Long Parent Poems
Long Parent Poems. Below are the most popular long Parent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parent poems by poem length and keyword.
I will sometimes be asked how it came about
that my children have one set of grandparents,
and I know just what you are thinking now,
but hear me out, an all of this will make sense.
I’m explaining this for one final time
to put all these blasted rumors to rest,
the odd position my family is in
did not come about due to incest!
It began when I, Armond Carruthers,
fell in love with a beautiful girl.
Her name is Denise, and she is my light
in this crazy and much-confused world.
See the two of us were high school sweethearts,
been together since our junior year,
managed to build something that could outlast
the blind passion of our teenage years.
But during our freshman year of college
we decided that we couldn’t wait,
maybe we were just a pair of young fools,
but we went ahead and set the date.
Now this is the point the story gets strange,
both of us were raised by one parent alone,
my father died in a car accident
when I was six, mom raised me on her own.
Denise’s mother was out of her life,
she cheated on her dad when Denise was four,
her father George did all the upbringing,
he gave her all of his hear and then more.
We were just nineteen when we got engaged,
her dad George was a fit forty-one,
my mother, Kristen, was just thirty-nine,
wanted to do something nice for her son.
She was us to focus on our studies,
and would gladly help plan the wedding,
that she and George would make things run smoothly,
we both thanked her, and let them do their thing.
They both must have seen something they liked,
though neither one of us realized it then,
they kept meeting up to ‘plan the wedding’
again...and again...and again…
All this time we just thought it was nice
that these future in-laws were getting along,
figured it would make holidays easy,
you can say we both read that one wrong.
Of course they did not tell us all this,
and the wedding was done in fine style,
neither realizing that for two months now
my mother knew that she was with child…
When three months later it became obvious,
both our parents sheepishly let us know,
to say we were stunned does not describe it,
but later to the courthouse we did go.
And as if this surprise wasn’t enough,
when my mind struggled to make some sense,
I received even more life-changing news,
my Denise was also now pregnant…
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
From the beginning momma been duin it on her own, raising a fast kid like me in a single parent home. 15 years old with her whole life ahead of her, but sperm traveled fast and made a single egg last. Now its me, here by mistake, so I only look at myself as one. Taking her through hell for 15 years , while she gave up all she had in front of her. No prom, no graduation, no happiness, her teenage life thrown away and sacrificed just for me. But all this didn’t have to be. She had a choice: murder me, or give me away and live happily. She kept me out the goodness of her heart, lord knows If she had the chance, she’d give it up for a brand new start. But this is the life of how a small lil teen in a huge giant world grows with guilt inside.
Daddy wasn’t an addict, and daddy wasn’t a jail berg. Daddy isn’t dead, he’s just somewhere being mislead. He’s not with me, so how can he tell me where I need to be.
I grew up like any other kid, without a father. All I had and have to depend on is my mother. She’s not the best, but she’s defiantly far from the rest.
She’s modeling for me, modeling how to be. The best is what she want me to see.
Tough love is rough is love, momma know love. Momma give love, momma take love, but I’m surprised momma still giving love. Its just a matter of time before momma throw in the gloves!
From the headaches, to the heartaches; I couldn’t possibly imagine what hurts worst! She’s smiling on the outside, sorta like me, & crying behind closed doors, praying on her knees: hoping her daughter don’t fall a victim to the streets, and become pregnant just from one lil piece of meat! The whoopings, the spankings, the beatings, the busted heads, and the loud yells are just a sign of tough of love, tryna teach a lesson, while I’m blaming myself when I should really be countin my blessings!
Momma just wanna see me succeed, fulfill the things she wasn’t able to in life, and spend time with her on the things that her momma couldn’t. She wanna see the best in me, & honestly, I’m striving to be all I can.
Bringing home good grades, making goals, achieving goals, and playing my role. They say we can’t please every body and I guess I try too hard, but momma is one person who I wanna impress lord!
Take care of her like she take care of me, that’s after I become all I can be! Cause I want my momma to see . . . . . . . . . I’m GONE make it!!!
A note to all the new parents of special needs babies?
Hello New Mom,
Congratulations, you are now part of a world where there is exquisite beauty.
Along with that beauty will come a hardship few can expound on. You are in the circle of a chosen few..... who become the warriors.
You will see and hear challenges you have not heard of.
You will beam with joy at the most basic skills accomplished. You will be the biggest fan EVER .
Your love for your child will endure you through all the tasks ahead.
You will be holding your breath without even knowing it and break into tears at the drop of the hat. You will think you just can't do it..but somehow you will find it in you to continue.
You will see your other children step up and advocate for their sibling and be better off because of it.
Your other children will astound you with their love and patience.
You will see the worst in humanity with stares and unkind words spoken and although it's extremely painful you will learn to push through at those times.
You will be their advocate forever.
You will be the fierce mama bear ready to swipe your claws at anyone who says "No" it just can't be done.
Each miniscule accomplishment your child masters is your accomplishment too.
The gentle pureness and childlike ways of your child will make your heart sing with joy.
You will get to know names of specialists like endocrinologist and speech pathologists and be waiting in Doctor offices more than you will want to.
You will learn of orthotics and how to use them.
You will become a Physical therapist and a Occupational therapist without the degree.
You will know that " failure to thrive" isn't so scary and you will learn to feed your child through tubes if it has to be done.
You will learn to depend on all the therapists and Special Ed. Teachers and learn to love them like your family.
You will learn along with your child.
You will know sadness and loneliness of a parent of a special needs child.
You will learn that there is a vast storage of knowledge and love and understanding with the seasoned parents.
Befriend them, join Facebook forums they are your support. Theses groups are strong because they hold each other up.
You will know love so deep and pure it amazes you.
You will become a proud parent and warrior of the most gentle soul you will ever have the honor to call your child.
As Artists Touching an Audience - Thoughts on Creating
Beyond the full experiencing and aims of the creative process in all genres, there are the results, the “made” productions, the works, ready to be sent
out there
from the self
to touch other people in some (any) way of giving,
the created work
presented
to affect the anyone in those moments
of being-in-audience
to an artwork (In the perceiving and receiving of it)
to any degree.
As writers, musicians, actors, artists, we are gifted through
the creative process: through
our Felt involvement
from onset to culmination of the created works
And also when we, too, pause outside artworks,
as with all perceptions,
to examine and receive, to be touched in some way:
sensually, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, creatively…
Nearly always, then, we make a judgement
about whether we Like what we perceive
(in all of life as well) in an artist’s composition —
Here
Is the work we have met with for a time
and let reach us…
No matter how briefly, the created work
has thus gone from being some “thing”
To being an Experience.
This accounts, I think, for why artists of all genres
feel more than an ownership of “products” about the works done.
Like a god-parent might, we
artists invest our whole being into
shaping works
to the full completion of their inspiration.
And, then, (as a person does for a fostered one or offspring)
we have a bond…with a desire to follow the path and reception
of our works In the world beyond us.
Our created works poise apart from us…
very like living things…
Lost works are grieved …Others
Also often pass long periods asleep, away
from any receiving audience, even from us, the creators…
Perhaps going forgotten;
Some envisioned works crafted into reality
may return to a collection of once unfulfilled dreams,
which do startle if they eventually wander
out from dark corners and curled pages.
They may have stayed in sleep…to
serendipitously rise for notice in a rebirth
Like garden perennials signaled to stand
in Spring surprise…in a new season of a gifting presentation.
—————————————————————————
Experimental prose-poetry
also an “Address of Poetry” blog, PoetrySoup
(I give 2nd Apologies to Aristotle for this :-)
(c) sally young eslinger 3/10/22
Thanks be to God
“A Christmas Gift”
By: P. G. Borgia
For JP
1
An evening of peace, city streets still,
Snowflakes settle upon your windowsill.
Snuggled in your rocker, pleased to see
A day’s work of love, trimming your tree.
2
Fragrance of pine and lights pulsing bright,
Shining stars lighting a joyful night,
Red stockings hung with hidden treasure,
Toys piled high for a child’s pleasure.
3
Raising your glass to warm, glowing embers:
“Here’s to Santa—he always remembers.”
Your work complete, you begin to doze,
Grinning at the thought, teary eyes gently close.
4
With silence deep and wavering thoughts
Of times in your life happiness brought,
You hear again that soft solemn voice—
Quiet emotion—dry cheeks now moist.
5
You stir with unease, deep in a maze,
Though mercy is brief in slumber’s daze.
You drift into dreams of yesterday’s glee,
Seeking—a child’s voice, sadness-free.
6
Less than a wink, awakened by a tug,
Your child excited, giving you a hug:
“Look, look! Santa was here;
Presents and toys everywhere.”
7
“Can we open them now? Can we please?”
“If I get one more hug,” you playfully tease.
Another big hug — a sweet bribe for sure —
Moving hand-in-hand to gifts on the floor.
8
With a smiling peek at your child’s wide eyes,
Each present opened, another surprise.
Praising your Creator for what you are seeing,
A sense of warmth envelopes your being.
9
Gift wrap and ribbons scattered everywhere,
You quietly return to your rocking chair.
Your child stops playing, gazing up at you:
“Did Santa bring you a Christmas gift too?”
10
Drawing a smile with gleaming pride,
Your little angel moves to your side.
Searching your thoughts, as your lips quiver —
Moments of silence, memories flutter.
11
“Once upon a time, not so far away,
Santa brought presents on his reindeer sleigh.
One special gift was a stocking of cheer,
When gently I peeked, my eyes did tear.”
12
“For inside there you were, my beautiful babe,
A silent night of joy, pure love we gave.
And now, in my arms my gift softly sleeps,
Dreaming a child’s dream, in stillness deep.”
“To you, to us, and to those we've loved—
forever in our hearts.
A BLESSED MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL.”
© 2011 P. G. Borgia © rev 2024
SafeHome is not so much a real place
as a destiny longed for
on our lifetime journey toward dynamic well-being,
too healthily robust to fear growing homeless and friendless.
SafeHome is not an unchanging Paradise,
statically without resonantly changing,
slow-turning nutritious seasons,
ups and downs,
ins and outs.
Such conservative stability, uniformity
could never be my red-blooded idea
of brilliantly resilient Heaven.
So, when Earth's climate pressures,
internally and externally competing
to my point of ego-aggression,
notice chronic stress climbing up my back
and shoulders,
brain stem and frontal cortex
concerned about politically left and personally unself-righteous depression,
When cynicism about never ever loving enough WinWin RealTimes
RealTalk
Real cooperative integrity walks
into co-passioning solidarity,
Then my SafeHome destined child and parent voices
prefer WinWin economic ecological sanctuary
removed from WinLose habitual habitats,
dissonant stuckness
never ever feeling like healthy SafeHome resilience.
Homes resonantly sustained
First, by dynamic cooperative resonance
with all EarthTribes
occupying compassionate health vocational preoccupations
And, Second,
actively seeking sanctuaries cooperatively facilitating,
feeding,
watering,
fueling resilient multicultural nutritional development.
HealthyWealth SafeHomes
plant and harvest socially compassionate
interdependent health-resonant relationships,
polyculturally resilient,
spiritually and naturally polypathic, nonsectarian,
democratically positive energetic, dynamic systems
forming SafeWombed
flow-functions,
universal inside survivor memories
of cooperative sanctuary, originally outside warm wombs
From SafeWombs
emerge WinWin infants, then young and free children
who become WinWin parents and teachers and gratitude preachers,
eco-listeners and ego-speakers
longing for compassionately cooperative SafeHome returns,
pilgrimages toward universal solidarity,
unitarian SafeHome interdependence.
A long strong ZeroZone SafeHome
for robust reunification
within EarthTribe graced communions, healthy
green cooperatives,
permaculturally wealthy
deep learning lifetimes
for green STEAM educational placements,
safe ZeroBalancing carbon-based residencies
in WinNature-WinSpirit learning civilizations.
Am I Vexed? No!
Am I vexed to face music? We both are ‘same sex.’
It’s beyond man to fathom the depth of man’s soul
though perhaps a computer (imagined) might spin
all the dreams love might share, why sun’s rainbows arch backs
like a cat, or why butterflies pinned in a box make us dream
we still see them in flight when collection’s their death!
Does a nugget that’s ripped from quartz crystal’s complex
miss the death of its parent, the star it was born of, feel toll
paid by hydrogen gas, that birthed star? Does gold win
that can plumb all the times it has filled a heart’s cracks!
Love grows colder confessed, that’s unable to stream
what heart wants? I’ll denounce this until my last breath!
Am I vexed we’ve both wives with whom each shares his bed,
one eternity’s hourglass suffices such friends?
Let me speak for myself and not dare to presume
who you love, but has love yet been born that is meek?
If you can, tell me please how such love can be love (so restrained),
not erupt in hot rhymes, or ice flows of free verse?
You think tides (moon might raise), or earth’s seasons reverse
(on the axis of globe knocked-off kelter), mean love’s time-constrained?
Is love full strength, or is it diluted; will squeak,
has a voice known to roar? Care can stay in the room
(if there’s good news or bad), gives short shrift to loose ends!
Our time’s brief on this earth! Save love’s honor for Dead?
Brian Johnston
29th of September in 2020
Poet’s Notes:
Craig Wilson is one of my oldest and dearest friends! We first met in
the US Peace Corps teaching 12th Form students at the Sultan Abu Bakar
Secondary School in Kuantan, Malaysia, from 1968-1970. Craig taught
Biology and I taught Physics. Craig gave his class, and mine, a three-day
sex education class (that was not in the Malaysian Syllabus!) near the end
of our two-year PC commitment. Ha!
My friend and I are both getting ‘long in the tooth!’ I’m five years older,
but our contemporaries are becoming fewer in number. I thought, why
should I wait to write Craig a love poem? I might easily pass before him,
and I am so proud to say that I love Craig, a man, period! May the heaven
(that I hope for) or the reincarnation (he dreams of) mean eternities loom
ahead for us both, though I’m (certainly?) far more ‘Right’ than Craig is!
It begins at home
even closer: it begins "I"nside
I have forgiven failures, failing in faith, inside me
Have you? Until you do, it is almost too hard
To forgive your imperfect parent, and therefore Father-in-Heaven
Lest it seems, I speak ordinary, old, old-fashioned sermon or speech
"Remember Mandela, South Africa, TRC? I was there!"
While billions only speak it, I have to live it
I did not want to; Mandela (OUR BELOVED MADIBA) made it policy
In the bad old South Africa, poisoned by a white Minority, 300 years
Still wanting NOT to share anything today; but we must for ourselves
And for Jesus (or for Mandela, or for Gandhi: both graced South Africa)
Yes, I have grown to love Forgiveness and Reconciliation in my heart
There it must begin, or it cannot come out into this bloody world
From the blood pump inside you, pure Jesus lineage can overflow
Once the mind and heart come into agreement, concord, one accord
(That's what happened at the Pentecost that birthed Christ's Church -
When the disciples, dreading death after Jesus's Crucifixion, locked doors
In the Upper Room, in Jerusalem, tarrying still: Fire in Holy Spirit fell!)
The Holy Spirit tells me to love like Jesus and Mother Theresa (now Saint)
Love till it hurts (and once hurt like that, NOTHING will ever hurt you & me)
I forgive because I see the forgiveness of Jesus (What does it mean? Sins?)
LOVE may begin in sin; but it flies with eagle wings, near the SON, forgiven
We reconcile with the Parent Above; who is really everywhere, doctrines do
not tell us all, only a start: God loved and offered reconciliation, but Truth
Demands we confess: I was a dirty, dastardly sinner, until He washed me
In the pure, precious blood of a Perfect Man, High-Priest after Melchizadek
So, dear brother and sister, I do not list sins to make you mad
That is only to assure YOU the Jesus way: Confess, Receive Grace, Live Free
TRC in RSA: TRUTH and Reconciliation (& Commission Under Archbishop Tutu)
Said anyone, white or black, who confessed their murders and sins
Would not be taken to court; only one was (Wouter Basson)
A whole nation forgave the white Minority under Mandela's mighty mandate
To Love and forgive like Jesus, for BIGGER things: like saving a country
From the kind of civil wars that rage on and on, fed by hate, all about US
My friend John Barnes is as special as can be.
When it comes to friends God sure blessed me.
There are some things we lose, while others we win.
Some games we play lead us into sin.
I’ve have been lucky enough without any doubt.
I have a friend who always helps me out.
He drove across the state to find me on the roam.
Said, “get into the car I’m taking you home.”
He never once asked for a thing or questioned me.
I reckon that’s how a good friend should be.
We worked together off and on, our entire life.
I’m on number eight, John’s with the same wife.
John and Lisa have most certainly had their fights.
In the end they always do what is right.
Work it out, stay together, never giving up.
Realizing they already have a full cup.
They have raised all their kids, which should include me.
I reckon that’s how a parent should be.
John’s not really my dad but he is my brother.
He’s a friend to the end like no other.
A perfect example of what a friend should be.
That’s what John Barnes has always been for me.
From the start of the game to the end of the show,
John’s been the friend who has never let go.
He has stood by my side through thick and thin.
I’m very proud to be a friend to him.
Through the love of my friend I was able to see.
This is exactly what a friend should be.
You guys know that twinkle that you see in a star.
When it comes to life that’s what good friends are.
John Barn's is my best friend. Him and I met in the Oilfields outside
of Bakersfield where he still resides. We worked together on many
different jobs together over the years operating heavy equipment. I
reckon I was about 20 years old when I first met John and Lisa, his
wife. I haven't had 8 wives but I have 3 had wives and 5 significant
others during the time we have all known each other. I'm very lucky,
as well as, very proud to have had them in my life. We may not be
blood but we are family. Several times in my life they have opened
their home and helped me. Never asking for a thing or questioning my
behavior. Of course, them I would never disrespect. Not even in my worst
days. In fact, I never was a disrespectful or rude person. I just had bad
habits. I wrote this in honor of them but it is how I feel about all of my
friends. You guys all shine in my eyes. God Bless, mj
when i think of you.
i remember when mama
brought you home.
i can still see her coming
up the sidewalk at
grandmas' house
as if it were yesterday
i thought you were mine.
i believe that is the first time
i felt pure crystal clear love
for another person in my life.
i remember when you were sick
and we lived on bear mountain
daddy put us in the car and....
mama held you upside down
and claimed later she did not
mean to
so you were wrapped up upsidedown
there i am crying like a banshee
and saying, is she going to die
and the parent people could' t
do anything to shut me up.
the memories are coming faster
of all the fascinations and mysterious
things we were curious about
during the lazy summers that
seemed to us never could end.
we laid on the grass and named
who the clouds looked like
we dressed our cats in clothing
that we made granny sew
for us, waded water where we
should not go and we looked
at everything in this big
wonderful world.
oh, and do you recall when i
read to you about the ransom
of red chief and you laughed
so much. i could make you
laugh so hard.
then.....there was that time at
the newspaper office. you know,
the one time i disowned you
before the time i disowned you
of being my sister...........the time
i took you to school for show
and tell. and you ran off and didn't
act right at all. that was a deal
breaker.
i could talk you into anything. you would
ask me questions........like ......Jo
why is so and so and i would proudly
tell you the answer because i was older
and so much more knowledgeable....
well, at least you believed that
remember...the sweet times when grandma
said we had to take a nap .....and we wouldn't
go unless she went and got a pretty little yellow
chicken in bed with us.
i love the memory of the dresses that granny
made us. poor granny she would do
anything we wanted.
i know that this is long, but the
times keep flooding back to me
and for me it is worth thinking
looking back at the snapshots
in my mind and knowing how
happy we were
i recall how you continuously
would lock the door to the upstairs
of that big scary house and i
would cry.
i got you back with all the
paper dolls i talked you
into buying and you hated them...... to be continued....
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