Best Slums Poems
~Born In The Slums.~
She was born in the slums
sixty three years ago
by a mother out of wedlock
delivered her all alone
In an empty dirty corridor
due to a mistake she
committed one night out of
lust, or maybe out of love,
we will never know.
New born first cry to freedom
Mothers last cry from freedom
New born first breath to live
Mothers last breath to die
Echoes of life and death
In that empty room.
A mother laying on the floor
In a pool of blood,
A new born attached loosely
To the mothers last breath
As her destiny short lived.
Nobody to welcome that new
born alive with no flowers
no balloons no father nor a
grandmother no doctor nor
a nurse no bed not even
sheets on the floor.
No decor for a new born baby
with no name alone nude no
one to clean her up, yet that
last link between mother and
daughter a cord separating
life from death.
Rescued by that stranger
living in the slums
He carried her in his arms
covering her fragile body
with his shirt walked towards
the church rang the bell
and delivered her
to the priest.
Today she wrote;
here i am today
grown up and happily
married with
two children.
Terry
16/1/2013
By the Gulshan lake
The slum's children play cricket
On a tiny land!
She lit candles
in her empty kitchen.
Burnt air disappears
through the back door.
Pale and wild,
brittle street witch,
shy, wide eyes.
Her mind like a weathered epitaph,
left alone in it's quiet mystery;
but her spirit roams
gentle and porous.
City sorrows like ashes
cling to her rags,
sting her eyes.
Their faces burn inside her
like dim candles
giving warmth
to her own melancholy.
The cafe windows are boarded up.
She walks home
with November chimney ghosts
and a dying sun,
while she conjures visions of love.
Love is the sad hazy eyes
and cigarette swirls
that swallow the haunted dusk ruins.
Old souls in the streets
waltzing across black gardens.
Dazed escapists shedding lonesome
and tired teenage skin.
All their secrets out,
kissing their willow bones
licking and scorching their dirty feet.
The hymns of a thousand hobos.
The wind with it's cinders, bells,
and organ chord lullabies.
Fleeing boxcars cradle drunks
with tangled hearts.
Junkies smoking by fountains,
paint their reflections angelic in the water.
Graffiti stains the walls
in abandoned churches,
where wild haired children
wrote their names.
Misery missed this place.
Love evoked their bone yard to flesh.
I have lost my emotional attachment to the bull people pulling love from the air, cheering I love you not caring; willing to share whatever emotions they have with anyone who doesn’t know any better, how to feel or believe in what’s real.
True spoken words engaged, must enrage the very thoughts of society; misconceptions of who they are, confused of who they should be. Not willing to be real with themselves yet share views of others. Unfocused minds consume positive thoughts, though willing to listen to the lies of the world embracing every word. They can’t perform self- thoughts with the lack of educational values choosing to lose, accepting abusive words cutting down their own intelligence, still smiling; silent clowns. You shouldn’t be a Jack ass for the rest of your life. Grow some brain cells, imprison your thoughts of higher hopes of growing knowledge.
Their missing every turn, walking in circles refusing to go anywhere; at a stand still of course no one cares just brain washed zombies feeding on negative thoughts, basic nutrition focused on one thing, moving in hoards, cattle herding, going along with the mishaps of a doom society. Moving against the grain watching movies frame by frame, mimicking actors to a life style that’s not real, confused on how they should feel. Should be hungry for more than just what they see on TV visualize life in a better prospective, social media have you hooked forcing you to forget who you are, paying close attention to someone’s life that’s not your own. Needing self improvement.
Slum lords have control of several apartment buildings and you’re just the walking slum of our society.
The world hurtles on unmindful
Leaving behind those who cannot keep pace
So many are under constant grind
To earn a square meal a day
On deserted streets many roam
Their stomachs empty, their bowels growling
They have nothing to rejoice, only to grieve
For them, joy is an unknown flavor
They too are rightful heirs to Nature’s bounty
Yet fate decrees for them a dismal course!
They are smothered under poverty’s bleak embrace
Over their ashen sky, dark clouds gather round
In dingy make shift dwellings,
Many cram together under tin sheets,
Braving the sun and the inclement weather
Wallowing in dirt and filth with flies for company
They see the stars luminous through cracked roofs
And weave dreams of better times
But soon their dreams go crashing down
Sinking in the knowledge that life is brutally unfair
The callously unfeeling men strut past them
Deaf to their ballads of sad refrain
And their unheard moans die down
In the alleys where darkness strangulates light!
(Their fate often sparks embers of pain in me)
Jan. 17. 2022
Your Choice Again Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Brian Strand
Slums of the World
In Bombay I got lost in a slum so vast, a maze of poverty its inhabitants
survive in a mysterious way living as they do off the waste produced by
the prosperous. This anthill, this myriad of struggling humanity, if they
are not too busy surviving every moment of the day, look up and see
the formidable sight of the rich. A skyscraper built for a family of four,
yet vast with so many floors and rooms it has a place for slum dwellers too.
so why do they not take it over. A revolution of short duration, defecate
in every room, elevators and swimming pools; let the rich smell the stench
of your life till the police – servants of the powerful- comes, throw you out.
Shoulder to shoulder they exist the sinner and the saint, a son suckling
a breast that has no milk, death and filth clouds the day, blinded stumbling
fumbling in despair, a jute sack of destitution, how to be free?
But there is one pleasant thought, this obscene edifice, a one finger salute to
the poor, will never be glorious again.
In Delhi's heart, a tale untold,
Of towering shadows, harsh and cold.
Gleaming steel and vibrant lights,
Hide a stark contrast, unseen at night.
Pan across narrow, winding lanes,
Zoom in on makeshift shacks, defying rains.
Corrugated tin, a patchwork quilt,
Where dreams and desperation, subtly melt.
Close-up on faces, etched with care,
Weathered hands, a burden to bear.
Eyes that hold a flicker of hope,
Yearning for a future, out of this scope.
Tilt down to children, playing in dust,
Laughter echoing, a fleeting trust.
Barefoot innocence, in a world so harsh,
A poignant reminder, of life's uneven marsh.
A long shot captures the skyline's might,
Luxury contrasting, in the fading light.
A silent plea for a helping hand,
To bridge the gap, in this divided land.
Focus on resilience, woven in tight,
A community spirit, burning ever so bright.
For in the depths of Delhi's underbelly,
Lies the strength of the human spirit, yearning to tell me…
It is a story of struggle, yet fight,
Of hope flickering, in the darkest night.
A plea for change, a call for all,
To break the cycle, and answer the call.
I walked as a grey kid
lost in his own hometown streets.
When my slow mind
began to see more clearly
it saw brick dusted air
and a sunlight blotched with yesterday's scabs.
There were small parks in that part of the city,
where the shabby slept and fornicated,
a wilted grass
was dotted with used condoms
and patchworked with dog urine.
We thought it fine
to explore those sleazy acres
parents behind us, we running ahead.
as if we were discovering paradise.
The clouds would give way,
and a light fell upon this new world of ours
as if newly painted.
For a while, we kids saw each other as
playmates and not intractable rivals.
Later, back in the crowded reek
of the crumbling tenements,
we grew soul-blind once more.
We hoped that the God
we had been instructed to love
occasionally watched over us,
that perhaps once a week
He checked us all out,
from the far side of a city park.