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Details | Poverty Poem | |

High Bred Reality

     Soul progress
     back field in motion
The guff
     Chose, chose, live grow leave!  GO!

Leapt from heaven's gold
Jump started into a human mold

    White clapboard poverty with tiger lily blooms,
blueberry rake poverty woolen looms.

Riffs of Emerson, Whitman, Longfellow dawns,
mothers’ hazel eyes, father Davidesque form,
chosen to drive twixt a Jew and a screw.
          Magnet of lunacy...
Tumbled like an agate into the stream of life
part of the dream lesson
scream      lesson

Abuser of power, one who had once roared,
 Eve shaped now, weak and mewling
                 between the weeds of woe.
Care taken by lovers torn.
          Watched over by pedophile uncles.
Befriended by lewd Father of sons.
Adult child, searching amongst the Word
for the Word is God           and GOD …
       There are so many   words
    
Root ripped scenes from beauty to horror
Shiksa* taunts seep in with the smell of borsch. 
 A pumpkinseed amongst the pricks of Brooklyn
A wild rose planted in the asphalt soil 
     Doo-wop      ditty
Jew’s bop to a Dago harmony,
bagels, bialys and the French twisted strands 
of great grandma’s hair.
          Clipped, stripped of family shoved whole 
into yet another new mold.
      True believers,  ah yes,      fanatics all.
The struggle to survive whole healthy
dipped in, dripped in, a bath of acid and  thorazine. 
Polish priests pedal platitudes to the sisters of St. Joseph 
behind the gilded glory of the Church.

Raped by trust and betrayed by lovers,
a rose married to a prickles thorn,
so empathy is gained, and a healer born.
              Metal must be formed in a crucible of fire 
A healer can not be born without tasting the pyre.



Details | Poverty Poem | |

Forgotten Soul

Forgotten Soul I turn my head, and there she is once more In her disheveled, worn and tattered dress, One pew behind me near the exit door She sits head bowed…an image of distress. Two weeks now on a Sunday she is there… The same pew in the church, the same old clothes. She shows forlornness that makes me aware Her life is sadly filled with countless woes. This time she lifts her head and looks at me, As tears swell in her eyes and down her cheek. My heart is broken by the hurt I see Within her wanting eyes so dark and meek. I gaze into her face and see her fears Yet, slightest twinkle in her sullen eyes… With tiny smile, she wipes her falling tears Away, but still I hear the painful cries That echo from her heart so silently Of weakened body, anguished mind and soul… I wonder what in life could possibly Have caused her to now suffer such a toll. And I surmise that homeless she must be, But still some faith has brought her to this spot Where healing strength from God might possibly Renew her spirit when her life cannot. The mass soon ends, and I arise and turn, So now in front of her I sadly stand… She grasps my hand and says, “God Bless, you earn His blessings for a heart that understands." © Sandra M. Haight 2014 All Rights Reserved ~1st Place~ Contest: Structured Forms – Iambic Verse Sketch a Fictitious Character Sponsor: Giorgio A.V. Judged 12/16/2014

Details | Poverty Poem | |

POVERTY DEFINES TRUE WEALTH

written 25th Oct 2013


I don't know if human's will ever see
 every soul born, is right where it's meant to be
For the rich to become the richest
 there has to be a place for the poorest

The entire world is built up from the same level of dirt
 each soul is born without knowledge to cause hurt
Humanity teaches us what a human's life is worth, by money and glory
 I am to believe "all lives are priceless, every soul fit's to tell Earth's story

The luckiest to be born, is that of a poor man
 he learn's the treasures, of "everything he can
Those born into all riches, have no true understanding of "richness
 seeing us not as human's, but those living in poverty "as an illness

Love start's from the soul, and from there, it is taught to grow
 the rich find another kind of love, one only brought with dough
Love, trust, compassion and grace, defining the difference in richest and wealth
 t'is the beggar off the street, who climbs the toughest road to earn his wealth 

He is the most blessed man, he is rewarded with the most valuable key
 for his wealth, is humanly "uncountable, for only God know's the value of he...




Details | Poverty Poem | |

Unwed Teen Mothers and Poverty

At internet dating sites secrets are hidden
On his roller coaster of lies, Pam had ridden
Though she agreed to meet Joe in a public park
The sun had already set; it was growing dark

No families or lovers were strolling around
When Jim came from behind and pushed Pam to the ground
Pam went home and was afraid to tell her parents
In four months there was a change in her appearance

Pam left home and started living on the streets
Turning away from every stranger she’d meet
‘Neath neon lights on a cardboard box she lay
Night after night, visiting soup kitchens by day

In her eighth month she found a home for pregnant teens
As her mom endured the torment of fearful dreams
Time neared and Pam called home crying, “Mom, I’ve done wrong!”
Grateful mom said, “Dear, I’d have been there all along"

Lifting Pam up from the grasp of dire poverty
Her parents welcomed the newborn to their family
If she hadn’t made that call, Pam would not have known
The comfort she’d receive in her parents’ fine home



* Entry for Gwendolen’s “Mom, I’m Pregnant” contest.

According to Douglas J. Besharov with the University of Maryland’s School of Public 
Policy, almost half of all families headed by women under age 18 have incomes 
below the poverty line. This is almost five times the poverty rate of two-parent 
families with children. 

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Children of the Valleys

And as the hills yonder 
Turned red from sunset rays
As darkness engulfed the valley
And the sweet sounds of birds
Rent the cool evening air

Our cows and sheep and goats 
Hurried down the footpath
As though they were late
To a gathering of clans
Or to one of their own

And we the happy herds' boys
Turned our ravenous thoughts
To bananas yams and milk
And all available munch-able stuff
To calm our restless tummies

And as the evening metamorphosed into night
And the stars of the sky reclaimed their might
We the famished children of the valleys
Approached the fireside with widening eyes
As the roughshod soldiers laid claim to all
And shot in the air to frighten us all.

And so we watched with pangs of hunger 
Training our wrath and rancor and dismay
To other sons and daughters of Africa
Who for reasons best known to them
Or known only to their heartless handlers
Proclaimed themselves ‘defenders of our freedom.’


Voila! Children of the valleys of Africa
And of the cities and slums of Africa
You who gather in the evening breeze
After torrid days in the fields and streets
Only to return to a darkening sky
Sans food sans wear sans light. Voila! 

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Looking Down

If wealth is now your blessing,
what then was the prayer?
Avarice, its goal possessing,
yet in penury, despair.

I see them often in the store
eyes ahead, regard for none.
Against the classes, tacit war—
Modus Operandi: shun.

Vaunted compounds they do flout—
absent grasp of their chagrin—
for walls and gates that keep us out
are prisons trapping them within.

They say those vexed by paucity,
should flee to foreign air, 
for wages here of poverty
would make them wealthy there.

Thus, high above the world they scan— 
well hidden from our sight— 
discounting what the common man 
is suffering tonight.

1st Place: Sing to Me Contest

Prompted by the remark made on this topic by fashion company Nicole Miller’s 
CEO Bud Konheim. Thanks to Roy Jerden for his thoughtful help on the fifth stanza, allowing for much greater impact.

With a special nod to the song Royals by Lorde, which has a very compatible message.

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Shaken to the Core

Her sad eyes and tear stained face evoked such ambivalent feelings;
I could barely stand to look upon the half-naked child in front of me. 
She turned her face toward me with a pained look begging for help.
Maternal feelings welled up within for this pitiful tangled haired waif. 

Gaping in abject horror, I observed the orphan's frail arms wrapped 
tenaciously around a dead rat and held close to her dirt smeared body. 
I sensed this sewer 'pet rat' had been her only source of comfort in life. 
The one thing she turned to, when sad or hungry, would never again be.
 
While resisting the urge to gather her up in my arms and dry her tears, 
still I desired to sympathize... whispering, "Don't cry honey, it'll be OK". 
I lied, knowing it wouldn't.  Besides what could I do with so little to give. 
I turned and walked away not wanting to face my growing sense of lack.

I awoke with a start, shuddering, deeply disturbed and troubled to tears.
Sometimes the vivid images, like a horror movie returning to haunt me,
make me question, "Who is that wretched child so forlorn and dejected?
The memories shake my very soul, the hidden message still eluding me. 

Details | Poverty Poem | |

OF POVERTY

FOOD STAMPS.  BOXING champ of the hood.
Thought you should know ain't got the RENT.  WELFARE check
Shrank and WENT.  to FOOD PURCHASEMENT.
BOTTLES AND CANS. IN closets, in tubs, on fire escapes under
Beds.  THAT'S how WE be fed.

Lottery numbers out today.  Big Mama wanna play.  Big Mama
Need money for her children's sake.  FOOD STAMPS.  NO MORE
Night time hunger  cramps.
TONIGHT.  THAT'S right.  We eat steak tonight. we be rich. Yeah!
THAT'S right TONIGHT.

Holding up WELFARE checks  we suspect.  BUDGET CUTS. 
IT WON'T  AFFECT.  THE UNDERGROUND ECONOMY.  NOW the sun
Has set.  What the heck. 
TOMORROW WE CHASE the dream again  trying not to give in.
BREATHING  HARD.  I swear to GOD next time we gone CATCH IT. WE
Gone  set the PACE.  WE. Gone  win.  The CHASE.  that changes the  RACE.

And let my BROTHERS in.  Make All Mothers Grin.

Details | Poverty Poem | |

WE ARE SOUND

We are sound.  Of mind and soul. 
We are sound of earth and gold
We are sound.

We are sound, of constant grind 
Fire and coal we are sound.

If GOD BE told, we are sound
Of strife and right  
We are sound, of toil and might 
Of fist  and fight 
We are sound

Of listless days and  raging nights 
We are sound.  

Of tattered shares and ragtag flair
We are sound.
Of guts and fury we are sound
Of grave yard fears, we are sound

This is the song of the renowned 
Pound the ground we are sound.

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Please Take The Time

So many times we see someone in need
Most walk by while they piteously plead
Plead for help that may not come
Plead for love because they have none
So many people just don't take the time
To support their fellow man
Like it's too much to be kind
Too much to give a helping hand
To someone who needs it, please take a stand
Stand up for the ones who cannot speak for themselves
Stand up for those who live their lives in hell
They need your help, you may be the one
That saves their life, think of your son
If he were in need and you not around
Would you want others to laugh at his frowns
To see him in need and lift not a hand
To help him up out of no man's land
You'd want strangers to aid him, I know that's true
But don't forget help can also come from you
We are all in the position to assist
I know you know that, but here's the twist
In helping others we also help ourselves
And that is a great reason in and of itself
It feels wonderful to help those in need
To sleep soundly knowing you did a good deed
So please when you see someone who has not a thing
Take time to help, it will make your heart sing

Details | Poverty Poem | |

A Casual Exchange

“Oh Edgar, look at those poor slaves, traipsing after His All Important, High and Mighty, Landlord.”
	“I wish I was a slave.”
	“Hush your mouth Edgar. Don’t be saying such things.”
	“But I do.”
	“Edgar!”
“Look at them May Bel, walking along the road, in their tunics and hose. While we stand here in the mud, our backs covered with more holes, than rag.”
	“But Edgar at least we have our freedom.”
	“Our what? Freedom? I’ve lived on this road all my thirty two years, and never once have I walked it in the direction that they’re going. I’ve only ever walked to the market and back. Just like my father before me.
	Freedom, aah the freedom to come out here into this field, in the rain and snow. To dig this dirt that really needs a rest. And to find that there’s not enough potatoes or carrots to sell for the rent. Let alone our dinner. Slaves don’t have pay rent, or pay taxes.
	The freedom to hear our children’s bellies growl, after they have finished their boiled grass. Look at those slave’s bellies, under their tunics May Bel. Do they look like they go hungry?”
	“We are free to love.”
	“We’re all free to fall in love.”
	“Oh Edgar, that’s enough.”
	“Well, Love won’t put a roof over your head.”
	“Edgar, you do disappoint me so.”
	“Now that I think about it, there’s a hole above your mother’s bed. Did you know? She’ll be trying to sleep with us and the kids, next time it rains. That’ll probably be tonight.
	Edmund tells me these slaves get housed in dungeons. Now there’s a place that would have a good roof, if ever I heard.”
	“And what would your All Knowledgeable, Brother Edmund know about such things? Just listening to gossip, the two of you.”
	“Well at least the Landlord cares enough about those slaves to give them those tunics…”
	“Watch what you’re doing with that stick Edgar! You nearly put it through that potato there. Be more careful.”
	“Through that potato? This stick isn’t even sharp enough to pierce that potato’s skin. I bet the slaves get things like spades and forks to use.”
	“Full of the grumbles today, aren’t we. You must have got out of the wrong side of the bed.”
	“That bed…”
	“Oh no! Don’t be starting on that bed.”
	
_______
I don't write much prose any more, but I thought you'd like this old one.
Cheers
Scott

Details | Poverty Poem | |

trust the system

footsteps aimlessly
walking on their trails
beaten down and broken
shiny as the rails
the rails of the train
over used and rusted
crumbling ignored
the system that you trusted
the silence of conformity
the quiet crying song
of people lost in apathy
monotony so long
the old man remembered
the booming days of old
and tried to warn the youngster
with stories he had told
the young man in the t shirt
can hear no warning cries
television cataracts
covering his eyes
commoners injected
with complacent misdemeanors
fed intravenously
from mass media feeders
the heretics will scream
with no one to hear their call
the working slaves will perish
society will fall
in the pulpit yelling
mystifying lies
sweating like a demon
with fire in his eyes
passing round a dish
to collect the workers' wage
saving souls ain't easy
so he sets a stage
profiting from fear
preparing them for death
comfort is a business
says his liquor breath
on the front row fanning
the woman says amen
waiting for the bell
so she can live in sin
forgiveness is a blessing
that god will give to few
surely she'll be one
when her life is through
the child in the classroom
with the curious mind
will be beaten and conditioned
until she too is blind 
"trust in the system"
is the motto that they teach
"question nothing,
so higher you can reach"
the land of the free
the home of the brave
only for those of us
content with being slaves
some will stand on street corners
holding big white signs
telling of injustice
held beneath our sights
but those who throw the bombs
which burn society down
those will be the shakers
for true freedom to be found
but the sheep still continue
to justify their life
ignoring others torment
blind to their strife
perpetuating failure
selling bankers souls
to keep on consuming
to get the best remote control
to build themselves a shield
what kind of life is this
numbness is a virtue
and ignorance is bliss

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Politicians

Politicians!!!!!

It always makes me really mad
That Politicians act so bad
They wear those smiles on their dials
Although they’re plotting all the while
To make the poorest folk more poor
To make them suffer more and more
They crawl like hell to reach the top.
And then fake promises they drop.

Every price has gone sky high
The assholes say, and make me cry
‘All of us must pull together’
They’re cunning, but they think they’re clever
As they live with all their luxury
Yet put up our electricity
And our gas, and water too
They‘re an evil bunch I‘m telling you.

Our old folk, they have no heat
The cold weather they each must greet
With a blanket round them, nothing more
While leaders rotten to the core
Get everything, yes every need
They’re are a rotten, greedy breed
How I despise them one and all
These leaders heartless, hard, and cruel.

19 may 2014 @ 1002hrs

Details | Poverty Poem | |

THE SCENT OF WATER

On a plane at thirty-five thousand; My mission is to the least of these
I'm traveling to the third world; I can see the forest.. when I'm above the trees

Up here there's never hunger; Up here people wear shoes
Up here there isn't poverty; Up here there's seldom blues

Up here people have families; Up here the water's pure and free
Up here no one's shooting bullets; Up here you can think and see

Up here there's lots of comfort; Up here constantly entertained
Up here no rage and violence; Up here no one's suffering in pain

What goes up must come down; This insane world spinning round
And down below the need's so great; We must love and act.. it's growing late

Down there they are starving; Down there bare and broken feet
Down there so very little money; Down there people beat and cheat

Down there are millions of orphans; Down there the water's unclean
Down there is war and famine; Down there living sight unseen

Down there little hope or future; Down there afflicted by disease
Down there rampant hate and evil; Down there they are crying please

What goes up must come down; This insane world spinning round
And down below the need's so great; We must love and act.. it's growing late

The scent of water is in the air; Oh the deep water of great dispair 
They need a drink of Living Water care; Then hope can sprout from anywhere 


*We can all do a liitle, and little becomes much when God is in it!
Date: 6-12-14
Contest: Faye's "The Scent Of Water"

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Street People

Lingering (in foggy haze)

Silhouettes of lost souls

(basket people muttering)

Lingering

(as they always do)

Culture of poverty
holding up signs
will work for food
the barefoot children
HIV and hunger
the powerless mothers...

Lingering

Cult of personalities speak
(the politicians)
eager for answers we listen
to false hope.

Lingering

Embers dancing in the wind
and the Spanish Moss
that hangs from magnificent 
oaks
begin to fall like funeral 
draperies
that echo meaningless sighs...

Lingering...
~ ~ ~

Details | Poverty Poem | |

BLACK STREGNTH

In believing there is seeing And a hope of understanding That black stregnth is power Of our black brother and sister put together As they carry forever As one kind of race Putting many minds in place Comanding, demanding With the most high respect And pride intect. Demonstrated: By high knee and clenched fist in the air Motivated: By a loud cheer, "ASIBASABI!" We dont fear them! Taking obstecles as they come Crying, "WE SHALL OVER COME!" 'Cause the district where they are from Is where poverty reign Being the kingdom and domain Where they'll remain And that is why I'm saying BLACK STREGNTH!

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Life Drags Out Of Plastic Bags

His life does not progress; it drags. The few possessions he has are in plastic bags. He has little or nothing to eat, but his heart still beats. He has no place to call his home. He lives on the streets. Nobody he knows is willing to give him a new start. Life is not living when it is out of a shopping cart. inspired by another member's poem

Details | Poverty Poem | |

City of Gulls

The cities churn like raging skies of seagulls
Where fear becomes the unchained broken door
The mask of hunger worn by every skull
Fighting for the scraps thrown on dirty floors
Beyond the falling buildings streets collide
And garbage still decays in pleading sight
Where change is nothing more when death abides
And disturbs the hate born by city's spite
Children always play where glass lay shattered
And homeless snore on every darkened street
Among the gulls women whose cloths are tattered
Where life is lifeless and the cold defeats

Far from rubble and city's broken walls
Greedy men of oath, tossing scraps to gulls

Details | Poverty Poem | |

That One Chance

                                                       That One Chance
                                          
                                             If I had that one chance I would,
                                             Eliminate that reality that hate could,
                                             Destory the purpose of loves will,
                                             For hate is a reality that loves to kill.

                                             Having this one chance I would  know,
                                             That my life has that chance to show 
                                             No other purpose is their from hate,
                                             Because hate is not my only fate.

                                             If I had that one chance to love,
                                             I woulld humble its desire thereof,
                                             For I know that its desire is from,
                                             The essence of a true reality to come.

                                             So if one fines that one chance,
                                             To adore its love snd take a stance..

Details | Poverty Poem | |

Motherland

Motherland (Eclogue) 

In the country of my forefathers, 
Economy is friendless and upset, 
Politics are sleeping with labour, 
Justice is seducing foreign crime, 
Poetry is turned on, but it fears, 
Traditions keeps history hostage, 
Religions are attempting suicide, 
Nature is busy biting its tongues, 
Fruits are swearing at their trees, 
Education shows God axis finger, 
Seas gets shallow, graves deepen, 
Life confront its first nightmares, 
Death is satisfying its final desire, 
Future is stinking nothing but lies, 

June 13, 2003

By Mohlouoa Ntsasa

Details | Poverty Poem | |

61 and Done

When you’re born into this world of ours.
You have no idea if you’ll reach its ivory towers.
If you’re lucky to be born into a house of wealth.
Chances are, you’ll go far, have money for yourself.

And even if you aren’t a stiff, who got a lucky draw.
You can still makes millions, as we certainly have saw.
So what exactly is the definition of a successful life?
Money, fame, success, children and a loving wife?

My point of view is one that’s true, what my father told me.
Son, peace of mind, if you can find, you’ll never end up lonely.
I heard the words, not one absurd, but somehow didn’t listen.
For I’m 61, my life’s not fun, not an enviable position.

How I got here, perhaps that’s the question on your mind.
It would take a book to explain, how I came into this bind.
I’ll give you the short of it, I made some bad decisions.
And now it seems that I’m living in the Spanish Inquistion.

But you’re not dead you say, there’s more life has to give.
I agree and want to be out of this insane prison and to live.
Want to enjoy, to employ, the gifts and all the wonder.
And not be attacked, from the back and live a life asunder.

At 61, your life’s not done, you could have died at twenty.
You’ve had many years upon this earth, enjoyed it aplenty.
But if you’re broke, your fire’s unstoke, not a life of envy.
You ask yourself day and night, what will be my end be?

If I had fifty thousand dollars at this point in my life.
I’d create a machine, that would put away all my strife.
So if I can sell this house I own for more than what I bought her
I’ll take the profit, if I can, if I’m not underwater.

And with that money, this ain’t funny, I’ll make a whole lot more.
For I have ideas in my head that will even up the score.
It’s sad, it’s true what I must do, and list this property.
And chances are, I’ll go far, live life properly.




Details | Poverty Poem | |

The Color Missing

The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’


Details | Poverty Poem | |

I am a slave

My message lies not in the sentence
If you learn to read between the lines
You will hear stories in my silence
My life is not about roses and wines

I look strong on the exterior
But I am weak on the interior
I may be smiling on the outside
But I am hurting on the inside

Details | Poverty Poem | |

I AM

I am alone
In this crowd of empty faces
I have dreamed of many places
To call home

I am broken
There's no chance of fixing me
Who would listen to my plea
It's best unspoken

I am full of envy
The cute kids without special needs
They are flowers among the weeds
Ones families want to see

I am afraid
The years have passed so fast
And I'm down to my last
I feel hope fade

I am aging out
Escorted to the iron gate
In distress about to break
My future's in doubt

I am crying
To a God I do not know
For a miracle to show
To keep from dying

Elegy Poem 

Sponsor: Frank's "I Am Contest"


Details | Poverty Poem | |

Water in my Desert

The sand on my images is wet/
My well has no say it has never been dry/
Forever wet/
Deep kissed 
by dreams/
Reality is not in black n white/
Your pride must be spoken with eyes and pride/
Wide open rights/
Told in different languages while reality bleeds tears for eternity’s rights/
The wind flight
is blur and blue in your views/
While poetry dictates your state of views/
Dry news/
I speak of the past wearing Marechera’s shoes/

Yes i/
One man/
I and i
And so many eyes have spoken of rules/
Tools/
Rules of walking history with no shoes/
Drifting the need to refashion historic words from that decomposed oesophagus/   
Pre-schooled emotions dodging tearful bullets pissing so and so’s gossips/
Sipping/ 
Gagging untold stories/ 

Accommodating small free verse rooms/
Gravel grounds muted by the sound of our looks in walks/
Rocks building hate hives/
Dehydrated torsos in pride mode stinking pessimistic words in a convoy/ 

Lives taken out of your hood block spots/
Snooze your lips/ 
And sleep your dreams/
Gidi gidi freaky dicky 
Stretch sounds and move reality wheels/  
Snooze your hips/
As lips 
Hunt for water in my desert/  
Sandpapered rust on their scruffy skins impress the unspoken reality/
Black and white reality/
The un-dead speaking dry tongues/
Facade designed smiles looking for water in my desert/ 

Dust of my shoulder/
My well is hidden/
Look under my lips/
My well is hidden/