Street Urchin
o what poverty
bairns se manket
picking through bins
tinkys, in bare feet
Wretched wee things
in rags run aboot
street urchins, orphans
begging fur food
poem by John Mcleish
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April, March! Soldiers Search for HUNGER MARCH - A1 Story
World has advanced in many days...
Yet in 21st Century poverty retains in umpteen ways;
Hunger glinted in his eyes...
He does begging and petty thievery, at the same time!
Cheeks were sunken and clothes were in rags but still, a crime!
Believe I swear in the name of god, my words are not lies.
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
I saw a rag picker scrounging for a coin in the garbage,
Though he is with bare foot who knows as bub, he is cute!
Owing to the troubles he met, made him mute.
He can fill the rivers with poverty's tears...
His eyes were pale and mouth opened for food cabbage!
One among is he, pleading and begging the passersby yet nobody hears.
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
The street is lighted with half naked
Bodies go begging down, the street and half fed,
From head to toe they're covered with poverty, yet
With pain and misery as their make-up set;
Hunger is present in their stomach and a rat's race!
And it is vaguely seen on their face and a food race.
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
Labourers in construction breaking the stones...
And lifting the bricks while scorching sun is the witness!
They work bodily, resembles awkward dance of a heap of bones,
The skin saturates and swallows the heat, I bet!
Leaving it dark as the midnight sky, oh! What a mess!
Their hopes are dashed; life is smashed of body’s sweat!
The Mother weeps and father yells!
Sitting in the house of poverty and what-else!
Small sister sleeps and her little brother dies and I linger;
His father only stares as he is killed by hunger...
Why doctors only cure diseases and why not
Poverty - the biggest disease of all. Is it not?
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
Every now and then in newspapers, I hear
The death of a peasant or two, oh my dear!
Unable to feed family, life has become Herculean task,
Drowned himself in melancholy, under hunger mask!
Bogged down under wheels of Pressure, not to hide...
Due to debts of treasure, he committed suicide!
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
Lot of hunger and empty bowl without food is poverty,
Not having one more dress to take bath is poverty,
............................................. ..............................................
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>READ PART 2>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
*A big NOTICE BOARD: Oops! Sorry the poem is NOT completed. This is just break time! Now read to make your reading wholesome read PART - 2
April, March! Soldiers Search for HUNGER MARCH - A2 Story
poem by Harindhar Reddy
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Peace or Poverty
Their skin soaks up the heat
Leaving it as black as the midnight sky,
Their eyes wide, white, pleading
Begging to the passersby.
They litter the street
Half naked bodies,
Red and colouring their feet
Searching for a entrance
A door out of the circle of poverty.
Poverty means destruction
Destruction means fear
Behind locked doors we sit in early evening
Too scared to see a black face
Terrified of black feet crossing the threshold.
But why be fearful of your slaves,
Those you whip and beat
Treating like the dirt from the doormat
Where you wipe your feet.
Role diversity causes poverty
Poverty destroys peace
But peace minus poverty
Means Equality should increase.
poem by Sonali Shah
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Harlem Shadows
I hear the halting footsteps of a lass
In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall
Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass
To bend and barter at desire's call.
Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet
Go prowling through the night from street to street!
Through the long night until the silver break
Of day the little gray feet know no rest;
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake
Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast,
The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet
Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street.
Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way
Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,
The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street.
poem by Claude McKay
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Poverty Doesn’t Laugh
Fill the rivers,
With poverty’s tears,
Only then will they be filled with innocent water.
The brick that fills poverty’s throat
Should be filled with heaven’s food
Not hell’s slaughter.
Poverty’s hands should not be,
As empty as our hearts.
Their feet should not feel the piercing sand
While we rot in cars.
Poverty’s teeth are famished
Because they bite empty air,
Our teeth are stuffed with arrogance
Until our blessings with be stripped bare
In the night of hell
When guilt will crawl upon us
The worms and snakes of our sins
Will pierce venom through our selfishness
And there we will stand
Bare of all our blessings
The naked truth for the world to see
Will be paraded across poverty’s eyes
But they will not laugh.
poem by Mehreen Mujeeb
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Compared To Many
No doubt you have your worries and times on you are tough
But you have a home to live in and you are not sleeping rough
Compared to many you are well off thousands die of hunger every day
And things for you could be far worse though you don't see it that way
Millions of poor people doing it tough in the bigger World out there
They know all about real poverty and they know about despair
They are the impoverished children of former children of the street
Who search the alley rubbish bins for thrown out food to eat
The victims of drug dealers already into crime
From poverty to narcotic use on their way to serving jail time
You've had a good upbringing though life hard on you of late
And like 'tis said all good things do come to those who wait
But compared to many you are well off those lost in their own despair
The children of the mean streets of the bigger World out there.
poem by Francis Duggan
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4. Expiry Date
No food on the table
A little child cries
Her mother sits begging
With tears in her eyes
Why do they pass?
Can no one see her plight?
If she doesn’t find food
They will not eat tonight
She fought with the rats
Over garbage in bins
Cutting her fingers
On half open tins
Under the arches
Both ate what she found
They expired like the food
Passing by without sound
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Rags & Old Iron
Norman curtis, oscar brown jr
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
I heard that old rag man now making his rounds
He came right to my alley lord with sorrowful sounds
Crying rags old iron and pulling his cart
Ask him how much hed give me for my broken heart
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
So I asked that old rag man how much he would pay
For a heart that was broken baby when you went away
For a burnt out old love light that no longer beams
And a couple of slightly used second hand dreams
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
For those big empty promises you used to make
For those memories of you that are no longer sweet
I wish he could haul them off down the street
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
When love doesnt last tell me what is it worth
It was once mamas most precious possession on earth
When I asked that old rag man if hed like to buy
He just shook his head and continued to cry
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron rags old iron
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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River Street Urchins
River street urchins,
The gutters are swelling.
[Waiting…] for the sky—you and I
To reach—the storm drains of joy.
Before we go…
Before we let, go.
We too will rain…
River street urchins,
Before we go…
Before we let, go.
We too will rain…
River street urchins…
Paupers oh so giving, don't you know.
We'll queue in the streets
And pray to be free!
Till we go…
Before we let, go.
We too will rain…
On every official bank holiday parade:
Till we're free, till were free
Till were free, till were free
Till were free, to go…
We'll never clear-out:
Absorbing as every stain might be.
I'll fabricate a new colour?
A rainbows pot of gold…
One for just you and me!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Leave That To
I've never known what it's like real poverty
And I've always been lucky life is good to me
And since I've never known illness or physical pain
I am not one with the right to complain
Leave that to those who are doing it tough
The homeless and destitute who have to live rough
The forgotten people of Poverty Street
Who search in rubbish bins for thrown out food to eat
Leave that to the millions of Stateless refugees
Hungry and subject to every known disease
Life for them a constant survival fight
If they complain they have earned the right
I've lived for sixty one years in time a good span
And I cannot complain I am a lucky man.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When I was going home
When I was going home
the darkness was around,
nobody on the street, indeed.
I saw an old woman,
she was a dandelion like, .
she rummaged in the refuse bins
which were all alike.
She was the one who's got her pension
'in the proportion with her job'.
I wouldn't like here to mention
that she was just robbed.
She bought the medicines
had not enough for food,
she bought the food
had not enough for medicines.
...And close to the refuse bins
there was a stall
and boxes with the fruit were near by.
'It looks you're pushed of money'-
she heard the voice.
'take some from here,
it's much better choice.'
She smiled sadly and
I've heard her answer:
'Can't take anothers'.
And with those words
she slowly moved......
to another refuse bin.
I saw that scene.
I began to cry
and I know why.
I was delighted with her greatness,
I was ashamed of my carefree life;
and if I were her I wouldn't decline.
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Poverty Is A Relative Thing
It is true poverty is a relative thing
A poor bloke buys his girlfriend a ten dollar ring
But to a pauper one with ten dollars is not poor at all
What to one seems big to another seems small,
That poverty is a relative thing seems so true
You may well be poor but many poorer than you
There are millions of homeless on Poverty Street
Searching in rubbish bins to find something to eat
And there are millions who lay down to rest hungry at night
And sleep in the open under the starlight
At least you have a roof over your head and a bed on which to lie
And it will not be of malnutrition that you will die
And of those down on their luck the singer may sing
But poverty can be a relative thing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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So Many Poor Souls And Not Many Who Care
So many poor souls and not many who care
Are doing it quite tough in the big World out there
The homeless and hungry teenagers of poverty street
Are searching in rubbish bins for something to eat
The gap is increasing in the social divide
And millions are Stateless and Homeless and hungry World wide
The victims of droughts and wars and disease
In the refugee camps millions of refugees.
The marginalized are doing it quite tough
On poverty street they are sleeping rough
People should not have to go hungry in the World of today
But such is not the case that does seem sad to say
For one wealthy person thousands in poverty
Those who need far more than words of sympathy
People who look old before they reach their life's prime
To be born to poor parents is their only crime.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poor Children
They are the future of humanity
But many of them living in poverty
And without shelter homeless on the street
Searching through rubbish bins for scraps of food to eat.
Poor children are victims of circumstance
In life they never really get a chance
Or have opportunities as privileged children do
The road from the poor suburb to prison leads them to.
From broken homes they are condemned to fail
Their abusive and drug addicted parents serving time in jail
Their parents too homeless in their teen years
On no hope street no laugther only tears.
The Government does not care about those who live in poverty
No political advantage in philanthropy do they see
Their tally men for them have taken note
That few in the poor suburb ever bother for to vote.
Poor children without homes and sleeping rough
And life for them already hard enough
At the wrong end of the social divide
Any chance of a good future to them is denied.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Beggar is close to God
Begging for something is a cut
That is made at the root of your ego.
Begging for food is the deepest cut.
A monk goes begging for food,
Where he feels pride, not humiliation.
A beggar knocks the door for food,
Cursing his fate, tasting the humiliation.
Ego is active in monk, dead in beggar.
Who will get quick salvation?
04.11.2001, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Poverty's Child
Poverty's child,
An orphan on the street,
He runs for life,
He fights for food,
He has no home,
He has no shoes,
no mother, no father,
no nothing.
He dies young...
Poverty's child,
An orphan on the street.
poem by Joseph Fuller
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Children Should Not Have To Be Homeless
There are thousands of homeless children in Beijing in China though that is not suprising to hear
For where there is a huge population there is poverty too 'twould appear
And China to anywhere else is no different the rich getting richer they say
And just beyond the leafy suburb is the suburb of neglect and decay.
There are thousands of homeless children in New York though with that some may not agree
In America the great Land of commerce no such a thing as poverty?
But the facts of course will tell you differently and in a World of inequality
There too are children homeless and hungry in the so called Land of the free.
There are homeless children in London in England as well as in Paris in France
The poor children of the poor suburb in life they do not have a chance
Their parents in Jail for drug abuse they become the kids of the street
They search the rubbish bins for food in dark alleys and what others do throw out they eat.
There are homeless children in Sydney and Melbourne and anywhere else one might name
Though that does not seem to affect us we never reflect on our shame
That many should have to grow poorer for one to become a millionaire
In a truly egalatarian society would never be looked on as fair.
Children should not have to be homeless though born into abject poverty
They should not be punished for the sins of their parents so much for our humanity
And money to some all that matters and money is married to success
Whilst the children of the poor live homeless on the street of the No Fixed Address.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Scent of democracy! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
A homeless woman squatted on the pavement
Empty bottle of mineral water by her side.
It was a hot summer noon …the stench
Of poverty makes me ashamed as I ride,
The swanky metro. Brooding… get off at my station,
Impatiently, walk as the street urchins extend hands to beg,
For money, for food; wonder should I buy rations
With dismay, saw one was hopping, had only one leg.
Anger welled up against the mafia that maims these kids,
And trains them in art of begging, recognise the victims.
The so called slum dogs, with resignation and grit
Grow into petty thieves or whores, at the mercy of pimps.
The dance of Democracy reaches a crescendo.
Candidates come with promises and folded hands.
Smouldering eyes, one asked with bravado,
How come in the name of growth we see a helipad?
Young nation, been six decades, since independent,
Learnt, after Kosi floods, kids sold for pennies by parents.
Common man’s plight worse than that of pigs and insects.
Live on hope and prayers, a great leader will finally resurrect…
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Unwanted Crime
'why r orphans for? ? '
maybe for this...
i was starving and was thirsty
no one took pains for me
melancholy was heard all around
for a living i stole food
my career began by stealing food
dawdlingly i pick-pocketed
then i started shop-lifting
i was very happy to earn easy cash
i joined a mob
we planned for a bank-robbery
accidently i killed the accountant
i have my dangling in two days
still left unanswered;
why r orphans for?
poem by Sakshi Mathur
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Oh Africa!
oh! my continent
where my people starve for food,
where my people are suffering,
with extreme poverty.
where things interchange
corruption for the leader,
hopeless for the citizen,
poverty for the people,
street for the lunatic,
Rigging for the election,
jobless for the educative,
fraud for the youth,
expensive cars for the politicians,
laughage film for the white,
crying bitter things for the Black,
should we call this fate?
The fifty_four caps had turned Africa to something else,
The fifty_four caps has now unable to fit us.
poem by Agbaje Samson from Oh Africa! (21 March 2020), translated by Agbaje Samson
Submitted by Talented£
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Big Star
I don't want to be another big star
Picking at your cars
Stealing at your clothes
Finding out what you don't know
You don't know
I don't want to be your big star
Picking your calls; saying I don't know
I don't want to be your suitor
Lacking at your feet
Trying to love the things you need
And you know I've heard this before
And you know I've heard it some more
Won't you give me a chance
To break down your door
But I sit
Oh Oh
I still sit here
I don't want to be a tailor
Pricking at your thumb
Washing all the tears away
Some words
Oh no I believe they don't feel you
Picking up your dirt
Washing all your dreams away
(Repeat Chorus)
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene from Marchin' Already
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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