Long Undernourished Poems
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The poor are lazy, languid, and loafing – the rich rut,
Is this why many people of my nation have no hut?
Isn't the concept: every rich is industrious, a myth?
Isn't there a great gulf betwixt a blacksmith and a goldsmith...?
I know my rickshaw-puller neighbor, born in penury,
His ancestors were poor too for many a century;
Can I judge his hardships his sin or the sin of his dad?
Or the transgression of a system that has gone so bad...?
I have seen the rich climbing the ladder of life briskly,
The branches of trees of mammon, they catch hold so quickly;
Hard work and calculative effort, no doubt, are in them,
Don't cells of dishonesty occupy their root and stem...?
By tilling the earth and breaking rocks pennies the poor earn,
In torn rags they shiver in cold; in summer sun they burn;
Is begging a fashion that the poor bejewel them with?
Doesn't shame cut them to pieces, within, like grass in a scythe?
Poverty is a curse and not a blessing, the world knows,
Hunger, thirst, homelessness, and illnesses paucity sows;
Undernourished children, like cattle, are pushed to labor,
The poor are, often, abhorred and loathed by each rich neighbor...!
Isn't fighting poverty a duty of every person?
Doesn't, by the vile of inequality, crises worsen?
God has made the mammon for all - this fact each one should know,
The concept of living and letting live, each should follow...!!!
28 March 2023
Writing Challenge - 'P' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes Checked At: Rhyme Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
Jack Sprat and wife Mary, lived in a glory of lemony, chiffon days;
Like maroon birds keep on singing, until the sunset, orange phase.
They were comfy and happy, like a picnic in lavish, emerald grass;
And had a black dog and a calico cat, like red Mars making a pass.
While Jack was a large man, his beloved wife, contrarily, was tiny.
They gardened after church on Sundays, as sweet time went slyly.
At the mauve hour of dinner, they enjoyed each other's company,
As well as a single glass of wine, while the animals played clumsily.
February fawned over early flowers, smiling fondly into sun's face;
As friends came in feathered hats and finery, through jaded grace.
Floating fuchsia clouds were frilly, in futuristic times of red sunset;
And family visited the fun hours. Moon pearls were not falling yet!
They lived in the house of amenity, like living with ones most loved;
And a fireside welcomed evenings, under skies with dyes smudged.
Swift, strawberry seasons were somewhat surprising, and sudden,
On their street of purple sage. Redbirds visited by striking dozens.
Noteworthy navy blue twilights brought nearby neighbors, laughing;
And new night was bejeweled with stars, that were forever flashing.
Frolicksome freesias were in full boom, in pretty, prismatic colors,
In dusky days of dandelion delight, when sun rays crept in shutters.
Rainbow eucalyptus trees enchanted, as if glossing skies had fallen;
When 'strangler figs' wreaked crime after crime, noted by red robin.
Jack Sprat and Mary received bad news, within months of each other!
The doctor placed Jack on a strict diet, so his health would not suffer.
And Mary, who was undernourished, was told to eat more, and often!
She and Jack vowed to obey doctor's orders, like tonic rains of Austin.
Jack began to eat less and lose weight, and Mary made tasty meals;
And gained weight and hale vigor, like when purple sun's colors peel.
'Jack Sprat could eat no fat.
His wife could eat no lean.
And so between them both, you see,
They licked the platter clean.'
“Arms Full of Linnet Wings”
In the garden
that afternoon
she planted seeds
in their ripe minds
their eyes looking
up to hers their
irises dazzling
in the late afternoon
sunshine wide open
as if waiting hungrily
for more food
she dropped words into
their mouths which
they swollowed whole
jewels like memories
nebulous little darlings to grow
perhaps too young
but maybe one old enough
for the story to stitch
and in time graft
and re-sow
all her little goslings
in a row, eventually
swans, black or white
she could not tell
would never know
she held tight
to the moment
that Summer all a glimmer
and noon a purple glow
arms full of linnet's wings
she never ever wanted to let go
too soon
she would leave
the nest
long before them
she wondered
ceaselessly
about the three fates
and how they’d
grow
the seeds
she’d planted
in their minds
bloomed an entire
wild garden
undernourished
yet overgrown
(LadyLabyrinth)
for Lynette, with Love
“The linnet and the drush say
I love, I love” (PJ Harvey)
“To see a world in a grain of sand
and a Heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and Eternity in an hour
A Robin Redbreast in a cage
puts all Heaven in a rage
A Dove house filled
with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thr’ all its regions”
(William Blake)
“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”
(William Butler Yeats)
Picasso, oval face and olive eyes,
always solemn and searching.
Pushing boundaries, challenging authority,
his artistic torch cut through the fog of life.
At times his scrutiny turned inwards.
Self-critique of the physical and the psychological took hold.
Could it be self-doubt or ego which drove him on?
Or was it simply a visual diary of moments in his life?
1901, subdued bluish tones portray young Picasso in an older light.
Sadness and solitude emanate from the cloaked figure.
Though beset by trials and tribulations
he stands proud gazing at his audience.
1907, the face of cubism unfolds
angular features with large searching eyes.
He seems lean almost undernourished.
His sombre outlook dominates the vista.
1972, and then the end draws near.
Staring his own death in the face
there is fear in his sunken eyes.
Flesh nearly gone reveals his skull for all to examine.
Pablo asked, “Are we to paint what’s on the face,
what’s inside the face or what’s behind it?”
The recognisable image becomes less and less distinct,
until what is left is the naked soul.
And Pablo said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
But eventually the soul becomes dust and all that is left is a memory.
We will always remember Pablo,
for art is life and life is art.
-----------------------------------
2020 published in PS: It's Poetry, pp.286-287
2019 November 26 *1st Place*
Your Favorite Artist Contest
Sponsored by: Anne Cooke
Hungry cry of waking baby
challenging the staccato
of small arms fire.
School bus honking
over the droning hum
of I-phone ear-buds.
Wood fire banked against
searing desert winds
rattling glassless windows.
Pop tart in microwaves,
nutritional nuance
of the overfed
undernourished.
Dogs barking in the distance,
squeaking well wheels
bare feet padding
to distant comfort.
Beeping, one eyed tyrants,
demanding attention
“whatuwearin’”,
Rooster’s inane need
to alert everyone
“SUN’S UP! – SUN’S UP!”
Children squabbling
over much – or little.
Pots and pans and decisions,
“who likes what” vs
“who needs it more”.
Mother’s spreading love
on fragile hearts,
singing songs
long forgotten
by the fathers.
Prayers said
in the hope
of golden morrows
tears shed
in the depth
of poverty’s sorrows.
The cry of a waking baby,
the hungry sound of an empty tin,
choking angry words:
“Please sir, could you help, again”.
Sounds of a day
blowing across a hardened consciousness
aching to be heard.
6/18/2016
submitted to – Sounds of the Day – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron
In a world of democracies, in a world where the great projects that have set humanity on fire are the projects of the emancipation of individuals from entrenched social division and hierarchy; in such a world individuals must never be puppets or prisoners of the societies or cultures into which they have been born.
Child slavery is a crime against humanity. Humanity itself is at stake here. A lot of work still remains, but I will see the end of child labor in my lifetime.
I think music in itself is healing. It's an explosive expression of humanity. It is something we are all touched by. No matter what culture we're from, everyone loves music.
There is no present.
We are living in the future.
Risk, risk, risk
We are all risk
Risking to go,
Risking to die,
Risking to learn.
Risking to fly.
We have made it.
We are ancient as we speak.
We are living in the future.
So some give their lives to history.
We are history.
So some give their lives to us.
Humanity has been challenged.
They have challenged humanity.
We have risen out of the ashes
That are not ashes.
We have picked ourselves up
Out of the oceans
Over and over again
We learn that we’re not safe
So we redesign.
We learn that we are wrong,
So we scrap and start a new.
We try again.
They call back to us,
"Please, try again!
Over my departed dreams,
Try, try again!"
We the undernourished,
We the underfunded,
We the constrained,
We the brave,
The daring,
The curious,
The planet,
The humans.
Life.
We are nothing if not inspired.
We will find a way
To our stars.
From whence the atoms in our souls
Were fashioned.
We are Challenger.
I am a Challenger.
A Challenger Challenges only?
To deny people their human rights is to challenge their very humanity.
By Aliza Kashmala Kiran
When Adam first did fall from grace,
Something died within him.
His very soul was weak and frail,
Undernourished, thin;
And God looked down upon the man,
Said,"He's lost something special.
He'll have to learn all over again,
To feel on the same level.
He must needs have a teacher,
To live close by his side,
To teach him by example,
And be his friend and guide.
He must have great courage,
And patience unsurpassed,
For his will be a thankless job;
He'll be considered last.
I gave to him a woman,
But she's as bad as he.
'Twas she who was the first to fall,
And led him to that tree.
Who has a heart so filled with love,
Forgives time and again?
Who humbly suffers every wrong,
Yet still will kiss your hand?
The man now seems to have gone blind,
His mind seems in a fog.
Who will guide him back to me?
I know, I'll send the dog."
his lean equine face with dust-brown eyes
defines hardship
a gaunt frame
undernourished
he squats on city pavement
there in the crook of his neck and shoulder
a white bird
cradled, stroked
cooing
"I bought the dove with my can money when the pet store
closed."
he shakes his can of coins at me like keys jingling
at locked doors
a delicate coarseness
this vagabond
human haven
for a white dove
something sacred
that's he's obliged to care for
that spikes sustainable
refractive light at how we view others
cut by luck decomposing
as sunlight squeezes into city hatchways
into stories we don't own
into a soiled world that sometimes
falls away like hands from a piano
Poem composed July 3, 2023
Winter-weather tickles, tingles, tantalizingly thrills,
Chilling, stinging, freezing - common creature; yet it joy-fills;
Cold, like strong electric current, passes through our physique,
Beings though weak and fragile, in winter seldom fall sick...
Snow falls in colder regions, covering cotton corn flakes,
Land and water get frozen like crystal-mold-baked ice-cakes;
Leaves, flowers and Ecosystem shiver wearing white veils,
Sun's eye gets blind-folded by thick fog-clouds that make slow sails...
Trees stop growing; plants, like undernourished kids, get stunted,
Nights linger long, like defenseless wings-clipped birds get hunted;
Fish, frogs, turtles and snakes go into long hibernation,
Breeze blow betwixt brooding-beings in shy hesitation...
Girlish nature goes on altering attractive attires!
Sometimes sunny; other times woolen; or white frozen cheers;
Glistening blankets and glittering colors add great glow,
Finches, sparrows, blue jays and cardinal’s sweet sirens blow...
Bitter, biting, blustery, bone-chilling... winter is cold,
Yet, brings blissful fraternal feeling amid young and old;
Divine gift, like the very merry-filled Christmas season,
Weathers, like cosmic changes, have their seasonal reason...!
01 January 2022
Weather Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Angela Tune
We forced her into menopause well ahead of her time.
Mother Nature’s prematurely changing and we’ll regret our crime.
We cut off her tresses that once bushed across her land,
polluted her oceans and soiled her golden sand.
Moody and unpredictable her volcanic eruptions flows,
fed a daily diet of plastics, pesticides and GMO’s.
We sweated out her edges and turned her temples gray,
while her hot flashes melt the glaciers that dissolve more each day.
Her skin is dry and arid as she blazes across her earth,
destroying crops and animal life, unyielding, no longer giving birth.
We ravaged her Amazon where green algae and flora once flourished,
only two days shipping while populations starve and many undernourished.
Waken with a splitting headache as earthquakes and tornados roar,
we have become her burden with our excessive cries for more.
Gas emissions have choked her and left her in a daze.
The damage is done, too late before we change our ways.
She is like a bridge as our weight has caused her back to bend
with greed, corruption and the unconscionable conscience of men.
How will humanity survive when Mother Nature has no more to give,
what will become of our children, where will they have to live?
This is a time of urgency, but we have been fore warned.
Her end is rapidly approaching, for “hell has no fury like a woman scorned”.