Poverty Poems | Examples of Poverty Poetry

Mandela, forgive us— When Robben Island set you free after twenty-seven winters, You stepped into sunlight and showed us the way. You taught us peace when the world expected vengeance, You offered us hope when our hearts were torn. Your vision was a land reborn, A South Africa dignified, A rainbow nation rising beyond its past. You told us to do better— But oh,...

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It was a misty morning in Moscow— When fate and palm first softly crossed, In gilded halls where secrets sleep, I met a man both sharp and lost. An oligarch with eyes of frost, Berezovsky, his name well known, His smile—a veil for storms within, His heart, a throne turned into stone. He ushered me with silken grace, Into his room where silence spoke, "Read...

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I sometimes wonder why we were brought here? Was it mainly exercising reproductive rights Or was it to multiply the heads that will continue to endure the never ending pain of living with nothing Why do we really have to keep going while there’s no way? Would it not be best to stop? Forget that, maybe that’s not...

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The cage creaks upward. The ancient Otis, ascends slowly from a first floor past. He dreams on... Outside the remembered apartment the fat round nipple of the doorbell reminds him of her - Rosy Holroyd, who once, without being asked, shoved one of her large **** into his mouth. He punches the doorbell with a flat thumb, imagines her undressing, getting those ample bosoms warmed up. No response...

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Kensington spreads its legs— lets the city crawl in, dripping Xylazine / fentanyl / tranq, open sore veins moaning dirty dirges. False prophets— all piss and panic— bark half-lies through decaying molars, fingering apathy for spare change. You smell it five blocks before you enter. The stench tests your soul before it reaches your throat. Narcan. burnt spoons. street toilet. Dreams twitch under heat lamps— larval things too stubborn to die. Hope? Hope’s a half-smoked, laced Newport balanced...

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“Imagination is the beginning of creation.” Gorge Bernard Shaw **************************************************************** ...

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Flour and oil are running out So are bread and butter It’s been one pestilence of drought Which causes wizened grass to flutter....

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We went out after the storm and sat on the flat roof. A few orchids in their pots dripped in the moonlight. We watched vultures circle the floating market, while Bangkok put on its neon mask. You said that your village was your heart, not this city apartment, a place where people disappear into tomorrow. On the train station platform a deluge of rain and people. Rain fell heavily. I...

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The factories long disappeared, Silent structures still stay; And more drugs than dreams have appeared, In Kensington today. The north of the Ave has its shine, Less fine, southerly way; Best Philly, and worst, intertwine, In Kensington today. Six miles, in a small corner curled, “What matter?” you may say; Well, the world is here, here’s the world, In Kensington today. ...

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I have known the hollow silence of empty hands, once full of gold, now dust and fading strands. I gave my heart in seasons bright and fair, helping those in need, with love laid bare. But when the coins ran out, the doors grew cold, no pennies left to buy a dream or hold. Help came shackled, wrapped in debt’s tight...

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I didn't get to know her, not even her name. She asked for money, and I only had a quarter. She was a young lady with eyes of hunger whose face was hidden behind what seemed to be weeks of dirt. Never have I felt more saddened and disappointed That I could not give aid to one in need of assistance. I...

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Is a picture worth a thousand words? Is it the same with a song? Is it worth a thousand pictures? Who can deny the powerful images evoked from Songs of Struggle and Protest – a forte of common humanity? A song can paint optimism, commitment, and a desire for peace, freedom, and the right to live without …Your Millions, Mister. A piece of...

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Every picture I’ve seen of you as a child, You wear your hair in plaits. A stern middle parting and two dark brown braids Falling down on each shoulder. A maypole’s dream. You would do your best to wash them when you could, When shampoo was available, Or even in the single, small bathroom. You would vigorously scrub your face too With...

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This guy looks (and smells) like a loser in every way. Why does he have to hang around my table today? Right now, I wish he would turn around and go away. For the last few days, he has been in this casino. He is certainly nobody I would want to know. Overindulging, he has lost every penny to his...

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