Short Squatters Poems

“Squatters’ Paradise”
contains concrete remains of
               an old training base
head west where trailer life reigns
          and vanish into freedom
...

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My Favored Season…

Exploding fragrant blossoms invite…
 flying newbies to share space 
squatters to temporary home 
buzzing news for the times.

Original poem: “My Yesterdays, Todays, Tomorrows”
November 30, 2020 
Liberum Divisa 3 Poetry Contest...

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Squatters acquire the land
And no questions are asked.

Hovers litter the place
And open drains greet the eyes.

Stench queezes the life
But sellers defy the odour;
Frequent epidemic and death,
But the population continues to grow.

Nobody to care;
No questions are asked;
Sheer naked life,
Ever ready for the end....

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The pink haired,
queen of the runway,
couldn’t handle
spiders in her boudoir.

When flying arachnid’s
trapeze was disrupted
for the fourth time;
arachnid moved into her 
favorite hatbox and laid eggs.

Upon discovering the squatters, 
Pink hair’s scream and subsequent faint,
sent eggs flying everywhere.

When she came around,
she quickly mastered…
tap dancing,
without one single lesson.
...

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there is a village where
everyone a squatter
everyone a traveler
no one is permanent
rich or poor none is
a child each person is
but all have no mothers
all do not have fathers
but each child is father
of  the father’s father
each child is mother
of the mother’s mother
yet no one is  parent of the other
the tag of imaginary parenthood
hangs around each neck
and yet none is orphaned
interesting that as squatters
squatting is a taboo for all...

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I stood at the door and knocked..

five hundred years...no one told

me to come in- no one told me

what's yours is mine.

I stood at the door and knocked.

The keys were in my pocket.

When I realized,I could unlock

the door and go in. Squatters

had entrance gained.

They changed the locks

and cast me into the rain.

If you knock three times

and no one answers...

"check your pockets"...

this is your house,

do not fail to unlock-it...!...

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The tired and the hungry
the broken and the poor
shattered...all but scattered
a home without a door

South of the equator
exploited and ignored
squatters live in squalor
engrossed in civil war

Socially maladjusted
cruel dictators heavy hand
forcing many across their borders
beyond their birthing lands

Parents weep,their children cry
knowing these little ones must rely
but try as they try,and try as they must
unforgiving world,for them turned to dust.........

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Inhabited by check and counterfoil,
my head is full of squatters – what a mob!
One Michael’s eager for his daily toil: 
another Michael can’t abide his job.

There’s one of me who’s frugal, prudent, wise,
and one you wouldn’t trust to walk the dog:
one version tries it on with petty lies,
while one’s as stable as a fallen log.

One talks like Robin Williams on a high,
but one’s as muted as a manatee:
so how can I my inner self descry?
Establish which, of all of them, is me?
...

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The frozen voice hangs on the
door. A crowd waits.
Midnight explosions
will start soon
to herald a benevolent sky-
for squatters.

In rise and fall of an empire
I won’t put any label
to generation drift. The
changing geography will
take care of the ashes.
A ragpicker will tell the story.

Ambulatory moon
had become economical, blanching
the stained dreams only
like our land’s wounds.
The sea of hate lies naked before us
to sweep the carcasses. I know not
how to become omnivorous.


Satish Verma...

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