Letter to my children on the Mother’s day 2017

Tri Pham

To my children,

Your dad and I love you unconditionally, simply because you are our children.

“We raise you with our hearts and minds, hoping to make you the perfect gems”. As you grow older, our lives become more shortened. No matter how old you are, you will always remain our little children, who need love and protection. Life is impermanent. But I could not avoid feeling pain when I think of the day when I will no longer be with you, and you continue on .
In your youth, the sky is the limit. Like eagles, you want to challenge the wind, to fly high and fly far, to find bright lights in your future. In your youth, you want to reach for the moon with all dreams and wishes. I just watch and pray for you.

Life is not always rosy; the road you travel is not always covered with red carpets. Happiness comes from within, not given to you by anyone. Through failures, you will appreciate the meaning of success. After tears, you will appreciate the meaning of smiles.

In many nights, I watched your dad deep in his sleep, noticing his hair turned more and more white, his snoring louder and louder and his wrinkles more and more noticeable. Then I softly walked into the bedrooms where you used to sleep. The furniture in the room and all the things you left behind reminded me of the days you lived here, like a movie clip that moves in slow motion.

Since the days you moved out, we have carefully kept everything the way they were, from photos, diplomas to souvenirs and memorable items. We thanked God for the best gift ever: our three lovely kids with bright eyes and angel smiles. I always remember the daily stories about your school, and your friend stories that you used to tell us at the dining table, every evening. You guys love each other, care for each other and helped each other with home work. There were times that your dad and I encountered misfortunes in life; but it was you who helped us to get up and run. To us, you were young chicks that need to be fed and no one else could love you more than us.

Then, you guys took turn to grow up, with graduation and with your own families. Your dad and I also took turn to retire. We helped baby sit your kids; their smiles, their chatter reminded us of your own smiles and chatter..

Now, you are all grown up but to be honest, I don’t think I fully understand each of you. I simply wish your lives will be smooth and peaceful. Your happiness is doubled in our hearts; your unhappiness becomes a thousand folds more in our minds.

Tonight, I thought of you and the days when we just arrived in Canada. Back then, you were just like babies but it was you who gave us strength and belief that we all could survive and succeed later. My last messages to you:

• Keep on walking, regardless whether or not the road is smooth;
• Love your family; together, you all will be strong and successful,
• Love yourself and love others.

Somebody once wrote: “Life is not always perfect; don’t always expect perfection to suffer non-satisfaction. Accept life as is”.

Tri Pham

Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be)

"Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be)", first published in 1956, is a popular song written by the Jay Livingston and Ray Evans songwriting team. The song was introduced in the Alfred Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956), starring Doris Day and James Stewart in the lead roles. It was also featured in the films Please Don't Eat the Daisies, Heathers, The Glass Bottom Boat, Mary & Max, In the Cut, and Girl, Interrupted.
(Source: internet-Wikipedia)
April 3, 2016 - HAPPY 92nd Birthday Dear  Doris Day 

Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be), Doris Day

 

When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother, "What will I be?

Will I be pretty, will I be rich?"

Here's what she said to me

"Que Sera, Sera, Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours to see Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be"

When I grew up, and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart, "What lies ahead?
Will we have rainbows, day after day?"
Here's what my sweetheart said

"Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be"

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, "What will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich?"
I tell them tenderly

"Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be
Que Sera, Sera"

Songwriters
LIVINGSTON, JAY & EVANS, RAY

 

One Day When We Were Young

The song was "Wer uns getraut" in Germany.  

From the operetta "Gypsy Baron" (Composed by: Johann Strauß IIAdapted by: Dimitri Tiomkin for the film "The Great Waltz"English lyrics for the film by: Oscar Hammerstein II)Fernand Gravet; Miliza Korjus.Also recorded by: Richard Tauber; Anne Ziegler & Webster Booth;Josephine Bradley; Dollar Brand; Toscha Seidel; André Rieu;Richard Clayderman; Sandor Konya & Ingeborg Hallstein;Fritz Wunderlich; Rita Streich & Peter Anders; Rudolf Schock;..... and many others.(Source: Internet)

*One day when we were young, Jane Zhang

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LEezdiQBFpA

*One day when we were young, Christine Samson:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAAGjwjux3E

 *One day when we were young, Fernand Gravey:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCICFxJXHR8  

 One day when we were young

That wonderful morning in May

You told me you loved me
When we were young one day 

Sweet songs of spring were sung

And music was never so gay

You told me you loved me
When we were young one day 

You told me you loved me

And held me close to your heart

We laughed then, we cried then

Then came the ti-ime to part 

When songs of spring are sung

Remember that morning in May

Remember you loved me

When we were young one day

We laughed then, we cried then

Then came the ti-ime to par-art 

When songs of spring are sung

Remember that morning in May

Remember you loved me

When we were young one day...       

Select Poems

Select Poems is the selecting of English-language verse for which many readers have an affection. These poems serve to inspire, entertain, and, in time of need, to comfort. All of poets stand as the greatest and best-beloved poets.

The list of these poems is as follows:

1.     The friend who just stand by- B. Y. Williams (Bertye Young Williams) [1876-1951]

2.     How old are you? – H. S. Fritsch (around 1920)

3.     Memory – Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)

4.     I wandered lonely as a Cloud– William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

5.     A golden day – Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

6.     I hid my love – John Clare (1793-1864)

7.     The winter it is Past – Robert Burns (1759-1796)

8.     Remember – Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894)

9.     Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?- William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

10.    When you are old – W. B. Yeats (William Butler Yeats)[1865-1939]

11.    Love – Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

12.    First love – John Clare (1798-1864)

13.    O Mistress Mine – William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

14.The garden of love – William Blake (1757-1827)

15. When we two parted – George Gordon Byron (1788-1824)

The Friend Who Just Stands By

              
B. Y. Williams (Bertye Young Williams) [1876-1951]


When trouble comes your soul to try,
You love the friend who just "stands by."
Perhaps there's nothing he can do--
The thing is strictly up to you;
For there are troubles all your own,
And paths the soul must tread alone;
Times when love cannot smooth the road
Nor friendship lift the heavy load,
But just to know you have a friend
Who will "stand by" until the end,
Whose sympathy through all endures,
Whose warm handclasp is always yours--
It helps, someway, to pull you through,
Although there's nothing he can do.
And so with fervent heart you cry,
"God bless the friend who just 'stands by'"!

How Old Are You

H. S. Fritsch* (around 1920)

Age is a quality of mind. If you have left your dreams behind, If hope is cold, If you no longer look ahead, If your ambitions' fires are dead -- Then you are old. But if from life you take the best, And if in life you keep the jest, If love you hold; No matter how the years go by, No matter how the birthdays fly-- You are not old.

*H. S. Fritsch may be a pen name, her given name may be Huang Sung Felt. This poem might be written in about 1920. Many people said that the author known as anonymous has been prolific over a century.

Memory

Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)

My mind lets go a thousand things
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour--
'T was noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May--
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

           William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

        

             

           I wandered lonely as a cloud

          That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

          When all at once I saw a crowd,

          A host, of golden daffodils;

          Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

          Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

          Continuous as the stars that shine

          And twinkle on the milky way,

          They stretched in never-ending line

          Along the margin of a bay:                                  

          Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

          Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

          The waves beside them danced; but they

          Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

          A poet could not but be gay,

          In such a jocund company:

          I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

          What wealth the show to me had brought:

          For oft, when on my couch I lie

          In vacant or in pensive mood,                               

          They flash upon that inward eye

          Which is the bliss of solitude;

          And then my heart with pleasure fills,

          And dances with the daffodils.

A golden day

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

I found you and I lost you,
All on a gleaming day.
The day was filled with sunshine,
And the land was full of May.

A golden bird was singing
Its melody divine,
I found you and I loved you,
And all the world was mine.

I found you and I lost you,
All on a golden day,
But when I dream of you, dear, 

I hid my love

John Clare (1793-1864)

I hid my love when young till I
Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;
I hid my love to my despite
Till I could not bear to look at light;
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place;
Where'er I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love goodbye.

I met her in the greenest dells,
Where dewdrops pearl the wood bluebells;
The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye,
The bee kissed and went singing by,
A sunbeam found a passage there,
A gold chain round her neck so fair;
As secret as the wild bee's song
She lay there all the summer long.

I hid my love in field and town
Till e'en the breeze would knock me down;
The bees seemed singing ballads o'er,
The fly's bass turned to lion's roar;
And even the silence found a tongue,
To haunt me all the summer long;
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing else but secret love.

Remember

Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Remember

Remember

About JW Player 6.12.4956...

    Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

When you are old

W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

(William Butler Yeats)

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Love

 Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

We cannot live, except thus mutually
We alternate, aware or unaware,
The reflex act of life: and when we bear
Our virtue onward most impulsively,
Most full of invocation, and to be
Most instantly compellent, certes, there
We live most life, whoever breathes most air
And counts his dying years by sun and sea.
But when a soul, by choice and conscience, doth
Throw out her full force on another soul,
The conscience and the concentration both make
mere life, Love. For Life in perfect whole
And aim consummated, is Love in sooth,
As nature's magnet-heat rounds pole with pole.

First love

 John Clare (1798-1864)

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start --
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love's appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more

O Mistress Mine

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

   

    O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey's end in lovers' meeting-
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,-
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure

The garden of love

William Blake (1757-1827)

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut
And 'Thou shalt not,' writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

When we two parted

 George Gordon Byron (1788-1824)

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well--
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

A house which has been familiar to me in childhood

                                                                            This article was written by Tran, van Dien in 1960

            The place I always remember with affection is the house where I was born, and spent my childhood.

            

            It stands in the middle of a rather large area surrounded with green bamboo-hedges. In front of it, is a yard where wet clothes are dried and which is also a store-place for the rice-crop in harvest time. Next to the yard, is a pond where the washing is done. Its water is kept cool all day long, thanks to the shady trees with overhanging leafy branches around it. Not far from there, is a beautiful garden full of pretty flowers and fruit-trees. It is my favorite place. In the afternoon, I used to run merrily along its flower-bordered walks, chasing gorgeous butterflies or catching shining beetles. In doing so, I sometimes trod on a flowering plant, and was scolded by my mother for being so carless. At the corner of the garden, there is a small arbour with a seat where I spent much time reading some fairy tales or doing my home-work. Behind the house, is another garden where grow various kinds of vegetables.

            

           The house itself is only a small cottage. It consists of three rooms. The middle-room is the most nicely furnished with a table, four chairs and a mahogany camp-bed. We eat and receive the visitors there. It is also a room witnessing the sweet gatherings of my family on the winter-evening when it rains outside. Far back at the wall, is set up an altar for the cult of the ancestors. On the left is the sleeping-room, a place crowded with beds and a wardrobe. On the right is a lumber-room where all sorts of things are kept. As for the kitchen and the toilet-room, they are all in an annexe not far from the main dwelling.

            

            That is my house. Though it is only a humble cottage, I still love it very much and always long to return to it because it is a place where I had the happiest memories of my life.

Love of home

                                                                                             Author is unknown

            Everyone loves his home. He loves it whether the home is large or small, old or new. It is frequently the place where he was born, where for years his parents lived and near which reside his relatives and friends. In a sense, it is the place of all others that really seems to belong to him.

            Out of the Atlantic ocean, far from any coast, there is a small island which you would think a very poor place to live. You would not like to spend one night there. Storms often sweep over it. Clouds hang about it and shut out the sunshine for weeks at a time. There are no trees; so the people build little houses of rough stones and hide from the storms or the hot sun in these huts. They cannot keep grain, because the many rates eat it up at once. They live on fish almost all the time. So few ships pass that the people rarely see anything of the rest of the world. If a steamer passes, they jump into their boats and the row out to it. They just wish to see some other people, to learn something of the big world, or to get something to eat. Most of the time they spend their lives doing things that you would call very uninteresting.

When a certain government learned of the condition of these people, it offered to move them to some other part of the world and to help them get a new start in life. But, strange as it may seem, none of them wanted to leave! This poor island was their home. They had built humble little huts, and learned to live the hard life and they wanted to live and die there.

Letter to William Wordsworth* from Charles Lamb, date 30th January 1801, Letter LXXXV: (Town Versus Country)

                                                   Charles Lamb** (1775-1834)

I ought before this to have replied to your very kind invitation into Cumberland. With you and your sister I could gang anywhere; but I am afraid whether I shall ever be able to afford so desperate a journey. Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life. I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead Nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet Street; the innumerable trades, tradesmen, and customers, coaches, wagons, playhouses; all the bustle and wickedness round about Covent Garden; the very women of the Town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles; life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the impossibility of being dull in Fleet Street; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the print shops, the old bookstalls, parsons cheapening books, coffee-houses, steams of soups from kitchens, the pantomimes - London itself a pantomime and a masquerade - all these things work themselves into my mind, and feed me, without a power of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me into night-walks about her crowded streets, and I often shed tears in the motley Strand from fullness of joy at so much life. All these emotions must be strange to you; so are your rural emotions to me.  But consider, what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes?

My attachments are all local, purely local. I have no passion (or have had none since I was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering of poetry and books) for groves and valleys. The rooms where I was born, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a book-case which has followed me about like a faithful dog (only exceeding him in knowledge), wherever I have moved myself, old chairs, old tables, streets, squares, where I have sunned myself, my old school - these are my mistresses. Have I not enough, without your mountains? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know that the mind will make friends of anything. Your sun, and moon, and skies, and hills, and lakes, affect me no more, or scarcely come to me in more venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry and tapers, where I might live with handsome visible objects. I consider the clouds above me but as a roof beautifully painted, but unable to satisfy the mind: and at last, like the pictures of the apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a pleasure. So fading upon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of nature, as they have been confoundedly called ; so ever fresh, and green and warm are all the inventions of men, and assemblies of men in this great city. I should certainly have laughed with dear Joanna.***

Give my kindest love, and my sister's, to D and yourself; and a kiss from me to little Barbara Lethwaite. Thank you for liking my play.

Foot notes :

*- Letter to William Wordsworth, Letter LXXXV, date 30^TH January 1801: Charles Lamb wrote this letter in response to William Wordsworth’s “invitation to Cumberland”, Charles Lamb gives something much more than a simple excuse.

*-*- Charles Lamb was born in London on 10^th February 1775. He was an English poet and essayist. He found his inspiration and solace in the bustle and hectic life of the city. After 33 years of works as a clerk for the East India Company (1792-1825), he retired, upon retirement he spent time in his garden and relaxing.

In 1818, he published his collected verse and prose. He wrote his best known works as the series of Essays: -Essays of Elia (1823), The Last Essays of Elia (1833). He wrote many letters to his friends such as William Wordsworth, Coleridge, Percy Shelley etc..He wrote many works with his sister Mary (1764-1847) such as Tales from Shakespeare (1807), and many works for children.

Charles Lamb died in Edmonton, a suburb of London on 27^th December 1834 at the age of 59. William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was his close friend.

*-*-*- Joanna Hutchinson (1780 – 1843) was W. Wordsworth’s youngest sister-in-law. Charles Lamb referred to the story of William Wordsworth: one afternoon, when he was walking with Joanna about the Lake District, he became fascinated by the beauty of nature, and Joanna burst out laughing him.