A Pumpkin grows in Midwife's yard
Her mother is a midwife
and she is a nanny to her far relative.
He collects pumpkins hastily for the sunday fair.
Do you think a street vendor sees pleasant dreams?
Anyhow please do not get surprised
if a street vendor marries a nanny
and she delivers precious children safely
as her mother knows the job perfectly.
Still the pumpkins grow in the yard
and the vendor collects them without any bargaining.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Taho (english)
Tahooo! ! !
The loud voice
of the young Taho vendor
awokes the children
early in the morning
of Saturdays and Sundays.
The young Taho vendor
he always had the smile
and he always added more Taho
at the same price of two pesos
in every cup of every child.
Taho,
I like it too
it's not only delicious
but nutritious too.
But so sad,
several Saturdays
and Sundays passed by
and the voice
of the young Taho vendor
I heard no more.
Oh, yes...
the young Taho vendor,
he's now in Singapore.
How lucky he is
he could earn more
in Singapore.
Taho,
I'm afraid
I could no longer taste it
and the children....
oh, yes
now they wake up late
on Saturdays and Sundays.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Children For Sale
'children for sale,
...children for sale, '
the street vendor cries...
'we've got all kinds...
...black and white, brown
....and red...
..boys and girls, take your choice!
...spin the wheel, take a chance! '
who chooses what opportunities,
what chances, what quality of life?
how much education?
what kind of family life?
a degree, a job, a future?
or work with the hands, skilled labor?
or menial work, no work at all....
a life of crime, taught by the prisons?
hope, or starvation?
free, or oppressed?
loved, or hated?
finding a place, following a dream...
or cast to the side?
who chooses?
and why should anyone choose?
'children for sale,
...children for sale...'
the street vendor cries!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unfair luck
Dog and I have not much difference,
Both of us stand waiting,
Not for showers of rain,
Or blessings from heaven,
But for a piece of Dosa,
That the small road-side vendor would throw,
The anticipation was would victory be mine or dog’s,
If it be dog’s, he would put it on the road and eat,
If mine I would give to my kid there on the platform.
Everyday this is my routine,
My tough war with the brown dog,
I have no strength to shoo him away,
And grab the bounty thrown by the vendor,
I leave my kid on the platform waiting with hunger,
If a Dosa change shape or become burnt,
Me or the dog is in luck,
We wait eagerly looking at the vendor’s hand,
There are days when the vendor never has a mishap,
When both me and the dog curse our luck.
Today might not be so,
Praying all the God’s that I know,
I was sitting along with the dog,
Looking carefully at the vendor’s hands,
For a long time there was no luck,
Suddenly hearing the screech of the pan,
I was assured a burnt dosa,
With all concentration I looked at the vendor,
The throw was perfect and so was the catch,
The dog caught the Dosa, while death caught me.
To get that one mouth of burnt Dosa for my kid,
I fell before a bus with the Dosa in my hand,
Just to see the dog grab it away from me,
As the unfair luck smiled at me,
Letting me die and my kid hungry and motherless…
poem by Leena Bose
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Compromise lacks
The vendor expectation was more.
The buyer’s offer did not match.
The deal broke.
The buyer is lured by another.
The vendor waited for another.
The process repeated.
Marriage is easy to break.
Divorce is easy to obtain.
Compromise lacks
28.03.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Wrong Question
this morning
you cry and with sobbing you report about
a child being mauled by the police
at the dead end
of Del Pilar street near the
municipal cemetery
the child was running away from
five policemen who kept on chasing him
and they caught him
and asked his age, his name, his father, his mother
and he said he is 19, Kiko, his father is Pepo, and his mother Karing
his father a fisherman and his mother a vendor
and he is from the far mountain
and just arrived to the city
and since he is frail and pale and looks like a sick child
he reaped the suspicion that he is a drug addict
and they mauled him almost to death
and he was hospitalized and charged
resisting arrest
Someone asks, not bothered at all by an imagination
of blood and broken bones and abuse of authority
'But why did he run away, in the first place? '
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Set Yourself Free
Walk on the lane of fantasy-street,
See the stalls of fantasy;
You need not buy them,
They come to you for free;
All you need is to dream,
When the world is still asleep;
Make your dreams your own,
Just like the rays of hope;
You can achieve what you are worth of,
For things are for those it belongs to;
And thats not all, you can be a vendor too,
For dreamers old and new;
Or be just there to watch the world go,
Smile is what rules the world;
Dare to dream or just dream to dare,
Be what you want OR want your whats.
poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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Honesty doesn't belong
Honesty doesn't belong to rich
It is not beyond anybody's reach
It is easy to profess and preach
But we always defy rules and breach
Neither can it be expected from everyone
Not can it be taken for granted from someone
No one knows when someone may stab from the back
It happens many times when something big is at the stake
Today the scenario has been completely changed
Human needs have risen many fold and remains unmanaged
This compels people to go for quick and easy money
They may attempt to reach farthest tree branch for honey
No one wants to work hard for getting fortune
They know very well that they me be thrown out of gear and tune
If not worked hard and kept always in readiness
You got to go in whole heartedly and chase
One of the American female was on tour
Her dream for sight seeing and beautiful scenes turned sour
She lost her money purse along with passport
As being new and tourist she had nothing to support
She spent day and night restless for urgent need
She was sure nothing may come back due to greed
But to her fortune the purse was spotted by vegetable vendor
Beautiful lady at heart with noble ideas to live with honor
She was illiterate but soon got the real things behind
Got hold of one hotel bill and started to find
In the hotel room the lady had wept whole night
Had lost all hopes and feared for not going everything right
Vendor woman entered room with whole purse intact
The American woman couldn't believer her eyes in fact
She was in tears and simply could meet with simple lady
Here she was with all precious things and ready
The tourist lady thanked a lot and offered some money
The vendor lady refused and asked her to pray almighty
Even though she was poor, illiterate and had not more
She would not accept it in return for favor
I consider this gesture as shining example
For simple greed one could have been put into trouble
The vendor lady showed courage and honesty
I bow my head to her for doing the almost charity
* The name of lady is Kankuben Sakrabhai Pattani
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The primary goal of a vendor is to make money.
quote by Theo de Raadt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Children Misled
Children learn fast these days,
hurling the elders into wonder.
Three Class- Two students
stole out of the school,
approached an egg- vendor.
The cat of them engaged the vendor
in an interesting conversation.
The rat of them pilfered the eggs
and passed down to the third, the bat,
squatting on the floor under a bench
on which the goods were kept.
The bat stored the eggs in his trouser- pocket
and walked back to the class with a soaked trouser.
The teacher called them in as the Sun was hot,
and frying every living thing.
The teacher was kind but strict to truant children,
smelt unpleasant and asked them
why that odour of a broken egg from them?
One fellow bent forward to clean his wet pocket
and an egg from his pocket in the shirt fell down,
got broken, embalmed the floor and betrayed them.
Their tact in planning and execution
made the masters speechless.
I put them under school- arrest
and ordered them to report to me every 2 hours.
I took that action to save them
from being kidnapped by
the underworld barons or
international criminals or the drug traffickers
for grooming them in their trades.
They are inmates of a private Home
receiving funds from abroad.
It is a case of sweated labour and not child labour.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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If She Does
We’ve got in pumpkins-
Entire bins of pumpkins- and my job today
Was to kill the ants,
And think of something:
And this really beautiful mother came in today-
She looked like someone’s sister.
She looked like she’d played soccer in high school.
Then a man came in with gold teeth,
And I think he made a comment about my face
Under his breath-
I shouldn’t like to think what he had to say,
But I know he was Italian and a painter
And from New York,
But definitely not an artist,
And I was glad when he went away,
And after he went away I thought again of myself as
An artist
Who must try and look at his face from the sunburned
Shadows from the best possible angles
And try to make the best of it,
And be happy that that beautiful young mother came in
And asked my name,
And said that she would be back to buy a Christmas tree.
If she comes, then I’ll have to find out her name,
And see if she doesn’t want to ride bicycles near the sea:
If she does it will be the first time I’ve been with a woman
In seven years,
And the very first time I’ve been with a beautiful woman
Not counting a couple prostitutes
If she does.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I started working on OpenBSD, and many earlier projects, because I have always felt that vendor systems were not designed for quality.
quote by Theo de Raadt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Asinus Ad Lyram
isn't it awkward
that an asshole
is playing the lyre?
or the turtle again
into the rat race?
or the fish vendor
into poetry?
unless there is a miracle
then let the mute sing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I've given birth to five babies and I breastfed every single one of these babies. To think that government has to go out and buy my breast pump for my babies. You wanna talk about the nanny state? I think we just got the new definition of a nanny.
quote by Michele Bachmann
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who takes cover under the branch, collects what rains and collects what falls.
Sensitivities Have Been Numbed
It's incredible,
How the inevitable can be there glaring...
As those fixed into routines will not notice.
It is incredible,
How people can line up in front of a hotdog stand...
And ignore those homeless with nothing to eat,
Sitting on the street right behind them.
It's incredible how sensitivities have been numbed.
In a second one can express an empathy.
And in the next,
Have none.
Although argue with a vendor people do,
Over the price of added condiments.
It is incredible how people accept their selfishness,
With a relishing of mustard and onions to spread.
'You have any change for a hotdog? '
~Sorry.
I only have two twenties in my pocket.~
'Did You hear that, Father? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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She looks fatten to her fancy dress
Why did you give her an expensive dress?
This born slim girl floats in the Baroness's grand anniversary party.
Perhaps she may a Nanny in the Manor.
The infant cries pathetically instead of the Nanny's inner cry.
She smiles to the strangers showing her fancy dress.
Nobody knows her birthday that falls today.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Mother After Mother
Mother after Mother
Surviving evolution
Reaffirms the overall
Requirements for balance
For that which remains.
Here life depends on Coexistence
With Father star burning.
Fragile Mother, poor! Poor Mother.
What of her children?
What of their homeland?
Mothers Children, look out
See the past drifting away,
Sees future immortality
Manifest machines to travel eternity.
Mother Dreams infinity.
poem by Chris Lane
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Garbage Vendor
No love to lose.
Out to use and abuse,
'Fools', she says.
Patterns watched she got from mom?
Or perhaps past actions from dad,
That caught on?
'Love is just in fantasy books.
I don't have attractiveness,
Like a princess with looks! '
Framed to think she's just a piece of meat,
A broken hearted rose that's rare...
On fast filthy streets.
And no one is there to say,
Just how beautiful she is!
She believes this is the only way...
She can feed herself and her three kids!
And across the street on the corner,
Is one who paints...
City scenes for visitors
Who purchase these sites,
Called 'Street Saints'.
And not one dime goes to the one,
Titled 'Madame LaWhore'!
She seems not care...
'No one else did! When I was there! '
She shares this...ignored.
This circle of bad habits...
Stroked in hues on canvas,
Delight those who sightsee
Feeding those 'unseen'
But who are well established.
Like the artist who captures
And sells these 'views',
At the expense of those giving,
Free daily exhibitions...
To whomever they choose.
So that others may sit,
To pocket 'handsomely' off their blues!
'Garbage Vendor'
That's what I call this one!
That will be $200!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Louisa And Nanny
“Come on, ” said Louisa to Nanny,
“let’s go for a walk before it gets too hot.”
So off they went towards the forest,
on a path they had trodden a lot.
Without giving a thought about the season
and the beginning of the monsoon.
They walked and talked for an hour
on that pleasant early afternoon.
Without warning the heavens opened
and it poured with driving rain.
A ferocious gust of wind blew them
towards the dense bamboo cane.
It came unexpectedly from nowhere
its ferocity almost swept them off their feet.
Holding onto each other they found shelter
behind a huge tree trunk of teak.
Lightening was flashing continually
in the sky and all around.
A bolt of lightening stuck a nearby tree,
bringing it crashing down.
The branches barely missed them
as the storm continued to rage.
The torrential rain never paused for a second
as they peered through the rainy haze.
They could barely hear each other
above the sound of thunder, lightening, and rain.
The wind suddenly stopped its cruel intensity,
it was possible to see a short distance again.
Because the whole landscape looked different,
Louisa asked, “Which way should we go? ”
“I’ve lost my bearings completely, ” said Nanny,
“in fact I really don’t know.”
As they considered their best options
on the direction they must take.
They simultaneously wiped their eyes
to make sure of no mistake.
Nanny couldn’t believe what she was seeing,
a pregnant woman standing by the fallen tree.
She stood motionless for a minute and said,
“Tell me Louisa, is that a woman that I can see? ”
“I’m sorry Nanny, I can’t see anyone,
but it is still difficult to see.
The lightening is creating shadows,
making things appear as they shouldn’t be.
As soon as they wiped the rain from their eyes
they were filled with rain once again.
“I suppose it could have been a bush, ” said Nanny,
but the woman was still there in the pouring rain.
Their only way out from their hemmed in position
was pass the woman who began to beckoned them.
Nanny couldn’t believe that Louisa couldn’t see her,
and told her that the woman was beckoning them on.
Again she asked Louisa if she could see the woman,
and again she said that she could not.
The woman in white indicated them to follow her,
and Nanny told Louisa the situation they had got.
“If there’s a way out of here lets follow, ” said Louisa.
Nanny took her hand and they followed the woman.
Weaving in and out, over and under the fallen trees,
she led them back to Louisa’s home in the sun.
The woman just disappeared leaving no signs of a storm.
On reflection Nanny realised she’d seen the woman before,
but what her brain relayed to her didn’t make sense,
and she couldn’t tell Louisa that she was the woman she saw.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Scene Beside The Cemented Fence
a red motorcyle
stands beside
a cemented fence
where some vines
with yellow flowers
are stucked
beside it is a
sky blue van
which is open
and empty
a man with bold
big stripes for a shirt
is pressing keys
on his cellphone
the window of this room
is closed
and the world is seemingly
noiseless
except for the child
who runs to the other side
of the road
because the mother
is busy asking
questions to the
banana cue vendor
a big truck on a fast speed
is approaching
the innocent child...
i cannot hear the sound
of the big screech
people are crowding
rushing
and i cannot see the
child anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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