May we be blessed to understand…
how raising a child is like planting a tree…
We nurture them with love, food and water and sun
but it’s only when they’re grown
and we’re sitting in their shade
do we realize how good a job we’ve done.
they race in and out chasing each other with gusto and vim
oops spoke too soon two dog tails just ran back in
one jumps on the couch, and the other is up there too
they are pony dogs, one weighs 80, the other 122.
They love us to bits, have no idea how strong they are
One jumped to the recliner, it moved back quite far
The other one is jumping on top of the TV
122? Says my husband. I thought he weighed 123.
We are cognizant that these pony dogs are stronger than us.
They are chasing through the house right now, stirring up dust.
My asthma kicks in, and I land down on the ground like a dog toy.
Two dogs on my stomach, delighted, that I am down for them to enjoy.
Car on the road
My puppy gives chase
Truck on the road
He is gone
People on the road
He either walks them home or they walk him back
He is especially fond of two pretty teenage girls
Have you ever thought about the raising of Cain?
Where did that boy get a rage so completely insane
that he ended up murdering his younger brother?
Did he learn it from his father and mother,
who must've been in such deep, psychological pain
for having caused Eden to go down the drain.
Whatever you do as parents remember this one thing
If you please…
How the raising of your children is a lot like planting trees:
You nurture them with your time
your energy
your food
your water
your sun
But it isn’t until years later…
while sitting in their shade
you know how well you’ve done.
Train a child well
Him to prepare
His future holds.
When my wife gave birth to three boys
I was sure that she would not have to wait
For help with the housework for them.
But what a surprise to her it was not
They help her, but also take care
Of her and feel sorry for her.
She's trying to show them that women is weaker sex,
That is, that she's not able to take her washed clothes
To the dryer or open the tightly closed lid.
When they grow up, they will have other tasks
Showing my boys that the female sex
Needs strong male hands.
A woman can take everything on her shoulder
But, nature intended a woman to procreate
And create strong men and feminine women.
Therefore, to dear women who raise boys
Try to be weaker sex, even if you can do everything
Just keep quiet and pretend.
Parents raise children:
a thousand sleepless night
a thousand liters of sweats and tears
a thousand words of advices
a thousand hugs and kisses
a thousand hundreds of money for education
a thousand hardship and few success.
Eyes of the world, seeing is believing
Change in society raising, new gen...
Raised between two homes, morals same
One side, race exist to plague
Other, living among the mist
Two different worlds, same beings
We grow from a child's experience
What we taught is lead by example
Be true to yourself as well your heart
We learn not everything is as believed
Love thou neighbor as you love yourself
But yet world holds us in slavery
Fingers pointing south but not their own
Their own self fallen Egyptian control
Even black man sell his own to survive
A society raising, where rich still controls
The people a slave to their greed
We fight battles of evil, mankind's heart
Like Japanese combat, to imbalance the strong
We grow in ourselves for better or worse
Our choice, lead by example or falling society
Where morals and respect are just words
Man no longer stand but against another
We fight divided, a side to pick
I pick my own, society raising out of control
A world gone mad, everybody hating another
What is mankind but society raising
Your own fault, guess you wasn't taught no better
Encouragement works wonders
Senseless punishment ~ a fateful blunder
Rebirth:
Tragedy has been your favorite genre—
A fount of acts and scenes
of wailing tears and excruciating scars
punctured alive by so-called healers.
That oozing wound
paints the genre that trickles down the plot of your story.
The parched lips, a speaking metaphor of your turgid deals
In the hands of those wandering away with lots of your heart in their claws.
I know the shivering voice hosted in the tender sheen skin of yours
Is not a language of aging;
a simulacrum of those who promise heaven
but shuffle hell down your throat.
I know your fate in the cruel, crooked hands.
fueling you, of course to make your heart a Jericho.
And swallow pain to yourself
only to sing the dirge in love.
I know love never resides here
Neither has its chorus any memories of remembrance.
I think it died.
If love is dead, let me be the raising prophet.
Let me tender this desert back to Eden,
where nature plume and sing again.
While Jesus was raring and rising
Our religion we would be realizing
Being an atheist had been disguising
How is that for a few buckles of chuckles
scrapped by barnacles who had been a
natural born sailor named Bill. Ho ho.
After ages was turned into rock
Put on Startrek with name of Spock
While into show ourselves would lock
I have heard about shut ins and sit ins
before but I am not so sure and lock ins
and loose in though. What do you think
and hope all of this in will start to sink.
While Jesus was raring and rising
Our religion we would be realizing
Being an atheist had been disguising
How is that for a few buckles of chuckles
scrapped by barnacles who had been a
natural born sailor named Bill. Ho ho.
After ages was turned into rock
Put on Startrek with name of Spock
While into show ourselves would lock
I have heard about shut ins and sit ins
before but I am not so sure and lock ins
and loose in though. What do you think
and hope all of this in will start to sink.
The musical was near ready to start
When someone let off a rip roaring fart
The smell was horrific
All had a sniff of it
‘Twas a bummer of an ass drummer’s fine art.
The show opened with a trumpet fanfare
As the audience were gasping for air
The one that had farted
Had finished what started
Loose poop ran everywhere from the goofs chair.
It was certainly a roof raising poop
Putrid poop much too watery to scoop
A runny stream of yuck
Those sent to mop upchuck
So uncouth for the enterprising troop.
The show stopped when cleaners needed a drink
They had to quit work because of the stink
Pooper was shown the door
But he farted once more
And the audience had tears on the blink.
So then the music commenced and played on
But the spell was broken, magic was gone
One by one people left
With hearts sadly bereft
Gone with gust of a flatulent gas bomb.
raising cuckoos
are you like me and seek the truth ~ but accept a lie if it bears fruit
our monster chick is not so cute ~ yet what in this world is absolute
the (chick) is on the right
By David Kavanagh
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