Famous Family Poems

It is true
I was created in you.
It is also true
That you were created for me.
I owned your voice.
It was shaped and tuned to soothe me.
Your arms were molded
Into a cradle to hold me, to rock me.
The scent of your body was the air
Perfumed for me to breathe.

Mother,
During those early, dearest days
I did not dream that you had
A large life which included me,
For I had a life
Which was only you.

Time passed steadily and drew us apart.
I was unwilling.
I feared if I let you go
You would leave me eternally.
You smiled at my fears, saying
I could not stay in your lap forever.

That one day you would have to stand
And where would I be?
You smiled again.
I did not.
Without warning you left me,
But you returned immediately.
You left again and returned,
I admit, quickly,
But relief did not rest with me easily.
You left again, but again returned.
You left again, but again returned.
Each time you reentered my world
You brought assurance.
Slowly I gained confidence.

You thought you know me,
But I did know you,
You thought you were watching me,
But I did hold you securely in my sight,
Recording every moment,
Memorizing your smiles, tracing your frowns.
In your absence
I rehearsed you,
The way you had of singing
On a breeze,
While a sob lay
At the root of your song.

The way you posed your head
So that the light could caress your face
When you put your fingers on my hand
And your hand on my arm,
I was blessed with a sense of health,
Of strength and very good fortune.

You were always
the heart of happiness to me,
Bringing nougats of glee,
Sweets of open laughter.

During the years when you knew nothing
And I knew everything, I loved you still.
Condescendingly of course,
From my high perch
Of teenage wisdom.
I grew older and
Was stunned to find
How much knowledge you had gleaned.
And so quickly.

Mother, I have learned enough now
To know I have learned nearly nothing.
On this day
When mothers are being honored,
Let me thank you
That my selfishness, ignorance, and mockery
Did not bring you to
Discard me like a broken doll
Which had lost its favor.
I thank you that
You still find something in me
To cherish, to admire and to love.

I thank you, Mother.
I love you.

BEFORE you came, my little lad,
  I used to think that I was good,
Some vicious habits, too, I had,
  But wouldn't change them if I could.
I held my head up high and said:
  'I'm all that I have need to be,
It matters not what path I tread,'
  But that was ere you came to me.

I treated lightly sacred things,
  And went my way in search of fun,
Upon myself I kept no strings,
  And gave no heed to folly done.
I gave myself up to the fight
  For worldly wealth and earthly fame,
And sought advantage, wrong or right,
  But that was long before you came.

But now you sit across from me,
  Your big brown eyes are opened wide,
And every deed I do you see,
  And, O, I dare hot step aside.
I've shaken loose from habits bad,
  And what is wrong I've come to dread,
Because I know, my little lad,
  That you will follow where I tread.

I want those eyes to glow with pride,
  In me I want those eyes to see
The while we wander side by side
  The sort of man I'd have you be.
And so I'm striving to be good
  With all my might, that you may know
When this great world is understood,
  What pleasures are worth while below.

I see life in a different light
  From what I did before you came,
Then anything that pleased seemed right;
  But you are here to bear my name,
And you are looking up to me
  With those big eyes from day to day,
And I'm determined not to be
  The means of leading you astray.

Home is the place where the laughter should ring,
  And man should be found at his best.
Let the cares of the day be as great as they may,
  The night has been fashioned for rest.
So leave at the door when the toiling is o'er
  All the burdens of worktime behind,
And just be a dad to your girl or your lad--
  A dad of the rollicking kind.

The office is made for the tasks you must face;
  It is built for the work you must do;
You may sit there and sigh as your cares pile up high,
  And no one may criticize you;
You may worry and fret as you think of your debt,
  You may grumble when plans go astray,
But when it comes night, and you shut your desk tight,
  Don't carry the burdens away.

Keep daytime for toil and the nighttime for play,
  Work as hard as you choose in the town,
But when the day ends, and the darkness descends,
  Just forget that you're wearing a frown--
Go home with a smile! Oh, you'll find it worth while;
  Go home light of heart and of mind;
Go home and be glad that you're loved as a dad,
  A dad of the fun-loving kind.

You can boast your round of pleasures, praise the sound of popping corks,
Where the orchestra is playing to the rattle of the forks,
And your after-opera dinner you may think superbly fine,
But that can’t compare, I’m certain, to the joy that’s always mine
When I reach my little dwelling—source, of all sincere delight—
And I prowl around the pantry in the waning hours of night.
When my business, or my pleasure, has detained me until late,
And it’s midnight, say, or after, when I reach my own estate,
Though I’m weary with my toiling I don’t hustle up to bed,
For the inner man is hungry and he’s anxious to be fed,
Then I feel a thrill of glory from my head down to my feet
As I prowl around the pantry after something good to eat.
Oft I hear a call above me: ‘Goodness gracious, come to bed!’
And I know that I’ve disturbed her by my overeager tread,
But I’ve found a glass of jelly and some bread and butter, too,
And a bit of cold fried chicken and I answer: ‘When I’m through!’
Oh, there’s no cafe that better serves my precious appetite
Than the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night.
You may boast your shining silver, and the linen and the flowers,
And the music and the laughter and the lights that hang in showers,
You may have your cafe table with its brilliant array,
But it doesn’t charm yours truly when I’m on my homeward way,
For a greater joy awaits me, as I hunger for a bite—
Just the joy of pantry-prowling in the middle of the night.

My father knows the proper way
   The nation should be run;
He tells us children every day
   Just what should now be done.
He knows the way to fix the trusts,
   He has a simple plan;
But if the furnace needs repairs,
   We have to hire a man.

My father, in a day or two
   Could land big thieves in jail;
There's nothing that he cannot do,
   He knows no word like "fail."
"Our confidence" he would restore,
   Of that there is no doubt;
But if there is a chair to mend,
   We have to send it out.

All public questions that arise,
   He settles on the spot;
He waits not till the tumult dies,
   But grabs it while it's hot.
In matters of finance he can
   Tell Congress what to do;
But, O, he finds it hard to meet
   His bills as they fall due.

It almost makes him sick to read
   The things law-makers say;
Why, father's just the man they need,
   He never goes astray.
All wars he'd very quickly end,
   As fast as I can write it;
But when a neighbor starts a fuss,
   'Tis mother has to fight it.

In conversation father can
   Do many wondrous things;
He's built upon a wiser plan
   Than presidents or kings.
He knows the ins and outs of each
   And every deep transaction;
We look to him for theories,
   But look to ma for action.

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it
Moving beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practices trying
His father’s tie there in secret

And the face of that father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

Your children are not your children
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself
They come through you but not from you
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you

You may give them your love but not your thoughts
For they have their own thoughts
You may house their bodies but not their souls
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow

Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams
You may strive to be like them
But seek not to make them like you
For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday

You are the bows from which your children
As living arrows are sent forth
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite
And he bends you with his might

That his arrows may go swift and far
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness
For even as he loves the arrow that flies
So he loves also the bow that is stable

A father sees his son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
"Life is hard; be steel; be a rock."
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum monotony
and guide him among sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
"Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy."
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
and left them dead years before burial:
the quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
has twisted good enough men
sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.
Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use against other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.

The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.

The Husband
Impossible! You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.

The Wife
The feast will be like Hamlet
Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack -
The love-light in your eye.

The Husband
Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.

The Wife (turning)
He does not mean to wound me,
I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
And frighten care away!
Tho' poor my lot in some small cot
That were a holiday.

The Husband (musing)
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex -
Zounds! but 'tis difficult to please the sex.
I've housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.

One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There's only one recorded,
But both belong to me.

One came the road that I came --
And wore my last year's gown --
The other, as a bird her nest,
Builded our hearts among.

She did not sing as we did --
It was a different tune --
Herself to her a music
As Bumble bee of June.

Today is far from Childhood --
But up and down the hills
I held her hand the tighter --
Which shortened all the miles --

And still her hum
The years among,
Deceives the Butterfly;
Still in her Eye
The Violets lie
Mouldered this many May.

I spilt the dew --
But took the morn --
I chose this single star
From out the wide night's numbers --
Sue - forevermore!