Category: family

Heredity, Poetry by Grecia Albornoz

You’re the son of wrath
conceived with rage
weakly loved
abandoned
sheltered by pride
raised

Genre: FAMILY, LIFE, PAINFUL, SOCIETY, LEGACY.

Heredity
A poem by Grecia Albornoz

You’re the son of wrath
conceived with rage
weakly loved
abandoned
sheltered by pride
raised
reassured
in a world full of ill conceived people
abandoned
reassured
wanting to repeat cycles.

You’re the daughter of complaisance
conceived with insecurity
life-long abused
you raise mistreated sons
that mistreat
and damaged daughters
that allow for mistreatment.
Your heredity.
© 2016 Grecia Albornoz

 

 

* * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Advertisement

You’re Not the Boss of Me!, Poetry by Cindi Walton

“You’re not the boss of me!” the kindergartner said
When his mommy told him, “Son, now it’s time for bed!”
“Wait till I turn 18, I’ll do just as I please”
Said the boy to his father as he took away his keys
“I’m 21 and DRINK; stop me if you dare!”

Genre: Family

You’re Not the Boss of Me!By Cindi Walton

“You’re not the boss of me!” the kindergartner said
When his mommy told him, “Son, now it’s time for bed!”
“Wait till I turn 18, I’ll do just as I please”
Said the boy to his father as he took away his keys
“I’m 21 and DRINK; stop me if you dare!”
His folks were concerned, but he didn’t really care
College came and went, and a job he did procure
Found a pretty brunette and asked to marry her
Bought a house in “Newville” where everything was new
The boss of his own destiny, to do as he would do
The years went by and children came, one, then two, then three
He had it all, life was grand, and this was his decree
“Look Mom and Dad” I did succeed, I knew it all along
You didn’t have to ride my butt and tell me right from wrong!”
The seasons changed, his kids grew up and then they started school
“You’re not our boss!” his children cried, he knew he’d been a fool
He saw now as a parent sees, through eyes just like his own
He knew he had a call to make, pulling out his phone
And when his parents answered, he said between his tears
You’re the “best boss” a kid could have; I thank you for the years
You never walked away and let me run amuck
The things you meant to teach, I DO BELIEVE they’ve stuck
Until we are a parent and see what parents’ see
We never can appreciate just how we came to be
Thank you to my Mom and Dad, who led, and did not fold
And made me see the value of ….Do as you are told!

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Mending Mother by Leslie Caplan

I looked deeper in
aching to abyss to understand
And I understoodtand
And I understood

Genre: Healing, Family, Relationship

Mending Mother by Leslie Caplan

I found a photograph at the bottom
of an unopened box
Crackling cardboard dried out from
being rained on
I reached in
Sifting through old letters,
scrawls of random thoughts,
poems that turned into
a thousand page book

I poured it out
onto the open floor
let the air in
let the stream of yellow light
spill in
and wrap around each keepsake

At the bottom,
under the fold and crease where the box
holds itself together
was a picture
At first I thought it was me
But it was you
as a young, budding woman
in a black and white capture
of your innocence
How hopeful your eyes gleaned
how deep the longing for what’s ahead

I held the photo in my hand
sat under the window and let the light
magnify your face
I saw myself
The face of the womb in which I grew
before I was even a thought
in your world
So long before an injection of insane
came in and corrupted your radiant youth
and the palpable wisdom
held in the cup your hand

So young and ivory skinned
Plump in cheeks and heart
And even though the picture was black and white
I saw the rosy tint of freshness
on your face
Your rich light almond eyes
I could see right through

You were lovely.

To the core of my holding
Soft before the world you inhaled
made you bitter to a pucker
Your hands mirrored mine
The shape of your brow
the shine of your lips long before
they dried out from all the salted cries you swallowed

You were beautiful.

I looked deeper in
aching to abyss to understand
And I understood
That somewhere along that paved line of your life
your heart caved
and shattered into too many pieces
to pick up and put back together
and you had to pretend
to be unbroken
pretend to love the man you married
and bore three daughters with
that you pretended you knew what to do with

And all you could do
was raise them inside
the shattered chamber you held together
for the sake of their survival
praying they’d thrive
in spite you

and I did.

I can speak for myself and say I did
And I took what was good in you
sane and whole in you
and I found my way
with what you did give me

life
courage
fire

and eyes so deep they blink
off the stillness of a photograph
and shed a tear so fertile
it grows life
mends and heals and breathes into
my whole life
within and without you
my life in honor
of you.

www.courageousheartinmotion.com

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

 

 

From the Water, Poetry by Allison J. Call

Like many of you, I burrow seasonal trenches

Up and down and through,

Weaving my way through the ideology

That tomorrow’s winter will ever be colder than today’s.

I prefer a Sunday dance around a newspaper

And a misty cup beside my father’s silence,

Genre: Relationship, Family

From the Water by Allison J. Call

Like many of you, I burrow seasonal trenches

Up and down and through,

Weaving my way through the ideology

That tomorrow’s winter will ever be colder than today’s.

I prefer a Sunday dance around a newspaper

And a misty cup beside my father’s silence,

And I prefer the cold hands of a February morning

Tightening its delicate grip around

My most vulnerable.

I prefer all this, all this to what’s really.

My father counts one every year,

Because dawn is MY years old,

I control the seasons

And he couldn’t possibly die.

He is too wrong, too opposite of me.

Too set in his ways to let the ice grip him

As it grips me.

He’s too much my father to be a poet.

And he never told me that he was, and if he

NEVER told me he was, then

How can it be?

And outside, mint-mist fog ripples like a clock ticking

Wildly without a cog to push it

And without a hand to tell.

I come alone in the morning into the minty smoke

That has sky for veins.

I come alone on a Sunday

To count the drops of the lapping lake water

Or the warm, black metal tins along the edge of it.

In silence, war wears no coat and makes

No promises.

War’s tangled colors are the ticking fog, the water, the tins,

The newspaper dance, the warm coffee.

War is my father whom I cannot define

And of whom I come from without definition or border.

From the water I come virginal, frozen.

From the water I come a bastard, an orphan,

And alone.

I come from my father but I am not my father.

I am the water.

The morning light water.

 

 

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

PAPA’S NEW WIFE, Poetry by Nnamdi Wabara

I had gone back towards the Living Room.

For my School Text, which I had left on the side table.

My Math assignment to be redone, errors rife.

But Papa had a visitor, who whispered with him, like thieves about a heirloom.

Then out of the hushed tones, the inaudible rabble;

Papa said ” Tomorrow, she’ll be here; My New Wife”.

Genre: Family, Life, People

PAPA’S NEW WIFE by Nnamdi Wabara

 

I had gone back towards the Living Room.

For my School Text, which I had left on the side table.

My Math assignment to be redone, errors rife.

But Papa had a visitor, who whispered with him, like thieves about a heirloom.

Then out of the hushed tones, the inaudible rabble;

Papa said ” Tomorrow, she’ll be here; My New Wife”.

 

 

My young legs became filled with copious lead.

I froze to the spot. Enraged, yet rooted.

My heart thundered against my ribs, as if to break free.

And worse. The door opened. It was Revd. Gilead.

Parish Pastor and regular partaker of Mama’s delicious stewed Goat head.

I dodged as he made to pat my head, lest he stain me with his filthy mire.

 

 

That Evening at dinner, I couldn’t swallow even a morsel.

I just sat at the table staring at my plate, while my mind rioted.

Watching him even feed Mama pieces of fish from his soup. The Traitor!

My two little sisters chatted merrily and helped finish my cup of Sorrel.

My parents soon stood and hand in hand, whilst giggling, announced they had retired.

I soon left as well, not having the heart while my sisters washed up, to monitor.

 

 

Sleep that night was turbulent. I tossed and turned.

What could turn a godly man, an avowed Christian, polygamous?

When just the other day, he had railed against infidelity in the Church.

He wouldn’t even shake the Landlord’s hand after the Caretaker’s young daughter became his newly wed.

Gone were his public vows of ensuring his children became famous.

How possible, when the new wife will fight us over even the battered couch.

 

 

Then I wondered if at all we will be in Papa’s will.

Mama’s three daughters’ stood no chance against a new son in the African Custom.

Oh the injustice of it all, as I fell into a fitful sleep.

And I dreamt we were Romans and were gathered to feast on some bounty kill.

Though dressed in Togas’, I could still make out people in the place, including my Grand-Mom.

The Revd. Gilead was called Brutus, and I wished he would remain there as Caesar’s keep.

 

 

The Morning only brought me high fevers.

All sweaty, with splitting headaches. Mama sent word to School through my sisters.

I feigned sleep as Papa felt my forehead and prayed for my recovery. Evil Man!

At noon, I heard Mama’s excited shout; “Nne, come and see your Father’s New Wife”. Gone were the feverish shivers.

I charged out. An ill and weak Nine Year Old. Machete in hand. To ensure justice and preserve the honour of Mama and my sisters.

There she was. A White Volkswagen Beetle. Glistening in the Sun. Papa had bought a new Car. My Sweet Old Man.

 

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.( newerthots.blogspot.com )

 

 

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

His Red Rattle, Poetry by Chris Biscuiti

He tries so hard to grab his red rattle
Staring intently as his hands reach out
One day soon he will win this next battle
Previous victories leave me no doubt

Genre: Rhyme, Family, People

His Red Rattle
by Chris Biscuiti

He tries so hard to grab his red rattle
Staring intently as his hands reach out
One day soon he will win this next battle
Previous victories leave me no doubt

He might not be able to smash his cake
But he’ll definitely love the flavor
With all he’s accomplished make no mistake
It’s been a year we will truly savor

He’ll have birthdays where he blows out candles
and unwraps all of his shiny new toys
One of these years he’ll easily handle
all the goodies given to birthday boys

This year we get the best gift there can be:
Six months without spasms and seizure free

    * * * * * *

Submit your POEM to the Poetry Festival: http://www.festivalforpoetry.com

WATCH POETRY READINGS (see what we can do when you submit):

WATCH POETRY MOVIES (see what we can do when you submit):

Dream Ahead, Poetry by Chris Biscuiti

I will not let them look at you sadly
and I know how you want it so badly
to look at the stars and grab with your hands
to do little boy things your mind commands

Genre: Family, Rhyme, Sadness

Dream Ahead
by Chris Biscuiti

I will not let them look at you sadly
and I know how you want it so badly
to look at the stars and grab with your hands
to do little boy things your mind commands

You will get there son, I can see your will
you’ll ride rollercoasters just for the thrill
we will chant and scream for the New York Mets
when they break our hearts we’ll have no regrets

Today grandpa held you close on the couch
and grandma fed you another fruit pouch
she calls you her peach as you beg for more
mommy lights up as she comes through the door

I read you Goodnight Moon just before bed
as you doze off tonight I dream ahead

About the Poem:

My son Brayden was diagnosed with a rare seizure condition known as Infantile Spasms. He has since been treated and has been seizure free since he was 6 months old.

He is about to be 1 year-old on November 5th, and while he is severely developmentally delayed, we are just so blessed and so lucky to have a happy baby boy.

I wrote this poem about my dreams for Brayden, hopefully in some way this poem could shed some light onto an under-researched, unknown condition that is very serious and can really use the support and awareness that other conditions have.

WATCH POETRY READINGS (see what we can do when you submit):

WATCH POETRY MOVIES (see what we can do when you submit):

Together – You and I, Poetry by Sarah Colliver

Walk with me once again-

Chat about the news like we used to.

When my eyes are closed,

The magic wand is waved

And you return to me.

Genres: grief, family, loss, relationships, healing, dreams, parents

Together – You and I
by Sarah Colliver

Walk with me once again-

Chat about the news like we used to.

When my eyes are closed,

The magic wand is waved

And you return to me.

I have the key to bring you back-

If only for those darkness hours

Amidst my slumber.

Together we share moments again.

For I carry you around

Within my aching heart

Which heals, but will never truly mend.

So please dear Mum,

Keep seeking my open door.

I will leave on a light and welcome you home,

And through my dreams

Together you and I will steal our time.

http://www.sarahcolliver.com

WATCH POETRY READINGS (see what we can do when you submit):

WATCH POETRY MOVIES (see what we can do when you submit):