"parentage" poems
”good night, good travels, pitch black”
depending on how one counts,
cause size matters,
do have I
one small blessing
though little do I get, more-less,
in each twenty four measuring cup,
when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling,
lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation,
it’s less than sixty seconds till
dispatched to where all poems
plead like unborn angels for
good parentage
the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed
with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side,
preceded by, a single solid smacking of
an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow,
then lost in pitch black galaxy travels
with other sleep-drunk little princes
instead of the wavering, singular word,
a traditional goodnight,
a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing,
undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,
“good travels”
to places where ferment the aging words under
the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening,
names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
*kiss the kids good bye,
send them out on
their own find-a-way paths,
merry or otherwise,
dispatched, once and forever,
stamped, franked, posted,
Gebbie delivered,^
the poems born, borne*
are gone
*never look back,
once writ and gifted,
they are an only child,
not truly orphaned*
but without parentage
*miss'ed every now and then,
see them as a drive-by victims,
hit and run casualties of passing poets,
who notifiy that they saw
"so and so"
and just wanted to
let me know,*
they're ok
*but never look back,
they have been disowned,
each,
a natural birth poem,
must learn
the hard way,
to stand on its own,
tested by the cruelest proctor,*
hoary time
*this is the way,
the only way,
birth mother and no more,
and this why,
some know me as,
the poet of the way...
*this is my way -
my poems are my
dispatched issue,
sent out themselves alone,
to experience
cell division,
mitosis and meiosis
spawning new poetic tissue,
find their own way of sharing*
their ancestral DNA
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
I see it for just a moment
A squishy mound of fur to the far right of the asphalt
This latest pile of dislocated mush is presented on a desert highway
A raccoon? No. Too small.
A coyote? Maybe. Who can tell?
That play-dough pile of crushed bones was not created outside the white lines where it now lays
Some chosen soul scraped and scooped the mystery meat to its resting place
Some jumpsuit wearing civilian is intimately aware with the parentage of the reassembled road victim
Do they have a moment of silence after the last shovel scrape?
Do they hold an internal roadside memorial?
What of the homicidal perpetrator behind his wheels?
He must know the identity of his victim
He must feel the agony of guilt
Or, is his only remorse in the quarters he must spend at the self-service carwash to remove the evidence?
Perhaps Road-Kill animals haunt their vehicle killers
Maybe their blood can never be truly washed from the ****** weapon’s shinny surface
Like spots on Lady Macbeth’s hands
Perhaps the killer’s dreams are frequented by unidentifiable ****** mounds with eyes that stare from unnatural places
After all
Justice must be had in one way or another
For the unrecognizable John Doe pile represents all those wild things that must chance to cross the hard, hot, lethal highway
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay
this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,
even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,
what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.
to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,
my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York
<>
read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
When the seed of enmity is sown…
Shocked mind dawdles
Anger takes its seat
Startled brain malfunctions
Germ of jealousy sets in
Pained heart cries
Hatred straps relations
Interest fades away
Vengeance creeps in
Zeal dies away
Cunningness takes its position
Curiosity passes off
Disillusionment walks in
Passion loses identity
Rivalry spoils relation
Keenness to knowledge dwindles
Harsh words have no wisdom
Actions become meaningless
Despair leads to madness…
When the seed of love is scattered …
Words gain wisdom
Compassion binds the relation
Spirit of pride looks up
Actions have aim
Friendship and brotherhood grows
Zeal and passion intensify
Progeny adds value to life
Parentage gets importance.
Everything around looks colorful
Life becomes meaningful…
So its for you and me to decide
Which seed to be chosen ….
Seed of enmity or love
To make life worthy to live …
**************************
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
From the East Coast of Ireland to the Lowlands of Scotland,
a well-trodden path,
Grandma going to Whiteinch Baths,
to do the family laundry,
And to take my Auntie for a swim,
the black and white photos look a bit grim.
She mispronounces certain words.
When you put your dinner in between some bread,
she'd look at you, dead, and say,
"If yis waanted sangwhiches, I'd have made yis sangwhiches!"
And, "you're very pass-remarkable,"
I think it means you're quick to comment on others,
my Mother's also from Glasgow,
and doesn't know why Grandma speaks like that,
so this isn't just me being a Sassenach,
or a daft English ****
25th of January is Burns Night,
serve the neeps, tatties, a glass of fizz,
and of course, some Haggis.
Some say offal's awful,
but I just can't get enough of the stuff.
A firm favourite of our clan is a creamy dessert named Cranachan.
Topped with berries and a splash of whiskey,
you can guarantee a thumbs up from me.
The ancient family tartan is red and blue,
then there's the family crest too,
a knight with a shield under a tree,
I think it represents gallantry.
I sometimes wish I had a proper Scottish name,
like Hamilton, Douglas, or McCain,
don't suppose it matters,
at least I can understand the patter,
(that means joke or language.)
A saying about saving your coins,
"Mony a mickle macks a muckle,"
always makes me chuckle.
"Does it, aye?"
is a very dry reply,
used to take the **** and can be easy to miss.
When my Mum was younger, the family liked to roam,
but when she visits Glasgow,
she says it feels like home,
her voice even changes when she's on the phone.
Sounds English most of the day,
then my Auntie calls, and she's on her way,
"Haud ye weesht!" when she picks up the phone,
that means be quiet,
but you wouldn't have known,
that isn't her normal speaking tone.
Scottish family,
some are distant to me,
but through my parentage,
it's nice to have the heritage.
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 3:22 PM UTC
(i think that) it is poetic injustice -
that (to be fruitful) seeds fall away from their kin, (children),
(are) carried away in the guts of fauna,
(rooted in) soil far from (their parentage)
and told, "grow".
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
give me-the bowie knife of repartee,
nothing more satisfying than the
quick stabbing, a good blood letting,
in your genteel face, no hellish
moderated pace, the energetic plunge
of a quick lunge into the woebegone,
long after you count the meter tempo’d
use fingers and toes, but needing to hold
your nose, to include that extra
grace note, that belies denies the harmony
the tules and rules of calling order
to control the roost, sine-one
is a victim of a
down and virtuous ***** verbal slashing!
count my syllables, never,
let my stanzas run free,
like an African tiger,
with the goat of format
mounted in between his teeth,
bloodied and dripping dead,
the squealing of hyper innocente,
silent after cries of, kind sir,
me thinks thou protest too much!
we can squish and twist our holy words,
into formal tuxedos of cantankerous
arrowed arrogance,
but know this,
roses are read, them
violets, blue, have
turned millions of children to avert their
eyes from anything thereafter that was classified, notarized, canonized, sanctified
as the write rules of poetry
peals of pearls are born with parentage
of a lousy
grain of sand,
the words etched in the
lines upon my hand,
are lifelines of sidewalk cracks,
discarded candy wrappers,
the twisted ends cigarette butts,
used as proof that ash and dust are the
genetic source material of uncommon
great composition, given to those who
love the common touch of leaves of grass,
thstbeneath the heat of the sun that
exposes the nothingness of bitterness
know no one can run from the golden
visibility, of a sun, talent in pursuit of
egoism is a long road to a short history
yeah.
(faster than a speeding bullet)
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 3:28 AM UTC
The stepchildren of passion
bear the selfsame fruit of their
parentage...disowned by their own volition,
till becoming...incrementally dying
aspirants of dispassion.
I think of St. Francis, St. Francis
I think of you often.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
Gaze deeply and find
stellar parentage
in the columbine
- fr
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
He lived in a fine old country house
Befitting a man of means,
With everything a Victorian Squire
Could aspire to, in his dreams.
He owned four-fifths of a colliery
In the days when coal was gold,
And topped that up with a Brewery,
But the mean old man was cold.
For Benjamin John Fortescue ruled
His house like a would-be Earl,
His son had never felt welcome there
Since he’d married a country girl,
The mother had gone some years before
Who protected, in his youth,
But now, the **** of his father’s whims
The lad found out the truth.
He treated them like the servant class
Expected to fetch and bring,
But paid a pittance to keep them there,
His purse on a miser’s string,
‘I keep a fine roof over your heads
And you eat each day for free,’
He’d say, whenever they asked for gilt,
‘What more do you want from me?’
Their toddler Tim wore cast-off clothes
And was made to play outside,
‘I don’t want a ragamuffin’s mess,’
He’d say, till the mother cried.
‘You don’t seem to love your grandson,’ said
His son, his head in a whirl,
‘I would if he had some parentage,
But not from some country girl.’
As time went on there was something wrong
For the father suffered fits,
At first it would start with a seizure,
He would seem to lose his wits.
He’d lie for days in a sort of haze
And would scarcely draw a breath,
And Caroline would look hard it him,
‘It’s as if he’s caught in death!’
It happened enough to make him plan
Should the doctor be deceived,
‘I don’t want the fools to bury me
Alive, so I’m not retrieved.’
He bought a coffin with space inside
And a tube, out to the air,
With a little bell he could ring as well
If he found himself in there.
‘Be sure to follow instructions if
You think that I am dead,
Affix the bell to the tube as well
With a cord down to my head,
Then check the grave for a week or more
To see if the bell should ring,
Then hurry to dig me up, and I
Will give you anything.’
The day came that on the seventh fit
They could swear that he was dead,
‘There isn’t even a breath of air
And his eyes are up in his head.’
Three doctors came, and they all concurred
That his life was now extinct,
‘It had to happen,’ the couple heard,
‘He’s been living on the brink.’
They laid him out in his coffin, and
They fitted the tube to breathe,
Attached the bell, and the cord as well
Before they rose to leave,
But Timothy stayed to play that day
As he did, down in the Dell,
And a week went by till his mother cried:
‘Where did he get that bell?’
David Lewis Paget
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
a bargain at any price death at a young age
never to pay for the quarrels of youth
perhaps you may reference fine wine at this point
but your parentage offerers my sooth
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 8:55 AM UTC
they
never
seem
to
get
they're
not
their
children
:
o
)
(
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
Her parentage was a thing of considerable comment
Though a good deal less circumspection,
Mama's identity relatively sure, as everyone knew her mama,
Her father one of a laundry list of unpromising gardeners,
Yet she was a child of grace--no, more than that
An outlier in every sense of the word,
The dazzling unintended consequence
Resulting from a series of unwise and unhappy choices.
She sauntered (though there are those romantically inclined sorts
Who would insist she outright floated,
Her feet rarely if ever touching ground)
By the courthouse in Okolona most afternoons,
And though her dress was from the house of Ralston and Purina
And her jewelry courtesy of Sailor Jack and Bingo,
She neither shrunk nor slunk self-consciously
Nor walked with eyes ablaze and fists clenched,
In a manner asking Mebbe you wanna make sumpin' of it?
Simply walked her own walk,
Such things as poverty and pedigree
Trvial matters beneath her concern,
Though she was always provided for, as a seemingly chosen child,
Judge Hibbard giving her a store-bought doll from Jackson
When she turned seven, others providing her pop and bubble gum,
And later Miss Lucille Brisker sewed her a bright-blue silk dress
Plus gave her forty-two dollars for a Greyhound ticket
To Los Angeles via New Orleans
(When she hopped the bus in front of the K &B,
She gave her a peck on the cheek, and said
*Miss Lucille, you take care, but I doubt
I'm much likely to pass this way again.*)
Her whys and wherefores after that were lost to time and tide:
Perhaps she made it in L-A, perhaps she thought else-wise
And hopped off the bus in Hattiesburg or Bogalusa
Though most were of the opinion that it mattered little if at all,
As she allowed them, leastways for a little while,
To be in her orbit while she shone in such a manner as pleased her.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
The power of my mind
From parentage divine
To act with true free will
And all my dreams fulfill
The power of my heart
A kindness to impart
To share life’s path with you
And keep the loving view
The power of my hands
To carry out my plans
To work with you, as friends
For life - it has no ends
The power of my feet
To walk where we can meet
For when we act as one
Our joy has just begun
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 8:47 AM UTC
Charity found in clarified thought.
Harlequins in dormitories quickly sought.
Indiscretions come with ease.
Liberated by a youthful ******
Dilation found in most pupils.
Birthed in the hell of forgotten scruples.
Irate over nature's gift.
Renounced parentage moves in swift.
Theologians they're not to be.
Heathens, they are, as it's clear to see.
Insurrection from a parents hope.
Secured through the first ****
Nodding off to dreams of bliss.
Organized by pots of ****
Tempting fate with a play on chance.
A child's born through horizontal dance.
Vindication came during a failure at grace.
A look of contempt etched across a father's face.
Composure slipped through the cracks.
Adolescents and their empty sacks.
Tying nots in a diluted fashion.
Insulating them from drifting passion.
On and off they float along.
Nullified in the end by unwanted spawn.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
I run through the courtyard
Sweat dripping from my brow
Gaining a strong momentum
For the here and the now
My mother and my father have gone
Through love and trivial means
I am left alone with no one
Just the worldly possession of five soya beans
A guard stops me in haste
Why do you run so fast?
His bitterness I can taste
The heart has dropped half mast
My parentage has eloped into the night
To find a new place to be
They detested me at first sight
My release has set them free
And now I'm scared of the walls
I have no abode to dwell
Please let me sleep under the stalls
Of this engulfing Citadel
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
On having a secret mother
the boy is lacing up his right shoe
when he sees
the string
tied
to his middle
finger
and wonders
how asleep he was
when it happened-
(being forgotten
is a lot like
being forgotten
by) harm, that purple balloon
lowered into
then surrounded
by
the inactive
construction site
of the world
On my father being gay
so you know
what it is
you have
(felt,
there is)
an emoticon
at the end
of this
book
On suicide
you are further than I
in your worship
of the slow
vehicle
that carries
praise
back and forth
from appearing
to reappearing
god (how else)
to bully
what would
wipe you
clean
of body
language…
On foreclosure
any chance, no,
of improving
upon
my impression
of god.
noises beneath a bomb or bomb
threat.
wheelbarrows, wagons.
the occasional declawed cat
past which
I make
like I am
rowing.
(in wheelbarrow) (in wagon) otherwise,
no cats
on cat
island.
On libido
the previous verse was a poor man’s bible. like wildfire a fondness for appropriate discipline spreads. one scarecrow means practice, two scarecrows mean parentage. a third is your father’s failed garden of baby teeth. is, by definition, is. I are
motherless. what mother doesn’t know doesn’t worry. many spiders came on the wind and a few were swept into mouths briefly opened by age. what made woman did not make the disappearing girl. flashing back to a scene that’s not there or forward to one dependent on space, pain arrives
in memoriam.
On memory
for all the showing, one would think the only things born were eyes.
when lord
says
or lords
say
this is the body
I tend
in unison
to trail
behind
my voice
as if
I could make my own
remember the anesthesia
it underwent
to intervene.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
As he stands in the airport queue,
Thumbing through his
Little book of stamps, seals and bio-metric signatures
That proclaims his nativity
From such and such a land,
And marks his appearance
As of such and such a height
With such and such a visible mark on his face,
Of such and such parentage …
He knows that none of it matters
As he stands knocking at the gates of a country
For the furrows on his brow
And his near-empty wallet
Have condemned him to
Remain
A citizen of the united nations of migrants
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 1:06 AM UTC
I spent a lot of time on you, and that’s my fault.
Should’ve been more pragmatic with my temporal currency
I’m not a millionaire in that category, not yet
In any category, for that matter
I guess I never thought it’d be an issue.
Here’s the thing: I thought I thought I thought
I loved you.
Jeez. That’s a thing you should know, you know?
Something I thought I knew
But I was wrong.
It’s been a while, but memories come up
This time of year; this month
A lot of things happened this month, a lifetime ago
And you were in some of them
On the fringes, casting glances askance
Hoping I wasn’t watching
Knowing I was.
Like, I had a title— you gave me a title
“Give an inch” you know?
But I held my end until I couldn’t
And you never did.
I thought I loved you
I was wrong.
I know I love her
Because it feels nothing like before.
I wonder if you know what love is
Or if you only know wanting
The emptiness that comes from
Needing a foundation
Needing a stable parentage
Needing. . . someone to take up your burdens
Telling you it’ll be alright
Telling you you’re fine.
Needing someone to take up my position
I was a mechanic:
You’d take your problems in to me
I’d fix them up
And I wouldn’t charge you because
You were my favourite customer
I was never more than a stop on your errand run
If you could fit me in.
It’s upsetting, because so much of my temporal capital
Went to someone who didn’t appreciate it
Someone who could replace me
Someone who did replace me.
I don’t know why I thought I loved you
Maybe proximity gets you confused
Maybe familiarity gets you confused
Maybe maturity pulls back the curtain, throws light on our idols
Shows them for the half-starved lions they are
The manticore illusion dies.
I’ve been spending my time better now
With better people
With people I love and who love me.
She loves me; you didn’t.
I win; you lose.
I don’t think about you all that often
But when I do
I don’t get angry
I don’t think about you all that often
But when I do
I hope I don’t ever have
to make small talk with you
I don’t think about you.
But when I do
I hope reality shows you a mirror
And you peer into your actions
Remembering the people you chased away
The people who left you for greener pastures
And as you carve the tallies into the mirror
Marks of the ones who’ve gone
I hope you see that they are going toward happiness
And that you are living in unhappiness
Spinning webs of negativity as you
Verbally abuse the ones you “love.”
I hope life bites. And I hope you know
That you gave it the teeth to do it.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
It is the process of revealing oneself through which one can understand their infirmities and their powerless nature. Successful people will always build their lives around others. Because they are people who want to hear what they want to hear. But, being rich doesn't mean you automatically subjugate yourselves to the weaker philosophy and opinion of the crowd.
But, when we realize that we are different from the rest, therein lies our uniformity. In that clarity, you can see that your life is a search for individual truth. What is being unique?
Instead of a truth that is of cosmic proportions, we find ourselves in an abyss.
A child akin to his parents will think of how he can model himself. Notwithstanding, the parentage of a child becomes a vital factor in the moral upbringing of children. But, a child should be allowed to lead a life among the forests, oceans, and leaves rustling languidly. Thus, pursuing an education in the caprice of the divine and the grace of Earth.
That grace is not available in strictness of the cane, but it flows in the wings of birds.
Instead of forcing conformity on an infant, the perfect mother should propose that a child chose a path. They will react to the stimuli present in schoolyards, playgrounds, social gatherings. Later, a child explores a form of conscious intelligence. Here are places where children feel pressured to excel and become self-aware. But, that self-awareness comes from how close a child is to his parents. A child will never model his behavior to his parents unless he loves one of them more than the other. In other words, he respects one parent the more. It is enough for his subconscious to devise a manner in which he finds a partner similar to the parent he loves. But, the sole burden of pleasing the parent he respects forces him to model himself to the parent he respects.
In some ways, the partner a man chooses is someone he can never be. Free in the ways of the world, one with nature. In short, a child at heart.
This individual is made up of his prejudices, influences, and his little world of interests. Yet, instead of following the footsteps of the kinder parent, he replicates the behavior of the domineering figure of the house. A child's mind is made up from the moment he is born.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
I’d Like To Find Another Word For God
I’d like to find
Another word
For God, for named in scripture’s world
It is a word – a name – word just the same,
Quenching some, offending some,
Plain annoying to some sorts,
Explaining little, saying lots.
Lord, Almighty, the Creator,
Maker, Godhead, Yahweh, Allah,
Father, Son, the Holy Spirit,
Brahma, more, the Man Upstairs,
A thousand other
Endless names for one ground grand initiator.
Birthright, culture, parentage,
History, heredity and what they’ve led to,
What we’re bred to,
Simple leaning notwithstanding,
Pre-programmed we land un-manned.
I think highly of the theist and it’s opposite the non-
With no high regard for anti-s,
For the principle of love embraces
Fat and thin, uncles, aunties.
In the meantime,
Brain un-stymied,
With ideas and inner truths,
I continue in the use of
God, the word that makes some happy,
Giving comfort, consolation
While I seek some substitution.
What we want to know
Are secrets, keys, realities;
Of life, of death, of fate and how
To live consistently serenely in tranquility;
Long-lived and daily:
Life without anxiety,
Fulfilled with understanding.
I’d Like To Find Another Word For God 10.29.2017
God Book II; Circling Round Reality;
Arlene Corwin
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
"A smile on face
Makes your presence grace
Your warmth and kindness
Gives friend and relations happiness
Your tenderness to parentage
Gives affection to young age
You make all comfort with ability
Easing hardship with tranquility
Your 10 mile run consistently
Keeps you juvenile unfailingly
The stream in the evening
Is cheering and welcoming
With 2 glass of wine on a table
One thick and other thin
Filled up to brim brim
Repeated till rim rim
Can't forget such sitting
Cheering and admiring
Not only you are my bro
I released as blossom friend
Your companion I seek endlessly
May God accomplish with unselfishnessly"
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC
Everyone is all about moolah moolah moolah these days! If we can be about our parentage and descent. Other words where we come from then we might get somewhere!
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC