Rationing Poems | Examples

A Walk with Father

He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.

We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,

Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.

Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.

He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.

That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.

Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.

Two Worlds

When I was little,
life was supposed to be filled with laughter,
sticky fingers from melting ice cream,
and afternoons lost in make-believe,
toy cars and plastic dinosaurs battling in the living room.
I’d look up at the adults, safe in their tallness,
never guessing that one day,
I’d be the one holding up the walls.
Instead, my afternoons were cluttered with sighs,
echoing through a quiet house,
where I’d drag your slumped figure from the front steps,
breathe in the stale scent of beer that clung to you
like a second skin.
Eight years old, trying to stand tall enough
to be your keeper.
When I was little,
Mom was supposed to pack my lunch,
Capri Suns and fruit roll-ups,
instead, mom wasn't ever there
I was busy slicing bread,
rationing out the peanut butter,
making sure my little brother had more than crumbs.
I’d wanted crayons, chalk, new paintbrushes, OH! the pink bike, and maybe an iphone
but my pockets held grocery lists,
my hands chapped and rough,
scrubbing dishes, sweeping floors,
Searching for that imaginary line
that had been drawn somewhere
between us:
the parent I wished for,
the parent I became.

SIPPING COFFEE

SIPPING COFFEE

There was a time a few decades ago
Well yes, many more than just a few
And post war rationing we still faced
Finding real ground coffee was tough
At least in homes of the common folk
Just early instant stuff that was a joke
But there was the black bottled stuff
An awful gaudy label as well as taste
As I never got to like it, that was true
Hoping real coffee someday I’d know

Then the sixties with those coffee shops
Weak foamy and milky was all the rage
Italian influenced, and many a new name
And now, even baristas can be well-paid
All the flat white and cappuccino versions
And even flavoured syrup immersions
For me, I really like it full weapons grade
But these modern pod things is a shame
Yet not missed by those of a certain age
But hope the caffeine supply never stops

Hang On

My country in Africa - though I am Indian in origin -
Lies torn and tattered, corrupt and corrupting
No water for weeks, only Mandela's Charity trucked in some (2 trucks today) 
After a whole week of dry faucets. With electricity, there's LOADSHEDDING
Or rationing of power, so one must research the hours each day ... 
And decide when to make coffee, or breakfast, beverages, meals -
Then we have loved ones frustrated: Just hang on. Pray. Ask God
Because no humans can solve the problems of arrogance of power
ANC: AFRICAN NATIONAL CONGRESS, once light, now darkness itself!

Routines

he sat there in his room
gently shaking his head as
he chalked ducks on the floor
which then he carefully fed
over in the corner 
watching him with glee
the asylum keeper counted
from one to ninety three
ceaselessly repetetive
each number chanted out
sometimes in a whisper
sometimes in a shout
the warden made his rounds
with his little boxes of pills
each chosen for efficacy
on a multitude of mental ills

they washed them down with water
on sundays gin and rum in lieu
carefully rationing the alcohol
to never more than a tot or two
and there were watchers watching
the watchers as they watched the rest
each watching watcher watched
in that observed observation test 
it all made perfect sense of course
he thought as he shook his head
ensuring that each chalked duck
received its proper share of bread
and every single morning
when their clock struck ten
the asylum keeper blew a whistle
and the routine started off again

Sanctions and Ukraine

Determined is the USA
Who thinks they understand the Ukraine!

They knew Sanctions did not prevent a thing!
They said, “More dead tonight ,sure-thing.”

“Thank you, very much,’ The USA President said,
“Rationing will work”, and took his new kitty to bed.

The streets with blood were flowing red.
Rationing does not wok, I heard it said!



                  2-25-2022

Rationing Prayers

I used to pray with conditions attached... 
The I'll do this if you'll only do that type of soiled tripe..
The epitome of mind blemishes and ramblings 
that I knew would never bear anything significant.

I'm older now and my prayer nest is made of a softer fabric.
Less abrasive-less selfish
Tiny puffs of hope- toward heaven 
Directed at the suffering of others.
Sometimes prayer seems to work.
Other times not so much.
but who am I to question intention and outcomes.

The sincere prayer is more exhausting than
selfish ones.
Since they're a drain on the mind.
I've learned to ration them.
Not wasting anything on those that 
run up huge tabs at societal expense. 

I miss those sticky-youthful days.
Filled with wrecking ball-fun. 
And prayers attached to hazy conditions.

Drowning In Debt

He goes through each day 
obsessing over how to 
increase his earnings. 
Times are hard. 
He's drowning in debt; 
his bills gradually piling up.
Creditors bug him so much, 
he feels like screaming;
soon landlord will come knocking.
He consolidated his loans;
it hasn't made much of a difference
He asked his boss for overtime,
nothing doing.
He applied for a second job,
no dice. He's still waiting for a call back.
He wants to start a home business,
but doesn't enough start up cash.
Desperation is gradually setting in.
He's put unneeded clothes 
on consignment,
he's holding garage sale,
rationing food,
clipping coupons,
exercising for free,
shopping in thrift stores,
bicycling to work 
and he's cut cable television 
down to basic. Anything... 
to decrease his spending.


Date written: 03/09/2021

Sweets

sweets

after the war in Norway, there were little in the way
of sweets and what we could buy was rationed.
But all was not lost, my mother melted sugar in a frying pan 
when the sugar became liquefied, she put it on a paper
to cool off, she then turned the paper turned it around and 
we had sweets, and I remember it tasted wondrous.
Time got better, the rationing stopped and, there were many 
children with rotten teeth, the school dentists had a lot to do.
I was not especially fond of sugary things and because of this 
I still, except three teeth have got my own.
This, however, didn´t stop me from getting diabetes which 
my dear doctor insisted were caused by an overindulgence of
Rum& coca cola and beer.

- Norway In Virus Quarantine -

A significantly different day
                 No bread or milk
empty for toilet paper
Reduced opening hours in grocery stores
-  Home insulation with
   respiratory infection
Rationing on medicines
School closes -
no leisure activities
                 No daycare
                 No bus or taxi
                 No traveling abroad
All aboard aircraft and boat
must in quarantine
Large preventive measure
Dramatic cut in hotel beds
The church cancels all services
Closed office buildings
                 No cinema or theater
Today our first victim
as a result of the coronavirus
My deepest condolences to the family

 ~ "Normal life" is paused
                 Let this time bring out the best in us









12.03.2020
Coronavirus Covid-19 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Team PoetrySoup

Copyright © All Rights Reserved

A Little Taste of Rain

The earth is parched
and southwestern winds whip the sky dusty
The world feels dry
and the evening sky bleeds a little rusty
Dear Lord if you please
a little taste of rain we surely need

A fall foliage is wither and brown
no colors do the tree tops crown
The earth so cracked you can trip down
nothing as sad as thirsty ground
Rationing of precious water miles around
for a little taste of rain our sorrows drown

A crack of lightning
a darken sky roars with thunder
The smell of rain
leads raindrops to drip then rip asunder
Reviving the earth
gulping the liquid life as plunder

A little taste of rain
let it pour let it pour
Prayers answered
life reassured

Verses

No words today
My mind's gone away;
Come back another day

~~~~~~~~~


Distress and dismay
Yes come what may;
Not much to say

~~~~~~~~~


Feel the feeling
Flu unravels daze;
Word rationing maze

~~~~~~~~~


Blank face
Blank mind;
Nothing new

~~~~~~~~~


Repossessed plots
Words draining away;
Nothing matters

~~~~~~~~~


Empty vessel here
Not much meaning;
Words cannot fill

~~~~~~~~~


There are days
Times feel empty;
Verses dry up

~~~~~~~~~


Abruptly sometimes
Dry season coughs;
New vintage verses

~~~~~~~~~


Round and round
Blurry moments merge;
Substance evaporates

~~~~~~~~~


Urgency mothers care
Nuances create;
Food for thought

~~~~~~~~~


Feel that feeling
Words run away;
What poetry?

~~~~~~~~~


Writing prompt?
Not much more,
Words bid hasty retreat

~~~~~~~~~




Leon Enriquez
05 May 2016
Singapore

Aftermath Isolation

standing here
in this faze of loss
foreshadowing the time ahead
now that you are officially dead
a drink of water will not do

sitting here
in this period of grief
creating an itinerary for the time ahead
now that you are officially dead
a swig of soda will not do

laying here
in this early stage of 'post'
balancing my sanity for the time ahead
now that you are officially dead
a glass of milk will not do

remaining here
in this dusty depression of leftovers
carefully rationing the time ahead
now that you are officially dead
a bottle of old memories strategically blocks my view

Frederic Bio

Take my hand, walk with me.
I'll show you fragments from my life.
Its broken sidewalks,silently paved by broken souls,
their anger pent up from a world war.
I'll show you soft winters of a child and his sled.
The burden and frustrations of being a teenager,
in the sixties.
A President murdered,water fountains with signs,
blacks only,whites only.
Cities burning, gas rationing, fear of nuclear annihilation.
My shattered dream and short stint as a professional athlete.
My years on an aircraft carrier that sent pilots to war,
to the old man I am today.
I hitch-hiked across the country,a year lost, or a year spent
and asked nothing from any one, except truth.
I care little for those who think themselves important,
it's a waste of energy and it becomes folly.
I built a business and retired from it,
to hold my grand-children close.
If this poem gives you pause,
then writing it claims its purpose.

4/8/15 contest..bio of a poet

Drought

dry skies shimmer and the skin sweats
earth harden and cracked to bits
winds whip laughter of tumbleweeds
red dust blush as heaven bleeds

parch and thirsty burns yellow sun
prayers for rain seem overdone
bodies of water disappeared
rationing life's liquid out of fear

birds and beast weary and thin
life itself barely surviving
fatigue and worry carry on
the weak stay weak the strong gone

faucets rumble and shake
as the earth steadily bakes
clouds scarce and shy
dust as silk freely flies

trees naked the land lays bare
days begot months growing years
restless souls accept defeat
veins of water sucked from deep

winds cool and begin to tease
taste of moisture in the breeze
crack of thunder blacken clouds
lighting slashes heavens bough

angels release tears of white jade
thirsty earth resurrected from grave
whisk of hope brings torrent rains
drought washes down the drain

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