Long Subsistence Poems
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‘Water’ seems a fitting title
of this rhyme on something vital
for the beings we take care of
and the others we’re aware of.
Life on Earth depends on water,
whether human or sea otter,
fish or fowl, whatever creatures
having some subsistence features.
Water may have been existent
in archaic ages distant
long before we tend to think—
even water that we drink.
Yet when in our galactic history
it was formed has been a mystery…
The researchers have debated
as to if it could be stated
that this liquid can be dated
back to when it’s been related
there was a disk of gas and dust
and molecules that were a must
for water that originated
when our ‘system’ was created
(namely, ‘solar’, where we’re fated)…
Or might it be more antiquated?!
Could we trace to outer space
the genesis that took place
of the water in our glass?
If indeed this came to pass,
it would open up new queries,
not to mention E.T. theories…
But that’s within the jurisdiction
of those who compose science fiction.
Many scientists have avowed
that from the Sun’s parental cloud
of interstellar dust and gas,
from which our star derived its mass,
water, well, to be precise,
water in the form of ice
was inherited there and then,
in that olden where and when…
Some astronomers theorize
that what we may not realize
is up to half the H2O
within the oceans that we know
right here on Planet Earth could be,
yes, older than the Sun we see
illuminating from on high,
in daylight’s path across the sky,
our frets and frolics down below,
where heedlessly we come and go…
Water and life go hand in hand,
from briny deep to wooded land.
In the mariner’s rhyming tale,
all the winds at sea did fail,
and the sailors lives were lost—
the idle ship was merely tossed
as if on a painted ocean,
painted ship, devoid of motion.
There was water ‘every where’,
Coleridge says, except that there
was none to quench their parching thirst;
so the voyage seemed doubly cursed.
Water is such precious stuff!
Do we value it enough?
Oh, may there never come a time
(as in that famous rhyming rime)
when as to water here on Earth—
where mortals meet their death and birth—
we too will ever need to think
that there is not a drop to drink!
~ Harley White
John 9:4 (KJV) I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
He has the responsibility,
Covered in dollar signs, abiding,
Beneath the shadows of time,
In timeless lessons…
When will he realize,
Time, time isn’t on his side?
When will he realize,
Times like these will fall behind,
The memories floating,
On seas of hope for meaning
In a futile knowledge, a worthless
Day, spent growing his net worth,
The sacrifice – his entire life,
Spent working, working, working…
He has so many others, depending on him,
His earnings their subsistence, surviving,
Existing because he is giving, giving, giving,
His living, covered in cash, debit card, credit,
Where there is only grief in knowing…
His life, it will soon be over,
While he provides for those he loves,
Leaving them with only the memories
A lifetime of going off to work,
A lifetime of drudgery, manual labor,
A lifetime of exertion, effort, duties,
Brought him from yesterday to the current
Prepared him, with lessons…
His life, soon over,
His destination, heaven’s gates,
Where they will ask him what his life was about?
And, he can say…
Life is about giving, giving, giving,
Never just living, but making a living!
Never just giving, but forgiving…
This life that is made up of work and toil,
This life that was given by the One who knows,
Life isn’t about what you can gain.
Life is about what you can contribute.
Life is about what you can donate…
With your heart, your light, your love.
Life is about giving more than you take.
Life is about listening to the Lord, who gave us grace.
Life is about giving everything you make…
All your talent, all your gifts, all your blessings,
With a heart who is generous, a heart who believes…
Because He gave His all, we have all we’ll ever need!
Because He arose from the tomb…
Together, with Jesus… we can make more than a living.
We can make it through this life, knowing we’ve been forgiven!
He has the responsibility,
Covered in dollar signs, abiding,
Beneath the shadows of time,
In timeless lessons…
Number ONE is the Creator of all time, through love that is mine!
There is no part of life mine alone,
If regarding my whole existence.
What belongs to me is only flesh and bone,
Therefrom this life has subsistence.
Down on the farm I was buying time,
The universe I studied for reason.
Sweetest wine carried me through my prime,
It numbed my pain in every season.
There arrived torturous days galling,
Mainly dispiriting to my mentality.
Yet I operated above whatever was appalling,
I just dared not easily show my fragility.
All this and more, it kept me sane,
Scarcely a day I had without sin.
There was the neglect, and profanity arcane,
Its blasphemous speech was akin.
On a dry creek bed I oft-times laid,
Looking up at the sky in a daze.
Habitually I went there and quietly played,
Literally it was a place I could laze.
Sometimes I caught fresh tadpoles,
Then cooked them in a tin pot.
These larvae's I collected from tiny water holes,
An acquired taste they were hot.
But only to the conversant hillbilly,
I rather was such in an awful rut.
It wasn't something I could flee quite freely,
So in my misery I feasted on smut.
Actually I tried to glance elsewhere,
But I felt like a slave to this stain.
They looked so pretty in their neckwear,
Several were butt naked in the rain.
Across the flat fields cattle grazed,
Completely ignoring the crows.
A vineyard nigh I watched over unfazed,
Lady of plight too would impose.
The grapes of despair I grew there,
Relying on ***** men in chains.
They worked all day till dusk without fanfare,
And none of them had notable names.
It was a harsh country for the folk,
Ye all marked fateful on a tether.
Unfortunates who had no rights to provoke,
Things there were cruel altogether.
The slave tarts I occasionally took,
Most offered no fiery resistance.
But when one did I quickly gave her the hook,
It meant she'd hang in an instance.
Until the grapes of despair expire,
I shall continue my trade of sin.
Down on the farm I expect this life to backfire,
Postulating fears to my hell therein.
I am the spirit,
That lives in the hearts of those,
Who still see value in keeping strong communities
Where good deeds are never spoken of,
As they are so woven into the fabric of daily life,
The need never arises.
if you are lucky enough to live in such a community,
You may be able to help me find more hearts,
To dwell in,
As I am fading away,
And soon may be but a memory,
Lost to the winds of eternity.
To help you understand what is at stake,
Come closer,
I have a story from a land far far away,
Where the future of communities like yours hung in the balance.
Once upon a time, there was a king,
Who ruled a kingdom from his castle at the top of a hill,
He ruled it the same way, as all those,
Who lived there before him had done,
Without compassion,
Unable to forgive any villager who trespassed,
And with no empathy for the plight of the villagers living,
A life of subsistence, at the bottom of the hill.
How could he have done things any other way,
When there had been no-one to show him a different way,
With his heart beating,
Only with Love of himself, his castle,
And the power he had over the villagers below.
Then one day a miracle happened,
One night the castle was gutted by fire,
With nowhere for the king to rest his head,
And nothing left to eat,
Not even a blade of grass.
The king could be seen shaking in his boots,
For fear of what the villagers would do to him
Now that all his soldiers had run of into the night.
The villagers soon arrived,
And the King could not believe his eyes,
When, they came armed not with pitchforks and cudgels,
But with hot soup and bread,
And blankets to warm him on the outside.
In the coming days and weeks,
There were even bigger surprises for him,
As the villagers started to re-build his castle for him.
STOP said the king,
I once heard of a thing called a community hall,
If you could be so kind as to turn my castle into one.
though I yam Caucasian,
tis rightful to honor that most bitter
racist genocidal crime
nonetheless ovation qua
quintessential significant contribution
vis a vis that doth litter
anonymous multitudinous peoples
many unknown dark skinned souls
bravely fought as non quitter
with melanin so coon sitter
this asthma feeble attempt
made to mind of literate
parent, guardian or sitter
adorn aye rhythmically twitter
to *****Sapiens with Negroid color
who, despite being human bondage
managed to adorn
worthy contributions to society,
though an American (though not so proud)
and civilization since time immemorial
hence, I wanna pay poetic homage
to persons born
akin to diversity exemplifying gamut
analogous to Indian corn
debased brutally and forlorn
and raised in cornucopia horn
of plenty with rare serf tenderness
whipped by wicked task masters
from the crack of morn,
aye cannot fathom why
a great proportion of humanity
must struggle on scraps of subsistence
viz with fifty plus shades of chocolate
vile shamefully opprobrious sworn
vengeance toward those
via heroic efforts escaped,
page number 2
manacled, tortured, et cetera history
as slaves an existence
until...pacified family dislocated
sans rent asunder, ripped and torn.
Once a proud family akin to Brady
bunch, now brutally, nasty
and short lived poorly destitute
(case in point) like Haiti -
once a nation extant with cultural finery
insidiously raped "Lady"
lacerated odiously robbing
unique peoples as owners didst slay
practically naked "Primates"
encaged like wild animals in zoos
culturally robbed while
abhorrently marched in ones and twos
shredded souls without shoes
(analogous to persecuted Jews)
of singular ambition to break shackles
though tightly fused
to life as they chose.
Approach yonder rack, O fearful
Meretrix;
Wouldst here weak flesh reform
Beneath the buckled and tightening
Strap...
That which be transfixed by thy
Fearful gaze.
Lo...A confusion befalls upon thee,
My Meretrix,
Your whirling emoitions trapped
Inside encroaching walls,
Floundering within neurons confines,
Of a brains inwardly collapsing maze!
As throughout these crowded
Corridors
Of your hectic and turbulent mind...
You reach...
And grasping,
Desperately grope for your senses
Like some wretched entity
suddenly and Inextricably struck
Blind!
Laid down on this cold slab of
Submission;
Slowly to be freed from all moral
Restraints;
To be joined to me through subjection
Of attrition.
Just as thee burgeoning weight of thy
Guilt
Compress upon all diminishing
Resistance -
So then the growing appetites for
Mine deeds
Become thine indulging subsistence.
For I will accord you the wealth of a
Mighty nation
Such as any sprawling empire has
Ever seen.
Lift you higher above any royal and
Regal station;
Lavish upon you with precious gems
And encrusted tiaras...
Taken from the fairest head of wise
Solomons
Most beautiful and loveliest queen.
And I will serenade you with a song
From whales,
A lullaby from dolphins sing:-
Drawn from the chants of silky haired
Sirens tales
Whose treacherous wiles pollute upon
An ocean wind.
Hear ye, Meretrix, the mermaid
Blowing upon the Conch shell,
Her broad fluke thrashing between
The spray:-
For none that linger shall live to tell -
Once their foolish ears are led
Horribly astray!
I shall grant thee eagles wings
So you may climb and soar
Above all the fragile worlds of puny
Men;
These Neanderthals and ignorant
Apes,
Whom all thee sneering Gods so
Much deplore,
Wallowing in avarice and filth of
Lowest denizen...
Whilst slowly sinking into this foul
And stinking mire
Forever and for evermore!
Along the country roads
Still strong they march.
Rocks fitted with intricate care,
Pieced together rock by stone,
Without the help of mortar
A century or more ago
By farmers who ploughed the
Glacial moraine of New England
To plant subsistence crops
Of beans and peas, corn
And potatoes and beets, and
Hay for their animals,
Digging and hauling
The rocks from the stony soil.
Sweating and straining their
Weary muscles to hoist the
Heavy, awkward shapes
Into just the right niche.
They marked boundaries,
Kept animals in their fields,
Protected gardens and chickens
From marauders in the night.
Still they stand strong,
Those ancient rock walls,
Lichen covered and weathered,
Enduring the freezing rain
And ice and snow of winter,
The thunderstorms of summer.
Stoic reminders of the
Stubborn persistence of
Those who, with ox and cart,
Wrestled farms from the
Hard and unforgiving land
And built stone fences.
Along the country roads
Still strong they march.
Rocks fitted with intricate care,
Pieced together rock by stone,
Without the help of mortar
A century or more ago
By farmers who ploughed the
Glacial moraine of New England
To plant subsistence crops
Of beans and peas, corn
And potatoes and beets, and
Hay for their animals,
Digging and hauling
The rocks from the stony soil.
Sweating and straining their
Weary muscles to hoist the
Heavy, awkward shapes
Into just the right niche.
They marked boundaries,
Kept animals in their fields,
Protected gardens and chickens
From marauders in the night.
Still they stand strong,
Those ancient rock walls,
Lichen covered and weathered,
Enduring the freezing rain
And ice and snow of winter,
The thunderstorms of summer.
Stoic reminders of the
Stubborn persistence of
Those who, with ox and cart,
Wrestled farms from the
Hard and unforgiving land
And built stone fences.
POVERTY IN AFRICA
Nzongi N.Mwero
Large population live in slums,
Youth unemployment looms,
Illiteracy looms,
Poor health standards zooms,
In Africa poverty has rooms
A protein starvation diseases on the rise,
Due to a harsh natural environmental and subsistence level,
And semi skilled farming methods,
Many rely mainly on their primitive agriculture to stay alive,
Most Africans scratch out a living,
In ways that seem to reward inadequate diets
Dirty ragged children scattered on the dust road,
Scrambling for orange peelings,
That tourists had thrown on the dust road,
Children are weakened,
And mentally retarded,
Prematurely aged with yellow hair,
No clothing on the body,
The baby’s stomach bulged on their mother’s back,
Their arms and legs looked like sticks,
Although six and a half month old,
Their ringles skin and thin legs gives no chance to crawl,
Their closed mouth give no chance to sucker
A man walks along a path feeling very thirsty,
Looking tap water to quench his thirsty,
Ready to quench even the coloured salty water,
Because no single coin in his pocket
A woman thinks to send her kids to school,
But she finds in her cube no stool,
She thinks and decides to remain cool,
And goes for cooking roots in the bush,
With her weak kid on her back crying for food
A man in his thatched hut with holes around it,
Bow and arrow in his back,
Ready to hunt any rodent in the bush,
Ready to trap any insect that comes across,
In the home ,no food no water and no school for his kids
In cities and towns beggars are scattered,
Their spindly limbs reach out for a coin,
A piece of bread that might extension of life for few hours,
Dead brothers and sisters lying on the streets,
Not for bullets but due to hunger,
Waiting to be picked up for their painless journey,
Poverty is a war and has been a war for decades
In pieces,
A moment of resurrection,
From the empty grave
A cradle
Where chained in silent reverie
Lies my pride with my past.
Fatherhood lends grounding
An understanding of purpose
Like an oak
Grows older
Sinks deeper into the earth
Becomes one with it
And is trapped.
Everything I write
is repetition these days.
I feel I’ve lost my voice,
Lost it to bland existence
The every day struggle for subsistence
Voices at war in my head
In my heart and all around me
Voices at war
With one-another, with themselves,
With God.
I sit here writing this poem
Nothing to say really,
Nothing important
Nothing vital
Taking nothing too seriously
As nothing appears serious enough
Wanting nothing more
Than a pair of young thighs
And wet heat in between
the rest matters not
a shot in the dark
and the world’s all a spin
fades away,
like a dream.
Like youth,
Like life itself.
Noises,
All around me,
Inside outside,
My head, my heart and beyond
Shapeless shapes like shadows
Forming, drowning sinking deeper,
Deeper into me
And there,
growing and growing
so big as to drown everything,
even thought and reason,
season after season,
nothing endures
but the unchanging stride
of change.
My mother the painter
My father the engineer
A match made in heaven,
Strike a match
Set it to kindling
Watch it burn
Bright as a dying day
Bright as childhood hope
Chewing itself to ashes
To a cold pile of powder
Weightless,
Blown away by the first breeze,
Gone.
The devil in me
Resorts to poetry
to appease his sins.
The godly in me is silent
Or absent,
Or dead,
Regardless, he speaks not
Not a word,
Not a whisper
When he should be screaming.
‘There she blows’
The white fiend
Spawned from the depth of thought
Rises to the surface
Stabs at the sky,
Spews her waste to the blue heavens
Then shrinks away underneath.
Carlos
Form:
Please stop sharing memes promoting hatred or flaring communal violence.
Do not revile anyone. Instead, observe silence.
Crimes against humanity transcend the boundaries of religion, caste, and creed.
Innocent citizens are the victims of human political greed.
Undeterred by their lack of sleep,
The brave soldiers of our country have a huge responsibility to keep.
They guard us so that we may lead peaceful lives.
Why should we attack each other with guns and knives?
Expand your outlook towards life and not your waistline.
Shed your hatred with your body weight, and you will be fine.
Otherwise, no one can stop the rivers of blood.
And losing your dear ones may cause the tears to flood.
Where's the smile that we exchanged with our neighbors and friends?
Posting everything on social media is setting dangerous trends.
Let's not focus on the evils of others.
Just think about the fate of the dead children's mothers.
Hatred, greed, anger, jealousy, and ego are the bane of human existence.
Do we ever think about the plight of the poor people and their subsistence?
Selfishness and craze for money lead to many a crime.
Yet, people keep committing the same mistake every time.
How desperate are my ears to listen to good news for a change!
But the media and press mint money from crimes. Isn't that strange?
Arson, rape, murder, kidnap, hijack, human trafficking, and many more.
Beware of your safety, as there are criminals galore.
How long are we going to be punished for no fault of ours?
How long will the rich and the powerful continue to exploit us by misusing their powers?
There are more questions than answers.
So, I finally cease.
When will we get complete respite from the mental and physical disease?