Long Destitute Poems
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This lonely language of silence—
An unending soliloquy in the mind’s dark forests
Where pain and misery grew, and nobody knew
Nobody ever hears the growth of agony or pain
They can only see it when it has already begun to destroy us.
The obscured gestures of the truth—
The insidious signs if we look close enough to see
Where the end of a smile is the start of an arduous mile.
A solitary journey nobody ever sees you traveling,
Until the internal damage is done, and you return changed.
Have you seen my afflictions lately?
I have tried to see yours as I venture to understand
How your eyes don’t reveal the stories you conceal.
As we simultaneously meander our deserted lands
The world cannot see us slowly fade.
But our grey forests flourish and bear poison fruit—
The welcomed addictions to our sweet misery
For which we insist, although God demands us to resist
But the more time passes, the more comfortable
We’ve become with the promise of hopelessness.
I must confess, I prayed especially hard for you one day
When you were dragging your spirit inside your flesh
Which was destitute despite what your words refute
Faith helped me find you through all the trees
There you were, waiting for a Hallelujah on tired, bloody knees.
Copyright © 2023 Patrick Barry
All rights reserved
The two were very close friends
Both of them were good students.
One was from a destitute family
He had to join his father to help him.
Many days passed by with many seasons
The poor friend is all grown up, had a son.
He heard that his friend did return to the village
A happy soul, he rushed to visit his childhood friend.
His friend, a rich and wealthy person now.
He greeted him cordially, with much affection
But there was a certain sadness in his face, some pain.
His friend understood his absentmindedness very well.
“Why, my friend, are you sad?” He asked, politely
“I am nothing but tired from life,” he answered.
“I worked hard, got established in life in every way,
Then lost my beloved wife, and got an incurable disease.”
“Have faith, my friend,” He said with all his convictions
“Life is nothing but tests and trials from Almighty,” He said
“He loves us, and that is why he tests us in every possible way.”
He paused as he saw tears in his friend’s eyes, in deep sorrow.
They hugged each other affectionately and parted for the time.
The poor friend was walking alone, slowly to return to his home.
In the faint moonlight, he was looking for the letter he wrote.
He would tear the letter apart before he reaches home to his son.
Autumn leaves and melancholy
The city park an Oasis for a lovers stroll
As the cold nights invade the city lights
Park benches, the hotels for the homeless
A vagrant inebriated man, withered
Drunk and destitute, no home to go
He lies listless, snoring on the park bench
Ragged clothes and a tattered life
Wake UP Wake UP
Shoved by the Police in the dead of night
You must move on old man
Or we shall issue you a court summons
Ah but where shall I go? he boldly demands
This is of no concern of ours old drunk
You must vacate this park now
We have no time for old drunk fools
The old man asks, and who pray tell are you?
I am the police, and your nightmare, if you don’t vacate now
Oh Police? Not officers of the peace? Here to serve and protect?
And who pray tell are you serving and protecting tonight?
Do not talk back old man
Worse things than a summons may befall upon you
Now move on you stinky drunk
As the story goes, the old man moved on, drunk and broken
The next day, no better for the wear
The old man rose, to begin another beggar’s day
Voices inside tormented him
Wounds from long ago
Today, he proclaimed time to collect his just rewards
His teeth ached, his belly hurt
He bought a gun, from the toy store
All he could afford
Off he went to the City Bank
Time for a withdrawal
Hand me all your cash he demanded
The teller whispered
Old man we all know you
You can not think to get away?
Why you barely stumbled your way in here
I doubt you can make it to your getaway bus?
- concern and compassion in her voice
He replied all proud
None the less hand me your cash
My plan is sound, you pretty lass
Fear not I mean no harm to you sweetie
At the door, those very same Police
Yelled drop your weapon
And so he did
As they pushed him violently to the ground
Sitting in the back seat, he smiled
Finally justice will be served
The Officer scolded him
You drunk, you will be locked away now you scum
40 years before, the irony of life was to be painted
The old drunk saved the life of a fellow soldier
Who had a son, whom became a police officer
Irony is the sadness that shall sink many a heavy heart
Now the old man, with 10 years in prison
Finally his country paid his dues
This old war vet, got his 3 square meals
His teeth all fixed and healthcare for an ailing heart
God bless those who truly serve and protect
At the wake of their economic turmoil
Destitute sailors with battered ships
Set sails to seek fields of greener pastures
Aided by Indian Ocean winds, they drifted north
Welcomed with open hands at the Moroccan fort.
Seen as lost souls in need of aid and care
They were embraced, unaware of the deceit they'd bear.
Like salt dissolving into water, they melted in.
Offered status, they began a trade by barter.
But beneath their guise of humble traders lay a scheme
Their kindred followed, with goods as merchants' team.
Initially trading on Gold, diamonds and Ivory
With more fortune, our kin to slavery they bury.
Things began to fall apart, a wave that swept the land
Transforming cultures, as if done by God's hand.
Way of life of peasants from distant shores
Echoes of tongues never heard before.
Crosses rose where once stood ancient shrines
As old beliefs gave way to foreign signs.
Leadership stripped off it's dignity, embracing thoughts of a few.
Africa's destiny began to accrue.
The European arrival is our owes to borrow
Their taking knows no bounds, eating flesh and sucking the marrow.
No replacement offered for what they claim
In their wake, we're left to navigate a maze, a boring game..
The Russian refugees
When the war ended in 1945 and the German army
surrendered when the local Nazis were arrested
the whores had had their hair shorn; peace arrived
with stark poverty and need.
My mother got a newspaper round, and the pay was
negligible, but she got bags of old newspaper, pressed
looking like bricks and warming when autumn came
with cold evenings
On our rounds (I was my mother’s little helper) met
a Russian mother and daughter dressed in old clothes
on the way to a café that gave them leftovers, probably
the only meal for the day.
They were the flotsam of war and had ended up in
the backdoor of Europa, they spoke no local language
but individual people were kind to them and often
brought wood to warm their cold rooms.
When we met them, Mother waved and said hello
with a winning smile, they said hello also I think
this little gesture warmed their starved, lonely hearts
destitute as they were and far from home.
Home! Yes, in the end, it’s the place we all want to go.
The good other day I was so happy,
And happiness was my true nature.
But not today, I’m so sad,
Is it sorrow my real nature?
Happiness and sorrow, never once
Meet me together, alone they come.
Sorrow comes first, then joy
And joy comes and later sorrow.
Never I sought sorrow in my life,
Happiness is what I always seek.
Joy and sorrow, are they in a wheel?
Revolving around and coming in turn.
No one suffers sorrow forever,
No one enjoys happiness forever,
They are in a wheel turning around,
Making us happy and sad.
Stop the wheel, when I’m happy
What to do to achieve this feat?
Being in happiness, is what I need
What to do to achieve this feat?
Do good and be happy
Do bad and reap sorrow.
This is what I learned from the learned,
That is the key for stopping the wheel.
Joy and grief, depends on destiny
But destiny itself depends on you.
Do good and change your destiny
Do bad and destiny will follow.
Having friends who destitute of friends,
Having foes who destitute of foes,
Having wisdom who destitute of wisdom,
Having happiness also through destiny.
Friends are not the cause of happiness,
Nor foes the cause of misery,
Wisdom will not bring you wealth,
Nor wealth brings you happiness.
Intelligence, not the cause of wealth,
Nor stupidity the cause of penury,
He only who possesses this wisdom,
Knows the world and the wheel of life.
Honorable Mention in STRAND SPECIAL 9 ,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
USPS 2010 : Mother Teresa 100 Anniversary
Overcoming many ups and downs,
pacing the pious path God paved for her,
Mary Teresa born in Albania
became Mother Teresa in Calcutta.
Tormented by the agony of the destitute
she brought them to her home,
to where she felt they should be,
for everybody in her eyes is born equal.
She heard dedicated the divine call
of compassion resonate within,
reverberating as the voice of the Lord
in the dark nights of the sick.
The benevolent soul got beatified
and she was canonized in due time.
The ever caring mother entered
the holy sanctum of sainthood.
Raising her passion for the human service
to the ethereal heights of fortitude,
she emerged in the Missionaries of Charity
as the fountain of joy for the needy.
The citadel of empathy she created
decades ago with the bits of her heart,
abandons even now the tears of the indigent,
although she has gone to her heavenly abode.
Bleakish heart of pains,
Unwrapped from mortal's feeling of care
Bastardly coined to suit immerse hurt.
Invincible, yet darker than black darkness.
A visitor sweeping through pleasure-less passion.
Cloudy piles of undemonstrative depth.
Unwelcomed, yet rash to adsorb poor minds of men.
I'm sunk in, swallowed of my fainting breath.
Such fear to be stripped in bonds unpalatable to life.
Protuberant six month's count I spill in tears.
Shadows of turbid reflection stealing every consciousness.
As I lie in a mood-less portion destitute in spirit and soul.
Obscurity shadows my psyche to chain all prospect of felicity.
I seek hope, I'm mounting thoughts of mischief to shadow rather in care.
Destitute is the productive, empty lives
who Garner the plain
with heavy chains and a directive, pain.
Stone on stone they lay, the bedrock,
of their own, unheralded graves.
Each day a March of the little death,
terra-families in bondage to circumstance
until last breath.
Until Lifes taskmaster calls them asunder.
Until each ghosts the valley as a piece of it's render.
Rending afar into the forgotten memory
and silent voice of the landscape.
It being soul witness; sole attorney with a grimace,
to opine upon the court of the stars.
Ironic to be in the construction
of their own destruction,
of death in craftsmanship.
Servile-letting,
of whip, a chorusing,
coralling
into the building,
of the Tomb of another.
A demon king, Son of Sun basking.
Plumblined into their lives
as a heavier burden than stone.
Fortune-masking. Jeweled in fasting.
From the Valley of the Kings.
When they shall be. Redeemed. Everlasting.
Tick Tock,
I long for your loving touch,
Tick Tock,
I miss you so much.
Tick Tock,
I’m in a prison of loneliness,
Tick Tock,
I should have cherished happiness.
Tick Tock,
I didn't appreciate your loving care,
Tick Tock,
I never thought you wouldn't be there.
Tick Tock,
Now there is absolutely no one to console,
Tick Tock
My destitute and miserable, broken soul.
Tick Tock,
You are my sun, moon and star,
Tick Tock,
I will always wonder where you are.
Tick Tock!
Tick Tock!
Tick Tock!
Tick Tock!
I wish that fate would somehow turn back the clock.
3-26-18
Alexis Y.