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Best Poems About / On POVERTY
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45.
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The problematic child
Necessity is the mother of invention,
People say. Then we can say like that:
Wealth is the mother of comforts,
And poverty, of meanness.
Wealth is the mother of indolence too.
So is poverty, of viciousness.
Wealth and poverty near by
Deliver discontent,
Which is a problematic child.
04.01.2009
Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
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46.
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what else can be done
dont make poverty an excuse
god gave you mind you better make its use
no matter if you are born in the poverty's slum
while some are handicap, blind and dumb
its better to work hard and strive
and make education bone of your life
for studying makes you dignified
and helps your nation feel pride worldwide
as a good citizen select a right politician
who have perfection to lead your nation
let's remove poverty from our country
which compells a mother to sell her baby
prove yourself and show the world what you can be
inspite of being idle and blindly following your destiny
when there is a will there is a way
after every dark night there is bright sunny day
FAHMINA ARJUMAND MISHA
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47.
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The Smell
Poverty exudes odors
Desperation takes on hues
Uncertainty loudly clamours
Homeless move about
In a cacophony of sound
Illness of the street people
Odors abound
Fear of future flattens
Death of innocence cries loud
Odors of the madness
Smell of poverty abounds
Senses acutely caressing
Filth of necessities sins
Odors changing futures
Individuals meld in sound
Poverty exudes odors
Ignorance carries loud
Smell of desperation
No matter the flattened feelings
Horror of distorted senses
Keeps the homeless
In storms
Odors abound
james smallwood
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48.
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romancing the poverty of other people
you look at the poverty of other people
romancing it like a metaphor in your poetry
the color of a man's unwashed shirt with mud
and blood, dried sweat,
the sound of a hungry baby like the sound
of thunder coming from the breasts of mountains
the ignorant woman like a beautiful native naked
and bathing in the river and rising like a famous nude painting
their poverty to the rhythm of some blues
the colors in brown, and black and violet and scarlet
the trembling hands and biting lips and blank stares
the blackest background ever
to a future as bleak as ember
to a poverty hopeless as ever.
RIC S. BASTASA
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