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Daughter to that good Earl, once President
Of Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,
The Old Familiar Faces
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
A Servant To Servants
I didn't make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don't know!
Chained To Inhumanity
Why does it feel am in a cage
Chained to my past can't free from it
Why have this shackles turned to be my doom
Why can't I get free why are the chain painful
10 years experience in carpentry, could speak it now,
Believed by every customer like Dulla mapajero the mechanic,
Formalities give us too many theories to tell, than what reality world is
Don't deny it’s helpful to majority, professorial of Shivji once quoted Sokoine the PM
We And They
Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
The Man To Be
Some day the world will need a man of courage in a time of doubt,
And somewhere, as a little boy, that future hero plays about.
Within some humble home, no doubt, that instrument of greater things
Now climbs upon his father's knee or to his mother's garments clings.
Edgar Albert Guest
The Prodigal Son
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
Michael: A Pastoral Poem
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
Among the dwellers in the silent fields
The natural heart is touched, and public way
And crowded street resound with ballad strains,
Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks
The old man looking out from the unclad window of his tiny hut,
He grinned his teeth and smile as the night greets his wrinkled face with it's crimson tide of a beautiful grim from a maiden moonlight.
To him; Oh! Age how often you come,
My dear daddy,
You gave me intensive care for being weak ,
And made me what I am today,
Believing that I can be by your side,
Song Of Myself
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Father I Love You
Whether you are exhausted you act like you are fine and smile at me
Even you are vexed you care about me
Though you are stressed you work for us and make us happy
Whatever I dream you make it possible
My father and mother I leave,
Unto you I cleave.
Until one twine we weave,
And one flesh achieve.
Ode To Walt Whitman
By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
Federico Garcàa Lorca
My dear beloved parents,
You cared & raised me,
Sent school to learn,
Made me what I am today,
O My Pa-pa
Our fathers have formed a poetry workshop.
They sit in a circle of disappointment over our fastballs
and wives. We thought they didn't read our stuff,
whole anthologies of poems that begin, My father never,
The Sail Of Dreams
You make me laugh, you make me cry,
You misjudged me but my soul can't die.
The Index of my finger falls on the guitar,
And the rhythm that came out makes me feel better.
Swarnadeep Dey Sarkar
Sweetness And Bitterness
Sweetness and bitterness life gives.
Happiness and Sorrow father of all.
Life can't be perfect he says to all
but perfect and sweet in the part of few
Afe Tosin Shola
Note To Dad
There is a new one called Bob, or is it Rob.
His face is round just like a door knob.
He has a mop of hair that looks like a mob.
Although he is not, he acts like a snob.
A father I know but never knew
A father who was there but not really there
He stood there like an angel
Who was noticed
Where run your colts at pasture?
Where hide your mares to breed?
'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
Or wove Sargasso weed;
Two Old Houses
Away from mismatched buildings which seems to go on above the 7th heaven with perfect shape and structure yet with poorest enlightenment, there is a pretty yet petty little small town at the edge of the waters.
Away from cold hearts handling warm coffee sitting in crisp winter air, there is a town with warm hearts handling cold coffee in peaceful summer air.
A bit too far away from here in that pretty little town, there is a street with perfect enlightenment and finally in that street, there stands two houses proudly facing each other since 1987.
One house Is bold white and the other one is dull black with same structure, same kind of tulips in their garden which sway slightly in the same air as they nod each other greetings in the morning.
He never made a fortune, or a noise
In the world where men are seeking after fame;
But he had a healthy brood of girls and boys
Who loved the very ground on which he trod.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
Are growin more beautiful day after day;
Edgar Albert Guest
Venus And Adonis
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
Alone, alone! - no other face
Wears kindred smile, kindred line;
And yet they say my mother's eyes.
They say my father's brow, is mine;
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Ode To Aphrodite
Deathless Aphrodite, throned in flowers,
Daughter of Zeus, O terrible enchantress,
With this sorrow, with this anguish, break my spirit
Lady, not longer!
Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend--
John Greenleaf Whittier
The Waste Land
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.'
T. S. Eliot
Body And Soul
Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,
our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling
the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins
to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
B H Fairchild