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Poems On / About POVERTY  11/1/2014 8:47:59 AM
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Best Poems About / On POVERTY
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if you really felt sorry

Don't just repeat POVERTY tirelessly and then feel
remorseful; pathetically nodding your head; as if the
most unassailable messiah of bereaved humanity,
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then vanquish it forever from its very
non-existent roots; and from even the most
infinitesimal corner of the pompously rigid society…..
Don't just spell POVERTY incessantly and then feel
regretful; lugubriously crossing your fingers; as if
all mercy had wholesomely disappeared from the
trajectory of this colossal planet,
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then unflinchingly surge forward to scrap even
the most inconspicuous of its essence from this
fathomless Universe; philanthropically mitigate all
organism alive from its devastating stranglehold….
Don't just visualize POVERTY indefatigably and then
feel destroyed; uncontrollably wailing like a
scarecrow umpteenth number of times in a single
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then extricate it for times immemorial with the
sparkling righteousness in your soul; enveloping even
the most fugitively capricious speck of this globe
with a wave of eternally resplendent compassion….
Don't just witness POVERTY intransigently and then
feel gruesomely assassinated; nonchalantly sniffing
your nose towards the heavens to put the entire blame
upon Lord Almighty,
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then behead it for infinite more births yet to
unveil with the religion of humanity enshrouding your
conscience; ubiquitously disseminate your happiness to
all those unfortunately hapless and deprived….
Don't just whisper POVERTY unrelentingly and then feel
like threadbare shit; abominably puking out even the
last morsel of food from your languidly churning
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then drive it away with the Omnisciently
sacrosanct shadow of truth; ingratiatingly share the
woes and overwhelming trauma of your counterparts and
alien; beautifully alike…..
Don't just memorize the spelling of POVERTY
incorrigibly to appear for the examinations; and then
feel like an infinitesimally sinful debris of ghoulish
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then perpetually substitute it with benign love
and care; inundating each arena of this insurmountably
gigantic Universe with an ocean of celestially
humanitarian empathy….
Don't just reminisce POVERTY insatiably and then feel
exonerated; collapsing like a frigid matchstick
towards obdurate ground; with your head timidly sunk
like a dastardly rat between your legs,
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then patriotically blaze ahead in the truly
scintillating spirit of mankind; diffusing the melody
of symbiotic existence on every step that you
holistically transgressed…..
Don't just cry POVERTY endlessly and then feel like
the demons rotting in coffins of crucified hell;
eventually dissolving like a chunk of soggy pulp into
your own disappearing shadow,
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then hoist every uncouthly trembling entity
upon your splendidly benevolent shoulders;
Omnipotently enveloping the every trace of coldblooded
savagery with the ointment of passionate love…..
And don't just write POVERTY timelessly and then feel
like the most hapless livid entity alive; trying to
mercilessly chop your own foot when infact there
wasn't the slightest trace of axe around,
If you really felt sorry from the bottom of your
heart; then replenish its penuriously castigating
grave with an unfathomable river of love; enlightening
the life of every despicably beleaguered human with
the rays of godly mankind.
Nikhil Parekh

Read more poems from Nikhil Parekh >>>



Turkana Is Not All About Poverty

Our mouth customs has gone beyond our control,
Every time we talk about Turkana nation,
We always goof to label it a den of poverty,
By failing to see the vice of human backlogs,
That has worked most to stultify human hopes
Down to a false pale that Turkana nation is all poverty.

A nation that arms its daughters and sons in entirety
With the vogue models of AK 47 and 74'S
Enjoying money worthiness to a whopping!
Media with which they brutally rustle neighbours' cows
Leaving them in forlorn cry like lame childlings
Such nation can't be labeled a poverty reference.

Nation in which a naked elder in a loincloths is matchlessly animal rich
Owning hundreds of Carmel and goats, sheep and cows in similar fold,
Enjoying pure sex in marriage with virgins, whose breast are sharply pointed,
Marrying them in pairs out of polygamous morality in the chriso-paganity,
Where each man is a king and each woman an akuju; Turkana goddess of beauty,
All youth confident of animal wealth, then it is total sphinx of no secrete
To label Turkana nation a land that is all about poverty.

Land of sand tunes fit for use in modern architecture,
Replete with deadly desert scorpions, watchdog against women stealer,
Diamonds and gold form its hills of Lapur and Pelekechi,
Its underground waters huge than masses of Indian Ocean,
Lake Turkana being deeper that Lake Tanganyika, full of Fish like helluva,
In the sunshine that generates solar power in fathomless units
Desert snakes jumping here and there in chase of Locusts,
On the seashores at Todanyang and Loewarang towns,
Antelopes there are foolish that they don't fear dogs
While chicken are condemned to be wild birds
For the Turkana don't eat birds lest they degrade in dignity
Foolishly calling such land to be example of poverty
Is like putting your economics education in higgledy-piggledy pose.

A turkana woman is a beautiful woman, indeed a paragon of femininity
Slender and narrow at the waist with a humongous bossom,
Her legs are sizeable and long, forming a curve between her thighs,
Her neck stands straight on her thorax, forming a shape of flag post,
Warm on touch and sensuous on each kiss, with her eyes full of compassion,
Her arms strong on each assignement, hence her gun management power,
She screams on an orgasm like the swine in a slaughter house,
Sending up the chills of gusto up the spine of the sex partner,
When in the apical realm of love at scenic Eliye Spring,
How can a nation full of such wonderfully virtuous daughters
Be declared in foolishness benchmark of poverty and human despair?

Walk tall Turkana, stand and walk tall, for you are the virgin of Africa
Your oil wells are gift of providence; it will put green foods on your table,
Walk to school and learn anything, learn the languages of the world,
Through which you will caution the lazy talkers of this country,
For them have labeled you as black sheep of the Kenyan family
When it's their folly and vicious governance
That has betrayed Turkana towards its destiny.
alexander opicho

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The Death of Poverty

He was born like that
He was born into poverty
And his parent spoke it religiously to his ears
That this chain must be broken
Broken by work, work and nothing but hard work

His parent worked till their dying day
Only to still remain in chain
Fetters fatter and more stubborn with age
With determination he set out in rage
Bearing the pain, shame, hunger, and inhumanity
That the rich dream must become reality

Now, he is old, looking at then and now
The faded colour of poverty still painted today
And it will surely coat tomorrow
In this thought he was lost
Not knowing when he wandered to the edge
The neighbourhood of the dark one in black hood
He was seized by the neck and ceased

His orphaned son decided to be himself unlike his father
Or his strict grandparent of no par
The best singing couple our church ever had
But an ability self labeled vice they never shared
Not even among factory brethren with whom they worked hard

The orphaned son took to the pun shop
His father’s sacred baseball kit
In exchange for his love, his passion-
A guitar

Always under the oak tree the orphan sat
Harmonizing the strings
Using his father’s words as a song:
“Of how he was the best bat man in town
But the game he loved so much
He had to quit
For it was but a lure
Away from his purposeful journey
In the combat to kill poverty”

As the orphan sang, playing guitar one day
Soaring in the clouds of rhythm
A Cadillac had since stopped by
The occupant arrayed in fine fabric
Nodding with misty eyes
Wondering why a talent as this
Should waste away
He resolved in his heart to take him away

The orphan is no longer with us
In the reality of his dead fathers
But he now lives in their dream
Where the bed is neat and soft
Allowing only dreams that are sweet
In a place where the bread is fresh
And the meat is tender

We see the orphan now mostly on television
In a life that was his fathers’ vision
Of when the fetters of poverty would be broken
But he never did despite backbreaking work
But the orphan did it
Not by profuse sweat
Rather by love and passion
In sharing with others his GOD given mission
Of how to harmonize strings
And breathing rhythm from his vocal cord
Osagie Isiramen

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Poverty: a Curse or a Boon

Long ago there was a king,
Sober, sublime and sincere,
One Saturday night, came an angel,
'Thou hath given a wish that ye can,
Keepeth it forever—ordain by Lord, '

Quite for a moment—then said the king,
'O' Holy Angel, would you come next night?
I have to think and discuss with my coterie,
As ye brought a handsome lucky lottery,

Why not, take your own time, you take,
But bear in mind, only secluded wish,
If ye committed a mistake, ye will miss,
Be calm and cool, mind it—no mistake,

That night King lost his slumber,
Went to the Queen and winked,
Thou art be a Queen forever—
I have been rewarded a wish-my Miss,

He groped many tricks to be a King-
He completely changed himself with ring,
Of greed that bred evil within him,
He planned to have the wish with whim,

Next Saturday the Angel came and asked,
Your wish I shall be keeping in that pot-
You may keep it in a safe place, it's hot,
Okay—I will do as you wish my Master,

I wish the pot should be filled with poverty,
‘Cause poverty don't have liberty,
I will keep it, into the untrodden region of mind,
There's no one to see or can ever trace or find,

Angel lifted the hand and gifted with opened palm—
Shouted - -Be, ….It is yours now, you can see,
Angel disappeared... on that morning poor appeared,
A device to rule and cheat— is the only poverty,

Since then—It became the ruling system-continues
Tell me—Who will eradicate the poverty and why?
Aftab Alam

Read more poems from Aftab Alam >>>
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Poems On / About POVERTY