| Poems For Tomorrow’s Generations |
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| Poems For Tomorrow’s Generations |
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By
Lynda Doyle-Rodriguez
POETRY INDEX
A Sinner’s Prayer, ‘The Missing Chapter’
Salvation, Faith, Hope, Love and Charity
Listen,.Hear The Cries Of The Children
II
Tears of a child named, ‘Stevie,’ don’t mean a thing to a monster,
He calls,’ daddy’; this child innocent and scared, his bruises
Soon to heal, but not his broken heart; in time he might forget, but
Never will he forgive this, ‘daddy,’ from hell.
Its funny how he say’s, ‘ if you’d just behave, Stevie, you wouldn’t
get hit or called names; tears of a child, Stevie, just won’t go
Away; he'll, keep it secret some place to be used against another
innocent child some day; and on and on, the cycle of abuse continues
Until, you or I make a change; only then will it go away;
Only then, will the cycle of abuse be broken.
I want to live, I’m much too young to die; but like a withered
Tree, the beautiful like, ‘Stevie,’ lay down and die;
I could say, ‘ it was the monsters,’ in my head, but that’s a lie; as
Time marches on the beautiful always die; getting
Left behind; leaving only memories of what once lived inside;
As lightening strikes, a scared little boy runs to hide;
But where are you running to little boy, where are you going to
Hide this time?
Once you were a precious angel, sunny and bright as the morning
Star, until darkness crept into your mind; Stevie, your
Eyes used to shine, until the darkness crept into your mind;
I could say, ‘it was the monsters in my dreams, how they made
Me scream, cursing and striking
Somewhere in the back of my mind; but mama, you never heard
Them, you never came to my rescue;
I told myself never to let them see me cry; but times
Marches on, the beautiful ones get left behind;
Run little boy, run and hide, don’t let their evil, angry
Words destroy your mind, don’t let them see
You cry, remember Stevie, only the strong will survive;
Don’t let him take away your life too soon; his angry
Words are just another lie; God does love you
Even when you’re bad, quick Stevie, run and hide; we are
The same you and I, only the strong will survive;
Don’t let him see you cry, run and hide, ‘Stevie,’
But where do we run to, where do we hide this time?
The woods are full of boys like you
And girls like me, like us, all of them are seeking
Shelter from the storms of life, like
You and me Stevie, all of them are searching for
Places in which to run and to hide.
Tears Of A Child Named, ‘Stevie,’
Written by, Shawn Stephen Butler;
I remember screaming, ‘Mama, there is a monster
In my room!’ But mama you
Never heard my scream, you never came to my
Rescue; you didn’t hear my
Cry when he hit me, you didn’t hear my cry when
He raped me, because
Mama, you never came to my rescue.
Even now mama, I see his face, I hear his laughter
In my head; he took away
My childhood, he took away my life,
He took away my dreams; he took away my hopes,
he took away everything; now, he’s
Coming back for more, but I have nothing left
To give, except my soul.
Mama, you never came to my rescue.
I'm dead? or is this what I get for being a child?
It makes me wonder if
God really does exist; the pain in my heart
Leaves no room for joy;
Don’t cry mama, it wasn’t your fault, because you
Didn’t know; but
Mama, you never came to my rescue.
But tell me mama, where do I go, heaven or hell,
Earth or space,
Or, someplace in between?
Tell me mama, I’m alive or dead? Confusion
Is the knife that cuts us all; lying
Here in this pool of blood, suddenly, there is
Darkness all around; don’t
Cry mama, its not your fault, you didn’t
Know; it’s too late now,
Mama, you never came to my rescue.
Written by;
Shawn Stephen Butler.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve been searching, searching
For something to call my own,
Mine and mine alone; I’ve seen my face many times,
yet never knowing who was inside.
How can anybody know, at the age of nine, searching
For the answer to the question
Of, ‘Who I’m? It made no sense to love
Myself, when all I’d been taught was to hate what I
Did not understand.
We were taught never to be afraid, that everything is
All right, that it would work
Out in the end; but it didn’t and like little
Soldiers going off to
War, we must learn to be brave, in the end soldiers
Die, what are we fighting for?
Sometimes I wonder, if I’m just a character
In another person’s dream,
An imaginary face, only I can see.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve always felt this way,
Seeing my face a thousand times,
Yet, never knowing the boy inside; like puzzles, the
Pieces don’t fit this face I see.
My ears hear the strange sounding words my lips
Speak, is this really me? Or, I’m
Just a character in another person’s dream?
Written by;
Shawn Stephen Butler.
There is a woman with three children
Standing by the side of the road;
She is scared and all alone and crying
In the rain; the hungry eyes
Of her children show no laughter, no
Joy, just despair and misery.
There is one more mile to go Lord,
Down that lonesome road.
In a rain soaked alley hidden under
Blankets of newspaper
His shelter from the rain and biting
Winter winds huddles
A homeless man, whose
Lost everything he’s ever owned.
There is one more mile to go, Lord
Down that lonesome road.
In daylight hour’s people pass him
By; some judging
Other’s calling him names.
Some, feeling compassion throw change
At his feet; other’s turn
Away, pretending not to see.
All forget Lord, ‘by the grace of God,
There go I’ there
Is one more mile to go Lord, down
That lonesome road.
One more mile to go Lord,
One more mile to go.
Tomorrow’s generation, baby bottles and diapers,
Fussing and crying, stories of pied piper’s;
Tomorrow’s Generation, playing quietly with their
Toys on the floor, hug’s and kisses,
For daddy’s at the door.
Tomorrow’s Generation, swinging in the park,
Laughing and playing, unaware
Of the dark.
Tomorrow’s Generation, learning to read,
Counting his numbers,
Planting his seed.
Tomorrow’s Generation, dancing to the music
Of his times, escorting
His first date, learning early his lines.
Tomorrow’s Generation, pumping gas at that
Local station, saving for his first car.
Tomorrow’s Generation, running wild with
The crowd, a little pot, too much booze.
Tomorrow’s Generation, celebrating
Graduation, a spin
Around the block, wheels that screech, but
Can’t stop.
Late that night, police knock at the door,
Sad, but too late, tomorrow’s generation
Is no more
From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp he roams
Never knowing a place
To call his home.
From the orange groves of
Sunny California, to hot sand
Beneath Florida grapefruit
Trees.
From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp he roams,
Never knowing a place
To call his home.
From the grapefruit trees of
Sandy Florida, he heads
North to the tobacco
Fields of the Carolina’s.
From the sizzling heat of
Southern suns to frigid cold
Of northern hills,
The migrant worker.
From the Carolina’s, north
To the apple orchards
Of West Virginia, Virginia
And Pennsylvania.
From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp
He roams, never knowing a place
To call his home.
His work is hard, his pay is low,
His housing is always
Shameful and always unfit.
The migrant worker,
Looking across fields and farms
You will find him there,
Harvesting the crops; breathing
Dust and sprays,
Pesticides, that one-day soon
Will take his life.
At the age of 49, his work
Is done; with no
More borders to cross, and no
More fields to harvest,
He is free.
As family and friends lower
His body
Into a pauper’s grave, who
Will grieve? Who
Will care, that pesticides took
His life?
Friends and family lay sprays of
Flowers on his grave; he
Was not a king or a man of wealth
The world would miss.
He was only a migrant, a lowly
Servant of wealthy men
Whose life ended way too soon.
From field to field, he wanders,
From camp to camp he
Roams, never knowing a place
To call his home.
The migrant worker, when the
Harvest is finished
When the season is done,
He moves on.
From field to field, he wanders
From camp to camp he
Roams, searching for better
Crops, higher pay and
Decent housing, the migrant
Worker.
From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp he roams,
Searching for
The elusive American Dream.
He was born of a virgin in a place
Called, Bethlehem, but the King of
All Kings, had no place to lay His
Head, His bed a cradle of straw,
Where animals were fed.
A star in the East, lit a path for
Three wise men to tread,
Stopping to rise
Above The Christ child’ head.
Gifts of gold, frankincense
And mirth, they
Laid at his feet, they bowed
Down to worship
Him, their new born King.
This Holy Child of God, born
Of humble birth
Left His Father’s mansions
On high,
To dwell with men on earth.
Oh what a price he paid.
As time went by, this child of
God, grew strong and
Tall, filled with knowledge
By the Holy Ghost;
Like His earthly father
Joseph, He
Was a carpenter by trade.
He was called, ‘A Nazarene.’ baptized
By John in the river of Jordan,
He set about doing His Father’s work,
Preaching in the synagogues,
And teaching on the shores of Galilee.
Calling to all men, ‘take up your cross
And follow me,’ He healed
Sick, made blind men to see; He
Never married and raised a family, at
The age of 33, He
Paid sin’s ransom for folks
Like you and me.
I did not deserve the hefty price He
Chose to pay, He took
My place on that old rugged cross,
Trading His life for mine.
Oh what a price he paid.
His name is, ‘Jesus,’ and on an old
And rugged cross, He looked
Down through the years and when
He saw me, He cried,
“Lynda, come and follow me.”
He hung His head,
And gave up His life, I did not
Deserve the
The hefty price He chose to pay
But, it was all part of God’s great
Plan, that His Son
Become, “The Sacrificial Lamb.”
Oh, to recall once again those
Lazy days of summer;
School is out, no more books.
Flying down the hill, on my
Old red Murray,
Defying the wind, sailing my
Dad’s home made kite
Across the hill.
Childhood days, days filled
With curiosity, with
Dreams, plans and schemes.
The aroma of freshly baked
Cookies, drifting
Down the hall, floating under
My bedroom door, mom’s
Cookies;
Tantalizing my senses,
Teasing my empty stomach;
Mom’s cookies;
Flat and round, with bits of
Sweet and chewy
Chocolate, melting in my
Mouth.
But time has no meaning
When one is young.
All too soon, summer takes wings
Flying away, prisons
Of brick call us back, from nine
To three, once again
We go; fall turns to winters of ice
And snow; making
Days of summer and freedom
Seem so long ago.
While childhood days are wistful
And lazy, sadly,
They do not belong to us forever.
It’s happy, carefree
Days are not ours to keep.
Like days of summer, seasons of
Childhoods are all too
Short and gone way too soon.
As adults we are banished from
A world that in reality
Never existed, some of us are
Banished way too soon.
Yet, whether by miracle or by
Divine intervention,
Through trials
And error of selfish, youthful
Arrogant ways,
We muddle through
Some of us even manage to
Learn a lesson or two.
I’m, ‘too old,’ the young people say,
Too old, to see the reality of their world
Today; ‘Too old,
Your world is dead, buried along with
The beatniks and coffee shop
Poets of the fifties,” the young people
Say; in their world,
It is okay to stand crooked, straight or
Whatever way.
It is, ‘politically incorrect,’ to speak
Against lifestyle
Choices I do not understand.
It is, ‘politically incorrect,’ the young
People say, ‘ to openly teach
Laws and Commandments of a non-
Existent God; I ‘m too old,
I don’t understand.’
There are many things that I may not
Understand, like computers
And the delicate work of a surgeon’s
Hands;
But life has taught this, ‘older
Generation, that
No matter how the world may
Change,
Some things remain the same.
It was by the efforts of this, ‘older
Generation,’ and
Those before us, which created
The changes
Young people enjoy today; but we
Are, ‘too old,’ they say;
We need to step aside, step down,
Retire to our rocking chairs
And nursing homes, and like old
Flowers, just
Wither and pass away.
But where would this generation
Be without the
Writers, the directors and its old
Actors and actresses
And even the coffee shop poets
Of yesterday.
Where would this generation be
Without its, ‘old,’
Veterans who fought and died to
Keep our land free?
Where would this generation be
If, ‘women’s choice,’
Had been one of our options,
Way back then?
How would our, ‘old,’ men have
Dreamed their dreams
If, ‘doctor death,’
Had been allowed to roam our
Town, way back then?
Tell me young people, you’re
So smart with
You’re computers geniuses
And stock
Market portfolios;
Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be, if this, ‘old,’
Generation of
Feeble minds and shaking
Hands had not set
The path and led the way.
But we are, ‘too old,’ the
People say.
Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be, if our, ‘old,’
Men, had not
Built the skyscrapers, laid
The pipes, poured
The concrete interstates?
Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be, without our
‘Old,’ truckers,
Without our, ‘old coal
Miners, who dug black coal
From the earth?
Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be with our, ‘old,’
Factory workers,
Oil riggers, and labors,
And our, ‘old,’
Steel workers too?
Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be without this,
“Old,’ generation
Of teachers, who took their
Time to teach?
Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be without this
“Old generation,’ of
Farmers and migrant
Workers too?
Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be without us,’ old
Folks,’
Of yesterday?
Faith was born on a tiled bathroom floor
In a small four-bedroom house,
In Augusta, West Virginia, the exact date
I don’t remember, it was a cold
November day, during the year of 1975.
Hope was born in a two-bedroom house
In Fairfax, Virginia; the month
Was September, in the year of 1992;
One month after mother’s death.
Salvation was granted, God’s free gift
To me, during a Catholic
Prayer meeting in Arlington, Virginia;
This date is engraved upon
My heart, forever I will remember,
September 29, 1992.
Love, not mine, but God’s Holy love
Took root within my heart
At the very moment of Salvation.
Faith is believing in God the Father,
In His Son, Jesus Christ,
In the Holy Ghost, faith is believing
In things unseen.
Faith, Hope and Salvation from sin
Were the gifts my
Precious Savior gave to me;
The most precious words, I heard
Him say were,
“By your faith my daughter you
Have been saved.”
It’s too late to change those
Things, that could
Have been changed way
Way back then;
Its too late for wailing and
Groaning, bemoaning
Those things that
May have been and were
; will never have
The chance to be again.
It’s too late now for looking
Back, wanting
To change that which
Was;
Into that which was not;
And to change that which
Was not into that
Which could have been;
But the future is not ours
To see; its
Not too late to change
What will be;
It’s always too late for
Looking back;
But never too late for
Looking ahead.
I like to celebrate Christmas
The way other people
Do; but my gift cannot be
Bought,
It comes from me to you;
Material things I have little
Of; my gift comes
From within a mother’s
Heart
Bursting with love;
My gift I gave to you on
The day each
Of you were born; my gift
You will
Never outgrow and with
The passing
Of each new year, my
Gift
Is refilled with my love;
I know you’d like bikes
And dolls; hot
Wheel cars, and many
Other things;
But my gift of love is all
I have to bring.
Each of you, two little girls
And two little boys;
Are my bundles of joy; you
Have given
Me hours of love with your
Golden smiles,
Devilish grins and endless
Noise.
Sometimes you have worn
Hand-me-down
Clothes, seconds, and
Bargain basement specials;
Though life was
Tough and sometimes very
Hard, through it
All, seldom if ever did any
Of you complain;
Within your wisdom of
Childhood