A train to the big city
Where the pavements are of gold
A job, a life, a future

A cardboard box in no-man’s land.

Why do they come? Refugees
From their own poverty
Here to share in ours.

There’s a boy in oblivion over there
A needle in his arm
And **** in his hair;
Sold to the dream of another world
Not here.

Some walk the streets you know
Teenagers, offering their bodies
Hoping to save their souls;
Pawning dignity for a take-away,
**** in sin city
For the rich and gay.

There is no gold here, you fools
Under the same sky you sleep
On the same wish you weep
Crying yourselves to sleep
Counting lambs to the slaughter.

What is this search for,
when the dirt poor explore
the locked heavy vault doors?

What are the blind trying to find,
when all roads lead to
streets where lonely-hearts bleed through
before they ever get to meet you,

a place where the closest thing to an angel
is that strange human being
who drops off a few essential things
for the scattered flock of forgotten
flesh forms who follow the hollow
and hard streets            
to find a warm and semi safe place to sleep,

where stop signs and streetlights
are the most productive spots
for the needy to plead freely
with cardboard requests
to ease the hunger pains, they are feeling.

What is the point of this struggle?

good old television
or televisions plural because
this shop window has
twenty-two of them
all showing a celebrity
cooking show twenty-two

identical pans containing
the same cuts of chicken
or maybe pork or whitefish
being lightly browned while
no voice can be heard from
the twenty-two tanned faces

smiling out at us and
here the homeless man
watches them all from the
pavement and the rain
good old television
something for everyone

The gold that flows, through our elaborate veins,
The crop that is known, by many names,
The gift that alleviates, our daytime pains,
The commodity that plays, one too many games.

Our world is nothing, but a bottomless mine,
Simply waiting, for the wrath and plunder of humankind,  
Oh labourers please, wait your spot in line,
For it was not you that made, this incredible find.

You’re a fool to think, the system needs a redesign,
For your fate and this chain, are forever intertwined.
Stay in your corner, as they wine and dine,
For it is you not them, contained by this chain’s bind.  

Posing as a gift, that elevates their daily grind,
The brown gold is no longer, part of your bloodline,
It was their chains after all, that made this incredible find,
For it now flows away, from the Plateau’s skyline.
  
You continue to hope, for these chains to be redefined,
But to imagine you even exist to them, is asinine,
Yet you believe a consumer movement, would be so inclined,
For you forget that chains were made, to always confine.

A father carries on his shoulders
his 3 year old son,
as the father walks waist deep in
monsoon floodwaters
seeking to escape the floods
and carry his child to safety.

Monsoon floods
happen every year in India
and every year people are in flood-distress.
I wonder
what is the solution to flood-distress?
Better infrastructure like concrete drains
linked to concrete waterways
linked to reservoirs
which save water for the dry season?
I wonder
who will build this infrastructure?
How will this infrastructure be built?
Who will pay for this infrastructure?
The development of poor nations
like India
is a mystery to me.
I wonder
how poor flood-prone villages in India
will develop the needed infrastructure
to prevent monsoon flooding?

He held my gaze that little Urchin
In the middle of the crowded road
He held my gaze with his impish smile
For as long as his attention would hold
A playful smile was on his lips
Though his clothes lay in tatters
The little Urchin was full of life
Rich in what it matters
He flitted towards the end of the street
Where the slums clustered in thickets
I heard the sound of something crashing
And noticed fallen wickets
Many an imps frolicked by
In the guise of deprivation
Yet all that I could see
Survival beyond starvation
But then he flitted again in hurry
As the noon hour chimed
He went to the edge of the road
And over a wall he climbed
Reaching for left overs
He battled with stray dogs
His friends joined in battle cries
Pelted them with rocks
He held my gaze with the life
That twinkled in his eyes
But before I could say goodbye
I knew his eyes had lied
©Anavah 2019

I just watched a news report:
13 million people are hungry
in the Philippines
and cannot afford three meals a day.
I watched a grandmother
picking through others’ garbage bags
to find food waste:
She found a half-eaten chicken
partially-decomposed
and took it home to feed her grandchildren
for whom she is the sole provider
after her husband died
and as the children’s parents look for work.
The brave responsible grandmother says
“Life is hard”
as she smells the stench of the decomposing chicken
then boils it to **** the bacteria
then fries it with a little onion
to improve the rotten taste.
Her four hungry grandchildren
sit quietly around the small dining table
eating the partially-decomposed chicken.
The heroic grandmother says
“the stench of the food
is something you never get used to
but life is hard
it’s either rotting food
or nothing.”

I was left thinking:
Is there something we can do
to feed the hungry
in the Philippines?
Is there something we can do
to feed the hungry
around the world?

I am so very broke, I can’t afford to pay it thought.
Fettered in a cage by poverty, left only to pray and rot.
The feathers of my soul have been tarred and stained by life.
So much so, I'm not sure if they'll ever again shine bright.
This Bird in my heart used to sing for my hopes and dreams;
Mourning every tragedy with requiems that gleamed.
A little Canary to be all mine until the very end of time,
Staving off this cold world and reminding me I'm fine.

This poverty starved her slow and deep, down to the very core.
Melodies that once remedied despair gone forevermore.
Nowadays, all I can ever do is reminisce about that yellow bird;
How she'd bring warmth to my life's cold hell of a blur.
The way our voices would harmonize on little notes;
Prophecies of a better future foretold from our nook.
That's why I still cling to the distant sound of their words,
Because they ramble on in me until nothing seems absurd.
I like to think she still sings sometimes, though no sound is heard.
That music of hope rings in my mind still, all thanks to Bird.