Poetry For Our Children

William Blake

Infant Joy

"I have no name;
I am but two days old."
What shall I call thee?
"I happy am,
Joy is my name."
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!


Infant Sorrow

My mother groaned, my father wept;
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.

Nicole Blackman
Daughter


One day I'll give birth to a tiny baby girl
and when she's born she'll scream and I'll make sure
she never stops.

I will kiss her before I lay her down
and will tell her a story so she knows
how it is and how it must be for her to survive.

I'll tell her about the power of water
the seduction of paper
the promise of gasoline
and the hope of blood.

I'll teach her to shave her eyebrows and
mark her skin.
I'll teach her that her body is
her greatest work of art.

I'll tell her to light things on fire
and keep them burning.
I'll teach her that the fire will not consume her,
that she must take it and use it.

I'll tell her to be tri-sexual, to try anything,
to sleep with, fight with, pray with anyone,
just as long as she feels something.

I'll help her do her best work when it rains.
I'll tell her to reinvent herself every 28 days.

I'll teach her to develope all of her selves,
the courageous ones,
the smart ones,
the dreaming ones,
the fast ones.
I'll teach her that she has an army inside her
that can save her life.

I'll tell her to say **** like other people say The
and when people are shocked
to ask them why they so fear a small quartet
of letters.

I'll make sure she always carries a pen
so she can take down the evidence.
If she has no paper, I'll teach her to
write everything down on her tongue,
write it on her thighs.

I'll help her to see that she will not find God
or salvation in a dark brick building
built by dead men.

I'll explain to her that it's better to regret the things
she has done than the things she hasn't.

I'll teach her to write her manifestos
on cocktail napkins.

I'll say she should make men lick her enterprise.
I'll teach her to talk hard.
I'll tell her that her skin is the
most beautiful dress she will ever wear.

I'll tell her that people must earn the right
to use her nickname,
that forced intimacy is an ugly thing.

I'll make her understand that she is worth more
with her clothes on.

I'll tell her that when the words finally flow too fast
and she has no use for a pen
that she must quit her job
run out of the house in her bathrobe,
leaving the door open.
I'll teach her to follow the words.

I'll tell her to stand up
and head for the door
after she makes love.
When he asks her to
stay she'll say
she's got to
go.

I'll tell her that when she first bleeds
when she is a woman,
to go up to the roof at midnight,
reach her hands up to the sky and scream.

I'll teach her to be whole, to be holy,
to be so much that she doesn't even
need me anymore.

I'll tell her to go quickly and never come back.
I will make her stronger than me.

I'll say to her never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

I'll say to her never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

I'll say to her never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

Nick Carbo

The Pretty Boys Of Ermita

Lately, they've been offering
the Mt. Pinatubo Special.
Ten-and thirteen-year-old boys
promise that their tongues
can make a man's penis feel
seismic twitches.
Customers have come from Australia,
Scandinavia, and even America
for these tourists attractions.
They arrive from across the globe
in pre-paid packaged tours.
Their brochures advertise
nudes boys frolicking
under an orange sunset,
on a white sand beach.
The first stop is a bar in Ermita
where these white men pair off
with the brown boy
of their choice. After an evening
of volcanic experiences,
the men and the boys are bused
to a "private" beach resort in the south,
for a week of sun, sex, and piña coladas.
On the back of the brochure,
a man from Sydney claims
that it was the best vacation
he's ever had.

I wonder if a middle-aged man
in Berlin, Stockholm, or New York
is looking through a set of pictures
of the pretty boys of Ermita.
I wonder if that man is holding
his white penis in his hand,
thinking of how those boys
are growing into men,
thinking if Jose, Tito,
or Eddie are still alive.

It's Raining, It's Pouring


It's Raining, it's pouring,
The old man is snoring,
He bumped his head,
On top of the bed,
And didn't get up
In the morning.

It's Raining, it's pouring,
The old man is snoring,
He bumped his head,
On top of the bed,
And didn't get up
In the morning.

Hal Sirowitz

Sons

We're Jewish, Father said.
So we don't believe in Christ.
If God wanted us to worship Jesus
he would have arranged for us to be born
into an Italian family. I have nothing
against Him. He was probably a very nice man.
You have to give Him credit for trying.
A lot of people still believe He's the Son of God.
I don't know what He had against His real father.
But if you ever did that to me,
said you were someone else's son, I'd be insulted.

Legacy of an Adopted Child

Once there were two women who never knew each other.
One you do not remember, the other you call Mother.

Two different lives shaped to make you one.
One became your guiding star, the other became your sun.

The first one gave you life, and the second taught you to live it.
The first gave you a need for love. The second was there to give it.

One gave you a nationality. The other gave you a name.
One gave you a talent. The other gave you aim.

One gave you emotions. The other calmed your fears.
One saw your first sweet smile. The other dried your tears.

One sought for you a home that she could not provide.
The other prayed for a child and her hope was not denied.

And now you ask me, through your tears,
the age-old question unanswered through the years.
Heredity or environment, which are you a product of?
Neither, my darling. Neither. Just two different kinds of Love.


© Author Unknown

If a Child Lives with Criticism
-Dorothy L. Nolte

If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to be shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn what envy is.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with tolerance, they learn to be patient.
If children live with encouragement, they learn to be confident.
If children live with praise, they learn to appreciate.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to find love in the world.
If children live with recognition, they learn to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn to be generous.
If children live with honesty and fairness, they learn what truth and justice are.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those around them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn that the world is a nice place in which to live.
If children live with serenity, they learn to have peace of mind.
With what are your children living?

THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN


There was a crooked man,
And he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence
Upon a crooked stile:
He bought a crooked cat,
That caught a crooked mouse --
And they all lived together
In a little crooked house.

I like to come here and read the poetry . is lovely

Please come often, and post any of your favorites k.

ok

Laura Boss

When You Are Grown, Amanda Rose

When you are grown, Amanda Rose,
and fill out NEA forms
(if there still is an NEA in the
year 2024), you will check minority,
infant granddaughter, and
check the box Hispanic in that column
of minorities like flavors on a
Basking Robbins ice cream list.
And at your first job interview your dark skin
will need no check mark when you are
sitting at some employer's mahogany desk
during this job interview-

And, perhaps, by then your father, my son,
will have told you how on his first trip
with your mother, a business trip to Australia,
your mother was not allowed to enter
a restaurant in Sydney when they stood at the entrance of
the gold damask draped room
because of the color of her skin
and how this also happened at the
nest restaurant they tried, and the one
after that. And when my son went up to
the young owner of a Kosher restaurant
and the owner also did not want her to
enter, my son said that he was also Jewish
and how could this man discriminate after
how the Nazis had treated the Jews and the
owner replied "Please Leave." and by then
my future daughter-in-law, your mother was
crying and my son was both raging at the man
and falling in love with your mother though
who was to know that such discrimination would
spark the romance that would produce you, beautiful
Amanda Rose.
And how taxis passed them by,
this young couple holding suitcases,
he with his fierce green eyes and
her mascara streaking and her wild
dark hair forming curls around her angelic face-
her almost five foot frame looking so tiny next to him
(though he is just of average height).
And, finally, at the hotel the desk clerk saying their rooms were
not available because the previous occupants had decided
to stay longer and "To please try another Hotel"
and how your mother cried all through that
"Dream" trip according to your father
whose own shouting I have always found annoying
but your father yelled and yelled at that hotel manager with
threats of suits for discrimination until
the manager told the bellman to take
your mother and father's suitcase up to the
reserved rooms and your father first kissed your
mother and decided he was going to marry her.

And I also know that the sweetest, most gentle
voice I ever heard my son use was in the hospital
when you were born three months ago, Amanda Rose,
and he quietly said to you,
"You're going to have a good life."

Ann Bradstreet

In Memory of My Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet Who Deceased June 20, 1669, Being Three Years and Seven Months Old.


With troubled heart and trembling hand I write,
The heavens have changed to sorrow my delight.
How oft with disappointment have I met,
When I on fading things my hopes have set?
Experience might 'fore this have made me wise,
To value things according to their price.
Was ever stable joy yet found below?
Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe?
I knew she was but a withring flower,
That's here today, perhaps gone in an hour;
Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass,
Or like a shadow turning as it was.
More fool than I to look on that was lent
As if mine own, when thus impermanent.
Farewell dear child, thou ne're shall come to me,
But yet a while, and I shall go to thee;
Mean time my throbbing heart's cheered up with this:
Thou with my Saviour art in endless bliss.

French lullaby…

Dodo, l'enfant do


Dodo, l'enfant do,
L'enfant dormira bien vite
Dodo, l'enfant do
L'enfant dormira bientôt.


Une poule blanche
Est là dans la grange.
Qui va faire un petit coco*
Pour l'enfant qui va fair' dodo.


Dodo, l'enfant do,
L'enfant dormira bien vite
Dodo, l'enfant do
L'enfant dormira bientôt.


Tout le monde est sage
Dans le voisinage
Il est l'heure d'aller dormir
Le sommeil va bientôt venir.



Sleepy Time, The Young One Sleeps


Sleepy time, the young one sleeps,
The child will sleep very soon
Sleepy time, the young one sleeps,
The child will sleep oh, so soon.


A white hen
Is in the barn.
It'll make a small egg
For the child who goes to sleep.


Sleepy time, the young one sleeps,
The child will sleep very soon
Sleepy time, the young one sleeps,
The child will sleep oh, so soon.


Everyone is calm
All around
It's the time for all to sleep
Sleep will come soon.

H.P.Lovecraft

To An Infant

They have captured and chained you, my brother, from Aidenne beyond the blue,
The Fates and the vast All-Mother, to laugh at an hour or two.
They have envied your wings dilated, beating heedless of age or clime,
So they snared you and cast you weighted into dungeons of space and time.
And now as you newly languish in the quivering bonds called flesh,
Unknowing as yet the anguish and gall of the long-felt mesh,
They smile as they find you comely, and gloat on their ancient power
To twist you and drive you dumbly for the sport of a listless hour.
They have given you joy but to take it, and youth but to snatch it away,
They have made you a will but to break it, and hope but to lead you astray;
They have bound you to objects inutile, and senses that shut out the light,
That themselves, who are bitter and futile, may laugh as you grope in their sight.
But you, if you will, can cheat them, and join in the mocking mirth,
For you have that to defeat them which could not be chained at birth:
Though your heart they have trussed and tethered, and your soul they have stricken drear,
Yet a spark from your dreams has weathered all the whirlwinds that swept you here.
It has slipt by the onyx portal that holds you to earthly things,
From the crystalline gulfs immortal, that sounded once to your wings.
It will flame through the mists of morning and lighten the hours of your youth,
Till the blaze of it's bright adorning will banish the clouds of truth.
But foster it well, young dreamer, lest the covetous Great Ones call
On Time, the malign Arch-Schemer, to gather it into his thrall;
For dreams, as they are most precious, are most fragile of all we prize,
And the power of earth that enmesh us would sear them out of our eyes;
Would marshal the years to slay them, and summon the flesh to teach
Our hardening brains to betray them, and drive them beyond our reach.
They are all that we have to save us from the sport of the Ruthless Ones,
These dreams that the cosmos gave us in the void past the farthest suns;
They are freedom and light surviving as a flicker in cells of ill,
As against the Dark Gods' contriving we must harbour and guard them still.
So may you, in whose eyes serenely so much of the old lore shines,
Grow valiant, and battle keenly the envious Gods' designs;
Dissolve when they seek to bind you; fling worlds at their clanking chain;
That never their noose may find you, and never their whim restrain.
Weave magic against their weaving, dream out of their sly duress,
Till the prisons of their deceiving shall crumble to nothingness.
Mock back when they storm your reason, and hold you from all you crave,
For your body alone they seize on-no dream can be made a slave.
Deride all their empty offers, and sneer at their specious lure,
Enriching your fancy's coffers with gold that is always pure.
Your dreams are yourself, so tend them as all that preserves you free;
With all your strength defend them, nor grant to the years a fee;
Let never a daemon buy them with pleasures that flash and fade,
Nor sophistry's tongue defy them, nor dogma diffuse its shade.
For these are your own, my brother, and hold in their boundless sweep
The wings that the Gods would smother, and the key to your native deep!

The First Tooth
Charles and Mary Lamb


Though the house what busy joy,
Just because the infant boy
Has a tiny tooth to show!

I have got a double row,
All as white and all as small;
Yet no one cares for mine at all.

He can say but half a word,
Yet that single sound's preferred
To all the words that I can say
In the longest summer day.

He cannot walk, yet if he put
With mimic motion out his foot,
As if he thought he were advancing,
It's prized more than my best dancing.

What are little boys made of, made of?
What are little boys made of?
"Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails;
And that's what little boys are made of, made of."



What are little girls made of, made of, made of?
What are little girls made of?
"Sugar and spice and all that's nice;
And that's what little girls are made of, made of."

Langston Hughes

Mother To Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor-
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's
And turnin's corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now-
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.


God To Hungry Child

Hungry Child,
I didn't make this world for you.
You didn't buy any stock in my railroad.
You didn't invest in my corporation.
Where are your shares in standard oil?
I made the world for the rich
And the will-be-rich
And the have-always-been-rich.
Not for you,
Hungry Child.


Lullaby (For a Black Mother)

My little dark baby
My little earth-thing,
My little love-one,
What shall I sing
For you lullaby?

Stars,
Stars,
A necklace of stars
Winding the night.

My little black baby,
My dark body's baby,
What shall I sing
For your lullaby?

Moon,
Moon,
Great diamond moon,
Kissing the night.

Oh, little dark baby
Night black baby,

Stars, stars,
Moon,
Night stars,
Moon,

For your sleep-song lullaby.