Best Destitution Poems
In the gaiety of poverty
I’m happy as you please
paying my rent
with drunken smiles
celebrating my choice
of subsidized afflictions
Its not me you see
clothed in the sun
bleeding thoughts of glory
toiling
amongst the colorful dead
I sweat black earth
share scars with straw hats
whisper intimacies into
restless pools of light
as green bananas
fall from the heavens.
While we dwell to this dreidel,
I seek to know before a sear,
Even in the most ineluctable dandle,
The fruit to which may indeed bear;
In the imbue oblivion, I tell a riddle,
Most morass yet merely in fear,
For the sake of fiduciary wheedle,
Let me share with you my compadre,
The reason for this lachrymose!
We seek solace, I seek a motley,
Of a jejune yet quite leonine__
I’m carrying a huge cornucopia;
__And the temerity to extirpate
The gloaming quiddity, the fireflies.
With my cries not perceptible;
And this sandbag is too heavy a burden;
The earthquake of demands,
With the hallucination of needs,
Have starved my conscience Mekeba!
For I do not come to you by chance,
By chance found you in my utopia.
To be a man calls for a hybrid of habits,
The fluctuation which efface intrinsic,
Hapless of a jaded impaired grift.
To be a suitable snitch in the sight,
Of your serene pugilism with skylark,
A batty revelation of chains of choice!
An honest opinion of soft sips.....
A turpitude scent of petals niche,
The jurassic meld of mundane’s prig.
In my desolate the burning throbs,
The anxiety to revert my paunch,
The antithesis of the flamboyant story;
The entangled facts from the realities
This is the precarious situation smelling,
Around the jungle with fear or shame.
The ornery of your aesthetic breach,
And they vaunted to a great suffice,
Tales of a teller telling them in a folktales.
Everyone with his own dilemma;
In the gamut of this conjecture,
Who will help me muster this burden?
I have reached the dovetail for perfection
For I’m no longer a peer, so I see different,
From the way I saw ages ago in oblique.
This pot of inferno has exploded and this fire,
The inscrutable fire has engulfed my head,
I’m burning in clandestine fray....
I’m in moribund and so I bloviate for help,
In this helpless world that help only the dead!!.
My children! Oh my children! Peace to you is a foreign name.
Your land is torn apart every minute … every second.
They have made you orphans without any shame.
Justifying their crime … by fatalistic reason.
Your everyday life made out of misery.
One can not understand without living it.
Access to water, bread or electricity
Became a struggle … the world ignoring it.
They have bombed you to pieces, not even washing your stains.
Along with your lands … your means of living
Building their settlements … covering up your remains.
The world over watching … and not reacting.
In your land you have lost all your rights.
Even to bring life in dignity
Mothers in labor, forbidden to get a pass
Losing their own lives … along with the baby.
And the list can go on…
More than often falling in deaf ears
The thought in my mind for so long
The outbreak of my helplessness … and tears.
"No later than December third,"
The voice rapped out each icy word.
He stared as if he hadn't heard
just what that ordinance inferred.
Then something deep inside him stirred
his ire, and his vision blurred.
"You've got two weeks," the voice proffered.
"I understand," the man concurred.
Then as in theater of the absurd,
His desperate plight had registered.
And to his heart without a word
The agony of times occurred.
A crumpled, broken, lifeless bird
He paid in full before the third.
Grouin up in Glesga wis nae mean feat
Pleyin in the back courts an dreepin the wass
Plouterin in puddles manky water sploshing aboot,
Searching in yon mucky middens fur treasure
Thrown oot by the families in the closes.
Fur a fitba a pile o rags weideh doon wi aw sorts o things
Or a tanner ba made tae test yer skills dribbling roon
Bricks, holes an buckets burnt through.
Some wi nae shin baries wis the thing
An naething caught except wee beasties in the hair.
Holy jumpers an maukit breeks like a uniform
Worn tae mark ye oot as livin in tenements raw.
Aye aww wis puir always skint fur buying scran
Except faither oan a Friday nicht at the boozers
Getting fu wi his pals forgettin the weans,
Crying at hame an when he came in mither
Wid aways get the blame .
Aye the weans o glesga wur a hardy breed,
All ways stervin an needin a feed,
That wisnae allus therr a feast wis a jeely piece.
When they grew an produced men o valour,
Or men o wealth an fauncy cars,
Ne,er forgot that they were a Glesga wean.