Buyers Poems

Collops of Fat

Collops of fat line the tables of the few,
while the many stretch hands toward empty plates.
Skyscrapers rise in the capital,
yet in the villages, children bend under jerrycans,
walking miles for a sip of muddy water.

The economy grows, they say—
percentages polished and paraded—
but the growth is stored in vaults,
not in classrooms with broken desks,
not in hospitals without medicine,
not in the pockets of the farmer who tills red soil for nothing.

Every election season,
collops of fat are dangled like bait—
T-shirts, soap, envelopes,
promises swollen with grease,
but never nourishment for tomorrow.

The youth, restless, crowd into boda stages,
degrees folded in pockets,
dreams reduced to dust by unemployment.
Markets overflow with speeches,
but not with buyers.
Streets fill with posters,
but not with jobs.

Uganda’s wealth pools in corners,
thick, congealed, unreachable.
The nation limps,
while a few grow heavier, rounder,
their laughter echoing across gated compounds.

Collops of fat—
the evidence of excess,
the proof of imbalance,
the weight carried not by those who eat,
but by those who starve.

The Starry Cow

One More Cow, One More Sow
Another acre cultivated
By a shining plough
The farmer’s son takes off his hat
Wiping the sweat from his brow

Their productive loans are being called in
Lives changed at the financier’s whim
To survive, they’ll work for life and limb
Yet their malnourished bones are wearing thin

The processor purchases milk below cost
And no buyers for our fields of maize
It looks like all hope is now lost
It seems, rarely these days 
That honest work ever pays

One More Cow, One More Sow
We are coming closer, acre by acre
Until we use our Starry Plough
Let’s grow a harvest from the soil
And struggle living from our toil

I want to sell

Come on
 Come on 
 At my newly opened store 
 Om shanti om .

  Where I want to sell 
  Hill of nothings 
 That occupied almost all 
 Space of my beautiful mind. 
 Om shanti om 

 Tensions and anxieties
 Hatred and partialities
 All useless thoughts
 That disturbs
 My peace of mind
 I just want to sell. 
 Om  Shanti Om 

 Haunted sweet memories
 With some quality times
 Loyalties and honesties 
 That have no buyers
 Some jealous and careless friends 
 At low cost and heavy discounts 
 are available at my store 
 Which I want to sell. 
 Om Shanti Om 

 Come on
 Come on 
 My dear ladies and gentleman 
 At my store 
Om Shanti Om .(God bless peace and love to whole world).

Vehicular Guidance System

A sleazy greedy cheating single-minded
lying used car salesman with ambition
had higher aspiration hopes
of a top managerial position
altho' customer trust was a must
as the fast-talking low-life archetype
his focus was on moving their money
into his pocket with one fell swipe
so to move as much merchandise
as a man can possibly do
while on rota to meet his quota
he'd advertise low mileage good as new
yet of the hundred motors or more
parked polished outdoors and on show
when viewers knew not what to purchase
and wanting a coupe which would go
as prospective buyers they'd ask in dismay
the pointed all-important question
'Which car should I buy, of those on display?'
he would reply, 'Try my auto suggestion.'

House Keeping

After she left the house for realities unknown,
abandoned rooms became discrete spaces
fully occupied by her thoughts.

Buses still stop two doors down,
sparrows hop over the stalks of dead roses.
Road dust carpets, then is windswept away.

Eventually, Girl Guides selling cookies
scrub her address off clipboards.
The mail has begun to forward itself
to nowhere.

The house whispers to passing pedestrians,
It calls to migrant cats, homeless mice,
indigenous tribes of Carpenter Bees.

A face on a billboard is planted in the yard,
prospective buyers enter and leave,
none move in.

Her spirit returns for a while
to inhabit the once lived in.
half-heartedly she wanders
over her own footsteps,
does not stay long.

Her arthritic presence has moved on
to a place, a safehouse for the forgotten,
where grab bars and access ramps
are reimagined and improved.

the worst of cures

The worst of cures

He had bought a flat in a new apartment bloc still not ready for the buyers, but since it was Sunday, he drove to the building to have a look risky surgery and worried he might live long enough to move into his new home in time
A lift had been installed took it up to the seventh floor, flat looked roomy although it had no floor or windows there was a terrace without railing on the terrace he took in the view, could see the bay and the ocean, the sun warmed his face 
Suddenly, he burped, had a blob of something foul in his mouth which spat out in disgust, saw it make a splash on the asphalt that turned green where the blob landed, this caused him to lose balance and without a railing a fatal fall
The obduction showed his body was cancer free

BAT CAT RAT

     RAT running in the yard :
     CAT chased, getting too tired,
     SAT to take rest at nook.
     FAT cat winked with sly look.
     OAT with hot milk, cat took.
     BAT at nook watched the cook.
     BUT cook chased the bat and
     PUT on cat, nice garland.
     OUT of house, heap of sand.
     HUT of hay, also stands.
     HOT tea -seller, stays there.
     POT of clay to use here.
     LOT of buyers appear.
     LOL ! Perfect tea - dealer.

Cyber Tiger

Thursday is turkey.
That's always a fave.

So, onto black Friday.
A seventytwo hour craze.

Then cyber tiger.
Buyers on waves.

Flight on a red eye.
I was close to malaise.

But, dontcha just love'em.
Cause it's the holidays.

The Marketplace

“The Marketplace”

Today the marketplace is open.
Ready with crisp linens for handfuls of gold.
Hordes of buyers stomp the asphalt
scurrying by and through to the next.
I have worn my smile.

My hair is wind-born.
smelling of burnt amber and roses.
My dress, summer silk, covers my flesh - 
Tones like island-bronze.
And I have worn my smile.

I banter over prices, politely.
Others haggle, fussing, who is next.
I, alone in my company, solo with passing
memories of your hands on my face.
I show everyone my smile.

Evening approaches, hushing the buzz of the crowd.
Memories of you sink into the dark...
falling with my head upon my pillow.
I remember walking the marketplace with you
and how you made me smile.

To the Godless Goons of Mob India

RamaRajya, Mahatma Gandhi’s non-violent utopia of mutual tolerance, has no place for bigots who lynch and leech the Weak.

Lynch my body
Pinch my soul
Punch my pride
Drench my blood

Staunch be your henchmen
Bunch of bigoted hooligans
Flinch us they from progress
Wrench us they from justice

Exhaust every trick in your bag
Pull every arrow off your quiver
Bribe your cheerleaders forever
Swing your dagger far and deeper

Behold! Destiny’s Wheel will one day turn
In your own inferno shall you burn
Hate will then find no buyers
Fade shall every Fake Soothsayers

Rama’s Rajya will then re-assign
Love and equality will re-reign
Unity and Diversity will re-align
Tolerance will do India define

***
(From the anthology, Mantra of the Oppressed, available on Amazon.)

Welcome to Chicago

    Back of the stockyards, over 100 years ago
      Immigrants were easy prey, as many now know

    Landlords would slap paint over rat-infested dwellings
      then twirling their moustaches, they’d begin selling 

    Those dilapidated structures with four-color brochures
      hawking them as 'visions of paradise,’ sure to allure 

    Prospective buyers, trembling ‘greenhorns’ 
      all too soon shorn

    Of their entire life savings, only to find ~
      that ‘rent’ was just half of what for they had signed

        
         (Precious hearts robbed blind)

The NV of Poetry

Natural

Amongst fineries, placed his book being displayed, and yonder aloft walls, enlarged excerpt involves eyes to indulge, a glimpse of expectant imprints that present a mystique that fulfills statistic and, as street talkers advise, buyers aware had they made a good investment of a book, their best interest is self-well served, only time will tell.

Visual

Amongst fineries, placed
his book being displayed,
and yonder aloft walls,
enlarged excerpt involves
eyes to indulge, a glimpse
of expectant imprints
that present a mystique
that fulfills statistic
7-and as street talkers advise
5-buyers aware had
7-they made a good investment
5-of a book, their best
interest is self-well
served, only time will tell.

At the Fair

    Synthesis of minerals
        dug up from mother earth

    Combine with metals rare
        that promise to give birth

    to headlines seldom seen
        for scientific stars… 

    jaded artists hawk their wares
       wistful buyers beware

The Auction House

Open to the public,
There are paintings to peruse,
Plus some sketches and some sculpture
For the connoisseur to choose.

On the days before an auction
I will wander through the space,
Wond’ring if there’s a Picasso
Or Monet I can embrace.

Just today I saw Pissarros,
Norman Rockwells and Matisse.
There were quite a few Chagalls
All hanging, waiting for release.

Though I’m lucky to be able
To see art that so enthralls,
Think how privileged are the buyers
Who’ll hang some on their own walls!

The House

Why can't they fix the roof that is leaking onto me
How about the gutters full of holes for all to see
My windows no one can see out of,I wish a real estate agent could find me new buyers
When people ring my doorbell I cannot hear it because it doesn't work
But when I complain they say I am being a jerk
Robbers enjoy visiting me, the locks on the doors don't exist
The family for some reason blames me when I am unable to resist
The holes in the floors need fixing, something you better not ignore
I am sure the day will come when somebody will fall through, shaking me to my core
It would be nice if someone could take better care of me
If I was to be fixed up I might last for eternity

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