Best Poverty Stricken Poems
Gazing deep into my eyes, into the dark
she offers flowers on threads upon my hands
for coins to keep her warm through the night,
wondering where else to go from here
torn slippers walking along bare streets,
past 1am with no exact home to go.
I ask her to buy some food, some soup;
the 6 year-old girl shakes an unkempt head
counting thin bills, dreaming of school
without reservation or taste of fear;
and her face smiles at the comfort
of confiding that a good teacher
she raves to be, someday
leaving me alone and discontent,
my faith in life she dares
as I cup the tiny buds sprawling
on the ground like trickles of prayer,
a hallowed whimper to the gods
for one heroine who longs for calmer stars.
. ……….. .
*in praise of streetchildren who survive each
poverty-stricken day to live their dreams
by nette onclaud
for David William’s Heroes and Heroines
3 june 12
12 BROTHERS BEARING GIFTS
A Mother weeps, her child is born,
A Father poor sits all forlorn,
The wind howls through their shelter rough,
The wood for their fire is not enough.
And though no gifts can they bestow,
Of riches and of jewels that glow,
12 brothers bearing gifts of joy,
Arrive for the poverty stricken little boy.
The first comes, gliding down the panes,
So fresh, so quiet to fill the lanes,
The tiny babe’s cheeks are pink, and bright,
The air is cold, and all is so white.
The next seeps through the crack in the door,
And fills the hut in a might roar,
The little boy giggles, he thinks it’s fun,
His folks light the fire their day’s work done.
The third brings winds that cloud the sky,
And all around migrant birds begin to fly,
And the fourth heralds the April showers
Preparing for May and Spring-time flowers.
And with June days, the Summer starts,
Cold, rain and snow now all departs,
The sun is smiling, its rays spread about
Children playing happy to be out!
October brings Autumn, which in it’s height,
Is out in the country a magnificent sight,
The wool is woven, the crops are in store,
When will Winter, come knocking at the door?
The 10th makes the heavens open wide,
So all the animals scurry to hide,
Leaving behind a child full of thought,
That the richest of parents couldn’t have bought.
And the next leaves the trees looking so bare,
But the child doesn’t worry or give it a care,
For the woods look so pretty in their Winter glory,
And the wind whistles gently whispering its story.
And now that Christmas is almost due,
All poverty is forgotten, it’s the parents cue,
So out, come small savings in bright colored coffers,
To celebrate the goodwill that this brother offers.
THIS IS A RE-POST FROM 2018
You, my love, you
Entrusted me into the burning arms of fervor,
Rested your knowing fingers upon skin ever glistened with tears
Graced the breath I dared to breathe when moments masterfully collided
We stand upon the edge like devils daring nature’s wrath
Your heels wrap around the very rim that border you and I from the air
The sky blue black vapors swirl into dark wonder vanishing, the stars like eyes flashing
As you whisper fiercely in my ear, daring me to push the limit
Begging me with pupils that reflect my own desires
Your entwining smile rivets in me nerve beyond present night
I squeeze the angels out of you in one melodious measure of movement
Encumbering you in all of me, rattling your frames
A lasting forest tall as terror thrilled upon a demon possessed storm
I push us off the sheer edge,
As we spiral in the depths of the ocean’s welcoming mouth
The weight of our past and present sufferings melting into complete passion
Cradling us in the bed of her deepest, darkest waters
My lips meeting the substance of your future words
Your tongue running along the traces of silence ever kept
Deep into the screams of inner woe, embellishing warmth from head to toe
Surrounded by the echoey, treasured lines of your heart,
Mastered from the very start
You lift me high into the love falls
Splashes of poetry dispersing my hair all around
Our eyes staring into each other’s
Locked into a world like no other
With revitalizing surety otherwise crippling,
With the deep dip of your sexy soul and perforating body,
I enter the realm of your rapturous reality
Captured willingly in your picturesque hungers
Through the very tunnel of your never-ending eyes…
The penetrating roars of your fulfillment take me by surprise
Yes, you, my love, you
Took me there tonight…
For down within those depths with you I would have eagerly allowed
The sorrows and agonies of my doubts to succumb
For inside the ancient oceans of your poetry do we love
We prevail as seraphs released from the prisons of poverty-stricken despair
Their descending smiles fermenting scents of eternal ecstasy
---
~For Justin Bordner's "Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place" Contest
~Thank you again for inspiring! Lots of love!
Heaven and Hell
Alone and poverty-stricken, she turned a prostitute
There lived close by an old sage on a Heaven-bound quest
Whose mind never forgave the sins of this destitute
But her mind always dwelt on GOD with the sole request
To save her from Hell and to give in HIM her final rest.
Both of them ,in time, died ; to Heaven went the woman
And the sage went to Hell, to the surprise of the two
‘How could this be?’, sage asked ,to get the reply that did stun
‘ True it’s that she sinned, but kept her mind pure and to God glued
For letting your mind dwell on her sins, you got your due’
29th Jul 12
For Kim Morrison's contest
Amuse... In a world of splendor, I want to share thoughts.
To capture others with a creative voice
To embrace emotions as a writing tool
To ruminate another’s introspection
I am just a muse.
I want to be your best friend.
I want to enable you to write again.
Within the universe, are beautiful landscapes to provide stories to contemplate.
Why not ponder romantically and write about the love you found in Greece.
Be your reason to fulfill your dreams.
I am just a muse.
Think please.
The multitude
In famine
Poverty stricken
Economic disparity
Just topics to theme
I am just a muse meditating ideas.
~Be My Reason Free Poetry Contest Entry~
~Entry Date: March 06, 2014~
~Motif: Muse~
can you imagine yourself a young girl from Nighastan?
who is thirteen, and never stepped foot in regular school?
toiling day and night, taking care of siblings and housework,
her smile reminds of fresh-bloomed rose, no cameras capture.
can you imagine yourself a young boy from Labonga,
works in a factory for hours and hours since he was eight?
he is still respectful and humble, polite and thankful,
happy as a lark if sometimes he gets to fly a kite.
wish we were supremely gorgeous princes and princesses,
wearing sparkling gucci outfits, flying in private jets -
(talking how to support the poverty-stricken third world)
we watch their lavish weddings, their destination travels,
and secretly sigh for extravagant life we don't have!
met some of those amazingly courageous boys and girls,
who do not complain about their uneventful tough lives,
they accept their hardest journey with humble compliance -
thank god sincerely for their meager plainest possessions!
I imagine - if I had the power to change the world,
I would make their world blissful. surrounded by purest joy,
I would hold her dainty hand, and pore over fairy tales,
I would run without bounds in the open field with the boy.
those children would teach me to be grateful with simplest things,
and to smile joyful smile which nobody can ever snatch.
Poet's Notes: The poem is written on the model of Shakesperean sonnet (14 syllables in each line - exception being there are four Quatrains instead of three).
January 23, 2021
For "Can You Imagine" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Every morning upon rising
Routinely searching my vital signs
As a poverty stricken person
Searches pockets for spare change.
The grim news reports,
The skyrocketing death tolls,
Mausoleums more populated
Than the emptied churches,
Many desperately seeking God
From the confines of their dwellings.
I remember the time, early in life,
When I use to peer from my window
Into the darkness outside
For the headless Dullahan at the reins
Of the Cóiste Bodhar (coach-a-bower),
Its four black black horses
Powerfully pulling the death coach
Up to my front door, as I ruminate
On the words of Yeats, casting
A cold eye on life, on death.
Life, death, such separate entities,
Or so it seems, on the surface.
Yet, forty-two years of lessons
By grieving families have only
Taught me the oneing of life, of death.
As the beloved Anchoress of Norwich
Gazed out the window of her cell
Upon her nation devastated by
The Black Death and war,
So I gaze out my window on a world
As broken by plague and political violence,
And am comforted by the word of Christ
To this simple Middle Age mystic,
“All shall be well, and all shall be well,
And all manner of thing shall be well.”
(c) 2020, Robert Charles Wagner.
Maud, the meek poverty stricken seventy year old matriarch
of the people spoke proudly as the relief shown on her face.
“Two weeks ago I had tests run at Sparks Medical Center in
Fort Smith they told me that my old body was almost totally
eat up of cancer. I ask a brother at that time here in the church
whom I respect and have faith in to pray. He simply said as he
laid hands on me, them that believe shall lay hands on the sick,
and they shall recover. (Mark 16:18 KJV) Why that is all he said
as he asks me to agree with him.”
“I stand before you today, one day before Christmas, totally free
of cancer. I was scheduled yesterday to begin receiving radiation,
but when they did my blood tests again they could not find one
trace of cancer. My doctor said he just could not explain the miracle
that had apparently taken place. You apparently know a doctor who
is far greater than I am.” Tears of gratitude flowed down Maud’s old,
weathered cheeks as the whole church stood and rejoiced with their
precious matriarch mother. This was a Christmas eve of rejoicing like
non other, and there was not a dry eye in the whole church.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A true story from 1987 in Moreland Arkansas Free Full Gospel Church.
This charitable hearted lady lived several years after this and died of simple
old age at around 90 years of age.
For Carolyn’s
Contest: Your Christmas Miracle
Balloon heads float amongst the breeze
Filled with nothing, lack of education- they bawl
Inequality from different ethnicities across the seas
Seventy-two million children unschooled- please
Poverty stricken- we must try to help them all
Balloon heads float amongst the breeze
Over seven-hundred and fifty million adults are illiterate- geez
Girls least likely to receive education- damn that wall
Inequality from different ethnicities across the seas
undeveloped brains- be'eth the sizes of peas
Deprived from knowledge their brains will remain small
Balloon heads float amongst the breeze
The rights to educate we must not seize
If we doth not rise- they will fall
Inequality from different ethnicities across the seas
I pray for them- down on my knees
Let the world hear my beckon call
Balloon heads float amongst the breeze
Inequality from different ethnicities across the seas
A Major World Problem Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L Milton Hankins
4/27/2021
dodoitsu series (rhymed)
Winter is taking the reins
speeding past days of autumn -
Jack Frost smears the windowpanes
forefingers and thumb.
You who have no house to own,
too proud to seek charity,
you choose your path all alone
that’s a guarantee.
Your attic room, where risks run
rowdy as the eastern winds,
barren refuge while you shun
warmer help from friends.
Churches serve a daily meal
without impugning censure,
Would a shelter prove to shield
Christian adventure?
God casts no smears. You must know
you are short more than your needs.
God produces once you show
you will plant His seeds.
Twixt four fingers and your thumb
winnow pangs of laziness.
Earn warm lodging ere autumn’s
freeze spawns haziness.
for Elly Wouterse's contest 3 Proverbs and a Quote
For my series of didactic "germane" dodoitsu, I chose three German proverbs, being influenced much in my life by my German grandmother.
-A poor person isn't he who has little, but he who needs a lot.
--Charity sees the need not the cause.
---God gives, but man must open his hand.
My quote from an international celebrity is from German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke -
“Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone,” is from his poem, “Autumn Day”, translated by Stephen Mitchell.
https://audiopoetry.wordpress.com/category/poet/rainer-maria-rilke/
For word play:
“the four fingers and your thumb”, and “winnow pangs” of verse 5(6) play off of
“Jack Frost’s forefingers and thumb” and "window panes" of verse 1.
Word with two meanings:
Verse 1 – smear – v. to wipe or daub
Verse 4 (5) – smear – n. a slur or insult
double meaning proverb
A poor person isn't he who has little, but he who needs a lot.
poor person can mean poverty-stricken or a
poor person can be incompetent, inept
I used the normal 7, 7, 7, 5 syllable pattern of a dodoitsu but rhymed it ABAB. I really needed 24 lines to complete my thoughts, but I dutifully cut it back to 20 lines, adding it back in italics after contest was judged. Expanding on Rilke’s “Autumn Day” title, I took a different turn from his prayerful, more positive piece.
classy lassie I love…never will I ask her hand in marriage,
just poverty stricken Redneck boy…she would turn me down,
though I have silver in stars above and gold in the morning sun!
Slowly and silently she moves
Waiting for the right moment before she swoops
Her fangs built to shorten the lives of fools
Who in a moment their lives they lose
The glance from her will make you go pale
For few are alive to tell the tale
Just a swipe and to eternity will your soul sail
Her strikes has never and will never fail
The naive prey unsuspecting is feasting
Unaware that not far from him death lurks...nesting
The prey breathes its last never suspecting
Its carcass in a barren land...forever resting
Who are these helpless preys?...
Who suffering fill all their days
Who are those who lose their lives in these God forsaken place?
Who are those who find themselves caught up in life's maze?
They are the poverty stricken serfs!
Who die daily in mass
While the rich populate like stubborn grass
For them...Hope is far away as the stars!
But we must breathe in the air of freedom even if it's our last
We must build a utopia for our generation very fast
We must raise the flag of freedom on the ship's mast
And build a future that would forever last!!!
Seriously?
You drive a Benz with chrome plated wheels,
then from the government you continue to steal,
I wonder if you’ll ever really know how it feels,
to be so hungry and not get approved for food assistance-
Seriously? Luxury living with no room for intolerable resistance.
Seriously?
You beg for forgiveness when you end a life with abortion,
when the man you thought loved you shows extortion-
There are couples out there who would adopt an orphan,
with a loving man becoming a father with his wife,
Seriously? How could you even comprehend ending a life?
Seriously?
You’re perfectly healthy on the couch with work capability,
yet you continue to collect unwarranted disability-
You claim all you deserve is secure financial stability,
when the veterans of war get denied such extravagance-
Seriously? You claim intelligence but suffer from arrogance.
Seriously?
Remember finishing your plate before leaving the table?
Well, be grateful you have food, so many are unable.
People are starving in streets with finances unstable,
yet you waste food like it’s always to be expected-
Seriously? On the streets poverty stricken families are rejected.
Seriously?
You build a second gym in the grade school you attended,
making the poor school in Detroit feel abandoned and offended-
Government assistance for education should be recommended,
teachers getting paid nothing for furthering education-
Seriously? These needy children suffer in silent desperation.
But…seriously…
What has this nonsensical world resorted to?
Making promises and not following through.
February 2, 2017
Jacqueline, my mother . . .
always with a smile and a twinkle,
with happiness, joyfulness and blissfulness.
Born poor, poverty-stricken, moneyless, penniless,
she left shantytown far behind, the slum that was home;
fell in love, married young and was with child so very young,
her sadness was buried deep, she held it within her broken heart.
Jacqueline, my mother . . .
We took great pleasure in summer adventures,
mother always said she had a great sense of direction;
but mostly we were lost, gone astray and hopelessly adrift,
so stumbling upon a quaint country town was usually the result.
Jacqueline, my mother . . .
Her family was her joy and mother was her job,
we loved mom, mommy, mama who was so kind to us;
so caring, warm, tender, gentle, devoted, protecting her kids,
and she taught us to be adventurous and not be afraid to get lost.
Jacqueline, my mother . . .
always with a smile and a twinkle,
with happiness, joyfulness and blissfulness.
________________________________
May 10, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Jacqueline, My Mother
Copyright Protected, ID 05-671-837-10
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Tell Us About Your Mom,
sponsor, Judy Konos, Judged 2015
First Place
Oluwakayode Adigun a rare name
I heard as I breezed down
the city of Lagos in search of
pecuniary gains. Does he teach?
So I was told but when he walked in
it was unannounced, subtle, oh yea!
His presence I reckoned not!
As often, these stories, of trade and
lending bored me with winter fevers.
Petulant and non stop barrage of didactics
permeated the horizon but this Adigun,
a different breed with brazen
intellectual antenna,
some what of a gem, in a split
seconds, the session rendered
aglow. we laughed and roared.
And sweet was the banishment of boredom!
Passionate and exited, teacher of trade!
An intellectual of rare nicety, a
sublime mental gladiator with untainted
credentials in a delicate trade!
In obedience to the east and
custom, Adigun deserves colanut
and water, the greatest
yoke of friendship! To this
man, Adigun, I invoke the sacred
ancestral homage meant
for kings foremost knights!
I have known him albeit
a few hours, my balls wish I
had known him all eternity. Adigun,
a connotative Yoruba appellation!
Oluwakayode, named after the deity of
fortune ,Paykay as often, revered
by friends and admires of equal
trade! This stranger, in his episode
of transition to adulthood reminisced
noble candies not common
with the poverty stricken mortals of
his time. My poetic hand relishes
this holy flirtation in volumes.