A European among starving nations.
Some of the things I see
still startle me.
Pangs of hunger know no humiliation.
Starving children, their faces ashen,
with sunken eyes and bloated bellies,
God forsaken, gourmandize what they can seize
from mouths of dogs in dog day heat.
To the hungry soul
every bitter thing is sweet.
Let’s start with some rhyme..
I started the morning microdosing iced coffee
and scrolling the endless Internet sea
Similar to Odysseus’ travels in the Odyssey,
my sales were swelled by fashion amenities
and I was waylaid by sirens of curiosity
enough of THAT..
Ok, I have regrets. Last night I was talked into going to an after-party, when honestly, I was ready to go home. Why does Peter let me do that?
We were having enough fun where we were.
So, in this group of 10 or so, on foot, we tottered into an elegant restaurant where tiny plates that cost €40 held 4 actual bites of delicious food. We were sharing (with 1-3 other people). So, picking up the tab, I paid €400 and got what? Two bites?!
Still, with the energy of a club after midnight,
we finally got to the after-party and it was a delight
but with absolutely no food in sight.
Except two olives.
This morning I’m as ravenous as a Cyclops.
My order, placed early, would fill a triceratops.
For room service I’m toe-tappingly waiting
because the staff’s moving as fast as a Monet still-life painting.
.
.
A song for this:
Beauty and the Beast by Jump5
Baby love infatuation
did not become her station
Her parents held higher expectations
To a rising star she’d marry
on romantic love, she’d not tarry
Yet her primal feelings she could not bury
From college she brought home a starving artist
Who, after two days of trying his hardest
first emptied the fridge
~ then parted with the stardust
Here a tiny hand
Urging for help
Under the rubble
Crafted by conflict
Here a helping hand
Holds urging hand
Clicking hand lapses
Burying it breathless
Here a mother screams
Losing her beloved
A little hand
Can't be reborn
Here little sobbing eyes
Searching for care
Left abandoned
Losing his beloved
Here remain
Empty bowls
Starving souls
And mourning men
Here they cry
Their abode in rubble
Lives under them
Left in agony
There they lie
Calling it peace
Showering shells
Shattering lives
Olive leaf withers
The world watches
we surf the channels
some shall shrug and look away…
this is not my child
Israeli hostages and Gazans hollowed,
the dark cold cruelty of some in humankind.
Gray circles under frightened eyes,
bones protruding from fading frames.
Listless song of the starving,
grieving God. ~
There lies a land behind the smoke,
Where silence screams and hearts are broke
Where lullabies drown in bombs and drones
And cradles turn to shattered stones
Babies cry with lips so dry
No blood, no milk, no tear left to cry
No schoolbell rings, no hospital stands,
Just bones and ruins buried in the sand
They queue for crumbs and bleed for rice
A bottle of water, the price of life
Each has lost __ be it a child or spouse
a parent, a sibling or a shattered house
Then phosphorus rains on wrecked-out souls
To burn their skin to elevate their pains
And we the modern civilized race
Watch stage 5 famine take its place
What further war-crimes must I define
Palestine bleeds while the world stays blind
As I scream out your name I fall
In darkness I have labored scantly clad in sack cloth and ashes
Wait for me I won't be long
My time is nearly up
Crimson moons in rivers by the shore break my silence
I scream out your name alone in empty rooms
Hold me in my dreams
Arenas of wild killers all fell before my might
In your name I breathe
Juniper with my tea
Mint cookies delight me much
Her name is forgotten all this time lost chasing shadows in the dark
Chained to the whispers of the lost skulls now long since dust
Do their whispers still sing out to you?
Wake me when the king has arrived is he nearly here now?
I am sworn to listen for the Lambs horn calling us up
Quake with fear when the trump sounds the end has arrived
Autumn and my Buddy will they meet me there on The Mount Of Olives by the Masters side? Questioning the reason to wait 2,000 years for a wedding feast.
Almost time for the third day to begin and the rising of The Son of Man. Lamb gets ready to break that seal and let our kingdom be revealed.
Artists complain they’re forever starving
~ yet prefer wood to roast for carving
I’m listening to a song,
that’s captured my mood.
What’s the singer saying?
If it knew, I’d sing along.
but the slurry words elude.
It’s an artistic choice, I suppose,
and I don’t require deeper meanings.
A squirrel stands defiantly in the middle of the path,
A tiny, furry-tailed, usurper - quite out of the routine.
“Hello fluffy rodent,” I baby-sing, as it watches me,
“What an odd meeting, are you hoping for a feeding?”
I try to pass but it jittery-scampers and cuts me off.
"I have a test, get out of the way, you crazy nut-thief”
I glance at my watch; l might really be late to lab.
So, I leave the path to the possibly rabid rat.
if it comes at me, on-God, I swear I’ll kick it,
launch it ballistically into the evergreen thicket.
How I long for a coffee, hot and sweet,
or a sandwich and salty chips - that would be nice -
but then I would be late for class. I sigh in defeat.
It started to drizzle. This afternoon will be miserable.
.
.
Songs for this:
Out of Myself by Bebo Best & The Super Lounge Orchestra
Jettin' by Digable Planets
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_15.mp3
Can we just get gw to write real poetry
instead of all that over-politicized trash ...
Well frankly, my friends, 'frilly poetry's' nearly starved me to death
so, here's another piece of trash with my very last breath
what do you need?
nice to meet you
my name is greed
years ago i had few friends
now it seems i have many
i rule the world in many ways
i am with most people all their days
i make them inhuman to say the least
helping them to sell their soul
for a few more dollars,they dig their hole
yes i am greed
my power is unmatched
i control your life
from the plan we hatched
i make you watch as people starve to death
i have no conscience seeing their last breath
i make you spend one hundred on a plate
not worrying about others if they ate,
yes i am greed
your best friend ,
i run the world now till the end.
Starving
Counting the beans in the garden
that will feed us this winter
in the cold.
There are fewer than I remember
from ever before now
but somehow...
God will make it enough.
That is What "HE" does...
He is a miracle maker
and a mighty earth shaker.
Yet none of his children need be
worried or concerned.
His great love boundless
and real to feel
for all.
There were only a few loaves of bread
and a handful of fish...
on the shore that day
to feed thousands.
Yet...
"He" turned the small amount
into enough to satiate the crowd.
Then, as now...
the important message,
the beautiful words,
straight from heaven spoken...
ever, and still
food for the soul
perfect...
unbroken,
and
out loud
for all to hear.
He is an occupant of a room damp
And dependent on a rejected lamp:
The worst so far in their camp …
A room often not illuminated
But in it plants still germinated,
Selecting peeping spots in a cemented floor,
Daringly doing so back to the room’s door.
The room’s nearest neighbor a smelly dump,
To many microbes their Releasing Pump
And, sure, the cause of The Man’s mumps
And as possibly his torturing lumps:
A man Hunger has been kicking his rump
And readying for a final slump …
But wither did The Man this foulness pick
And could Hunger make one licked plates still lick?
Nothing like an answer from Interviewed Nick
And rather a rude one from Starving Dick.
Starving the monster in the hole,
anger is hot, spite is cold.
The walls are bare and they're thin.
They won't stop the outside coming in.
Rabbits can speculate.
Turtles must hedge.
Move quick, never guess, trust no one.
Cross the finish line alone.
Straining to hear the world about,
day by day to fill the hole.
But across the pasture green,
somewhere past the sunset sheen,
no one saw the rabbit slip,
falling into the once sunny abyss.
The windows are open, despite the cold.
The outside's in,
pouring into the deepening hole.
The turtle will win.
The rabbit is gone.
Turtles and monsters, they’re not the same.
So, blame me not if I was too cold
or, perhaps, too slow to fill the hole.
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