Best Meagre Poems
My family is everywhere like wild seeds sown
On the whim and bluster of a wind
Some left for Cuba before the revolution
Bring green stalks of sweet grass to sugar
And are still there, root sunken in the earth
Grafted branches without memory now
Or recognition of ancestral home,
Separated by language and new history
Thick as the depth of our watery boundaries.
Some in Panama built the canal, but no bridge
For home when their meagre cents were spent
Too soon. I met a few with little knowledge
But no anxiety for early morning mist of blue
Over the mountain, looking still to see them
Coming home like birds when summer is done.
Some went to Venezuela to see the oil
They said was black as Africa in the new world
Brazil: there football is more than economy
Gladiators: bloodless troubadors of the new army
And many drifted into the squalor of Costa Rica,
Nicaragua, Ecuador, searching for light
Amidst old civilizations brought to ruins
By Conquistadores majesty and Roman might.
The only one who report are those from Canada
Is it because of the language, because they proper
As they do in America. Is there nothing in them
That longs for home, to leave the Mexico to her Aztecs
Her cactus lace with golden strands of sun.
When I was in Germany, Austria, France, far away
As Holland, Rhine and Danube linking invisble
Heritage, I met them, distancing the old decay
"We are thinking to move to Taiwan or Japan"
They told me, poverty does make a barren land
So I understand the boat people, not lying
Like Columbus, they seek the same treasure
And yet for their truth reap some displeasure.
I could package it for them to sell, but cannot agree
When the wind rattle the wattle of desolation.
My family is everywhere scattered like wild seeds
In fresh forests fretting with the burden of the wind.
The weary ploughman shuffles
along the deserted bridle path,
his day-long work completed,
furrows wound around his piece of land,
just arable enough to provide his daily bread.
His dreary shack is cold and bare,
just a few essentials. Oh, once it thrived,
but that, alas, was quite a long past.
Slow movements help him light his fire,
and hang inside the hearth a pot full
of vegetables harvested from small plots
that once was a sort of garden of his wife.
Waiting for his meagre repast, he sits.
upon a decrepit sofa, thinking of the furrows
and what he could sow there provided
he manages to find the seeds and tubers
for the next Thanksgiving Day.
Furrows, furrows everywhere, so very like
the furrows of his weary days gone by.
The day when he was barely ten years old,
came home to find his drunkard of a father
dead at last from cirrhosis of the liver.
Left school and began to till the land
under the caring eyes of his once-battered mother.
The day he met plain Jane, shy and speechless,
they walked along the banks of a lonely stream,
never uttering a word, never holding hands
until the day they finally got married.
Then, the worst furrow of all, the day his child
Was born prematurely stillborn. That day
he could not mourn. Only his wife cried.
Until some years later she too followed her child.
And still, he would not mourn, bottled-up grief.
Yet he had one firm conviction.
The paths of life lead slowly to the last furrow,
there to find, at last, eternal peace.
The family was poor
and on Christmas Eve
he went to bed still hungry
after his meagre evening meal.
He slept fitfully and dreamt
he had to work on Christmas Day,
distributing flyers to the people in town.
Hear, hear, read the news,
Today a Holy Child is born.
He ran from church to church,
from avenue to avenue,
from restaurant to restaurant,
spreading the good and holy news.
”Baby Jesus is born, Jesus is born!”
Soon he was tired for lack of food.
But though the job was badly paid,
he persisted for he believed
one day Jesus would bless him too.
So he went on, giving his flyers
proclaiming the holy news
until a strange light attracted him.
Slowly he approached and saw
a small Child in a manger
smiling softly at him.
“Come near my friend, come hear.
Look there are better flyers
beneath my cosy manger.
Go and distribute these.”
The newspaper boy obeyed.
He read the flyer and jumped with joy.
Quickly he returned to the centre
and with renewed energy he shouted:
“Hear, hear, read the news,
Heaven is full of repentant sinners,
come one, come all,
Heaven is there for you,
that's why He was born this day,
come hear the good news.
It is for you.
Merry Christmas.”
Gifts showered by You are a blessinG
In my empty life, they work as stimulI
Valuable is Your mercy, grace and luV
Imparting benisons like sky's lapis lazulI
Nudging me on towards sanctificatioN
Gracious God, I can't cease praisinG
Great are Your lavish thoughts astoundinG
Over meagre me, I am Your aficionadO
Devoted to spreading Your love, I'm sateD
Lighting my paths, Your Word is mysticaL
Yearning to learning from You in eternitY
Grateful for Your bounty, ever appreciatinG
Relationship with You, my Omniscient MakeR
Attempting to share my enraptured euphoriA
Cherish the Cross that saved us from sin cosmiC
Eternal Father, let me be an example of ThinE
05.21.2021
Contest: Giving Godly Grace
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
The caricature of a gentleman, nameless, scorned,
The infamous savage of the famous street was wobbling:
Scruffy, shaggy, ruffed beared, tousled haired,
Disheveled,
there went the odious appearance, bumbling.
Soubriquet: lunatic, fierce, rowdy with murky torn clothes,
Was sitting stigmatic with grubby means,
Was teased and thrown stones,
To drive away from the decorous street!
He was spotted pitied with meagre chuck,
While feeding a destitute;
Taunting and sneering didn't perturb him,
Gave his share simpering, only to be starved!
The antithesis of savage, the man of the hour,
Silently paved his way then, bare footed tottering,
To be again the savage of the decorous street!
day in the life of a coal miner
in the darkness you hear them
their boots clumping along the cobbled stones
not dawn yet ...yet still they are on their way to work
young lads of 15 plus.
these are miners sons
following the traditions
each generation go down the pit
twelve long hours
twelve hours in the dark and dust
twelve hours shovelling the coal
hewn by their elders.
horses are used to pull the trams along
eight hours they work....
young lads work longer.
their little food tins....tiny tins..
a chunk of bread if lucky a dripping sandwich
a bottle of water completed the feast.
they stumble on that cobbled road to home
tired and weary, hopefully a hot bath awaits them
in front of the fire.
nearly too tired to eat the meagre food set out
falling asleep dreaming of sunshine and fun
reality such a different story.
penned 18 May 2016
Audio Below
The Spruce trees formed a double sentinel
Along a path that seem to lead to nowhere.
The sky was dark with heavy clouds
As the two lovers trudged along the path,
Towards their meagre and poor abode.
Occasionally they would stop and kiss,
As if they could enkindle some kind of warmth.
Yet the blizzard had no pity on them.
They tried to hurry before rain began,
Still an occasional drop would fall
Wetting their threadbare clothes.
Soon they arrived and just in time
As rain began to pour and mingle with the snow.
Inside was frigid and quickly they changed
Into warmer clothes. The man lit up the last few logs
Whilst she searched for some bread and cheese.
How dejected they felt as the fire crackled
Hoping they’ll get the warmth they needed.
Outside the blizzard roared and still they felt cold.
The sound of wolves were heard and fear Increased.
They tried to close the windows and doors.
Alas they ignored the fireplace as warmth was no more.
The next day they were found huddled on the sofa.
They needed warmth no more.
Behind the Veil of Friendship
Your friend, walks very slowly behind you.
Seeing the harm coming your way.
His sword out, he protects you back.
And you know nothing, you are not even
aware of the coming whacks!
You have innocent dreams, that people
really do like you.
He knows far better, how bitterly some do
despise your poetry, too.
While you dream of the goodness of man.
He goes sleepless, in your defense, doing
all that he can.
Nobody will listen to him, in their expensive
pajamas.
But then, they are soulless, possessing
no trained nashama.(soul)
Thank God, for a friend so abundantly blessed.
Who far surpasses any meagre, friendship test!
Both evil and good, exist in man’s veritable soul.
My friend, is one, so courageous, hardly a gross,
self-seeking, popularity mole!
12/5/2021
In the beginning there was a lonely word but soon after
there was no room at the meagre hostel for the saviour
Sanguine hopes flash-flooded the sanctuary of hearts
sacrificial blood of Christ awaited to be spilt in vain
Spelt out the message of rusty nails corroding on cross
bones mounted the flesh ready for vanishing memories
Lest we forget Christmas it amounts to summits of wrappers
luxurious gifts opulent indigestion after a vainglorious feast
Reindeer and global delivery services occlude the notion that
taking stock is not about counting presents but reducing the cost
Jesus flashes from i-pads I this and I that please give me more
extra goods additional abundance mince pies and stuffing
Belching and flatulent Tim reaches for his heartburn medication
tastes uppers and downers sniffs white powder on bank cards
His wife smears the makeup she grabbed from under the tree
her new perfume a bountiful offering of disguised scented myrrh
No sense for frank frankinsence as she sniffs expensive fragrances
from benefaction bottle’s decadence and reduces benediction to myth
Gift wrap explodes from the fireplace in the mix of unopened packets
just after Father Christmas has made a lucky escape from the scene
Arson of gluttony self-inflicted suffering self-immolation of sorts
sorts out this unholy communion followed by smouldering mourning
The insurance company refuses to pay as they insist that the couple
had backed the wrong course of action in vile contempt of true faith
They however donate a beautiful bible of careful calligraphy
with gilded ornamentation bound in leather and lather of time
There are no walls standing for wailing when Tim and his spouse
and it remains to be seen whether they might find a mangled manger
To resume business as usual or take refuge in meaning and truth
when the word in the beginning had become a sorry blank canvas
18th November 2018
Contest Christmas Mourning
Sponsor P.S. AWTRY
The days are long and unproud, they brood...
and please not the weary soul wearying in its wake;
when gnashing snow and rain bite
cold and bitter nights ---
smite the weary traveler soul
The spray of oceans fierce, the tattered sail
and shattered galleon hulls,
whipping winds above the dead below the waves,
heave torrid warning weeps,
to forgotten realms...
to misty denizens deep,
buried 'neath the seas
Fathom after fated fathom, bugle from mermaids call,
belated beckonings, doom from harp ringing culls;
'ere the storm ends many men;
they sound the trumpet and bugle ---
and sea urchin minstrels again,
'ere the storm ends many men
The masts seem as wooden-braced ghosts;
shackled to grimly merchant (boors) for sailor eyes ---
aghast for Captain Bold and his pickled laugh ---
To the eye! Straight on! Through her gutteral seas we go!
'ere the storm ends many men
The crest of waves rise monolith and mighty,
scolding beam and soul,
lancing forthwith all aboard ---
visions of ill-fated meagre pay;
of wife and child far and away,
forgotten faces...
lost in venomous haze
Terrible is the vanquished soul,
smitten to meaningless display,
needless heroics of Captains Bold,
(summoning water thundered fates)
sleeping seas,
then silence...
sweet silence...
***Dedicated to the sailors who lost their lives at sea***
A giant magnet for young and old
Its many mysteries to unfold
For dipping toes in ebb and flow
Revealing wonders deep below
Calm and still like mirrored glass
Then raging wild a storm can blast
Giving pleasure, causing grief
Magnificent colour of Barrier Reef
Tossing sails yet lapping the shore
Sinking ships in times of war
Sometimes dark, it’s strength foreboding
Tempting too but fiercely goading
A home to fish of stunning hue
Reflecting the sky in shades of blue
Underestimated in its power
Challenging man oft forced to cower
Innumerable colours of blue and green
The prettiest shells you’ve ever seen
Home to coral iridescent and bright
Displays of foam in whirls of white
Dashing the coast in waves of thunder
Giving pleasure, then pulling you under
A background for artists, a playground for tots
Sometimes frightening, sometimes not
Dividing the world in all its glory
The source of many a heartfelt story
Healing the soul when darkness calls
Noisy too when seagulls squall
Shattering lives with remorseless pressure
Beckoning man to false endeavour
A home to many all afloat
Enormous tankers, a tiny boat
Unforeseeable eddies and tides
A gentle sail or risk-full rides
Relentlessly breaking on distant shores
Enticing man for evermore
A means for adventure, for voyages afar
Under sunny skies or a million stars
An erratic, moody source of fear
Taking lives once held dear
A timeless home for hidden treasure
For searching men, unequal measure
Plentiful food for man and beast
A meagre meal or a giant feast
A workplace and a surfer’s delight
A vast beyond - a beautiful sight
A constant means for flight or flee
The amazing, unpredictable sea
I wake again, the sky still ash
Mostly soft, not quite the weight of lead
seen at five a.m; that god awful flash
of knowing there is nothing when dead
Here inside a room, trying to recall
if sleep or darkness shapes it all
Whiskey breath eats away my face
Oh good! Aubade… finally shows a trace
The afterlife sleeps in, it always does
Woken up in the usual way
Another drink, a top-up buzz
Lifts my spirits, just above dismay
I fumble around with unopened post
Get dressed, eat flakes, feeling like toast
Hope and despair make a meagre pact:
That life bears fruit, and breakfast lacked
I breathe, then sniff, try steady a hand
light a smoke, or slap on a patch
Gesture defiance, attempt to stand
brave it out past the hallway latch
Go search, or not, for what comes after
opt in, opt out, call on the pastor
Who's high as a kite on altar wine,
“There's nothing” he sobs, “or do you bring a sign?”
His eyes light up, as I offer him a line
And you know! that day turned out just fine.
A child's sky
Subtle emotions in heart,
till he grows up real smart,
Tears scroll down the chubby cheek,
for a toy meagre and meek!
Steals eye to slip out of house,
dad's anger is tough to douse,
The joy of winning marbles,
soon withers with growing barbels!
Mom is after for the meals,
not eating, puts her on heels,
Annoyance that ends in love,
Countless blessings from above!
Courage and zeal see no dearth,
angel gets heaven on earth,
Holy soul knows no deceit,
a child's sky has winsome fleets !!
Written Feb 18th, 2015
By Dr. Upma A. Sharma joined soup on May 16th, 2013
Iambic heptameter for Giorgio's contest
Suppressed Wish
Suppressing wish I supplied yours
You remained always complaining more
Surviving notion has if to stay
Needs learn to whit whatever you get
In paucity’s realm, supply of pinch
Becomes sufficient no claim of stint
If belly is big think that could be poor
Don’t throw hands and legs in Jim to reduce rim
Neither visits sometimes towards swimming pool
Replenish all time carbohydrate food
Mind is different suppresses all wish
He never knew dance of pub in village
Wobbly, bubbly, hobble with wife one
Always walk behind with carrying children
Life counts with job day night overtime
Payment of toil double becomes when
Claims he broadly spreading chest
27 years he passed in this lift for bread
Grey hair in temple, wrinkles in forehead
Corrugated line all over faces shredded
Suppressing his wishes he supplied to local
Always remained pinch meagre with gem
Retirement is welcoming standing in threshold
Local life in country side challenges more.
In the final Analysis
Destiny !, – she seems desperately to want to shut the gate.
She has been fencing in her garden – locked out, is this my fate ?
She has been offered opportunities to know me and my dreams
but nothing of my desires does she want, or want to know, it seems.
I’d love to see the sun setting, reflected in her autumn green eyes,
to lay with, the night long, to become conscious at dawn, to the sun rise
from her beautiful face, feel the warmth – suppressed – it could bring
to this aching heart, this alone soul, - my world – that makes me sing.
The pain, the heartache, much to great !, to live with this desire
to live with the direction it has been heading – ashes from the fire
is what I feel – for I cannot, will not pay for what is not meant for me.
The price is too high to pay for a foundation meagre, to high the fee
for a blank canvas, a painting without images – really – as I see
it, from these eyes, blinded, in what does not come from the heart.
Expectations, trivial matters, - pursuit of – is no place to start
a journey, an adventure down the rocky road of life, in life’s cart.
B. J. “A ” 2
January 23rd 2007