Long Whooping cough Poems
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I saw a wrinkled-faced woman so lost and scary,
and from her swelled eyes, tears of desperation ran;
it boldly told everyone that nobody cared...
but that humble human being moved me deeply.
I couldn't go past her and not find out
why she was so distraught
among faces so healthy and joyful...
everyone seemed to ignore her.
I got closer to her...she trembled, but smiled
by holding out her hand with droopy skin;
how long had she been at that busy intersection?
Perhaps many hours, I could tell by her whooping cough.
" Please help me, young man...help me find my home;
I can't remember where I live! " She begged me
by squeezing my warm hand very hard...she hoped
I was that angel who could lead her home.
" I surely would...if you could tell me your name! "
was my answer. " I don't remember anything, son. "
she replied with confusion. Then she showed me
an identification tag with her name and address.
Seeing that gave me a sigh of relief,
" Smile, your name is Linda and you live on 414 Oak Street
which is only two blocks away! " Linda is my name? "
Yes, it is...I'll be happy to take you home! "
Did Robert Browning say it best when he
wrote, “winter takes the old ones”? Possibly.
Bronchitis, pthisis, whooping cough, T.B. –
they ran amock in 1863.
I trust it’s not too jarring if I jump
from modern miseries (ecoli, Trump)
to mid-Victorian London’s social rump,
and John Snow (doctor), and the Broad Street Pump.
The City Hall had never heard of germs.
They dealt with filth and foliage and firms,
and knew that there were parasites called worms.
But cholera? They couldn’t come to terms.
The water pump in Broad Street was infected.
Bacteria, back then, went undetected.
“Miasma” and “air pressure” were suspected:
how could the population be protected?
Oh lucky London! By sheer happenstance,
within the metropolitan expanse
young Doctor Snow was working, and by chance
had learned of recent studies made in France.
“They’re tiny animals, too small to see.
I’ll prove it, if you trust the Pump to me.”
Officials sneered with incredulity:
but, faced with daily deaths, gave him the key.
He knocked on every window in the quarter,
and showed (despite initial mayoral hauteur)
that cholera was carried in the water.
And, single-handed, John Snow stopped the slaughter!
Preserving Childhood memories
Those years are like dusty boxes of old books
Each book classify as a quantum leap for me.
My first steps that led to many things,
I kept thinking of my small bottle of goat’s milk
Flavored with Grenada nutmeg to tone down the taste:
Perhaps after my father saw the look of disgust on my small face,
After my first tastes, in comparison to the cow’s milk
Lactose intolerance was the key word in those days.
Little did anyone knew of it…then..
Which was worse the cod liver oil, on Sunday Morning?
Or the nauseating feeling, of the repeats of the oil in one’s mouth
1950s hardly a child escaped mumps, measles, whooping cough or chicken pox.
Childhood disease was most feared, especially amongst the poorest.
So the old folks did whatever, it took to protect us ..
I was always searching, for my next chapter, as soon as I was out of
The danger zone to record, one line at a time
to the simplest things such as choosing the
Best pebbles, the loudest night crickets, to the most
Beautiful butterfly for my collections:
I think I had mention this before once I caught a snarky bird
And try to cage, the poor thing, until my grandmother beg of me
To let it go free, freedom for him was a squeak of happiness,
I could be wrong, but I think the bird return a favor to our household…
There he was picking away at the bananas on the kitchen counter,
Perhaps he saw the danger, that windy morning
A nearby kitchen towel was left to close to the burning stove,
Freedom for him was a squeak of happiness for us on that day
I must indeed say:
Preserving my childhood memories,
not only came from on top of that Hill
But from what that bird taught me,
About a kitchen window that opened with a slight squeak"
freedom
?
Whispers of Youth
Dusty boxes, like forgotten books, Hold chapters of quantum leaps— My first steps, tiny and determined, Leading to a world of wonders.
Goat’s milk, flavored with Grenada nutmeg, A remedy for cow’s blandness, And lactose intolerance—the secret code Of those simpler days.
Cod liver oil, Sunday mornings’ ritual, Bitter drops to ward off unseen foes, Mumps, measles, whooping cough— Childhood’s battles etched in time.
Curiosity fueled my quest: Pebbles, night crickets, butterflies— Each a treasure, carefully collected, One line at a time.
And that snarky bird, Caged, then set free— Freedom’s squeak of happiness, A lesson etched in feathers.
The kitchen window, a gateway, Its slight squeak echoing freedom. The bird, banana thief turned guardian, A debt repaid in whispers.
Childhood memories preserved, Not just atop that distant hill, But in the flutter of wings, And the quiet moments we cherish.
Feel free to add more verses or share more memories—I’m here to listen and weave them into poetry! ??
Form:
The Jab
I am somewhat disenchanted by what I’ve seen and read
Antivaxxers believe the lie that soon the vaccinated will be dead
That our leaders are out to get us, dictating what we need
and will decrease the population by deciding how we breed
I’ve heard more twisted theories in my time upon this rock
made so much worse with rumors on you tube and tic tok
I pray that common sense will soon take hold of every friend
Covid 19 is NOT just another virus. Don’t let it be your end
Remember mumps, measles, tetanus and whooping cough
They were cured by science, not a de wormer in a trough
Think of polio, rubella, diphtheria, hepatitis B and A
Thanks to vaccinations, these diseases were kept at bay
This world is full of deadly germs, we make perfect hosts
Please listen to the doctors instead of any ill-informed posts
Life is short, so show respect for the time you’ve got
Think of others, not just yourself. Now go and get your shot!
A Winters tale...........................
As a child I never wondered,
What life we could have had.
I never blamed society,
Or questioned my Mum and Dad.
Though now as an adult I realise,
How tough a life we led.
Cold, cold winters in a council house,
Sharing my sisters bed.
Cold, cold nights, bleak and damp,
Icicles on the windows inside.
For years I suffered from whooping cough,
Twice I nearly died.
I remember us burning, shoes and toys,
Just to try and keep us warm.
But that was the only thing we knew,
To us it was the norm'.
Money was never a problem,
But the beer and gambling took hold.
That shows off my parents priorities,
And it wasn't us kids being cold............
I have nothing better to say
Than Alhamdulilah on this special day.
Many years ago when Mama gave birth to me,
She knew a success is what I'd turn out to be;
Kiniun the King of the jungle,
Akoni ti o care about those wey dey grumble.
Heart of a lion, heart of an empathetic,
When it comes to vomiting rhymes-
Y'all know I'm energetic!;
Emaa bami kalo through the pages of my story,
You'll understand why I give God all the glory.
In the times of yore some wrote me off,
Likening me to pertussis that causes whooping cough;
Rejected, neglected and probably hated,
I knew God is watching and so I waited.
And on bended knees I pleaded with Him:
Ya Allah position me with the creme de la creme;
I prayed with tears upon my orbs,
That He should bless me and any begotten cubs;
And so I claim longevity, I claim wealth,
I claim prosperity, I claim health.
I claim sabr, Ya Allah I claim Your mercies,
And guidance against worldly fantasies;
As I add another year to my sojourn,
May I not have any reason to mourn.
Be with me, throughout my days in Dunniya,
And when in Akhira accommodate me-
In Jannah, a place of joy, and no fear.
Niggyraslife Da Poet!
Those years are like dusty boxes filled with old books, each representing a significant leap in my life. They captured my first steps that led to countless experiences. I often remember my small bottle of goat’s milk, flavored with Grenadian nutmeg to mask the taste. My father must have seen the look of disgust on my young face after my first sip, especially when compared to cow’s milk. Back then, "lactose intolerance" was a term largely unknown to most people.
The struggle between cod liver oil on Sunday mornings and the lingering nauseating aftertaste was real. In the 1950s, few children escaped mumps, measles, whooping cough, or chickenpox. Childhood diseases were feared, particularly among the poorest, and the older generations did whatever it took to protect us.
Emerging from the danger zone, I was always searching for my next chapter, recording my thoughts one line at a time. I found joy in the simplest things—choosing the best pebbles, listening to the loudest night crickets, and collecting the most beautiful butterflies.
I recall catching a mischievous bird, trying to cage the poor creature until my grandmother begged me to let it go free. That freedom became a squeak of happiness, and I believe that bird returned the favor to our household. There he was, pecking at the bananas on the kitchen counter, possibly sensing danger on that windy morning when a nearby kitchen towel was left too close to the burning stove.
The freedom he embraced brought us joy that day. Preserving my childhood memories came not only from that hilltop but also from what that bird taught me about a kitchen window that opened with a slight squeak—freedom.