One frosty day, the
beggar begged from home,online,
Help! Send migrant home.

could you tell me why the average man
  is more willing to give a cigarette
  to a beggar on the street,

over the dollar in his pocket or the shoes on his feet,
  when he has two more pairs at home
  and his bank account is comfy?

It was a cloudy sky
Drizzle had just stopped softly
On this enchanting evening, I was lined lucky
As there was an ugly beggar who deserved care, swiftly

I stopped my car before that hotel
where sometime I used to visit for coffee
during my return from office, to home to dwell
Being pose area, side of it were shops selling toffee

I gone straight to that beggar
Enquired what he may desire to eat
He was holding one bit of an used cigar
Face to face, he was not willing to meet

I used to treat deserving beggar with food of his choice
Someone will ask for a particular dish
But this man didn't even raised his voice
Repeatedly I failed when I tried to ascertain his wish

Finally the shopkeeper guided and coded
saying he wanted only a matchbox to light his cigar
When I tried hard to get, every shopkeeper just eluded
As the increased anti-tobacco canvassing had worked clear

The beggar rejected money as well any dish
His world gets filled with just a matchbox
He stood firm and let me only to pish
As I too never keep such item in my toolbox

He loitered and left the place, helpless
Upset with this, I too lost my interest to eat
I also left without eating, as I became useless
Even in bed, with this thought, I felt my heartbeat

I get delighted to treat deserving beggars, stomachful
Or else with alms, to their handful
But above failure led me sorrowful
As I could not be fairly useful

It is the beggar who gives me a chance to serve
Of course, I had heartfully attempted and offered
Altogether, I sincerely strained everyone of my nerve
But he neither cared my efforts nor allowed to be adored

This miserable failure mows me miserably for the past two years
More so, whenever I used to cross that place every day
True to say, my eyes were about to cloud with tears!
What woes remain more for my heart to say?


Copyrights reserved

Cuddled on a piece of ripped card board box
Bruised shins, ripped socks

Reeking with lack of love
A piece of neglected art

The sharp things below
are all your little feet may ever know

I wonder whats sadder,
your misty gaze into empty space,
or how common this is to the human race

You are not invisible, little boy,
but we are blind

and the biggest fool of all
is the one who left you behind

to collect
but you are worth more than this cold neglect

I don't need to know your story, honey
to know that you are worth more than pocket money

If only I can give you love
for that is all I can never run out of

but love never cured the sick
a hug never filled an empty stomach

so for now, here's a sandwich.

My dreams
do not come attached to
the ideals of my people
or the sacrifices of another country.

Instead I am poor
and mine are clinging to life
the very idea of existence.

Mundane flashes--
not adventurous endeavors
nor flights around the world
this is what richly folks do.

Simply a mingler
someone whose life
flourishes around the bends
of florescent street lights
and panhandling
nearby a farmers market
just after sunrise.

This remnant is few
as these are neighbors
local countrymen
who stoically face
the world's deviation
and deprivation
from coexisting

by the bonds of
agriculture and personality
even as a beggar
it is but a joyous memento
to a world that
no longer thrives.

How strange
That odd word is--
Change.

It rings harsh in the ears of the oppressed.
They desire it so,
Crave it.

But they are wary.
Too often have they been lied to,
Nothing new,
Not a change.
Weary.

When desired,
It responds slowly--
A dumb dragon,
Mute and deaf to your demands.

Like a glacier it moves,
Slowly.
Slowly.

It begs patience.
"Stab wounds can't be healed with a band-aid,"
It says.

It takes time,
And incremental steps.
100 pennies stitched together a dollar do make.

But if we don't want change
Well then it comes rushing raging forth.
Bursting through the dam of our status quo'd walls.

Like a dragon it flies
Furious and fire-breathing
Foul-odored stench and a repugnant force of being.

Angrily we cry and wave our arms,
Flailing about
In the face of this fantastic fiend.

To no avail.

Change will slow for no man.

And all the while,
A poor, crippled beggar walks the street--

"Can you spare some change?"

How strange.