Long Begging Poems
Long Begging Poems. Below are the most popular long Begging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Begging poems by poem length and keyword.
IRONY
My joy that I wasn't born a Nigerian
Is that my parents are Yorubas
I would have been limited to Naira
Mo dúpé pé mo lókó nílé (All thanks, I have a hoe)
Mo láyò pé omo alápatà sá lèmi(I rejoice, I am the butcher's offspring)
Nigerians should say alhamduliLhai
That our legislators are not as corrupt as our president
The country would have met with a great recession
E wá womo alápatà bó ti n jàsán (behold, a butcher's meal begging for a piece of meat)
Eni tó lókó nílé tó tún fowó ó kómí kiri(and a shovel merchant handpicking wastes)
Nigeria is blessed
With green pastures
And various rich liquids
Láyé Olúgbón, mo dá borùn méje(in the reign of Olugbon I owned seven different brocades)
Láyé Arèsà, mo dá borùn méfà (in the reign of Areas I owned six different brocades)
Nigerians are blessed
With great leaders
And various 'politricks'
Láyé Olósèlú mo ra àrán, mo ra sányán baba aso( in the reign of politicians, I owned linen and silk)
Ení pé ilè yìí o dùn ení kó wá bòmíràn lo(who dare thus pasture is not green should please make an exit)
The rich no longer cry
They are the beneficiaries
Of the poorman's labour
Sisésisé wà lóòrùn tó n làágùn (the labourer are dripping with sweat)
Jeséjesé wà làbétè tó n jè 'gbádùn(the beneficiaries enjoy the clubs)
Oh God of creation
Guide our leaders right
Perhaps, to spend our labour well
Bámúbámú mo yo x2(My hunger is satisfied to the fullest)
Èmi ò mò pébi n pomo enì kankan(I doubt if there is any languishing in hunger)
...
Whenever I see a Nigerian
I see along the irony of a country
Where hunger is an offspring of plenty
Nìnú òpò ará ìlú n jòwón(despite the riches, inflation is at its peak)
Nínú oyé, èése táráyé tún n sunkún oru?( and though its winter, the masses sweat is still profuse)
I hope to change the condition
I wish I could turn this irony around
And make a great change of situations
Sùgbón níbo laó ti bèèrè?(But where hence do we start?)
Tani ká kókó gbá lówó mún gan an?(who should be our first suspect?)
Sájépo lájà ni àbí eni tó báa gbà á sílè? (The looters or their abets?)
Where from should one start
Rewriting the story of this country?
Àbí e ò rórò bí? (Can you see?)
Òrò n bá rò ma ròfó, èfó n bá rò ma mún jèko (that this issue begets another)
Irony nlá leyii je, it is a big kàyééfì (this is a big kayeefi, irony nla leyii je)
From the heart of green naïve village
surrounded by corps field, mosque, ponds,
ancestral grave yard, school, college,
madrasah (islamic school) etc he is
brothers, sisters with parents, a beautiful family
with relatives, neighbors he had
learned person he was, full memorizer of
the Holy Quran and institutional study was 10th grade
but dreams touched his eyes, his breaths, his veins
the dream in the hollow eyeballs of him
flaring dreams have been gathered in his sight
dreams touched his ideality, his mediocrity, his learning
against the holy verse
dreams touched him inseparably
dreams touched him within vain clothing
dreams touched him within flirting industrialist mind
dreams touched him within merciless sky scraper building
dreams touched him within fake benevolent charity right hand
dreams touched him abortive assurance giving to others in generosity smiling
dreams made him blind to the path of income
small income once made up him happy with family and relatives
but leaving small, come to big on the lame stretchers dreamy boat
he did not understand- dreams in lazy hands is
misfortunate hell for upcoming every steps
dreams made him luxurious ambitious as
the begging bag before learning how to beg
dreams made him laughter in garrulous argument
as happiness of billionaire under torn blanket
in biting cold winter dreamy night
dream made him foolish dandy in business world
as Xerox machines copying activities
which has no personality to make another root
to survive with it as parasite
dreams made him passerby the dark path
dreams made him lonely walker
dreams made him lonely resident on title-less building of hill view
dreams made him unknown religious in the eye view of unfamiliar him
dreams made him a dark horse in flattering broker world
dreams made him hilarious land lord in his verbose copying documents
dreams made him a beggar in heavenly real eyes of the sun,
crystalline day approved him he was dreamer only
from the dreams he made his journey to be great
benevolent helper of relatives and neighbors
he was dreamer but in paralyzed bone and indolent veins
and this dream awakens him in tears of mysterious death
(Written on my Maternal Uncle Hafez Abdul Allam 4th July 1962-29th July 2018, who was inactive but great dreamer, but sudden death of him makes us heart rending cry)
Remember when that flash of insight
last self-ignited in your expectant thoughts
blasting away the fog of uncertainty, complexity and doubt.
A sudden aha Eureka answer, pure, simple, so succinct, beautiful.
To some this flash of aha is called duration, or a blink. insight, acumen, Eureka!
But, my friend, how, why, when, where, do these Aha moments arise?
Can we conger up more for ourselves, fill a treasure cheat with insights?
Or is this quest a waste of time, as no treasure map exits. But does it?
Can we ever know with what, and how, and when to cast the magic wand?
Does our search for meaning, inquiries lay the foundation?
Can we prepare the way ahead in some way or other?
Think back, my friend, did these gems
always spring up unexpectedly, and what occurred beforehand?
These aha Euekas cannot be scheduled or delayed,
cannot be snuck-up on, snared nor detected,
cannot be forced out nor guaranteed to appear.
Euekas are not rewards for hard work, perhaps the opposite is true.
How often does lazy and shallow wader get the creative rewards.
Chance is never fair in its rewards for hard work.
Often, an Aha taps us on the shoulder, we are least expecting it,
out of the blue, saying: "Look at Me. Look at Me".
When gobbled up with glee, it washes over and transforms us.
We are never be the same. It makes our day.
Does begging the question, ignoring the answers laid out
make it pop up from the soup into an inquiring mind?
Or does it appear when we raise questions to that have already been answered well?
Does it appear when we thin-slice the book to separate the leaves?
Often mistakes and errors have led to great breakthroughs
like penicillin, radioactivity, the color mauve and plastics.
What does this mean to you and your Aha Eureka pot of gold?
Should we be less careful, more observant for the unusual?
The Aha Eureka is a fleeting feeling, easily lost in the blink of an eye,
rampant, capricious, imperceptible, unbounded, elusive
like seeing something in the corner of the eye at dusk,
if you look straight at it, it's gone, look back again, it's there again.
For me it can be a matter of serendipity.
The more I see, the more I do, the more I explore, the more hits are triggered.
Many total restarts from scratch, often helps.
But, for me the one simple things
that works is lay me down to rest,
and to sleep on it!
10/10/2019
I tried to write today, but I couldn’t manage it.
You see, there’s a speck of dirt stuck to the paper.
I tried not to let it get to me, but to no avail,
And had already begun trying to get it off.
Scratching at it was no use, I couldn’t get under the thing.
And washing a paper would defeat the purpose.
It seemed impossible to pry off.
I can’t live with it in my sight, yet can’t throw it away.
I’ll have to take my mind off it somehow,
So I can rest easy tonight.
Just the thought of it will haunt me.
Tomorrow I can write again.
10/11/2019
I got another piece of paper today,
And had managed to get the speck out of my head,
Just long enough to get some thoughts out.
But something else is bothering me.
Now that I think about it, I can’t stop myself.
All the abnormalities of the patterns on the wall,
The crumbs on the desk,
Even the nearly invisible creases in this paper.
I need to get out a bit more,
There’s no way I can function like this.
I can talk more when I’ve dealt with this,
But for now this is all I can think about.
10/12/2019
I couldn’t go to sleep last night.
I had turned on the fan in my room,
But its spinning motion had fascinated me.
The quink motion blurs it together,
But if you focus on a single blade, following it,
It starts to become clear.
After a while I decided to get up.
There was nothing to do, but anything was better
Then staring at the cursed fan.
I found a rubber wall stick toy, molded into the shape of a dragon.
My brother probably got it from a teacher.
After spending the rest of the night trying to keep the wings apart,
I passed out.
10/13/2019
I can’t stay in this house,
The abundance of dust has only become more clear.
My brain won’t rest and I’m seeing things I haven’t before.
The edges of my nails that are begging to be cut,
The imperfections in the palms of my hands,
The papers not all in a straight pile,
The lines of my handwriting inhabiting them,
The dust scattered over the tables,
And the finger marks breaking the unity.
My head is spinning
And I can’t make it stop.
Round and round the ceiling goes.
10/14/2019
Ah, the beauty of sleep medicine.
I finally had a good night’s rest,
And I think I have an idea on what to write about.
Until next time, Journal.
And please, deal with the erase marks,
I need a break.
-Connor Lotts
Unaffordable, yet valiant speeding,
tailgating, and zooming Pep Boys, I cannot dodge.
Yours truly grief stricken
(sob... sob... sob)...
wheely hard to bear
this anticipatory anxiety
riddled joker impossible
mission thwarting despair
death knell tolled (told),
woebegone news, I did fear
hears stunned me into silence,
the unwelcome prognosis,
I needed to hear
no joke, but good humor
totally wrecked vehicle forces
yours truly to become...,
no not a lion tamer
but, yes a panhandling junketeer
begging, copping, dilly dallying... ha
to accept unpleasant
unexpected dire straits
gravely digging within lithosphere
bidding... fare thee well
treasured automobile faithful and near
synonymous with ideal paramour, yet now
must confront stark reality,
lack ample disposable income available
no financial resources to persevere,
and worse case scenario me
and the missus will need to don
faux Santa Claus outfit,
and roundup available reindeer
for ourselves (yea... yea... yea...,
I realize how spare
and tired, pessimistic,
forlorn success such short notice
unless if... nah no fat or slim chance...
apocalypse ushers abominable thermonuclear
war, (I doubt Trump would
pull publicity stunt
to be re elected - ha) whereby
Beatle browed, foo fighting
foreigners, survivors impressed, feted,
compensated... for service
unless they willingly volunteer.
Combination future pluperfect
birthday presents and Noel hi
Christmas gifts well nigh,
noah ark cake "FAKE" attempt,
to hoodwink, engine ear,
trunk hate, et cetera
drum, harp, trumpet... belie
including objective to shanghai,
nor fall out of good amazing graces
toward (me) garden variety generic guy
providing steadfast generous
figurative air supply to fortify,
revving me shaky talent,
ye may oft times decry
as unintelligible gobbledygook
brainstorming ideas to try
single handedly ambidextrously
poetically kindle indeed codify
to elucidate how transportation
car reared and gone awry
moderate expenses as original parts wear out,
(i.e. battery, fender, brakes,
hood latch, shock absorber, tires...
albeit almost all simultaneously), hence I sigh
aware expounding circumstance that doth defy
immediate resolution incumbent to pacify
troubleshoot immediate impasse
squarely render quintessence
problem solving the overriding
challenge, I vilify.
The interrogation threatens to shudder like an earthquake
A long index of accusations spread out among the atmosphere like a blazing forest fire
Satisfaction, the officer and venomous umbrage, the criminal
Self-appreciation, the quiescent defense attorney with no right to be there
Misery, the boisterous dauntless prosecutor
The months of the annual calendar, the jury
Pain, the almighty judge
It’s a court case already divested from the defendant
Why should it not
Bother, why bother
Its past the millionth time in 216 divided by the jury
Satisfaction has seen countless rewards of capturing umbrage
Satisfaction has felt the boundless benevolence of glory
And foaming at the mouth, glowering with muffled respected fury
Sits umbrage, staring out blurred vision
Victimized in his own apperception
What’s the cost, the damage total; what has befell, befell reality
The anathema of fate or rather the favored affliction of fortune’s fool
Within a realm of possibility it may perceive to be both
A pebble laced with a thread thrown into grass only miles away
To be reeled right back in like a helpless fish on a line
The audacity, the audacity; oh just hush
Silence is golden and this silence is benevolent
Joy was once prevalent in the company of such disgrace umbrage reigned
Together they were serenity, a mixed graceful period of harmony
Such a song sung by dual owls in the presence of the lightened darkness of night
(sigh) …I can’t do this anymore
Make a world, create a story peacefully
Creating a plot circulating, tip-toeing around the issues placing bait in front of my eyes for me to take
What is wrong with me, my life
One word, a sharp enough blade to stab in the ankle to slaughter Achilles
In this case, me
The poet’s banishment, scourge creating a series of nine lashes
Still runs deep, refuses cessation
Proceeds to feed on every ounce of merriment to permeate through the cracks
Melancholy has produced to invade back in
What’s the cause this time for it to attack
A few simple words, reflection, swift defiance
the bruises upon the right appendage whispering, begging for more scars
FOR WHAT? ! ? ! ? ! ? !
Forget it….it’s nothing
Satisfaction has pardoned me, set me free
Umbrage, my twin has taken over me
To another bridge, we sit and sulk over a failed attempt at flight
Cause we willingly defy the right to say goodnight
Am I invisible?
No, I’m not.
Sometimes I feel like I am.
Sometimes I wish I was.
But deep down I know I’m not.
Even if it was my deepest desire,
I’m certain it’d ever come true.
In this house,
I may not be invisible,
But my feelings definitely are.
Like they’re hovering,
far away from my body.
Where my family can’t see.
I soak in the words they preach,
When I become the outlet for sadness, anger, and grief.
My body moves mindlessly as
I comfort them.
Each and every person.
Even though it is never returned.
My brain taps restlessly at my skull,
Begging me to listen,
Begging me to acknowledge the twinge in my chest,
the tears building up in my eyes.
But I can’t.
I cant.
I lay alone in this bed,
Staring into the darkness,
Wondering why noone cares.
Shouldn’t I get some compensation?
Don’t I deserve something back?
Aren’t my kind words,
My selfless actions,
Deserving of something,
More?
I’m told to “keep it together.”
But why me?
Because I am stronger than them?
more mature?
more understanding?
And yet I am so young.
Can my heart keep beating,
With this many wounds?
My rib cage is torn open,
blood leaks from my chest,
dark crimson stains the world
around me,
and yet I still ask,
“Are you okay?”
Even if it is my life,
I will offer it to them,
For it bears no importance to me.
Surrounded by these people,
The ones I call ‘family’,
I am a counsellor, for all ages.
I wonder where I store it all,
All the trauma -
That’s been passed down to me,
Like a secret ingredient,
Measured by the gods.
A treasure to keep safe.
And I lock it all away.
Will I ever escape this?
Am I always to be seen as just another diary to dump words in?
Someone who will drink up the sorrow,
From her very household,
Just to prevent a flood?
When will this torture end?
I know I love them,
There is no denying that statement.
But I no longer wish to walk around with the label “therapist” stamped on my back.
Don’t you see the scales above my head?
Dangerously tilting,
About to fall?
I feel like sometime soon,
The bolts will loosen,
And all will fall apart.
I am breaking into pieces,
cracks appearing with each trauma untold.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t here,
I wish when they saw me,
I was seen for conversation - normal ones.
And sometimes I wish I was invisible,
Or maybe not even here at all.
The land is soaked with blood
The sand is soaked with tears
Oh
How many barrels of blood must be spilled
to know that so many souls are gone?
How many basins of tears does it take
to have more than enough tears?
.
I am the voice of the little child
crying in the wilderness
I want to caress the flowers that spring
out of the ground of my homeland
I want to watch the ripples when rain falls
I want to play with my mates on the sand
along Chu Ngoke street
I want to sit at home and watch my parents returning from a bountiful yam harvest
I want to stand at the playground and watch the traditional wrestling
I want to hear the sounds of Egelege and Egoni talking drums reminding me of yesterday and a great future ahead
I want to chase away goats from eating the maize in my mother's garden
I want to open my mother's pot
and pick a meat out of the soup
I want to see my homeland
Sweet little home of ours
Please take me back to Alode
Please take me back to Alode
.
I am the voice of a man
Whose hope lies in shackles
Whose homeland lies in broken images
A town deserted and forgotten
I am tired of being a stranger
in another man's land
I am tired of begging for crumbs
When my barn is filled with yam
Mudskippers can still be found in our swamps
Please take me back to Alode
I don't want to die in another man's land
I want to die in Alode, somewhere in Eleme
I want to be buried near the grave of my father and see my ancestors usher
me home with a shinning crown
Take me back home
Take me back home
.
Take me back to Alode
Let me see the beautiful women that
toss about the streets
Let me admire their buttocks
Let me stare at their breasts,
those two round objects protruding out
of their clothes, breasts that could make me feel like a child again
Let me kiss Nyime Owa Eleme, that beautiful lady of my dream
Let me lay her down on my bedside and
make life worthwhile
I want to go back home and see
the sunshine with it's illuminous rays
and the tender droplets of the rain
Oh Please take me back to Alode
Please take me back to Alode
.
Take me back to Alode
Let me touch your borders
From Alesa to Ogale
From Echieta to Onne and
From Ebubu to the Onu Nmu where they say the hands cannot reach
I want to touch the land of Alode
I want to touch the Eleme soil
I want to touch the soft green grasses of home
.......
Her eyes a sapphire blue,
An awesome sight to view,
Her nose aristocratic,
She was so charismatic,
Her lips a rosy petal pink,
One had to blink,
Or been seen as staring,
Her nature a sheer blessing.
Her hair pure black like coal,
Her ears so dainty as if she stole
Them from a pretty fairy,
Her friendly attitude quite flirty,
Her peeking bosoms such a tease,
Begging for a squeeze,
Her tantalizing always alluring waistline,
Her demure look whilst sipping wine,
Her legs, toned and smooth,
The actual truth,
Those legs were the best in town,
Caire lived in a cottage down
The hill, her ankles slim and slender,
Her speaking tone ever so tender,
Her teeth pearly white,
Her nails and toe-nails bright
Red, wrists strong, fingers slight.
She was betrothed to the mayor,
Was this beautiful girl Caire,
To be married next week,
By a sandy beach near a sheltered creek,
Excitement was mounting,
Two days to go, she was counting,
Claire had ordered a Dior designed dress,
This was the perfect wedding, oh yes!
Her parents arrived the day before,
They were excited wanted to explore,
Mark’s parents acted a little strange,
There was never any form of exchange,
Of phone calls, no answer to a wedding invitation,
Future husband gave Clair limited information,
She looked radiant as she walked down the aisle,
She turned everybody’s head, unique was her style.
Happy as a lark to be her beloved’s wife,
She looked forward to her future role in life,
Suddenly, police sirens heard,
The noise moving closer, how weird,
Two cars arrived and, four or five policemen,
Walked towards the couple, in fact ten,
Cuffed her future husband, read him his rights,
Clair fainted, Mark was a criminal, many nights
She often thought he was too secretive,
Which made her sad, certainly not appreciative,
Claire dear girl, you forgot, habits are difficult to re-arrange,
Mark was set in his ways, so hard for you to have him change.
Mark was wanted for fraud, millions of pounds
Involved, had cooked the books, so out of bounds,
Claire's mom and dad put her gently into their car,
And took her to their home which was far,
Claire took some time to get past this catastrophe,
Over a man she loved and about to relinquish her chastity,
Ralph a divorced writer was her parent’s neighbour,
Who soon stole Clare’s heart and her chamber!
The Antique store
Antiques she adored, a relic he was.
She had a special place for art.
Unfortunately it wasnt her heart.
I'm clinging on to the older things
the antiques of our time.
Sometimes they break or get lost.
I cannot replace them,
no one can replace them.
But I'd rather have an antique
than nothing at all.
At least I can say I enjoyed it at some point.
Teach me to make beautiful.
No beauty can I find.
Search me whole.
Tell only what thoughts appear to be mine.
First comings need an exit of least disgrace.
No one wants to be kept waiting.
For then their time might never come.
Trimmed antiques in dusty lace.
A whole world
Begging for
Change
Daring to dream
Endless altering realities
Figuring that the end
Generates a new start
Hinging on the application of
'I'
Just in terms of understanding
Knowledge of the self
Learning about the
Magic inside all of us
Nearing that
Ominous future
Persistent in the
Quest for a better tomorrow
Reach for it!
Stand up for it!
Teach the young to
Usher in their new era
Vestiges of ours gone
Without a second thought
Xenoliths of a different time
Yellowed antiques
Zealous youth to push aside our failures
When you don't need me,
you put me on a shelf
with your dusty trophies
you never really earned,
and antiques
you never took care of.
I'm up front, visible,
easy to reach
at your convenience.
But I know you would rather
take what you need from
your precious china cabinet.
Just know that when you fumble,
when you slip up,
and when you stumble,
your precious china will break.
But I will still be here.
I have gathered all time tellers,
grandfather clocks, alarm clocks, phones, watches -
to tell you that : I have all the time in the world for you.
It might not be the most sophisticated way
to say that I have an ear for listening and a heart for consolation,
but don't be too skeptical with my methods.
Forgive me, maybe, perhaps, if I can't be so bold and concise.
At least, now we've got all these antiques to talk about.
he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.
By Aliza Kashmala Kiran