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Neelam Jun 19
Shrouds that conceal
her existence,
defaced, muted,
anonymous shadow
that scurried past
the merchants,

Saffron bright,
aromatic spices, all
the threatening glances
and scowls upon this
lone woman,

Who was there to
procure the supplies
for her hungry children,

A harassed widow
with faded dreams,
Hopes lying in the
graveyard,
Clay walls contained
her wailing heart
beneath the opaque
clouds on
this indifferent sky.
It is estimated that there are 2 million widows living in abject poverty in Afghanistan.
Neither have I silver nor gold
Surely know I have soul
With less dismay but bold
I'll let wild out my goal

This would be a resource manual
To rate thy giver to earth
This would be a great trial
To the eves of the earth

Nine rounds of thirty day's understatement
Every round of two hundred and seventy
Days would suit the statement
No merry, no joy but groan plenty

Out of the mind, I'll boldly write
To the eves of the nation
Against the serpent we'll fight
To appease man of creation

Sounds the voice of the traitor
"Take and be unveilely wise"
"where're you" is the voice of the creator
"We're naked" false wisdom in his eyes rise

Forgive us father, suit all mothers
That groan, strive'll be less
At the giving stage. No bothers
Of crucial bitterness but happiness

Oh God, see the folks through
Whom absence is their  mother
Know I you are thee true
To present their mind with no bother

Their minds fill with love
Their souls fill with strong aim
That they'll not renege. Above
All, affable care, give to them

Was I to earth by great woman
Ebony black, one'f  her feutures
Ago, now aged, by her man
Yeah, you'll confirm by pictures

Either have I soul, mind or hand
I'll celebrate mothers in no dismay
Present, past, to show thee love in kind
To thee all, blessed  mothers day
"BLESSING" is A Poem by Chikamso Okoye (Mr Focus), Dedicated to every mother., Both past and present and also to those whom their mothers are no more.
Little feet walking
Endlessly far
Big eyes  wide open
Only seeing the war
Little hands clutching
everything nearby
Little skinny bodies
Numb, just wanting to cry
A child tired  and hungry
With no place to go
No  destiny nor future
Nothing... No home..
Eyes big and wide open
Seeing only the dark
That ..... people
is our
refugee child.

Shell
🐚✨
The reality of a child in war and poverty.
Jonathan Moya Sep 2020
1.

The motherless-fatherless God
orphans the world in His own image,
His experience, His own elevated thoughts.

Yet He is unsatisfied, unhappy for
His creation is not perfect enough.

Even the little man with His breath-spark
is an unfulfilling design, in tun dissatisfied.
  
Everything has weight but
nothing has fullness.

Only the birds achieve effortless flight
and the planets spin easily in space.

2.

Creation shatters in the layers of night
and reforms in the weak rays of dawn.

The moon shows the scars of His longing
and the sun the flame of His abandonment.

In punishment He permanently
orphans the land from the sea
and the earth from the sky.

In scorn He lets His man creation
people the earth and die too soon,

the posthumous orphan left-behinds
of His own abandoned dreams.

His child cries out “Father!”
on his forsaken cross.  

Only the Romans sate
his thirst with vinegar.

He can not listen, only turn away
and resume creating and
spinning far better worlds.

3.

The orphans of God feel the fatal loss,
the doom of the abandoned earth,
and refuse to cringe or weep,

hoping the manner of their death
shall redeem their birth in His hope
even as they lurch toward the grave
Naveen Malhotra Sep 2020
She is in a sublated state
The pain never mitigates
This frustates, this frustates
She died intestate
Queer is mental state
This frustates, this frustates
The dead is alive in the mind
Day 'n' night, day 'n' night
Memories are black 'n' white
Vision blurs in the light
This frustates, this frustates
One orphans when parents die
Husband orphaned when wife died
This frustates, this frustates
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
A Page from the Deportation Diary
by Wladyslaw Szlengel
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I saw Janusz Korczak walking today,
leading the children, at the head of the line.
They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray.
Some say the weather wasn’t dismal, but fine.

They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud),
but if they’d been soiled, tell me—who could complain?
They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd,
five by five, in a whipping rain.

The pallid, the trembling, watching high overhead
through barely cracked windows, were transfixed with dread.

Every now and then, from the loud, tolling bell
a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull’s wailed cry.
Their “superiors” watched, their bleak eyes hard as stone,
so let us not flinch, friend, as they march on, to die.

Footfalls . . . then silence . . . the cadence of feet . . .
O, who can console them, their last mile so drear?
The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street.
Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career.

No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I.
But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die.

No one will offer the price of their freedom.
No one will proffer a single word.
His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman
agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord:

                                  “Give them the Sword!”

At the town square, dear friend, there is no intervention.
No one tugs Schmerling’s sleeve. No one cries:
“Rescue the children!” The air, thick with tension,
reeks with the odor of *****, and lies.

How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm:
Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm!

A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand:
“Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you’ve been spared!”
No use for that. One resolute man,
uncomprehending that no one else cared
—not enough to defend them—
his choice is to end with them.

What can he say to the thick-skulled conferer
of such sordid blessings?
Should he whisper, “Mein Führer!”
then arrange window dressings?

It’s too late for lessons.
His last rites are kisses
for two hundred children
the wailing world “misses”
but he alone befriended
and with his love, defended.

But dear friend, never fear:
be absolved by a Tear!

Wladyslaw Szlengel (1912-1943) was a Jewish-Polish poet, lyricist, journalist and stage actor. A victim of the Holocaust, he and his wife died during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Janusz Korczak (c. 1878-1942) was a Jewish-Polish educator and children’s author who refused to abandon the Jewish orphans in his care and accompanied them to their deaths at the hands of the Nazis at the Treblinka extermination camp. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Janusz Korczak, Wladyslaw Szlengel, children, orphans, Warsaw, Treblinka, genocide, ethnic cleansing, racism, antisemitism, intolerance, injustice, ******, horror, terror, Nazis
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,

because of poetry.
Masha Yurkevich Nov 2019

Child,
oh child,
sitting by the window.
How long have you been there,
watching the snow?

Child,
oh child,
sitting by the window.
What is it that you want
to know?

Child,
oh child,
sitting by the window.
How long will you be there,
and will you ever go?

Child,
oh child,
sitting by the window.
Will you ever be loved,
or have a home?

Child,
oh child,
sitting by the window...


This Sunday is the day of Orphans.

I have seen orphans sitting by the window like this before, and it felt like a knife went through my heart when I did.
All who have a family, a house, food; don't take it for granted.
Because there are so many who don't have it...
Khoi Aug 2019
He opened his arms,
like a catchment for rain,
took their tiny fear
nurtured them
for many years,
melting moments
huddled with love,
candy hearts
made out of tears.

.
Pappa at the orphanage
zee Mar 2019
Blood spilled
Tears streamed
But no matter how much you beg on your knees
That’s what war can be

The child cried as his mother’s body lied
With the building burning to ashes
Ashes to the ground, as you hear the child plea
But alas that’s what war can be

The man strangled out cries
As his dying breaths suffocated
Underneath the collapsed building, trying to flee
But alas that’s what war can be

Remember the father who starved himself so his children could eat?
Who had been stripped from his luxury?
His happiness, his love? Who wanted to be free?
Is that what war can be?

What about the brother?
Who lost his leg, saving his sister from a shooter?
What about the sister?
Who died so that her brother could survive his gun inflicted blister?

What about the children?
Who think the parents went to the store?
Only to have the parents in a Ranger’s view
Lying on the ground, blood seeping through

What about the men and women?
Lined up, not knowing their final words
Tears prickling, not being able to see
Is that what you want your people to see?

But that’s all fine
Get the victims in a line
For it’s all for honor
For it’s all for power

What do you think
Goes through the people’s heads?
Oh how great is our country,
For being torn to shreds?

Or oh it’s fine your son died,
Even if you had cried
All this bloodshed is just insignificant clatter
to such an elite matter

What about the bloodshed?
The dead families?
The orphans?
The starvation?
The pain, the agony?
The tears?
The lost homes?
The children living in fear?
The bonds broken?
Is it all worth ego?
While you bet the lives like a gambling casino?

Imagine suffocating slowly and painfully, still having so much to do
Imagine watching your mother die, right after she attended the stew
Imagine holding your child, trying hard to erase all doubt
Imagine living a life, where nothing goes right and about
Imagine seeing your school friends cry
While blood trickles from your thigh

So go on with your slaughter
But remember the mother
Every eye you made shed salty water

The sister
The brother
The father
The farmer
The doctor
The peasant
The teacher
The student

So hold your ****** weapons up high
But remember
That once blood is on the hands
it never fades or becomes dry
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