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Best Poems Written by Robson Shoes Lambada

Below are the all-time best Robson Shoes Lambada poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

Bound To the Street

Ragged and funny 
In dire need of money
I bruise the pot-holed streets of the city
Maiming the waste-filled alleys and dirty
Daily I play hide and seek with death on the razor-sharp edge of humanity.
Once I had a home
Now I cannot pay the dues
Once I went to college
Now I cannot pay the fees
Once I had a wife 
Now I cannot afford the price
Poor the result of no economic emancipation
Bound to the street because of some people's creation
In a vacuum-filled belly I try the robber's invention
Oouch! I cry in incaceration
This cry , my cry, I cry
Bound to the street, is it God's case 
Bound to the street, the street my place
Bound to the street, the street I hate

Eyes closed, tears drop
The drama of my sleeping mystery 
unfolding before my mental eyes like a tapestry
I ravish and languish in hunger
Feeding on left-overs
Left by generous shoppers
Hungry I was, am and still will be
The history but of themhitherto societies is a history of class struggle
and exploitation. How shall I leave the street struggle
In such a society tailor-designed to suffer the helpless
Where the should-be-helpers 
Are the pioneers of the exploitation,
Suppression and oppression of the defenceless
As for me and my street-mates
We will travel along singing a song
The song, my cry.
Bound to the street, is it God's case 
Bound to the street, the street my place
Bound to the street, the street I hate

I come from far further
I am not a bird of your further
You are a son to your father
You are your mother's daughter
I have non to call father or mother 
Neither to call sister nor brother
But pay no attention to criticism like weather
Rather lets read the holy book together
Ang gather as a congregation together 
The bread as you gather
Lets break share and eat together.
Until we harness a new philosophy
I will always cry 
This cry my cry.
Bound to the street, is it God's case 
Bound to the street, the street my place
Bound to the street, the street I hate

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

Youths, To Vice and To Crime Unknown

They surrendered to Virtue all they had, tears
They gained from society( 'twas all they yearned for) tranquility
They sang songs so serene:-
"Oh, blessed is the shunner of all forms of evil!"
And perched on tower-tops
While the city went out and commenced
Jumping walls topped by sharp-edged-jagged pieces of china and glass
Door-breaking and stuttering rifles.
In eloquent gestures and mazy motions,
They recited poems pregnant with emotions:-
"It took yesterday's madmen to 
Build a better today
One cannot make a fundamental change
Without a certain degree of madness!"
While corrupt preachers, politicians, policy-makers
Reiterated their usual rhetoric.
The rhytms and rhymes of political ruthlessness

They painted pictures so loud:
Black guns circled and crossed in red.
They stuck the paintings on hospital walls,
Schools, churches, playgrounds and market stalls.
Patients, nurses and prechers
Vendors, doctors and teachers
Were awe-struck as the questioned, "Who are they?"
I whispered, "Youths, to Vice and to Crime Unknown."

Their soles maimed sinuously the city tarmac
Their voices pierced the polluted atmosphere
Their banner sang volumes:-
"USE COMMON SENSE NOT CRIMINAL SENSE!"
While the peace saboteurs used violence as a tool
To keep the elite few
In top rule
Shunning majority rule
And treating the majority as one fool.
Thus, at Africa Unity Square
The march on Harare ended sincere.
Huge was their number, and their agenda clear
One of them whistled a tune
It lasted till noon.
Then I heard a whispering pulse
In my ear
A whispering pulse 
Of evil eroded clear,
"Youths, to Vice and to Crime Unknown."

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

The Last Touch

You be my love for you come from my roots 
You hate my black overall and black rubber boots
You adore brutes
Who wear white socks and black suits
Why should I trap a suit when I sweat in a mortuary?
I only write of corpse in my diary
Some hairy,
Some scary,
Some skinny
And some stinky,
Flee you may from my handshake.
Run you may from my pat on your back
Needless to say it is a fact
I will give you the last touch.

After your mother has given you
That loving touch on your cheeks
After your father has given you
That soothing touch with his fingertips
 After your t(b)oyfriend has given you
That sensational touch from dusk until six
I will give you the last touch.
I am a friend of the undertaker,
One who understands the job of a soul taker
You will face the barrel in a robbery
You will rest in my busy room, the mortuary
And I will give you the last touch.
Gently my palms will race past
All your curves from the hair to the nail
Softly my fingers will explore the 
Broad petal
And the stiff finger
Of your long-preserved virginity. 

So why wait for the last touch
When the touch that will touch you last
Is the touch,
That can now give you a better touch.
I was drowned in your ocean of love
Now I am floating like a body unfound
Listening to the passionate sound
Of your voice so loud
Heating my thoughts like in Hell I am bound.

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

Freedom

Sopranic echoes of silence
Aggravate the complications of my bitterness
The high-pitched voice of muteness
Pricks the inner wound covering my tears
which will only dry when freedom is freed.
A whirlwind and fragment
Of thoughts entirely flummoxes my conscience
When I imagine hand-cuffed and leg-ironed freeom:
Freedom behind bars!
They fought for freedom
Were awarded freedom
Celebrated, dined and wined for and with freedom
Yet when freedom uttered her free thoughts,
Parardoxically they frantically slapped freedom in the face
And silenced her by a battery of diabolic statutes.
The inspired voice of freedom now speaks in silence
Visiting in my dreams like an ancestral instruction
I hear sopranic echoes of silence
Aggravating the complications of my bitterness.
The high-pitched voice of muteness 
Pricking the innerwound 
Which will omly heal and dry when freedom is freed.

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

Dear Sirs

Bootlickers and bandits
Brutalising the poor
Impoverishing [poverty
Preachers and prostitutes
Partisan puppets
Promoting political promiscuity
impunity
Right brothers so tight with sorcery
Bribery and forgery their mockery, I dread
Robbers of my bread
In spring Isweat.

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

Mid Years Fate

Raindrops
Trickling down the windowpane
Thunderbolts
Sparking up the fire burn
Violent youths
Teaming up with the devil to reign
My personality
The victim of the system's cruelty

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

To My Love

So let us kill the late autumn's
flowers with our hungry sniffs
And ignite in me Adam's
longing. Tears like from cliffs
of Africa will from my heart
snake through parched
fields for long seeded by what
I for long fetched
Then will I blossom and
enjoy my love-May
You and I like a turtle-band
Will whistle and bustle and stay
in love.Virtue would be my love
Our adversary would be strife.

Details | Robson Shoes Lambada Poem

Disposal Not Burial

For the home refuse we dug a pit
We bury the dead to forget
We bury the dead not of respect
My waste frame needs no burial
My waste frame needs disposal
Jungle wild  beasts bury not their dead
Yet the remnants live well-fed.