William Marks | Year Posted 2017
Don’t let guilt be the drive that takes you away
Eventually everything you feel emotionally will be
Honestly I never thought I’d care so much that
But, I miss you and I know now that I’m wrong…
Why did god have to take you away?
Couldn’t he see you’re still needed here?
Mom needs you and so do your kids.
Dad pretends not to care but inside the feelings
Why did you leave, you should’ve fought harder to
We miss you as the days go by.
I see your face every time I close my eyes.
But it’s not the same without you here today.
With you gone the days just fade away..
Copyright © sarah moncada | Year Posted 2012
for Mahathero Gunasena
In a makeshift vihara in the heart of London
Bikku then disclosed his parents long gone
Might one dare utter after all these years
Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears
Somewhere in the saffron folds of his faith
A lonely boy still lurked wanting his mother
Or brother sister and hope-dislocating father
Of how they could abandon even his wraith
Just a single line in the inner board of a book
Over dried blue ink his fingers caressed words
A life he might’ve had in who knows what worlds
He just wanted to say: ‘See, who so forsook!’
In an unwatched vihara in the heart of London
A forsaken boy dared break out of monkdom
Might one dare utter after all these years
Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears
Too late he had come to own up this truth:
‘If there’s a Supreme Being leave Him well be
He knows best what He’s doing forsooth
Mind your own business leave Him well be!’
Should one gauge the measure of a man’s humanity
From his ability to outgrow imposed attachments:
Such as confines of his community race or country
But most of all withstand the viral encroachments
Of his conditioned beliefs upon his own personality.
© T. Wignesan – Paris – September 8, 1983 (Rev. 2012)
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan - Paris, 1983 - (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent", 1999.)
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012
Sad mother ... no son
Went off to war, never come home
No phone call, no letter come
Flowers planted in the garden,
came spring never sprung
Sad, sad mother ... misses her only son
raised under the desert sun
forgave the white man
for what he done
When she forsook God in the midst of a long famine,
that selfsame day
desert rain came pouring down
Now once again, the desert sky has no rain cloud
To beg God to forgive her sin,
for the life of her son, she ain’ too proud
She adopted the peace of the white man,
then asked her son not to go fight in his war
But true to his name, Running Spirit ran
Now, in the desert of her soul,
it’s raining tears in a downpour
Struggling through her long famine of pain,
she keeps clinging to wet desert hope
Sad, sad, sad mother ... no son
Holding on strong ...
but for how long ...
to her last hope
Sits in a rocking chair at home
with a gun on her lap ... and a handwritten note:
“My tears, they could drown the sun,
but I wait for the desert rain to still come
But should the day come when I lose my last hope,
it’s my choice: I choose the gun ... not the rope”
Sad, sad, sad, sad mother
... no son, no son, no son — no sun
Waiting alone, so long, in darkness by the phone,
listening for his voice after each singing ringtone
The rope of despair
keeps trying to choke off all her air
Still, she’s holding on strong
trying her best to cope ...
But each passing day
gets closer to feeling the final tightening of the rope —
yet for now, she rests the gun on the lap of her hope
Her tears they drown the sun
with wet desert hope
Written last on the note:
“Forgive me, son ...
if you come home, and I’m gone”
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017
I miss my father everyday,
He is no longer there...
I miss him dearly,
Somedays too hard to bear...
When I envision him at the table,
Or playing his mouth harp,
An instrument on which he was,
Oh so very sharp...
Still flow through cracked windows,
of 100 years ago...
Memories of family gatherings,
No more shall I ever know..
I grow old and frail and wonder,
When will it be my time to go...
Oh, if miracles God could grant,
Based on necessity,
He'd have me No. 1, first on line,
From the need only he and I could see
The last vibrations,
Of his final vocalizations,
Still within my heart,
Will linger until I utter mine,
And at last I, as well, do depart...
One last hurrah,
One last sweet afternoon,
Having a beer on the porch together,
Listning to Glenn Miller,
Or perhaps one of the Dorseys,
Enjoying just being alive together,
Oh, all the things he taught me,
Family love hard as steel,
Now breaks my heart,
You likely know how I feel
Treasured hours on our porch,
Hearing "American Standards Radio"
Or watching the Yankees, or the Mets,
Just about as sweet as life gets...
The need to converse optional,
We've already shared our own secret beliefs,
Our feelings slowly peeling from our souls,
So there, no words need we share,
Just so glad each is there...
Flying amongst the trade winds,
So pregnant with emotion,
A sense of finality,
Of our love and deep devotion...
People who are no more,
In a place no longer there,
Echoes of time,
And words we did once share...
Something is flying about.....
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
THE BOOK OF HELL
[NB. This poem is the confession made by the biological son of the devil satan,SALAZAR, in
a court session in heaven. This is a confession he made under duress to the ears of
[HEAVEN 5th JUNE 1930...12:12 WHT OR WESTERN HEAVEN TIME.]
At midnight on the twelve of September
1912, when the bells of the elder
Church in town started tolling for the first
Time in twelve years, had death's taste.
As far as I can reveal, was twelve years old
Twelve years old when death, my brother, cold,
Grabbed me in his claws and ended my life.
And so I could not know how man could strive.
This was in compliance to the terms of my birth
Which had been drawn up in hell by my Dad as said,
APPOLYON.i was to come to earth sans fears,
And be nursed by a human being well dressed.
As I am clear of the earth, I can now unleash
The great secret I had hidden in my dish:
If I can really call my terrible mind likewise.
After all I was hooked to it as if by the aid of a vice.
My secrets are not those you listen to every day;
Those secrets of stupidity with no heat of May.
These secrets of mine are those to stagger a giant,
And destroy the hook of creation and the tyrant.
[HERE GOD FROWNED BUT SAID NOTHING.. BUT THERE WERE MURMURS IN THE COURT ROOM OF HEAVEN]
GOD: ENOUGH OF THE NOISE. SALAZAR GO ON.
YOU ARE REALLY A VERY FUNNY SON..
[SALAZAR STARED AT GOD WITH ANGER IN HIS EYES BUT NO WORD FELL FROM HIS MOUTH. HE CONTINUED..]
You should know that I spent only twelve days on earth,
Before my brother, honorable death,
Took me in his claws. But my deeds outdo those
Of the greatest devils who had sin in over-dose.
Here; let me speak and let you tremble like the feather;
I was born in 1912, on first December
And at midnight. After all let me continue well,
So that in my story you shall kindly dwell.
Christ had failed in his....................
[There were grumbles in the courtroom from the heavenly realm, because what SALAZAR had
said was sacrilegious...]
GOD: LET HIM SPEAK HIS MIND.GO ON SALAZAR, SON OF LUCIFER DARILIUS.
Christ had failed in his mission on earth
Because he could not conquer in its entity death.
On the cross he cried," Deus, guare me dereliquisti?"
That is what fell from his lips. What a tyranny!
[There were cries again from the Heavenly realm. God merely sighed and raised a hand for
SALAZAR to continue]
Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2010
i had bought her two hand made crystal glasses
one was red and one was blue
the day our son left home
his old thermos fell
from the top shelf
and broke the red glass
we still have the blue glass
Copyright © Thomas Stanton | Year Posted 2009
Where are you
You do not come to me
When I call your name
How long shall I wait
I walk alone in the shadows
Where only the moon shines bright
Will you be my guide
I stood there
In this place
I wish to drink you in
I wish to feel your cheek
Upon my lips
My arms are vacant
Where you once lay
I hear them still
Comes to me at last
You are near
We dance and sing
You are mine forever
My heart is full of pain
It weeps child
Where are you
Copyright © lisa verdon | Year Posted 2007
From the moment I knew you were on your way, I dreamt of you every night and
I dreamt of who you would look like, your daddy or me, we imagined how much
happiness you would bring.
9 months later there you were "Mamma's smiling baby" and "Daddy's big boy"
Everyone who held you said you brought them so much joy.
You had such a personality, bringing a smile to every face,
you brought a happiness to everyone that could never be replaced.
You are loved by so many and are missed by even more
The urge to hold and kiss you is the greatest I've felt before!
But I know the angels are holding you know, so strong I will be...
Until the day I see you in Heaven and hold you close to me!
I love you Landen and we will never be apart,
because your precious little smile left such a big imprint on my Heart!
Copyright © kaci barnes | Year Posted 2007
An old man sat on his porch
rocking his life away
watching the sun fade in the horizon
each and every day
He wondered of all the days gone by
all the memories he had lived
trying to remember the reasons why
he chose the life he did
The old man who rocked the chair
was burdened by years of pain
but I told him not to close his eyes
for there is beauty in the rain
The old man said many things that day
and one sounded like goodbye
so I touched his hand asking him to stay
but his head lay silent at his side
I rocked him in the evening wind
silently beginning to cry
knowing I didn’t ease the pain
my father carried inside
Old man you tried to rock away
those many years of pain
but decided to open your eyes
and join the beauty in the rain
Copyright © Xavier Keough | Year Posted 2005
My angel came from heaven.. Though I had to give him back,
Too soon for my liking, for it was out of my hands.
Please let me hold him. I want to brush my lips
against his cheek. . But it was not to be,
as he would be gone in a few short weeks.
He would not die in vain I kept telling myself,
He'd not be forgotten on some dusty shelf.
A child so small can he really make
a difference?.. Oh yes beamed our lord as my
son made his entrance..
I will always grieve for this small son of mine,
proof of these empty arms by my side.
Yes the years have passed but the shattered
dream is still there, I have proof of this each
time I hold his lock of hair.
I know that he gave so that others could live,
Whenever I think of him I try to remember this.
So long my dear son, please don't stray too far.
for if you do, it will surely again break my heart...
My son was born 17 weeks premature on 9/11/1988. He should have never made it out of
the operating room alive let alone survived 26 more days.He weighed 1Lb and was only
11'' long. By the time he died he weighed under a pound. His skin was so translucent that
you could see through his tiny hands.I was so desperate for him to live that I enrolled him
into an experimental study for a drug that would rapidly grow his lung tissue.He ended up
developing pneumonia in his tiny lungs and within 24 hours we realized that we were
prolonging his death not his life. So we ended the life support and cradled him as he
passed. The one and only good thing that came out of this is that the drug was approved,
and today thousands of premmies are alive because of this life saving drug. Here in
St.paul, minnesota at the childrens hospital, there is a tree planted in his honor. The part of
my poem that says he gave so others could live.. well, this is what i meant(the experimental
Copyright © Christine Wessels | Year Posted 2007