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#raising
That King He's a wild little critter, He tries so hard And he isn't a quitter, Show him a new trick And he'll try a hundred times, Failure is not a concept To a toddler in his prime. That King He's a good kid, He always looks so innocent When you ask him what he did, When pots and pans are on the floor Along with Kitty and Bunny, He never looks guilty Which always makes it funny. That King he's a lovable punk If there's one thing he hates it's a bathtub dunk , I think I know the cause but I'm not allowed to say it So I will whisper it to you but please don't relay it. His parental unit They don't know Jack, Regarding caring for new children They are totally out of whack, Co-sleeping with their kid Feeding formula for a year, And now they've moved on to junk food We shake our heads and think, oh dear. The parents shower once a day And bathe the child once a week, He isn't trained on high chair or food utensils She feeds him by hand as if to a bird beak, She denies her child Pepsi to drink But offers him chicken Mcnuggets and fries, He has little interest in normal food Ya, that's no surprise. Their idea of play Means placing him in front of a toy, Then his parents zone out on their phones Ignoring their beautiful boy, They rarely talk to him Unless it is a reprimand, These are three-degree parents So I do not understand. Now: Momo and Popo Are raising him each day, On average that means 10 hours Of education and play, I won't allow that "Miss Rachel" To be his predominant teacher, I can't trust that million dollar YouTube baby preacher. King might grow up and say My grandpa talked all the time, Because Grandpa grew up listening to adults speak to each other Not distracted by Amazon prime, And also, Grandpa knows words That are 150 years old, Famous writers from the late 1800’s Were the stories that his parents told. That King He is pint sized royalty, Momo and Popo swear Absolute loyalty, To nurture him daily And treat him with respect, His parents are still in training And it is our duty to protect.
0
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 8:32 PM UTC
That King
That King He's a wild little critter, He tries so hard And he isn't a quitter, Show him a new trick And he'll try a hundred times, Failure is not a concept To a toddler in his prime. That King He's a good kid, He always looks so innocent When you ask him what he did, When pots and pans are on the floor Along with Kitty and Bunny, He never looks guilty Which always makes it funny. That King he's a lovable punk If there's one thing he hates it's a bathtub dunk , I think I know the cause but I'm not allowed to say it So I will whisper it to you but please don't relay it. His parental unit They don't know Jack, Regarding caring for new children They are totally out of whack, Co-sleeping with their kid Feeding formula for a year, And now they've moved on to junk food We shake our heads and think, oh dear. The parents shower once a day And bathe the child once a week, He isn't trained on high chair or food utensils She feeds him by hand as if to a bird beak, She denies her child Pepsi to drink But offers him chicken Mcnuggets and fries, He has little interest in normal food Ya, that's no surprise. Their idea of play Means placing him in front of a toy, Then his parents zone out on their phones Ignoring their beautiful boy, They rarely talk to him Unless it is a reprimand, These are three-degree parents So I do not understand. Now: Momo and Popo Are raising him each day, On average that means 10 hours Of education and play, I won't allow that "Miss Rachel" To be his predominant teacher, I can't trust that million dollar YouTube baby preacher. King might grow up and say My grandpa talked all the time, Because Grandpa grew up listening to adults speak to each other Not distracted by Amazon prime, And also, Grandpa knows words That are 150 years old, Famous writers from the late 1800’s Were the stories that his parents told. That King He is pint sized royalty, Momo and Popo swear Absolute loyalty, To nurture him daily And treat him with respect, His parents are still in training And it is our duty to protect.
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69
I never truly experienced daddy issues, Even when there were moments when his Unconventional parenting, gave a hint of Issue on how he periodically raised us. Yet, he never did it for any press; Or aimed for our childhood To become fodder for magazine covers. Covered with the words we could remember From church services, not engaging in the Practice of parenting, JUST For public service. He poured everything he had Into raising us, drawing from All he had at hand, from what Was handed to him- to make him A man. And for our own youngsters, We will take the most Important lessons to raise Better men.
0
Nov 29, 2024
Nov 29, 2024 at 2:43 PM UTC
Better men
You've been my biggest fan, my ever-glowing, shining light Showing me the way and how to do what's right There are those that wonder, and ask me where I get my strength I get my bravery from you, someone who would go to any length I am the man I am because you taught me how to be Without your love around, I do not think I could be me These words may seem small, and they don't say what I want well My gratefulness for you is something words could never tell I thought I would try to write at least a couple bars It is the least that I could do, for the woman made of stars Whose heart has traveled galaxies; whose soul has traversed dimensions I know that raising me was difficult, yet you always had the best intentions Though the evenings may turn dark, there is always light in the dawn No matter what happens, or where I may go, I am blessed to call you Mom You say you love me to the moon and back, and I love you to Mars Please consider this a birthday gift, to the woman made of stars
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Jul 17, 2024
Jul 17, 2024 at 4:43 PM UTC
The Woman Made of Stars
beat into me until i'm broken and the feelings alight the layer of skin just below the outermost, like the lining of a jacket, catching aflame. scratch out the remaining worries with the spines of your teeth. rake me upwards, shred the doubts like old sunburn peel, and peel and peel the layers of mistrust off of me till i'm raw, pink and ready. never has this body not been scarred without first feeling excitement. since you pierced it, now you're responsible. I'll chase that ownership, mutually owed, to the end of all meaning. till the sensations are the only bits that still make sense, and then you can make up for everything else. only after this, after everything else is spread across a blood splattered floor, can things start again. only once you make up for not returning the parts of me. only once my remaining organs, now calcified, have been cracked to their inner ichor, and you tip me gently into your thankless lungs. only once the prostration, the words left since butchered into me, have been flayed by your regret, and raised to the height of saints. hang me up. swing by my legs and wrap around the root of me like you once would. debase yourself inside of me again, learn to build something again. dig deeper than needed again, strike copper in my veins so I can oxidise again. watch me alight again, at your briefest touch.
0
Aug 22, 2023
Aug 22, 2023 at 4:39 PM UTC
oversharing
a thousand years ago, wrote a poem called “why I always carry tissues”  - a labor of love to mine own toddlers misadventures, requiring love covered in tissues so soft, yet an ironclad coating of natural substantive parenting useful for tearing eyes, running noses, and the cuts of living outdoors joyously children grow older and oft that means, they seek not your counsel, and if offered, politely ignored, for so it goes tween fathers and sons then one summer days you receive an observation, a datapoint that irradiates, a quiet confirmation that not everything you’ve said and done has gone astray a young’un of “almost ten,” informs her father, around the luncheon table of three generations, that her foot is hurting; the son, now the father, diagnosis renders, a blister, which will require a protective custody that will protect the child’s feet from the ravages of furious Shell Beach fun, or the rough of a Manhattan sidewalk I watch with a joy so quiet and so overwhelming, as the son-father reaches into a cargo pocket, producing not one but two bandaids, for life requires backups for there are other babes about, who at moments notice, produce scrapes and cuts of ever greater consequence for each year they age his wife renders me overjoyed, when she dryly observe how certain children are lucky that their father always carries bandaids, a new factoid, for me, an unknown that glistens like a wet shell now my eyes tearing, for a message in a bandaid, or a tissue no matter which, is a certified proof, somehow a message got through the clutter, marked “well received,” that loving well requires an oh so very hard attention to details, and that deep pockets are repositories of good notions, handed down generations June 24, 2021 Shell Beach
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Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 5:07 AM UTC
Shell Beach: how you know you raised them just right enough
a thousand years ago, wrote a poem called “why I always carry tissues”  - a labor of love to mine own toddlers misadventures, requiring love covered in tissues so soft, yet an ironclad coating of natural substantive parenting useful for tearing eyes, running noses, and the cuts of living outdoors joyously children grow older and oft that means, they seek not your counsel, and if offered, politely ignored, for so it goes tween fathers and sons then one summer days you receive an observation, a datapoint that irradiates, a quiet confirmation that not everything you’ve said and done has gone astray a young’un of “almost ten,” informs her father, around the luncheon table of three generations, that her foot is hurting; the son, now the father, diagnosis renders, a blister, which will require a protective custody that will protect the child’s feet from the ravages of furious Shell Beach fun, or the rough of a Manhattan sidewalk I watch with a joy so quiet and so overwhelming, as the son-father reaches into a cargo pocket, producing not one but two bandaids, for life requires backups for there are other babes about, who at moments notice, produce scrapes and cuts of ever greater consequence for each year they age his wife renders me overjoyed, when she dryly observe how certain children are lucky that their father always carries bandaids, a new factoid, for me, an unknown that glistens like a wet shell now my eyes tearing, for a message in a bandaid, or a tissue no matter which, is a certified proof, somehow a message got through the clutter, marked “well received,” that loving well requires an oh so very hard attention to details, and that deep pockets are repositories of good notions, handed down generations June 24, 2021 Shell Beach
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42
Memories Like a fistful of sand Leaky and incomplete Something I can't grasp Like talking in my sleep Memories Of dreams in daylight Of things that never were Like reflected starlight Music gone unheard Memories Of cold nights and warm lips Of skeletons and their prayers From buried paths they slip Abandoning their lairs Memories Like a stream in the night It's darkest depths concealed Memories Like snow's last flight Melts as it's revealed
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Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
Untrust
You were the smallest baby when you were born How could we have guessed you'd be such a thorn? You put the twinkle in our eye It reminds me daily when I look at my thigh. I hate moments we argue, hate when we fight You have been so wrong but mostly you're right Can't imagine giving birth to a child You sacrificed lots to make sure I smiled I dedicated life to my daughter Little did I know that would stupidly start some slaughter Now you go begin life on your own I stand back watching how much you have grown Very confident and bold More valuable than silver or gold I did not ask to be brought into this world Hands tiny, innocently curled So much time has passed since then Now you're not just my mom, you're my best friend! Raising you taught me so much With more ahead in store Every day that passes I Love more and more
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Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
You Sacrificed A Lot
It's not my breath That enlightens mind. Not my agua uplifting These outstretched limbs, Forever reaching, nor the hand Always bringing another with. Not my thousands of rivers Of blood forever flowing, Enlivening life eternal. Nor, my right heart's unbeat, Spiritually evolving somatic Revolution with all, the Earth. Not my striving to thrive, Leaving no footprints That followed none, Echoing in all ways, always. Life isn't mine, being is Relation, I cannot "give it up".
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Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
"Give It Up"?
A yellow bird sits on my knee It says "Hello, I am reincarnated mother" She was dead picking the poisoned flower From the shelf of her wayward children We have no way of knowing right from wrong We will go on living as rebellious bird daughters Flitting from heart to heart Seeking shelter in men's broken parts Crying when we cannot start Laughing when we finish money Eating away our sadness Motherless daughters without any stress Trading our mother's feathers for a new dress
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Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
Motherless
Bad birth, Birthed a ******* baby Born bad, born to be betrayed Baggage badly backhanded beaten brutally Born to be bullied, Before breathing beauty Born to be bashed A Barrier bouncing barbarian Black blocks block beautiful behavior Boiling beauty turns to a brutal beast Blocked brain banned from being the best A bitter beast born bad bonded behind bigotry Bombarded brain brutally beaten before birth
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May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
Born Bad
Dad, Where are you? Can you hear me? Can we communicate right now? It's your son, and I've grown older, but still so much I don't know how. It's just a few years since you've left us, though for many you were ready. I saw you fade  but to a whisper, from a voice so strong and steady. And though you may have thought I couldn't wait for you to die; Today, I stand bewildered. I beg for one more chance to try. To try to ask you how you did it; be a husband and a dad? Things I never thought to ask you, or did not know how since I was mad. But, they throw food across the table. Constantly fight and misbehave, and then my wife feels so defeated. (You must be turning in your grave.) I worry so I've failed my boys. As I remember, so once did you. Though my brothers and I, we made it. Just exactly how, I never knew. The things I never saw you do, yet, you must've done somehow. Solving all the world's dismays. Never failing in your vow. You made it look so easy. So calm and yet concerned. No question left unanswered. No compliment unearned. You always looked undaunted. Did you ever want to run? Where did you find the answers on exactly how to raise a son? I sat smugly as a young man dismissing all you said to me. But, sadly now I sit here wishing for one more chance to see.
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Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
Dad
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up       from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley. They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -       with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools. They gathered with the homesteaders bond.       to co-build their neighbor's' dreams. Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.      Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation, saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.      The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.       A smithy leaned over his fire and forge - chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.      Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.      In two short passings of the sun the deed was done       and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light. Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table       to share a hearty meal adorned by the music of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.    Then one by one they steered their wagons home       gazing back at what their labors had wrought - knowing to the depth of their communal souls       that we are more together than we are apart Listen up, America!  This is the music of community.       We are more together than we are apart. © 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
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Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
Pennsylvania Barn Raising
This temper that lives inside Storms out unexpectedly Like a monster unleashed Ignited by stress Spilling Anger Yelling in irritation Sensing my mother Lurking in my shadow A vile aftertaste still lingers Forced fed by her poisonous venom Until I realize I'm roaring Splashing my screams onto My loved ones Making them cry The beast has taken over From the depths Where my momster Lay her eggs   Waiting for them to hatch And be released In shame and guilt The last thing I want Is the mirage of that Ghost haunting My babies The creature that resides Hidden from the world To protect against   The carnivores who feasted On my innocence Now breathing to exhale my scare Away from my young's oxygen One breath at a time until The monster's ghost Has settled back Deep inside my oppressed soul © Jl 2016
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Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
Temper
I was raised on dissonance watching the mental conflicts rage war in each of the human beings I am a product of. they almost named me concordance so that I would never feel like I was the product of two failures so that I would feel whole in a divided world but from day one I have been an anomaly loving pain but living with the fear of being hurt this is why they named me variance to teach me that growing up meant filling in the pieces and that it was okay if each piece was taken from another whole to patch yourself together I was raised on numbers my first word was five this number composes all human beings five fingers five toes five vital organs but none of them are mine. -KZ
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Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
When You Ask of My Raising
That woman has never had a motherly soul. That is why her children have become so impudent! Patience and Kindness is the key to raising young ones. Support and Love is the key to raising young ones. Trust and Faith is the key to raising young ones.
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Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
To my mother