"labour" poems
Into the wonderment of your autumnal mind.
Where the skin of your grief sheds its leaves.
Is the song of your sea bound into colourful light?
The Shepherd breaches the flock of your dreams,
And the pastures breathe a sigh of relief,
As your tears of morning dew
Glisten the parched landscape.
Does your bouquet of *****
Lay wistfully in the wilderness?
The skies of blue that reside in your eyes
Serenades the coming of the tide,
Harvesting the fruit of our labour of love.
Is this a wind of smile that turns into a voyage of valiancy?
A flock of thoughts liberated with a cry of exclamation
As your fears of autumn blue
Are exiled into the rapacious wind.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
the first time, touched
us, otherwise strangers
delving within ourselves
our overt close encounters
past intimate imitations
of love’s labour lost and gained
we collide
again and again
crossing over, crossing under
energies focused at the hip
flowing through & into one another
endlessly
we release
feathers soaked
in each other’s essence
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Jealousy
If I could be but a burning sun,
I'd scorch you with my wrath.
All your labour and all you loved
Would sizzle in my heat,
And turn into steam.
What I can't have,
Why should I let you keep?
If I was but an ocean blue,
I'd envelope you in my foam.
Grain by grain I'd wash away
The foundation of your home,
Claiming it for my own.
I need to breach your comfort
So I can have mine.
I need to pour onto you
Like torrential rain.
I need to chill you to the bone,
Like some haunted wind.
For you cannot, should not
Have that which I cannot reach.
You snatched it from under my nose,
And it kept screaming my name,
But you muffled its voice.
Your cruelty knows no end,
So now you'll taste mine
And I promise the pain won't fade.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Oh motherland, at your feet
may all moments of my life lie sacrificed
This strength of my youth, these breaths,
All are surrendered to you
To protect your honour
I would forego hundred lifetimes
I would either embrace death or
vanquish your enemies
Touching your feet in reverence
I take this solemn oath
until the end of my life
I would be loyal to you
Those who have died in your lap
their spirits bask in eternal happiness
*Oh motherland, at your feet
may all moments of my life lie sacrificed*
My mother tells me
I will go on without you
bearing the pain of your passing
by turning my heart into stone
However, if in your lifetime
there is a threat to this country
and being fearless you do not
fight this threat, my son,
then, I will think, I birthed
poison instead of life
or that my nourishment
did not give enough strength
Listening to these words
my head lies forever bowed
*Oh motherland, at your feet
may all moments of my life lie sacrificed*
It is not only said by my mother
but all mothers of this country
to give birth to a Narsimh
they bear difficult pangs of labour
Those brave warriors who wrote
history with their life blood
carry their images in your heart
and placing your hand there, promise,
you will forsake everything else
at the call of your motherland
Your body, soul and life
surrendered to your country
*Oh motherland, at your feet
may all moments of my life lie sacrificed*
Narsimh - an avatar of the Hindu god Vishnu,often visualised as having a human torso and lower body, with a lion face and claws. He is known primarily as the 'Great Protector' who specifically defends and protects his devotees in times of need.
Translation is given by karishma ji
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
Slavery
A moral depravity
A moral degeneracy followed by intellectual degeneration
A luxury and currution among the upper classes
Slavery
A world without the fundamental human rights
Revolting cruelty from the ****** outrage to brutal ******
Slavery
World of chains
World of hard labour
World of pains sorrow and agony
Songs of joy are sang in the world seeing the end to this hideous blot
Yet slavery still exist in the modern world
Described as modern slavery
Modern slavery
A world without chains yet psychologically we are chained
World without hard labour yet we work ourselves out to survive
World with fundamental human rights but filled with betrayal at the cause of justice
Slavery
World for the poor
World for the less privelage
World of reality
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
On top of my labour
In the farmyard
I often proffer you
Milk, cheese, manure and hide
To render grand
Your life,
Then how come
You express
Your gratitude
With a knife?
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
For Helene.
Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand
And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies
We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.
I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.
Embers without a chance against rivers
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full
To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force
Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.
I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
I love my country: India , but
I hate many of its rulers, as
they speak for the poor and
act for tycoons bellicose, and-
Diversity sighs in armed Unity;
The selfish corrupted in unity
March ahead on graves crafty.
I love my country: India , but
August fifteenth : with freedom,
opened all devilish forces
out of Hell to fell all virtues.
Grim faced Buddha smiles
Like a nuclear Phantom ,his
tears drip on tomb of Peace.
No white dove sits on dome
It bleeds in the lap of Buddha.
If birth is the cause of gloom.
who stops one from bloom?
Dearth of berth clamour for
Death of birth at the womb.
I love my country: India , but
Souls are free on lovely Earth
Lay bodies strain to survive.
A nominal word equanimity
Gushes in landslide infirmity.
Service becomes self –service,
In black ink sleeps Socialism.
Fear Neurosis like King Kamsa
Keeps Liberty behind the bars.
Healthy, wealthy Bharat Matha
Groans in labour room for Santi.
Note: 1). August fifteenth= 15 August 1947 when India became free from Briton. 2).Buddha=Gutham Buddha(Prince Sidhardha) who established Buddhism.3).Kamsa= The mythological character , uncle of Lord Krishna who chained even his sister Devaki out of the fear psychosis. 4),Bharat Matha= Indians consider Bharat/India as their Mother(Matha)-so it is Mother land not Fatherland for them .Santi/Shanti=a Sanskrit word used in Vedas and Upanishads of India which means Peace or Islam.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
What's my worth?
Am I worth a second glance?
Till present, from birth
Am I deserving of chance?
What's my value?
Am I worth time spent?
What did I do?
Did I squander the life lent?
What are my virtues?
Do they even shine through?
Do I put them to good use?
Or useless like a pair less shoe?
What defines me?
Is it the words that write?
Or work I do diligently?
Could it be my punches in a fight?
What have I done?
Take your time to think
Did I do it with a loaded gun?
Must've done something; must've missed the link
What am I good for?
Important work or menial labour
Could have I done more?
Achieved alone or together
Do I think differently?
Indulge in fairytale notions
Is it sheer folly?
To believe in magic potions
Am I just silly?
Do I dream too much?
Accept reality
Am I capable of such?
Do I shirk what I carry?
Should I have said no?
Did I delay and tarry?
Have I nothing to show?
Am I wrong to feel?
Is it foolish to want?
When it all is real
Now bearing the brunt
Do I wear you weary?
With my endless stupor
Why can't I bury?
Before we expire
Why do I wallow?
Wading through eye puddles
Should I just burrow?
Deep into these riddles
Why do I falter?
Why can't I heal and rise?
Why do I break and shatter?
How do I stop my eyes?
What is this dense forest?
Must everything be obscure?
Can I not be honest?
Can I not be insecure?
Could I be any more random?
Asking as they come to mind
Have I compromised my decorum?
Have I been blind?
Should I delve even deeper?
May I go on and ask?
Am I worthy of an answer?
Or should I just don my mask?
Gargantuan was my crime
Thick was its girth
Absolution this time?
Of it am I worth?
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
Africa, Oh Africa!
Africa, Oh Africa!
My Motherland,
Why not take pride
in who you are?
When you converse,
You use the language of the West.
The offspring of the same parents,
And still use the language of the West.
Your own children try to distance themselves
and dress and talk like
Those from the West.
Your airwaves are filled with music,
Fast beats, foul language
and heavy metal from the West.
Even the food you eat
All processed and purchased
From the West.
Your fields are dry.
You laugh at traditional foods and ceremonies.
You have forgotten who you are.
Your heritage cries out
From the depths of the tombs
you're filling up with immorality
and your self-destructive ways.
You despise who are,
You ridicule who you are,
You try so hard to change
Who you are
Your heroes and comrades
In entertainment and politics
In the community, the society
Have been overshadowed
By those from the West.
Remember them,
Revere them,
More so alive than after death.
Resurrect Ubuntu,
Show a little compassion
For a fellow who needs it.
Stop the hate, tribalism
And racism.
This path of destruction
Will get you nowhere.
Let peace rule in the Motherland.
Respect your elders,
Salute the teachers
Who try to lead your youth
In the right direction.
Teach your children well
Violence is not the way
The pen is still mightier
Than the sword
Eradicate illiteracy
End child labour and
Marriages.
Honour, love and protect
Your women and children.
They will give you respect
and happiness in return.
Follow the footprints
Of your forebears.
Live in harmony with
Yourself.
Africa, Oh Africa!
Africa, Oh Africa!
Take note
Before it's too late!
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:41 AM UTC
Speak African child, speak. for you poses a mouth that heals nations. It is in thine voice in the vibrations of thy mouth that remedies are provided to our ailments.
speak African child, speak. speak against the calamities that befall your land. speak against that hand that he dare raises against your bare skin. speak against the blood of your brothers spilled to please others.
Speak for Africa that is one and united, Africa that does not know of any racial divides. Africa that knows no skin colour. speak African child speak. for you are the voice of liberation. speak for your voice are the echoes of our ancestors.
child labour, human trafficking, child *********** school violence, femicides, suicides. and you say you see this not. African child where is your voice in all of this. doesn't that skin, that accent and ***** hair mark you as of African descent.
Speak African child speak for you bare the answers to our questions, you bare the sole of our history.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:00 AM UTC
To go a viking was the call
To be answered by Norsemen blonde and tall
And so they rode the dragon boats
The powers of Thor and Odin they did invoke
Once more upon a foreign shore
Spared not the weak who did emplore
For mercy from untimely death
A viking was a raid unto death
The weak and feeble felt the axe
Even the strong had no hope to match
The power of its savage bite
And when the blow fell death came in sight
Of those yet to fall
Delivered by a norseman tall
Few were spared and taken slave
To labour for their remaining days
Then the longships turned once more for home
Few Norsemen dead no more to roam
There is a name for what they did
To Go A Viking
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC
I am not just a person in
a uniform, I am a Soldier.
Every time I arise, I obey;
Each time she calls, I step up
To defend her freedom,
To restore her home of peace
I arise, I obey, I soldier on.
Into the forest of her terrors
I charge, not without fear for that
which is mine but with love and strength
and faith, I March. Defending the labour
of heroes past, I march; fighting
for dreams of her children bright-
the future she deserves.
I arise, I obey, I soldier on.
In the army I serve Nigeria, my
Country with heart, might and spine.
Though a thousand times I have fallen,
bits and pieces of me, lost to her darkness,
still I obey, knowing it may be my last. I arise,
leaving my family and friends behind.
I obey your call of duty. My service and loyalty
I pack on with my combat gear, that you may live
to see yet another day, to feel yet another ray of
light on your face. I am not just a person in a uniform.
I am your Soldier, the Nigerian Soldier,
Ambushed and slaughtered in 40s, 70s and 100
for lack of resources.
Bless me O Nigeria as I arise and obey
Send me to your enemies with arsenals
and might to match the fire in my eyes.
As opposed to the massacres of me, let
the headlines read of our gallant victory
For my victory is yours over those who
threaten our unity.
I am not just a person in a uniform.
I am your Soldier
Do not let my bravery dissipate to stupidity
For I rise, I obey, I soldier on
still.
©Belema .S. Ekine
©belemascribbles
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.
8.3k
One fleeting chance to catch you between trapezes
Yet my head was bowed, my thoughts immersed
In another dream of another life that i longed to live
A moments lapse careers you to that downward spiral
Through all those safety nets, all those webs we wove
Once so secure borne from our labour, love and toil
Exposed now like a promise of night through a civil dawn
As you fall through each of my declarations of trust
You blow out the candles and knock out the lights
Of celebrations and occasions now shattered like glass
Blackness descending through this never blinking eye
As those moments and time perpetually relive yet resist
The blood still refusing to flow freely through my veins
As i sit and wait for this evening coffee to run cold
That i may embrace the sanctuary of night once more
For I was one that could never dream in the dark
No more than one who could ever make amends
Between those two trapezes that signaled our end
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
*break
astonishment at perception
of
a third-world child making it
up that totem-pole
amidst paltry conditions
even
beyond the half-way mark*
1.
a standing man
in silent message
and the woman in red
with thin-sling shoulder-bag
holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse
oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull
draped round her sister's head
shroud eternal
coughing
sore
2.
grannies recount lively griot-tales
where hope is never barren
young boys play in swamped dirt-trails
drawing absent father-figures in the sand
the wind has carried them off to mines
deep in the crust of earth's ire
adolescent future sits on labour-farms
where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops
keeps the sly farmer happy
and he tells them the fruit is free
yet they've already paid for it
manifold
when she reaches twenty
she will have at least two kids
whose lives lie in the granny's luxury
while she runs off to the golden city-lites
to jump through higher hoops
for ****** spoils
all cheapened by long-term neglect
3.
there lies hope
unlost
in every girl-child
who goes to school
who finds encouragement
from words kindly given
if but from a stranger
*no hand-me-outs
no forlorn begging*
she...
the empowered mother of boys
will
help them to grow
into young men
of such sensibility
as to keep their hands
to deeds of honour
who, in turn
become fine fathers to daughters
they love and cherish
raise to be
luminary
*each step up
from that totem-pole
such a steep climb
strengthens invisible wings
and unworldly rewards
and when final rung is reached
heralds
untainted take-offffffff*......
S T, 27 aug
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
Running amok black bellies of hail-clouds
divest their hard cargo
on near-ready harvest and thunder claps
in spiteful applause.
Scudding sails of racing white galleons
arrive to the rescue
and change weather's position as quiet
breaches gale's disorder.
Setting the sun throws magenta feathers
across dark horizon
and to settle the issue parades jade tints
as the landscape transforms.
Waiting small boats plod homewards in
fish-laden formation
while wives run to stoke hot-kettled fires
of ready bath water.
Lighting a pathway half-moon winks as
heavier catches in
hauled nets silver the harbour and men
start night's final performance.
Sating hunger with coming and going
sow-and-reap women know
the meaning of sharing male labour in
scaling and salting chores.
Fisher-folks' world begins and ends
with the vagaries and quirks of weather.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
When the wind blows from the front,
You'll feel the nostalgia,
Hear the hustle and bustle of fishermen,
Crunching cockle shells under their boots,
Smell the sweet smelling tobacco from pipes,
The toil and hardwork heavy in the air.
Knocking you from the moment,
A faked tan man with a chihuahua,
Hear the cackle of faked laughter,
Clattering of stilletto heels upon cobbles,
Smell the alcohol laced ***** spilling from mouths,
The fruits of labour heavy in the air.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
This harbour was made by art and force.
And called Kingstown and afterwards Dun Laoghaire.
And holds the sea behind its barrier
less than five miles from my house.
Lord be with us say the makers of a nation.
Lord look down say the builders of a harbour.
They came and cut a shape out of ocean
and left stone to close around their labour.
Officers and their wives promenaded
on this spot once and saw with their own eyes
the opulent horizon and obedient skies
which nine tenths of the law provided.
And frigates with thirty-six guns, cruising
the outer edges of influence, could idle
and enter here and catch the tide of
empire and arrogance and the Irish Sea rising
and rising through a century of storms
and cormorants and moonlight the whole length of this coast,
while an ocean forgot an empire and the armed
ships under it changed: to slime **** and cold salt and rust.
City of shadows and of the gradual
capitulations to the last invader
this is the final one: signed in water
and witnessed in granite and ugly bronze and gun-metal.
And by me. I am your citizen: composed of
your fictions, your compromise, I am
a part of your story and its outcome.
And ready to record its contradictions.
6.5k
My darling boy,
The real one. The real thing and all.
A figment of my imagination but in my (tiny) self I hold.
You.
There is much awe in my city, my dear, but you are the skyscraper. Much joy in my world, but you are the bubbles, clumsily blown by a three year old. Much wonder in my life, but you are my eyes when fireworks are set off. There is much music, but you sing a different song, of other lives lived, of sisterhood, of soul mates, of brothers, of lovers. Once again, we are.
It had been so long and on your descent, your landing, your smooth slip through Heathrow’s arrival gates (the home of my memory hidden in its ink)
I felt myself climb
Back into you
In the strongest, yet weakest way
Possible
Now you must rest. Go home to your mother and sleep til you wake.
Those days later
I watched you step out of that car
And as if in swift teamwork, my body was broken and healed at once.
I watched you cascade, so graciously, towards the bell ringers.
The people, your people
Your girls – full of anger, heavy wombs and hurricane.
I whispered, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’ and became
Me
You arrived and left without a girl on your arm – because, the truth is, you could never have anyone on your arm
Not even
You
My olive tree
The fruits of my loves labour never lost
A middle aged woman’s warm self among metallic scratches and blips.
A photograph – taken just before
Half of your face
Filling the whole page.
I will write to you
For you
As yours
Daily
And at the end of each I will
Whisper, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’
Thank you
I love you
Scorpio x
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
Woof.....woof.....woof...woof....woof....wooof
Some Red setters dogs are eating Jewish people
in England
But why, do call them off, they are british people,
The are hard working, Industrious, Entrepreneurs,
Professors, Doctors, Lawyers, Bankers, Entertainers
Scientists, Writers, eminent Surgeons, Artists, these
are nice Britons....stop the dogs, stop the dogs.....
Woof....woof....woof.....woof.....woof...woof woof
Some Red Setters dogs are eating and biting some
Labour MPs all over the country
But why, do call off the dogs, No! we have a list and this list, highlighted the behaviour of a number of Left MPs, including Jess Phillips for telling Corbyn’s ally Diane Abbott to **** off”, John Woodcock for dismissing the party leader as a ******* disaster” and Tristram Hunt for describing Labour as “in the ****
and all the other hard working Moderate MPs who dared protest at Anti-Semitic stance or supported the Jews .
Woof.....woof....woof....woof.....woof.....woof...woof
Some Red Setters dogs are devouring some minor
Royal from Africa
But why, do call off the dogs. No that ****** has a big **** he's
Charismatic, intelligent, wholesome, has good work ethics, polite,
wise, charming, generous, witty and a ****** good lover and to top it all he's Royal. Now that's ******* GREEDY, how much can a
******* man have. NO! he's a goner. He is too perfect, he must be hounded and persecuted to death.
Woof....woof....woof.....woof.....woof.....woof.......woof
Grrr.....woof.....Grrrrr....woof...wooof...Grrrr....wooof
Congratulations People, we have got rid of them all
we now have real democracy, we have a real society now
Get in the dogs ... And all you useless ******* people shut up!
And report to the Labor Camps 7:30a.m. tomorrow
You're Working Class and now you ****** have to work!
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
Pass by citizen
don't look left or right
Keep those drip dry eyes straight ahead
A tree? Chop it down- it's a danger
to lightning!
Pansies calling for water,
Let 'em die- queer ********
Seek comfort in the scarlet, labour
saving plastic rose
Fresh with the frangrance of Daz!
Sunday! Pray citizen;
Pray no rain will fall
On your newly polished
Four wheeled
God
Envoi
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Get it out with Optrex
5.5k
There is burden on my creativity
Cos I think i'm too good not to blow up with it.
There is burden on my creativity
Trying to balance the pride not to overshadow the joy.
There is burden on my creativity
Cos I've made folks believe this is the way.
There is burden on my creativity
Sigh! I can't fight writer's block yet.
There is burden on my creativity
I've made some sacrifices and I'm set on going all out.
There is burden on my creativity
I think I need to start blazing trails.
There is burden on my creativity
Dad must reap his fruits of labour.
There is burden on my creativity
I can't get out and start searching for jobs, not with this talent.
There is burden on my creativity
It needs to touch people souls.
There is burden on my creativity
I want peeps to get wowed.
There is burden on my creativity
I must be able to do it a bit more easy.
There is burden on my creativity
How can I amass wealth?
My **** and kids must not sweat.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the colour of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the god that made him for the colour of his hair.
5.2k
Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
(- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.
Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
barely there, staring at a laptop screen.
Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"
((A baritone chorus of laughter.))
"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."
Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.
A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC