Best Hawkers Poems
(ALLITERATION)
Cows milked: mitigated mooing in the meadows then
Weaving on the warp, some workaholic women
Harvest of hapless halibuts on hooks
Bookish book-worms buried in books
A palomino and a pony patter on the paving
Hucksters and hawkers hawking every housing.
Ravers out on the razzle raising a raucous razz-ma-tazz
Beavers busy building beaver-dams but about it quite blasé.
Doves cooing in divine chorus
Frogs frisking out of focus
Horoscopes are hocus pocus.
Tidal waves of tsunami treacherously tread
Sea-anemones scattered upon the sea-bed.
Geraniums genuflecting in jungle-like gardens
Hunters wary of wandering wild-life wardens.
All this when I ventured about videotaping
Nature's much nicer even with no landscaping
These are direly different scenes from different parts of the globe
Perhaps like a space probe's kaleidoscopic poetic probe
( this poem has every letter of the alphabet except x)
Categories:
hawkers, imagery, poems, writing,
Form:
Alliteration
Over by the corner the bandstand plays on
next to the cotton candy wagon and the clown
Its a circus act full of people and acrobats
and tallish men on walking wooden stilts
One tiny red balloon dots the sky as I espy
juggling acts leading to the garden path
it ain't over until the fat lady sings
so I better not dally, I need a glass ring
Fire eaters and sweet ladies that stretch
ventriloquists with two sided mouths
magicians that stage with props, and coins
cats on tight ropes, hawkers and escapists
Silver hoops and fast delivery guys
life is changing right before our very eyes
Give me the candy but don't tell me lies
of course I want the red balloon, untie!
February 12, 2023
Sponsor Anthony Biaanco
Contest Name Balloons
Categories:
hawkers, addiction, anxiety, future,
Form:
Quatrain
Once glorious, but now rusting buildings, lined every dusty road.
Somehow everywhere clung the smell of cow dung.
My heavy bag, a giant rucksack,
Most of it I shipped right back.
I thought there wasn't much glitz or glamour,
And fought rough in a bit of a clamour.
Tuk-Tuk's going tut-tut, the hawkers piercing eyes and traders raise the price.
Welcome to Mumbai!
First, I met Tony, who promised to show me,
All the sights and sounds and where stuff might be found.
He exerted Rupees and expertly duped me,
But for a guided tour, I'd have expected to pay more.
My first "queue" for train tickets,
I was newly in the thick of it,
Could they organise a straight line?
They're walking on the train line!!
The infusion of livestock into the traffic,
My confusion and shock, all of this madness,
Each to their own, but, who the hell planned this?
But first impressions are often misleading,
Best get some rest, a wash and a feeding.
An open mind, that beliefs, often null and blind,
Just might find, can lead toward the fuller life.
From the mountains to the Thar desert,
Everywhere, I found was rather pleasant,
Lived like a king, paid like a peasant.
The colours everywhere and flowers worn in hair,
The spices on display and price you have to pay,
Surprises me to say, she'd grown upon me more each day.
And I had five months to travel through,
I bid a sad goodbye India, I'll see you real soon.
On scented breeze, she'd whispered to me,
As her saffron voice caressed my ears,
She hinted with ease and flickered desire,
While cinnamon curls lingered from her hair,
and nutmeg sweetened my dreams.
Categories:
hawkers, travel,
Form:
Free verse
A place in the sun...bright and shining from early morn.
Ebony tones everywhere..colorful garments
lend an air of festivity....hustle and bustle everywhere.
Streets...bands of steel meander through the city
tall buildings ...cast grotesque shadows along the roads
as trees bow in homage to the new day.
People rushing by...insects trapped in an invisible jar
laughing, singing....white teeth flashing.
Aromatic scents of herbs and spices
emanate from side walk cafes to
tease the senses.
Side walk hawkers...fried fish, fried chicken, fried cassava
tittilate the senses... tempt the taste buds.
Taxis rush at a mad pace oblivious to potholes all the way.
Wildlife a-plenty ....... from lions to giraffes
a colorful scene ....a feast to the eyes.
Flamingoes on the lake.. fiery pink compete with brilliant sunsets,
a world seen behind rose tinted shades.
Even the soil.....red as ochre, black as coal, white as the beaches
a variety of colors throughout the land.
Tea and coffee plantations..a delightful view
in a beautiful land , I once knew
where suffering, hardship, joy and laughter
embrace each other,
Categories:
hawkers, places
Form:
Free verse
Hyperbole is a sports cast
Announcers have egos so vast
My ears must have rest
From this lambasting pest
Collection of morons amassed
Author's note: Is it getting worse, or is it just me?
Categories:
hawkers, abuse, baseball, basketball, bullying,
Form:
Limerick
Forty two years and I've finally returned
back on the shores of the place I've long yearned.
So what pains of time have corrupted my dream,
where are the things that my memory has seen.
A mixture of people with one common cause
to nurture the freedom once lost in the wars.
To honour the past, but to live for today
and learn from life's struggles as they pass their way.
Penang now has altered, it grown with the times,
with modern and ancient now both intertwined.
Hawkers and Restaurants, Street Stalls and Malls,
the old and the new both now trading as pals.
I miss the old memories, warped now with time
as I now look at skyscrapers all in a line.
I long for the time when life passed by so slow
and wish it was all like I once used to know.
But people deserve all that life has to give
and the past only points to the way we should live.
With pleasure and comfort for all to enjoy
and not simply reserved as a millionaire's toy.
Penang has not altered, it's stayed just the same
with modernization relieving some pain.
It's beaches and gardens still open to all
let's hope that it's commerce is not it's downfall.
Penang's grown so quickly, compared to the rest
that it's old worldly culture is being compressed.
Whilst tourism flourishes, hotels take space,
let's hope that it's culture's not lost in the race.
So what now my feelings some forty years on
of this 'Pearl of the Orient' where life was such fun.
I still feel the warmth of Penang in my heart,
for in who I am now... Penang played the best part.
Ivor G Davies
Categories:
hawkers, moving on, nostalgia, paradise,
Form:
Rhyme
Let us sit together
And let me dwell in your mist
And I will tell you a story
About city life versus rural life.
Now, the city has been known to be a place of lights
But many have discovered many fights
And a violation of a list of human rights.
It is a place where so many people you meet
But people barely stand to properly greet
And will often look down at your feet.
-For this is a place one has to fight very hard to be heard,
To be respected and to get ahead.
You will further be told about finding so much gold
Though one soon learns that they grow old
Before you can see it or at least hold.
It is also said to be a place of opportunity
Where one has to reach the possibility
To showcase their innate capability.
A place where you can reach for one's dream
But have to really always scream
To get hold of your cream.
Besides the frustration of daily traffic always bustling
You will in some ways be introduced to the game of hustling
If not being lured into the activity of gambling.
-This is because while fighting to be heard and ahead,
you have to compromise your sense of morality to get what you want.
The city has clusters of buildings so high to tower
And various people on the mission of gaining power
With the innocent and poor getting driven lower.
In the city, it is said that there is a lot of honey
Where you can either make lots of money
Or end up being called a donkey.
Many get attracted to the city's glitz and glamour
But then one learns that you have to do a certain favour
In order to keep up this fervour.
-On the contrary on the streets you see more beggars
And hawkers begging for cents.
When you are in the city it is vital to stay awake
And you will notice that most things are fake
And be sure to make no mistake.
-In the market you have a choice of buying organic vs non- GMO fruits or vegetables.
Whether to buy hundred percent hair products, make-up or household produces.
Along the way things remain the same
Very important not to forget your name
You just need to keep up with the game
Of being humble and tame
In order to win the fame.
-Now, one soon learns that they actually
Yearn for the peace and reality
Of rural countryside life.
Categories:
hawkers, city, class, community, journey,
Form:
Ballad
Palm Sunday
Shopping and hawking,
purchasing and vending their wares;
the observant noticed;
the indifferent paid no mind;
the powerful perturbed by all the noise
make their way to confront
and charge the man
some call anointed.
Loud and raucous singing
disturbs the quiet of the status quo.
Those who should be seen and not heard
are making the utmost clamor;
appreciated by some;
angering others
insisting they turn the volume down.
Boulders will sing
while trees will give their branches
to welcome the mighty
if the lowliest of participants
are muzzled by the powerful,
but they sing in applause;
an affront to the self-made mighty.
Shaking off the winter greys and
waving springtime green,
a shout welcomes the anointed one.
Thrown off fashion lines the path
covering eager rocks
postponing the clearing of their throats.
Join the cavalcade
and raise the benediction;
awaken the sleeping alleluias
and the slumbering hosannas.
Join the lowest of the low
and applaud the highest of the high.
But beware,
the shoppers are eager to buy,
even if the cost is high.
And the hawkers are ready
to sell their merchandise.
Categories:
hawkers, easter, faith, holiday, inspirational,
Form:
Free verse
6 a.m
It is time to wake-
After being bludgeoned by sleep.
A quick brush
And a quick wash
Off to the bus-stop in a quick rush.
It’s another day
To work for a pay
Loose soap lather-
Sticking senselessly by the tip of the ear
And white Vaseline still to sink in the hair.
This life is a rush
Get late and get fired
No one cares if you are tired
Or couldn’t spare the time for a notch.
Brown suit,
Black trouser
Loosened zipper
Man! You are a walking sleeper.
We all filed-up
Looking like men heading for the concentration camp,
Yawning helplessly from an unfinished sleep.
This city life,
Is just a life of strife.
We hop on the bus,
So eager to seek solace in its confines.
Heads hanging loosely,
Snoring trumpets at its crescendo.
11 p.m
Free from the day’s toil
But held captive by Lagos traffic.
Sweating and panting from heat,
Squeezed like a crumpled note at the back seat.
Dinner on third-mainland Bridge,
A stick of gala and Asala*
With a bottle of water to quench the hunger.
It’s business time for the street urchins
From Iyana-oworo to the bridge that links Alapere,
They disguise as beggars-
Or hide in the shade of dark like scavengers
Watching out for victims to prey on.
The day weans itself away;
Broken down vehicles,
Long tankers stealing the lanes,
Pedestrians ignoring the bridge,
Hawkers shouting their wares,
Tanker horns blaring like hooting train.
Six to Eleven of our lives
Stolen by the struggle to survive.
Office pressure and less leisure,
Street madness and no cure.
Traffic Thieves,
Problematic Passengers,
Howling Hawkers,
And Lazy-ing LASMA**
All add to this insanity.
* A Yoruba dialect for Walnut
** LASMA reference to Traffic Officials of Lagos State
© Ayinla Muyideen Adeleke
Categories:
hawkers, confusion, life, mystery, places,
Form:
Narrative
The Perfect life, a wife half his age
Their house grand, with a zip code to match
No hawkers, appointments only
The library full of Shakespeare
Never opened, for it’s the show that counts
Dinner Parties, A new painting
Purchased, because we can,
A favourite phrase for American wealth,
Pompous talk of Wine and Poetry
Vinegar, and Plagiarism their only worth,
Still the new boob job to admire
The children, off to England, Trophy kids,
Breast fed by American Express.
The Debutants Ball awaits them
And a hoorah Henry wedding their destiny
Church on Sunday
New money at the front
The old money sitting in the private pew
God for sale,
And the greenback will mop the saint’s brow
Even in death a grand memorial
But decay gives no privilege
Let’s hope the pearly gates are the right colour
And god has the right zip code
For pomposity, might just send them to the wrong house.
Categories:
hawkers, funny, money, , memorial,
Form:
Free verse
Times Square was once a sleazy place;
You wouldn’t go alone there.
When darkness fell, you held on or
You’d lose all that you owned there.
Today, though, it’s like Disney World,
With tourists, loud and surging.
There’s not an inch of space unfilled
Since everyone’s converging:
The families from Idaho,
The hawkers giving passes,
The Elmos and the messengers,
The bused-in high school classes…
The lunch-break workers, homeless dudes,
The theater geeks and shoppers,
The food carts, cabbies and the cops
And all the teenyboppers.
I love New York; don’t get me wrong
But oftentimes I wonder
If gentrifying Broadway
Might have been a whopping blunder.
Categories:
hawkers, new york,
Form:
Rhyme
The importance of Pomposity
(Not to be taken seriously)
The Perfect life, a wife half his age
Their house grand, with a zip code to match
All bought and paid for.
No hawkers, appointments only
But look closer
The Wife bides her time, waiting for his demise,
A heart attack would be nice
For she has her own dreams
No love baked bread here
No roses from seed.
A plastic hug, on a plastic lawn his reward
The library full of Shakespeare and Keats
Never opened, for it’s the show that counts
Dinner Parties, A new painting
Purchased, because we can,
A favourite phrase for American wealth,
Pompous talk of Wine and Poetry
Vinegar, and Plagiarism their only worth,
Still the new boob job to admire
Perhaps a recipe, her mother’s creation
Michel Roux the real star.
The children born out of lust not love
Sent away to England, Trophy kids,
Breast fed by American Express.
The Debutants Ball awaits them
And a hoorah Henry wedding their destiny
Church on Sunday
New money at the front
The old money sitting in the private pew
God for sale,
And the greenback will mop the saint’s brow
A church of Pomposity
Even in death a grand memorial
But decay gives no privilege
Let’s hope the pearly gates are the right colour
And god has the right zip code
For pomposity, might just send them to the wrong house.
Categories:
hawkers, people, satire, wife, money,
Form:
Free verse
Wood Storks rock! They skewer
the word purer with a white-
on-white the envy of any housewife's
Monday wash, or laundry delivered home
by women with baskets on their heads
after drying in the noonday sun
in which only mad dogs and Englishmen go out,
(or those with no Sears Roebuck
connections).
Take heed, Ye hawkers of detergent
wares, lascivious for new insignia.
Send old trademarks to old obliv-ia,
Take a winged design to fly away grime.
And, while you're at it, add the color
red for bloodshed in the marketplace,
perfect hue for Madison Avenue.
In tropic times, our storks,
shelve safe haven from the branches
on which no one lays laundry-- only their
flawless selves. They know a storm
with a woman's name can put to shame
all others, and when Beryl's done
and on the run, they return to bond in
motherland, the moment seized:
a genetic lust for oedipal trees.
Categories:
hawkers, nature, old, old,
Form:
Romanticism
Their illuminations make the roads and streets to glitter,
Spreading like a beam passing through a gauze filter,
These stretching hands overwhelm and capture the night,
Night colored with fluorescent lights that shine so bright.
Robbers and pickpockets become exposed and jumpy,
While party goers and sex hawkers are happy
to perpetuate their trades and explore the day,
Lovers are able to stroll on side walk without delay.
Reflections and heat give gentle touch on the skin,
Which are so bright that can locate a missing pin,
Combine effects chase away the shadows and darkness,
Evil thoughts disappear, which brightens goodness.
SCRABBLE LETTERS:TARNDAI
OLUSEGUN AROWOLO DATE:10-3-2014
CONTEST:"Find The Puzzle" sponsored by Nette Onclaud...
Categories:
hawkers, light,
Form:
Quatrain
A Wandering Boy with a Song in His Pocket
Arabic Poem by: Salman Dawood Mohammed
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===========================
(5)
Just like the wind
I drive out loneliness of an empty bench for two...
And, like a curfew, I mourn pedestrians’ noise;
And as a shirt hanging on a laundry line,
I drip down, with all my moisture, on the surface of your days
And curse the cloud standing in the queue of ablution.
Then, I hate
Music,
The guards,
The law,
College students’ uniforms,
And astronauts;
And I dislike my life!
That all developed in the centennial commemoration of my wilting,
Amidst an assembly of militias and tambourines
Endorsing the funeral procession of my lamps
In the alleys
Of your absence.
***
(6) deleted
****
(7)
Housewives,
Hawkers,
The Ministry of love,
Tramps,
College youngsters,
Thieves,
Guests of No-Stars hotels,
Songs,
Traffic controllers,
Victims of the national anthem,
Train drivers,
Bin Laden,
Weather report announcers,
Gilgamesh,
Jurists,
Speech writers for the President,
Drunks,
And my mother,
All,
All shouted to my face:
“Don’t do it, O crazy! Or else you will die!”
But
O Glory!
I did it
And...
I fell in love with you!
***
(8)
Rest assured
After you, I wouldn’t be alone
A labyrinth is a home
And footsteps a family.
***
(9)
Your desertion, the deep rooted in wilting,
Is like a nail untouched by hammers;
Here it is, with its only sharp tooth,
Signing the deeds of tears
On the body of waiting.
Your painful desertion
Has pulverized me
Sincerely...
Hence, I saluted the remaining ashes of my burning with you,
Then
I lay on my blood
On
The heart of sunset
And
I ..... Died!
***
(10)
I loved you and went on
Just like a cloud skipping school.
I strewed my shirt buttons on your fields
And let down science class;
So my rain couldn’t be in a bottle anymore
And the road leading to you
Is no more a battle field
Or a bird market;
But
My soul is pouring down on you
And my hand
Stands
..
..
An umbrella.
***
(11)
The teacher said: “Draw a human heart.”
I laid a kiss on your palm,
And locked it in with the softness of your fingers.
The teacher is now in the recovery room
And I am
Accused
Of forgery.
****
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
* Salman Dawood Mohammed. A poet from Iraq
Categories:
hawkers,
Form:
Prose Poetry