Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty
even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp.
Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens,
while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming.
Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools,
each pierced by the light of a distant star.
Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement,
but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit;
for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones.
Born with a tenacity to love,
her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes.
Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager
to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised;
smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots.
Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations.
A child who did not choose this world;
'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . .
to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world.
(Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph
by Sebastian Rich, of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.)
Caption : A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.
I would encourage everyone to visit the website of Sebastian Rich. His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and of great importance.
Copyright © george v. | Year Posted 2017
back field in motion
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
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
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.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
You see us everywhere you go
Every corner of your street house our offspring
Every bridge in your city has become our refugee camp
We are the people you call peasant
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
You see us at the entrance of your estates
You see us at the gate of your beautiful companies
In search of what our mouth will feed on next
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
Our gradually fading skin
Now a sweet companion to the midnight moon and afternoon sun
We are the ones without homes
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
When bridges become forbidden by the law
We opt for uncompleted buildings
A few of us get lucky when it rains
And shield themselves under cars
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
We are the ones that beg for the remnant from your table
We are the ones life has just not been fair to
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
We are the ones that get poorer while you get richer
We are the ones that scramble for the leftover at your feast
We are the ones that fight for your used clothes
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
Copyright © Abosede Ogundare | Year Posted 2017
Can you forgive my humble home?
A cardboard box my diamond dome
Can you forgive my scanty clothes?
The least that I worry of my woes
Can you forgive my crooked smile?
The frigid air a thermostatic trial
Can you forgive my lack of food?
Your leftover meals I have chewed
Can you forgive my hungry heart?
A life brand new I’m hoping to start
Can you forgive my tapering tears?
There’s little left after all these years
Can you forgive a saddened soul?
A love lost in an empty echoless hole
Can you forgive my losing of will?
A shattered stain of a splitting spill
Can you forgive my only existence?
For the Lord has in his holy presence.
Healing power of forgiveness
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2017
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
Contest: First Place Only - Old Poems
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Contest: Highest View
Sponsor: Casarah Nance
Contest: Structured Forms – Iambic Verse
Sketch a Fictitious Character
Sponsor: Giorgio A.V.
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2014
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
Copyright © April Gabriella | Year Posted 2013
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!
Copyright © Gerald Kithinji | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
The hideous and the humble
Blood peppers falling snow
As world hurtles to the tipping point
Life chokes on ignited air
Wrenching love from hungry mouths
Stars fall without sound
Some weep helpless, day through night
Ever wondering how
Never knowing why ...
Copyright © Patricia L Graham | Year Posted 2014
In the late 1970s, I was going home on a Friday evening,
and needed a little more fuel in my truck,
enough to get back to work on Monday morning.
I had $3 on me, pulled into a gas station,
told the guy who pumped gas to give me three Dollars' worth.
Back in those days that was a meaningful amount of fuel.
After a short time, he shut the pump off, came back to me,
"That'll be $10.35." He'd filled it up.
"Well uh... Wow, man, I did say to give me three bucks' worth....
Three bucks is all I got."
I gave him the three $1 Dollar bills,
then displayed the forlorn and empty chamber that was my wallet.
Another blow, one more little stumble of existence,
yet again life had dealt with him harshly.
He dropped his head down and turned it to the side,
"Yeah, you did say that...."
This was before my bank had automatic teller machines.
You were out of money late on Friday afternoon,
you had to wait until the banks opened up on Monday morning.
Credit cards were not yet part of my life.
I told him I'd go to the bank on Monday and bring him the rest of the money.
Asked if he was working then.
"Yeah, I'll be here. Okay..." He was shrugging as he said, "Okay"
- he knew darn well I wouldn't return.
He was going to have to eat that $7.35.
He was an old-looking mid-40s, possibly 50.
He'd been close to the margins of society,
maybe even lived right on them.
He had that "hard look," as if he was used to fate grinding against him.
He might have been too young for World War II,
but what about the Korean conflict, that strange proxy war?
Could be... No way to tell from his clothes or appearance.
He was getting by, but not in a good way,
and didn't expect much else at this point.
Hanging on, a little bit haunted in the eyes.
As I drove away, he tilted his head back and looked up.
Was he appealing to God, asking for mercy and better luck?
Or was he just staring at the roof-like canopy over the fuel pump area,
wondering what the heck he was doing there?
Monday came, I went to work, and at lunch got some money out of the bank.
Even got change for the 35 cents.
Later in the day, it was busy at the gas station when I returned,
lots of vehicles at the pumps;
so I parked around the other side of the building,
then looked for the guy.
He was bent over an old, low car, fuel nozzle in hand.
I walked up to him and was pretty close when I said, "Hey man..."
There was that haunted look again:
"Whoa, who is this coming toward me, is there a problem, what's going on?"
He was thinking that, didn't say anything, just looked at me.
Maybe he still had trouble with the law out there, somewhere,
thought I was a cop.
"I was here Friday, you filled my truck up and I didn't have all the money....?"
I took out $7 in bills and fished in my pocket, got a quarter and two dimes.
A little bit of sunrise for him, right there, and he remembered.
Some light in his eyes.
I don't claim an especially honest life, this was just one thing I did.
He nodded and said, "Hey yeah, buddy, thanks - most people wouldn't have stopped back."
Almost 40 years ago. He's probably dead by now.
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016
God knows at times it don’t all come up Roses
And most days, these days life don’t work at all
Each road I choose keeps leading me to nowhere
But You’ve been there, each time I trip and fall
I’ve tread your Trail of Tears
I hear You Crying
And Jesus knows, I’m failing but I try…
It used to feel so easy, with You watching
But maybe You’ve been busy, times are tough
A thousand Souls a year, I hear are passing
A thousand Souls, who’ve just had had enough
They tread Your Trail of Tears
They heard You crying
And Jesus seen them failing, but they tried…
It’s faith in You, that keeps my heart still beating
And all I’ve come to love along the way
I’ve loved more than I’ve ever dreamed of loving
But sometimes You just feel so far away
I’ve tread Your Trail of Tears
I hear You crying
And Jesus knows, I’m failing, but I try…
Please rest the saddened lonely ones who’ve fallen
Their Spirits, undeserving of the blame
It may be that they heard Your sweet voice calling
Though the burden it was never theirs to claim
You’ve seen their Trail of Tears
You heard them crying
And Jesus knows, they failed Lord, but they tried…
And if tomorrow finds me lost and lonely
Screaming at this world to understand
It’s man that needs to help his ailing brother
It’s man that needs to hold his brothers hand
To tread your Trail of Tears
To hear you crying
And even though we’re failing, we’ll have tried…
Copyright © peter walsh | Year Posted 2016
Very many years ago
In the land of rich men called NO
Bobo, a poor man, had nowhere to go
"Give me a little space to stay", he pleaded, but lo
"Your place is out of the city," they shooed him and so
Outside he stayed in sun, rain and snow
Rainbows glowed, stars shone, sun rays blazed on NO and Bobo
Reality was that All the people
In the land of NO
Benefited Out of Bobo's Woes
For when Bobo died, (and 'twas soon)
The heavens cried, (so did stars, sun and moon)
All lights stopped shining, (darkness invaded)
The men started whining, (fear pervaded)
The rich men died (one by one)
No one did abide (no, not one)
NO was no more NO without poor Bobo
The rich did never know that HE had been their Rainbow.
Copyright © Jo Daniel | Year Posted 2017
In the stillness of my room I lay in bed
arms snugged tightly around my pillow
turned side-ways facing moon and light
But it is not the burnt orange moon
but glowing embers in his eyes that warm my vacant night.
Tonight ,I see him just like on other nights
He is the vision in my last waking thought
He breathes within every breeze in my sleep
He rests right beside me holding my hand and dreams.
Tonight ,I recall his soft whisper in yesterdays'path
Sweet -nothings in my ear touched soft-spots of my heart.
I find him in mountains bathing in fresh rain
riding on horses in memory lane.
I watch him get closer calling out my name
Its there when I kissed him , then ran far away.
I see him on earlier days where He has found me
It was love at first sight and instant chemistry .
It was deep affection for a blue collar guy
with dirt on his shirt and an amorous smile.
I smelled poverty all over him ,and on his soaked fuel rag.
Smelled the soap on his skin , and books in his bag.
He passed one to me ,and said it is mine
I made him a pledge that I'd scribble a line.
One line followed others in chapters of time
Chapters of star spumes, sunrise , and sky
Chapters of novels about a blue collar guy.
Inspired by a book I read in my early teens .called 'Mysterious Mountain Man'
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2016
You're worthy of love
I see the scars, you're hiding deep within
they're not visible, upon your skin
you don't even know, how you could begin
to feel worthy of love...
You've been floating away, in time and space
your pain is written, all over your face
your dignity left you, without a trace
and you don't feel worthy of love
I've seen so many people, just like you
they never seem to make a fuss
the only colors you know, are black and blue
and now it's hard for you to trust
The only friends you had, have long since died
you couldn't save them all, even if you tried
now you bottle up all, your feelings inside
you don't feel worthy of love
I know to you living, is not worthwhile
but I can prove that you're wrong
I know it hurts to even try to smile
cause you forgot where you belong
Some may say, that you're a little high strung
you've shed too many tears, for someone so young
don't you know that you're life has just begun
and that you're worthy of love...
oh yes you're worthy of love
you are so worthy of love
You've forgotten that, you too have worth
you're the only you, on this planet earth
just ask the loving ones, who caused your birth
they'll say...you're worthy of love
indeed you're worthy of love
welcome home my dear!
you are so worthy of love!
John Derek Hamilton
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2017
To wander in drab gloomy streets.
Sleepy eyes, red cold nose,
a rumbling stomach.
A nightmare condensed,
no way out.
How many tears must he shed?
High on a building a large bird sat,
black as dusk, eyes searching for prey.
Was it a hawk or a crow?
His eyes could barely see,
but he could smell
the coffee being prepared,
the toast being burned.
All in vain, the bird was better than him.
He swallowed his pride
and slowly trudged
towards a day shelter.
At least there he could eat.
Then back again
in the dark streets
where he could hide
from foreshadows of death.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2017
I sat beneath a Veteran-oak,
In awe of His strength—
Here was a solid spirit!
Sympathy you get from Willow,
But stiff upper-lip from old soldiers,
With forged bark —
His limbs flexed, cut, rippled against the wind…
No chinks in this warrior-wood…
“Divide and Conquer!”
Then I thought of my Father—
A cook at the end of the war—The Big One!
You know the One I mean, as if there are small ones—
When the commanders were through eating
He was instructed to toss the leftovers
From the belch of plates—
Trashcans were in the alley,
The steel that seems intrinsic to battles
In one form or another—
The hungry German children
Would sneak pass the guards
My father would sneak pass his superiors
And his honor
To dispense carefully wrapped scraps…
Well, soon the line was out into the street
As my father was compelled to seek food
From wherever he could steal, beg or barter
To procure—This brought attention—the cat-out-of-the-bag,
And all hell down on my father,
As the captain screamed: Gus, these are the enemy (the children in the alley),
What in God’s Name are you doing?
He was forced to stop—no Court Marshal though…
I looked up again at the old oak,
Through the snarled branches
Deep into the staunch soldier,
Where I spied a nest
In a small, compact fork—
Having a canopy of extra leaves
For shade and shelter from the wind—
His bark reddened, but like my father, no apology from this weathered soldier…
Copyright © Joe DiMino | Year Posted 2016
“Support your local poet please”
Said the man with hand out and down on one knee
I’m down on my luck
And for only a buck
My humble verses will put you at ease
Whatever your pleasure
Whatever your mood
A simple rhyme is sure to soothe
Perhaps a Sonnet or Ballad will do
Or maybe a Limerick for a laugh or two
How about a Couplet or a fine Crystalline
Or is a simple Haiku more your scene?
I’ll sing you a Lyric if you have the time
Or spill out an Ode as sweet as wine
I’m a simple man’s poet
Just trying to get by
So hearken your ear and I’ll tell you no lies
I am what I am no less no more
The words of this soul are an open door
For my tongue is richly blessed though some think me poor
I assure you my friend this isn’t a scheme
Just give me a listen you’ll see what I mean
For words can be such a valuable thing
When they make one think… “perchance to dream”
- This write prompted by the above sticker. I received it from some fellow poets while attending an open poetry night at a coffee house in downtown Flint, Michigan several years ago. It now proudly adorns my guitar case. :)
Copyright © Chris Hagy | Year Posted 2017
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...
Copyright © Denise Hopkins | Year Posted 2013
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.’
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2014
walking on their trails
beaten down and broken
shiny as the rails
the rails of the train
over used and rusted
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
covering his eyes
with complacent misdemeanors
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
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
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
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
Copyright © JoAnna Mitchell | Year Posted 2013
I aint got no money and I'm goin' down fast
My heads in the toilet and my life's in the trash
I wish I had a penny for every bad thought
I wish I could steal without gettin' caught
Wanna be able to buy my own smokes
I'm tired of "shorts" and two hit tokes
Don't wanna be a rich man don't wanna be a star
Don't need my own plane just wanna have a car
The beat goes on but the beat don't pay
I'm cryin' all night I'm tryin' all day
I dream and I wish I kneel and I pray
I know I gotta reason
Just gotta find a way
Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016
Lingering (in foggy haze)
Silhouettes of lost souls
(basket people muttering)
(as they always do)
Culture of poverty
holding up signs
will work for food
the barefoot children
HIV and hunger
the powerless mothers...
Cult of personalities speak
eager for answers we listen
to false hope.
Embers dancing in the wind
and the Spanish Moss
that hangs from magnificent
begin to fall like funeral
that echo meaningless sighs...
~ ~ ~
Copyright © Ken Carroll | Year Posted 2014
BY STREET CRIES
ABANDON BUILDINGS HOUSES WITH NO PARENTS ALL CHILDREN
READY AND WILLING TO BE PROGRAMED BY THE TELEVISION
GUNS WITH PRECISE PRECISION
PAIN PILL GOT US COMATOSE LIVING
KIDS MAKING ADULT DECISIONS
TO SURVIVE IS THE MISSION
WITCH EQUALS TO SENSELESS KILLING DRUG DEALING
LIFE IN PRISON
NO RESPECT FOR THE LIFE THAT'S GIVEN
PEOPLE GETTING RICH OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING
SATANIC RITUALS CELEBRITIES PRACTICING
OPEN YOUR EYES AND SEE WHATS HAPPENING
ARE WE A SLAVE TO THE WAY SOCIETY GOT US ACTING TODAY
ARE WE PURPOSELY LEAD ASTRAY
CLONE MEAT APPROVED BY THE F.D.A
VOICES BEING SILENCED THAT HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY
WE SEEM TO BE RUNNING A RACE WITH NO RELAY
STUCK IN A PLACE WITH NO LEEWAY
TRYING TO OVER COME OBSTACLES
THANK YOU FOR READING MY GHETTO GOSPEL
Copyright © Street Cries | Year Posted 2014
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.
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011