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.

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

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.

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

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.

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.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
    They're neither white nor small;
And you, I know, would scarcely think
    That they are fair at all.
I've looked on hands whose form and hue
    A sculptor's dream might be;
Yet are those aged, wrinkled hands
    More beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
    Though heart were weary and sad,
Those patient hands kept toiling on,
    That the children might be glad.
I always weep, as, looking back
    To childhood's distant day,
I think how those hands rested not
    When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
    They're growing feeble now,
For time and pain have left their mark
    On hands and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time,
    And the sad, sad day to me,
When 'neath the daisies, out of sight,
    These hands will folded be.

But oh! beyond this shadow land,
    Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands
    Will palms of victory bear;
Where crystal streams through endless years
    Flow over golden sands,
And where the old grow young again,
    I'll clasp my mother's hands.

They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tambourines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.

The mother soothes her mantled child
With incantation sad and wild;
A deep compassion brims her eye
And stills upon her lips, the sigh.

Her thoughts are leaping down the years,
O'er branding bars, through seething tears,
Her heart is sandaling his feet
Adown the world's corroding street.

Then, with a start she dons a smile
His tender yearnings to beguile,
And only God will ever know
The wordless measure of her woe.