Tom Harbottle Feb 19
The barren, windswept world of the unforgiving landscape of bare, white cliffs

like fists raging and pounding

against the fragile crust of the old earth.

An abandoned kingdom amidst the rubble of ancient towers and



        built by fossils,

striding across our bleak soil.

A sea of glass, giving occasional diamond glints

as if offspring of the clouds and the stars.

A swift uplifting rush of wind is all you need

and you are awakened to the wisdom of many layers encased into the rock.

But not all great things are so revealing as the mountains.

Forts lining the edge of the black and white icebergs

put up by humans desperately trying to defend themselves against one another,

ignorant of the fact that the very stone they construct their safe havens from

will outlast them,

for snow and stone covers all, even war himself.

There is no limit in the eyes of the mountains.

Brothers with time,

dancing around to the very same blunt tune,

overseers of all occasions. They recognise and understand all,

for they have seen all.

The eyes of the mountains will not be veiled.

People flock in their hundreds to admire the glinting white daughter of the mountains,

using her, feeling her speed under their feet.

She gives them joy and happiness,

laughing amidst her hair. The mountains are imperceptible to them but He doesn't waver, only forgives, for the eyes of the mountains are Father to all.

Timeless legends are woven in with eternal beauty.

His greatness would shame the children's empires,

ever learning from the teacher of all.

He never needs to move from his rocking chair

as he sits atop the secluded throne. For he has eyes, his children do not.

They pollute his hands and slaughter their brothers but they are illiterate

and oblivious to true benevolence. But these tired, aged eyes can guide his children, and so they do, the eyes of the mountains,


                                      these eyes will do.

Children, the tiny seed of man; their innocents won’t last

For all the history of the fathers

Present to the past

What's sad is children never mean

Kind and pure of heart

People take that innocents and tear it all apart

The hopes and dreams of years to come

Placed within their hands

Expectations way to high

For them to understand

Pressures put on the child, from an early age

Just so fathers get the chance to stand on center stage

Weighting down the children’s will

Boot tight on their throat

Trench dug deep around their soul

A finely crafted moat

Children grow to be adults

And do as they were taught

While all along the fathers words

Sit within and rot
Make Ready… by Jessie 5/05

As thou makes ready for thy permanent slumber, thou calls a name, a name unfamiliar to present and forgotten by ages past.
As thy call upon the name, it lodges in thy throat and chokes thee.
The name conjured, slips between thy lips but not before the bitterness sends thy tongue into repel.  
Only calling now, in thy fear of daemons, which thou hast spawned, reaching from the very depths of thy blackened soul, pulling thee towards where thou do not wish to go.
The day is late and the flame flickers faintly, make thy peace with thyself, for it will not come from elsewhere.
Now that thou unattended fields hast grown fallow, winter is close at hand, a chill is in the air that splits thy leathery skin and settles deep within thy bones.
Do not attempt to squeeze a single tear from thy baron eye, if only for the sake of pity be.
Tempted might thy called upon be, to relax the inclination of forgiveness.
Alas… deaf is the called upon, thy words fall like weighted snowflakes, landing heavily on the earth, creating enormous quakes in thy mind.
Trouble not, for the shadowed faceless figure sent to escort thee, strikes quickly and will numb thy pain for eternity.
But whilst thy waits, reflect upon thy deeds and ask thee…if a man should parish and no one were ever to speak his name, was his imprint ever upon thy world?
Fathers be careful how you treat your sons....for you may vanish forever
They called him, Paddy,
Who brought the old world here,
With curses, fags and beer.

We called him Towser,
A cur-mixed bowser;
A dog with a bone.
Both lived at home.
"Bowser" is an old word for a dog. Usually a mongrel.
Kwabena Antwi Nov 2017
I consider myself to be an earthy person
Tree hugging Gaea worshiping son of the sun
My roots go deep and spread wide like hip hop culture
I bear no fruits
I carry no flowers
My story is written on the stripes of my bark
My essence brewed into bitters, putting hairs on the chest of men while coercing them to feed on my purpose
Live to serve
I die to serve no one

My father is an asshole
Like assholes come his father was an asshole too.  
I am not my father’s son!

My father stands for everything wrong with patriarchy. Everything he stood for he learned from his father.
I am not my father’s son!

My father wishes his son will forgive him. My father’s father wished his son will understand his path was different.
I am not my father’s son!

I may have come from his balls but my balls are bigger than his.
I may have called him Papa  growing up, but he certainly was never my father.
I may have watched him hurt woman after woman,
Watched mother’s tears flood the living room floor, left in disarray child after child after child after child...
I may have been hurt one too many times to ever remember that I am my father’s son.

Today, I am my father’s sun!
I will shine a light on this darkness that bore me
Driving away the night of hatred he leaves behind
Bringing a dawn of forgiveness, awakening hearts left in the cold.

I do consider myself an earthy person
Roots deep and wide

A fruit once
Of a tree with rotten branches.
Alisha Nov 2017
A curious genie, an absurd soldier
There isn’t a burden he won’t shoulder,
When asked what makes his hardship worthwhile ?
He says, only seeing my girls smile.

They are all my princesses, he says
But with strong hearts for weary days.
My flying carpet takes them on new adventures,
For new experiences are always fortuitous ventures.

Faith and humility, his formative stands determination and will, his defining brand
When asked what makes his hardship worthwhile ?
He says, only seeing my girls smile.
Ilunga Mutombo Sep 2017
You better love her more than I love her
Heal all her scars
Speak to her insecurities
Be her security
Show her loyalty
Respect and honor who she wants to be

I raised her
now it's your turn to raise her beautiful gifts
Love them and cherish them
Embrace them and adore them

Love her and she will love you more
She will never let you go
Tessa S Sep 2017
Opa has many stories
Germany, Canada, America
Childhood, young adult, adulthood
Opa tells me great grandpa got taken away during the war
Never to be seen again
Rumors everywhere
Could it be true?
They say he wasn’t taken he left
Another family, then gone for good
Goodbye great father, didn’t you love them?
Dad doesn’t opa love me?
“He doesn’t know how to be a father, he’s never had one”
My father has a father, but does he really?
Never had a single hug
A father that’s there but doesn’t know how
I look at the man who loves me, the best father a person could ask for
But how did he know how to be a dad if his father was not one
“I knew what I wanted in a dad”
So many stories
An independent child who ran from the war
A father wouldn’t have changed the hardship
But did great grandpa know?
Leaving a family who loved him
His child, his grandson, his great grand daughter
All were affected
One man
One decision
A ripple effect
Francie Lynch Jul 2017
Da never bought a froggy pool;
We weren't friends like friends in school;
We never played til we showered naked.
We didn't hike and shoot the breeze,
Nor dump or whiz behind the trees.
We never hit the links together,
And relieved ourselves in St. Andrew's heather.
We never streaked sorority dorms,
Or stood bare-assed in a storm.
We never stood shoulder to shoulder,
At urinals for a sneak peak over.
Swimming wasn't a thing for Da,
So we never swam in the raw.
And Da was never one to flash.

Near the end he couldn't wash,
I never gave a bed-sponge-bath;
But Clean my teeth, was what he asked.
Let me bring this to a close,
Da was always donned in clothes.
I never saw my old man's dick.
And that's the long and short of it.
I don't know. I claim authorship though.
Ink Jul 2017
My name is my submission to male dominance
     I am somebody's daughter,
     somebody's wife.
I willingly call myself so
     It's because I love my father
     I love my husband
And I am honoured to be called
In his name

But sometimes
When a ray of anger rushes into my heart
By the feminine idea of self-respect
I wonder
     if my father loves me, why is his love trumping of my mother who bore me inside her body for months of restless ease?
     if my husband loves me, why has he never consider calling himself Mr. Mine, where he my husband and I his wife?

But I tuck these thoughts away
They are too balancing of power, too simply different.
I mustn't let the patriarchy hear, or I will dishonour my worth
As a woman.
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