I love gold.
How fast that yellowish metal is sold!
Aren't other metals and gold being equal?
To other metals, I can't give my soul.
I wear gold in forms of ring and girdle
On my way of getting it, indeed, there's no hurdle.
My chairs are made of gold
My gold tables and cupboards never seem old.
I like to eat gold, but they serve me bread and fruits,
They can't make, in gold, my shoes and boots.
My physician gives me tablets in all colors;
Why gold can't be my best of flavors?
"Could my cervical collar be in gold," I ask my doctor
He says, "I use the medical science; I'm not the creator."
"Chose my walking stick in gold," I said to my nurse
She said, "Isn't so choosy a curse?"
I cannot eat anything now. I am in Ryles Tube.
I could have been happy if Ryles Tube were to be a gold-cube.
"We've wrapped you in gold coffin when you died," they might show;
Would I have a gold chair in heaven, I don't know, (where I go).
Upon opening the door
the scent alone will cause you to faint
There is barely space to walk
Loose boxes and pallets
almost stack to the roof
as though ready to fall
Kitchen utensils remain unwashed
with pieces of broken glass
everywhere
the dust on the curtains
makes the color fade
How often you see a place
neglected by someone
who has no decency
and shows no concern
to correct any mistakes
broken chairs with missing legs
Knives without handles
unsanitary foodstuffs
with expirey dates
Bottles of soft drinks
under the cupboards
and loose clothing
wrapped in between
Infested by termites
with filth falling from the ceiling
with moulds becoming mountains
on the floor
swollen can foods ready to explode
plastic bottles split open
due to heat of the sun
The walls seem ready
to fall apart
while the locks seem
to have no life anymore
I am clairaudient; I hear spirit
Usually a man, but sometimes I cannot tell
I have never heard a woman
Being clairvoyant, I sense my mother-in-law though
She can operate like a poltergeist
slamming the kitchen cupboards to make a point
My husband and I both heard her do that once.
“It’s my mother,” he told me.
If he had not said that I would not have known who it was.
My blood stopped running at the time.
I thought an intruder was in the house.
“She did not like my tone with you,” he told me.
His mother always loved me the best.
A child is born as a gift because that what we are
No heinostrity their birth wasn't their choice attach
Children can overcome disadvantages in our lives
Every generations must learn from that was before
Some talk about skeletons in the family cupboards
Today we are part of our past building block of old
Reaching out from the past into tomorrow that life
Yes be proud of the fact your place in someone life
I heard cries
saw swarms of fist
crack heavens walls
I knew at a ripped age, how
and how not to be.
Nights, I held these ears closed
in hopes to drown this house
that shook like an earthquake.
I learned to pick up clouds of
body parts that lingered from
stormy rains
I wiped mirrors clean with bleeding
hearts, stuck in sunken repeat.
Thorns pricked these tiny fingers
as I placed mishaps of I Love Yous
in glass jars.
I saw my mothers pinched face in a
constant contortion of why's, masked
by pleasing smiles to ease the thunderstorm
I was nine picking up shattered formalities
calling dysfunction normal
I remained quiet, hid in cupboards that
were dollhouses
But, the floods that consumed her washed ashore
and these ears were now home to roars that once
echoed in her room
Hungry hands toss scraps into the cauldron pot.
Odds and ends, all the got-to-go gleanings from the fridge.
Diced limp carrots, wilted herbs, chicken scraps awaken over low heat.
Garlic, bruised and crushed, enlivens the brew with its perfume.
Every stray morsel joins the bubbling parliament, murmuring.
Pots remember the whys and wherefores, empty cupboards forget.
Onions soften slowly, weaving flavors, creating harmony.
Drops of dark soy deepen the mood, seasoning with salt and umami.
Garni bouquet unfurls its quiet counsel of sense and purpose.
Each spoonful proves the slow, patient grace, of making do.
Last year we planned a new kitchen
And went to the glossy showroom.
There were choices many,
But not flustered,
I was keen on slate grey and mustard.
The man too had a vision
Cupboards new, clean finish.
Then he spoke of the washing machine;
“I think they look best integrated,
Hidden behind closed doors.”
It made me pause…
White goods, classified
Too unclean to be seen.
As if in shame of her duties mundane.
Our domestic goddess,
Taken for granted.
Her duties -
Fed weekly and meekly
She takes on full loads,
Tumbles and turns,
Delivers, and births us clean clothes.
I knew how I loved her.
I chose not to hide her.
And she stands there,
Proudly on view.
Integral, dependable,
She’s a giver of time.
Present.
Jacqueline,
A perfectly composed and articulated woman.
Rough, rugged and honest.
Said her sons struggled with some things,
Never mentioned her part.
She never mentioned that she left her young boys home alone for weeks,
Selling herself, leaving no food in the cupboards.
Now, 1 son less...
Her lies catch up.
the nations out, working hard
and getting no reward
weekly shoppings on the list
of things we can’t afford
young mums having to choose
to feed their babies or themselves
opening their cupboards
to see nothing on the shelves
each child gets one piece of toast
while parents do without
because in dark times
love is sacrifice
and with that love there is no doubt
families going cold
with no money for central heating
because if they were warm
then for a week they wouldnt be eating
people asleep on concrete floors
with just a backpack to their name
nowhere to stay
nowhere to go
no idea who to blame
people are losing their homes
while others are swimming in money
it may sound like a joke
but i assure you
it’s not funny
it’s easy to say you sympathise
when it’s not effecting you
your not a child
going to school
with holes in each shoe
people shouldn’t be worrying
about how to feed their kids
they just want to give them a good life
but society forbids
there’s nothing you can do
when your just one amongst the crowd
but as long as your trying your best
then for that, you should be proud.
What makes a good Child go bad—
Is seldom one great Sin—
But many a gentle Injury
The World slips softly in—
A Promise bent—then broken—
A Hand that failed to stay—
A Rule applied like Winter
To a Heart of early May—
It is not Theft of Virtue—
But Starvation of the same—
When Praise forgets to visit—
And Love neglects its Name—
A Question left unanswered—
A Cry that learned to hide—
Until the Soul, self-parented,
Turns stranger from inside—
The Child does not go Bad—so much
As Good—denied its Bread—
And finds, in darker Cupboards,
What should have first been said—
That Tenderness is Armor—
That Mercy teaches Might—
And those who teach by Wounding
Make Night where there was Light—
the blinds go up in a slow methodical way
then they abnormally travel back down
up and down, up and down, twice
the cupboards bang open and shut
the lights flicker
a glass jiggles its way across the counter
ghost or no ghost?
No ghost, says everyone except grandma
she knows it is grandpa when the TV goes off
He never did like a romantic movie, she tells us
How can she believe in this stuff? someone says.
She’s lived longer than the rest of us
Maybe that’s why.
the ghost is a prankster
a trickster
confusing and bamboozling
he throws things
cupboards open and shut
obvious poltergeist
do they have a preteen daughter?
you bet they do
that’s a given
A chill breeze blows in the ghetto
radiators silent -- empty cupboards rattle
Raw hands wince from the sting of snow
a chill breeze blows in the ghetto
A mother huddles with her brood in a drafty room
no heat emanates from the ice-cold moon
Their cries die in the wind-swept snow
~ a chill breeze blows in the ghetto
Security
Togetherness
Empowerment
Persevere
A small but mighty food shelf, no big hoopla to feed their mission, just a small town table of plenty, for those who fall through the cracks.. a gallon of milk, loaf of bread..
Clothes upon their backs, groceries in their cupboards, a hand to hold, a sense of security in thus often cruel world. People who care about helping others with no slap on the back, just a place of HOPE..
A woman with kids in tow, looking for housing, a job to make a honest living, no big spotlight feeds their mission, just a big heart to help others, we were once in their spot, we’ve never forgot..
STEP is GODS mission, to hold every person up in prayer, simple yet meaningful, my mission to help this who need it the most, STEP is our cities anchor, a place to go if you are struggling, with friendly faces to greet you.
God looks upon the heart of those who need help, without a big Blow up on social media…
my cupboards despise me
they are yelping to be clean
There are probably armies of raccoons back in there
They throw potato flakes out when I open them the cupboard doors.
I bet some of my groceries are ten years old
I am piling upon piles, cramming and slamming stuff in
The stuff in the back never gets disturbed
There might be a platoon of cats living back there
It would be super brave to haul it all out and see what I have
I am not that brave
A job for my children
After I am gone
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