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ryn Feb 2015
There once was a man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He worked long and hard; and wore a tan,
He was a plantation tapper.

One night he packed,
In haste after a long day of toil.
Quickly had his belongings all sacked
Under light from a lantern that reeked of kerosene oil.

He was ready, flame from the lantern he did ****.
Overhead, the midnight moon brightly shone.
Bound his sack to the rack above the rear wheel,
Mounted his bicycle and soon he was gone.

The dirt trail leading back,
Undulating with gravel all strewn.
Almost treacherous this forgotten track
He only relied on light from the moon.

The air was cool just like any other,
But something was different about this night.
Squinting ahead he spotted a figure.
Flagging him down was a lady in white...
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
ryn Feb 2015
The new day still saw the man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan,
He was the plantation's tapper.

The evening sun had long set
Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness.
Relying on what little light the moon would let.
He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress.

His sack slung over one shoulder,
He found his way to his trusty ride.
Nightly routine he would execute over and over
Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide.

All day long, he had been thinking of the night before.
He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick.
As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more...
He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick!

As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track.
His eyes caught something that came within sight.
Standing by the side against a background of black.
There she was again...all garbed in white...
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard
I did not ask anything
I did not dream anything
Some come more in the eye
Otherwise livelihood natural

Some get enjoyments out of destructions
Many examples I gave
When crime gets inevitable
Anything is possible

Dr Baljit Singh
Wednesday 10th July 2019
Amanda Jean Oct 2016
I am frustrated.
I am at fault.
I am not at fault.
I am trying but
I am wasting away.
I push forward
But you push back.

And I am so confused
Together? Apart? What do we do?
Place blame
Take blame
Ignore the fact that it happened?
Continue forward
Move on
But together or separate?

What is deserved?
My wallet
My livelihood
My cigarettes and gas money?
My heart
My feelings
My emotions
My body?

Push it to the limits
But what for? For us? For you? Is it worth it?
For you. For this.
Why?
Your worth?
Your heart and mind and soul?
Can we make it
Or will we break?
shamamama Jun 4
ludicrous without the laughter
this
Absurdity

sun baking villages of wild flowers for dead bees
bare earth torn to discover luminous oil
what are we doing?
why are we here?

why are the floods pouring from the sky?
Extraordinary tears
from lives spent
no more
to be seen again?

summer mountains
getting covered with winter snow
why are the polar bears
floating on glacial ice away from their livelihood
Why are the seasons changing,
from spring into winter
and from summer into the unknown
why are the whales swimming
to the shore?

Did we rewrite the wheel of time?
did we change the drumming of the drummer
without asking why?

The cotton clouds above me
silently scream as they stream
into the empty sunset
in the darkness of my mind

I have heard to act like we are
walking on our grandmother's face
when we take a walk on our earth,
What would grandmother say
if she were here today?

Stop!  See
the basil buzzing with a bee
Listen,
let your eyes
fill with the light of hope,
feel it,
and
let
this
gold
ray
touch
the
sun
in
your
mind
to
illuminate your landscape....

...I remember,
I remember why we are here
and what we are doing

don't let
someone else's
thoughts and actions
tear your earth apart

let the earth sneeze
let the bees breeze
let the sunshine awaken
let the dry rocks get covered with river clouds
let the tears fall,
touch and listen to grandmother

if the old footprints on her face
do not say I love you,
how can this next step say
I love you?
I have difficulty understanding life--how the past darkens what is here now and the future. I write to move through this "not understanding" and to shed rays of light into my mind to chase away the darkness, reveal the jewels of hope.
Without work
You cannot support your family
It is OK if people ask you
How you support your family

Work is livelihood
Getting work is natural
Penguins also bring food
For their family

Dr Baljit Singh
Wednesday, 13th March 2019
Growly Wolfus Jul 15
I shake your hand unwillingly.
I didn't want this to be
the start or end of our newfound friendship.
I'm forcing, pushing myself to do this.
Keep in mind, this is not my kind of bliss.
T'is not cause of you I ran away,
but I just knew I couldn't stay.
I doomed "us" before "we" even started.

"Let's be friends," I'd rehearsed in my head,
not knowing I  would soon be led
by all my faults and hardships.
I feel I will implode
never knowing where else to go.
"I'm an introvert," I'd always say.
This is the excuse I use everyday.
I'm led blindly by my own utter failures.

""It's really not that hard to do,"
I thought whilst running away from you.
Being social is a part of our livelihood.
I've fallen and there's no one to stop me.
I don't matter, so why not flee?
No one will notice that I am gone.
I have no acquaintances to lean on.
Nothing can keep this sea from being parted.

I try my hardest, I try my best
but I'll never get any rest.
Being alone is neither healthy nor good.
I've tried to find some friends online,
but they would go away sometimes.
My time here's waning.  I'm consumed by fear.
There are no friends to save me from here.
They'll never know how much it really hurts.
A depressed introvert's life story.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "कविता" published in  bharat-darshan  ( Sep. -Oct., 2018 )
Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2nRwOB9
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^

Poetry is the outflow of someone's heart
For someone, it's only black fever
For some, it's only a form of business
For someone, this is only seasonal fever

It's just an entertainment for someone
For someone it's like a toothpaste
A good instrument use to giggle
Listening it makes their teeth brighter

To show off the that stunning brightness
They spread crooked and mysterious smiles
Show of their shining-sparkling teeth
Then they lash out their greedy tongue

Poetry is an old newspaper for someone
It’s a mound of waste and unusable junk items
Poetry is just an advertisement for someone
Only an excellent medium to sell their goods

Poem is dark black alphabets for some
Only equivalent to a big fat black buffalo
From which it is impossible to get milk
But it's easy to get hurt by it's horns

Poem is a deep sympathy for some
For some its acute pain of the heart
Aroused from the core of their heart
It's someone's love for someone else

Poem is overflowing care for someone
It is swirling cloudy dust over someone
Poem is just a time-pass for someone
For someone it is complete nonsense

Poetry is effrontery in someone's pride
For someone it's amnesty for all
For some it's Saafi by Hamdard^
Which purifies and cleans the blood well

Poetry is a meditation for someone
For someone it’s a form of worship
Poetry is name of someone's beloved daughter^^
Poem is the name of someone's beautiful wife^^

Poem is means of livelihood for someone
It happen to be the basis of his life
For someone it is simply a big loan
Which is much difficult to repay in time

Poem is a tribute to the heroes
It a wreath to the brave martyrs
It's a collection of songs for musicians
It's prayer of devotees with folded hands

Sometimes poetry makes us happy
Sometimes it causes us to weep
It often caresses readers with love
Sometimes it even consoles them

Poetry sometimes make us laugh
Sometimes it forces to think
At times it reveals the flaws beneath
By removing the outer cover shell

Poetry sometimes surprises us too much
Sometimes misleads to pseudo-intellectualism
Sometimes it poses a challenge before us
Sometimes it emerges as a song from the soul

Sometimes it portrays the beauty of actress
It tends to dissolves sweet juice in the ears
And sometimes it pours molten lead in it
In such situation it pushes back all courtesy

Sometimes it transforms rulers into heroes
And sometimes it makes a politicians zero
Sometimes it becomes the words of panegyrist
Then it behaves like a butter ball for them

Poetry sometimes honours someone
Sometimes it even trick so many of us
Poetry even makes fun of somebody
Sometimes it entertains someone's heart

By the way, poetry is a blunt weapon
But it's has a different hitting power
Which is the real inner power of poet
It's also his covering blanket and strength

Only poetry gives him the required courage
It completely protects his existence
It always teaches him the lesson to -
Keep on fighting against the gunpowder

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^^^^
^ Saafi - A Unani Medicine made by a company named Hamdard, used to clean or purify the blood

^^ Name of .....  - Kavita (translation of the word Poem in hindi) is a common name given to females in India.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^
My thoughts on what a Poetry is......
In Siem Reap, Cambodia, after a reflective tour
of the temples, a boat took us sailing.....to see
houses standing on stilts....i never expected to
sail on an endless lake.....the man at the helm
bended...he reached for something, and let go
of the wheel...a young boy, who seemed to be
his son.......quickly grabbed the steering wheel.
from that moment on, he took over...his hands
were small but, capable....when i thought, our
boat would hit an unseen rock or land, it didn't.
he took us to our destination and back...safely.
obviously, the boy was trained young..he knew  
every curved path of his surroundings...he was
aware.....cared about their source of livelihood,
proved a child can be relied on....they're more
reliable than adults, at times, despite their play
ful innocence....many times, i reflected on that
boat ride, that boy's unflinching face and hands
i asked myself over and over,  "could i steer my
boat the way that boy did?  am i navigating my
self rightly, even on life's odd waters?.....have i  
ever helped steer reeling boats before? brought
(them back to safer shores?.........not just mine?)
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Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    October 19, 2018
(an adult can  learn so much...from a child)
Joshua Sep 2018
The stinging aroma of Summers end,
Creeps meanderingly closer.
With a light, but heavy drizzle,
Days and complaints of the
summers heavy burdens,
are gone.

Yet laboress farmers and their livestock,
burn forgotten with such an ease.
In their hearts they hold a truth,
That nestles and cradles,
and strikes back with vicious intent.

The pompous, beyond gluttonous fools,
Sitting in their brown sturdy leather chairs,
Feed tainted staples, to the heart of the fair,
All with the intent of a devilish bargain,
To hang livelihood by it’s neck.

It isn’t the country they so desperately cling to,
That they have since birth, nurtured on its breast.
No, it is the god in which we are all too willing to trust,
Where every branch is church,
And every sin is done in lust.

It takes not but one look,
to see their greasy, boiled overfed faces
do not look the place.
Were we to take in kind, like countries and centuries before,
to take up our only arms.
It would be off with their heads, and we would raise no alarms.

But the Mother, oh the sweet Mother,
That we without afterthought poison so readily.
She will have her balance and her revenge,
And perhaps one day soon we’ll be feeding on these pigs,
and together we will fry their fatty, gelatinous flesh.
We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed

For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea

Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies

From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean

With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right

When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.

Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****,
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.

We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!
Manual scavengers is a decent term. People who collect human and animal excreta on bare hands are the manual scavengers. The quality of these people in the south-east Asian countries like India remain pathetic. Their voices are often neglected and ignored by the rulers. They remain struck in a state of vicious circle, where poverty and untouchability keeps chasing them continuously and push them towards this work. This poem is a pain of the masses that had been engaged in manual scavenging for centuries immemorial that continues unlikely, till the present day. Rulers don’t offer the mandatory occupational standards and technological support to the manual scavengers. The motive of this poem is to voice their concerns to help them work peacefully and offer them a dignified life. This poem is written in the style of a ballad.
Infantile screams
come out of the one
clinging to survival

as he's plugged into the top of the hill,
receiving either glory and power,
or the illusion thereof.

Either like a humble village with orc invaders
Ignited with fury
At the sight of their livelihood slaughtered
Ready to retaliate
Like a veteran warrior's last stand,

Or like an adulterer with another man's wife,
The husband storms in
to take him off
and throw him out
Like a teenager thrown out of his nest,

Either the kindergartener protests his removal from his mother's hand,
Or the toddler doesn't want to be pried from his tablet.

One of them fingerpaints the other black
as both fingerpaint themselves white
until the color grey changes gravity,
and switches their places again and again
for God knows how long.

Whether which one is right,
and the other wrong,
only, in this fallen finite realm,
the one with the loudest infantile scream
wins,

but not forever.
adi Oct 23
And they got on the ship not knowing if they will come back alive. But by the time they were to come back, alive and well, they would have realized that they were never truly alive until the ship had sailed, until they had left everything they had in a big heap and lit it on fire.

And by the time they got back they would have realized they needed none of the things from before, that they had always been carrying them as anchors to their souls, and precisely those things they didn't have anymore is what grounded them in their adventures. It was never about the treasures they were going to dig up, nor about the ****** and the bartenders they so often visited in ports; it was never about some thing.

It was about them and only them, about the gold of their hearts, the sapphires of their eyes, and the stories they told to each other.

Not one reality has seen half the excitement and livelihood of one of their stories.

This way, they became immortal.
Englishman granted me better
And the book came along
So that people could trust
Backed by
You don’t need anyone
It is yours
Otherwise
People will not trust

It is a practical poem
It is a waste of time relying on the wrong man

The train bogie stopped in front of me
The station Master said
Board the train
Otherwise, you will miss it

Eclipse shortened boarding the train
I reached the destination
No one asked me
I scanned the ticket

This poem is about
How I got the honour of teaching the MPH course
I had forgotten that I had put an application
4th June; the great honour

Livelihood important than the oblige
Then you don’t come in the eye

Dr Baljit Singh
Wednesday 5 September 2018

https://www.amazon.com.au/Topics-Population-Health-Baljit-Singh/dp/1796003107
Manda Raye Nov 2018
Something about the comfort of autumn—
in California our leaves go straight from green
to gone, if they choose to change at all.
The sun stays bright but the air starts to bite,
and the Santa Anas blow through to dry up
our last drops of livelihood. Most seem to like it—
the streets littered with death and ready to restart—
but the rough winds always hollow me out,
echo a haunting song off the tunnelled walls
of my bones. It’s about this time I empty out,
and fill instead with cotton mouth. My lips chap
and crack, but I smile silently, and I wait.
Today, I was thinking
If a magic stick could
I then realised people have a diary
Sometimes, it is difficult to prove even innocence
The morning has just arrived

Market operations get conducted
Those who do more, they bag a bigger prize
Others wait for the sunrise

Exams have just finished
In the market of livelihood
People pray to God; they never think wrong
But if the crime takes on; it never went a smile.

Dr Baljit Singh
Friday, 12th April 2019
We do not destroy the social setup
There is mummy daddy in it
We let earn a livelihood
We don’t oblige it

They had come respectfully
We allow them a go back
There is a tie to it
And a family in it

Ask the man of identity
Are they in groups
Vices are undue
No moral to it

Nowadays the director writes the scene
The goon showed as the hero
We let live the souls
We don’t alter it

For whom?
For Mr there and then
Or Anxiety in the rest period

My Papa Ji’s name is Mr Balbir Singh
My grandmother is Satwant Kaur

We use the soft corner of the person to destroy the person as we need. For example; you let the little puppy in the garden and destroy the rules of the garden because we all love the little puppies. Same reason we destroy the souls through inter-caste marriages. For example when you marry your daughter to a drinker; you are gearing your daughter to serve the drinker; Englishman would agree. There are ways we destroy the soul.

Dr Baljit Singh
Sunday 17 November 2019
Elders tell me the battle of 1992 was something else,
All I remember is the yellow sadza, I was there, nonetheless.
The scars I have are from the 2007-8 battle,
I can’t imagine anything worse.

I wouldn't wish my experiences, then, on my worst enemies.
I have badges & trophies, medals & memories I would rather not possess.

I am not resilient, I am not strong at all, as many suggest,
I am just powerless.

I see the tell tale signs of another one coming,
My heart is beating, I am sweating, I am anxious.
I am not prepared despite all my experiences in these battles.
The battles for dignity,
The battles for livelihood,
The battles for three square meals.

I am just a Zimbabwean.
Zimbabwe is a country somewhere in Africa. I love my country, but my GVT and I are in a complicated situationship.
Sketcher Dec 2018
Why can't I remember simple words and phrases for tests and quizzes, yet I can remember almost every conversation we have had in the last four months. I have unintentionally memorized all of your hobbies and favorites. This was a surprising, yet amazing perk to getting to know you and fall in love with you.

I wanted to be a better artist, so I posted this wish on a few social media platforms. I was just getting it out in the open thinking that nobody would respond. You responded. You told me that we could meet up some time and practice your preferred art style, which is drawing animals. We made plans and set a date. I texted you on the chosen date and got a response the next morning saying that you were sorry for not responding sooner. You didn't have internet. We tried making plans a second time and the exact same thing happened. Yet again, you didn't have internet. At this point, I just thought that you didn't want to see me and I accepted that. One day, me and my ex-friend Gavin were walking around, going from neighborhood to neighborhood, just talking about life. Reminiscing in the good memories and troubles of the past. Eventually, we got bored of talking and he suggested that we go somewhere. This somewhere was your house. I didn't realize that we were walking towards your house at the time. Once we got to your house, I noticed you sitting in the back of your fathers truck while you had a few friends inside and your entire family eating dinner together at the dinner table. You seemed like a lonely teenager. You confirmed this thought after telling me multiple times in the future that you wanted me to come over and hang out, because of that dreadful loneliness. I came over at least twice every week and that lasted for a good two and a half months. From the first glance, I noticed your beauty. From your first words, I noticed your refined charm. You gave me a sort of cancer every time I came over. Ever time you touched me, the cancer would diminish and there would only be an elegant light radiating from the both of us. Then, when I would leave, the cancer would grow and pain me. This was only the beginning of my painful, yet joyous love for you.

I fell in love with you, because you drew me in. You, at one point literally, took me by the wrist to a place that nobody would find us and showed me the love you were capable of giving. Just not being able to see you and enjoy your presence was an extreme pain. I didn't think that this pain could get any worse. But of course, I was wrong and the pain grew immensely. You found someone else to give your love to. I was old news. Onto the next. You still had a bit of human in you. There was a small part of you that didn't want me to parish. You didn't want to completely stop avoiding me. So, you just started hanging out with me before school like I wouldn't notice the decline in how much time we were spending together.

I'm not mad. I'm not even sad. These emotions want to be set free and rile up a storm, but I would rather stay numb. When you're feeling lonely and don't have your boyfriend there to eradicate the loneliness present, I will be there in a snap. When you're hungry and I have stocked snacks in my bag for Wednesdays, because I can't order school lunches on Wednesdays, because Wednesday's are half-days and everybody has the same lunch on half-days, meaning that I would have to sit down and eat in the presence of you and your boyfriend... which I'm not going to do... I'll give you my Wednesday meal because your comfort is more important than my livelihood. When I buy two hundred dollar tickets for me and my friend Gavin to see a YouTuber we really like, and I find out you like the YouTuber too, I'll tell my friend Gavin that I'm taking a girl with me and take you instead even though I told him half a year ago that he was going with me. That's why I put an 'ex-' before friend while mentioning him earlier, because in the process of doing this, he said that I was a ******* ***** and he didn't want to hang out with me anymore. I don't mind, because your smile during the concert was more than enough to light up my days for weeks after the event. When you're wanting to walk with me and you're walking slow because gym class made you sore, and I'm walking fast because I have crippling anxiety and all I want to do is get the **** out of this highly populated school... I'll slow down and walk at your pace. When Satan comes knocking at your ******* bedroom door and asks you to **** one and save one, one being me and the other being your boyfriend, I will gladly run to your house and jump on Satan's blade so you don't have to make any decisions.

No matter what the circumstance, realistic or not, I desire your happiness above everything else.

I love you...
I don't expect you to read my story. Just getting it out there helps, so that's what I'm doing. Thanks for any likes, loves, or responses.
zo Dec 2018
i met a boy
sweet and intelligent and politically informed and on top of that very cute
a girl responds, he looks like a senator
i responded that i’ve never wanted to be a senator’s wife but i want to be his wife
now months later i realize i could also be the senator with a wife
or a husband
or a dog
i have been conditioned to think a female like me is to be a wife of someone in power and not a person in power
i have worked many events for political campaigns and observed that i am well out outnumbered by people who look nothing like me
sure i am adopted and can only speak english, but as i look around a room where a wonderful woman is confidently boasting that politics should not look like what we perceive but the room we are standing in i see no person like me
i am a nursing major aspiring to change the way politics look and run once i am educated and experienced enough as we are in the midst of a government shutdown
and as some of my family goes to work they’re having to tell their employees what they can do while during this shutdown, many of the staff will be sent home or working from home
their contracted by the government so after the season of giving they’ve been forced into giving their livelihood
i’m writing to exclaim my utter despair and shock by this country’s ability to force countless people to suffer because some sensible enough to refuse to agree with someone who intends to rip families apart and spend billions of dollars for projects that are tearing the nation to pieces
one take poem while enraged by my country and it’s many people
Dr Baljit Singh Oct 2018
It enabled me
It embraced me
I kept looking at the sunrise
Working consistently
Livelihood is a natural phenomenon after education
Given; did not lodge a claim for it
I observed people installed Pergola
They paid for it

Dr Baljit Singh
Monday 22nd October 2018
Anya Sep 2018
There's a mansion on a hill
I've seen it numerous times
But,
I've never been inside

It's said to belong to an old woman
Who is very selective
in who enters her domain

Either you're an insignificant servant
And you slip inside
Through a back door

A tiny molecule diffusing
from high to low concentration

Or, you're a personal servant
Then, you gain special access
Still, through the back door

Water molecule
Diffusing through osmosis

After that are ordinary guests,
aided by the butler
through the front door

Facilitated diffusion
Molecules carried or channeled

And finally,
the VIP's  
Welcomed by a great procession
Through a special VIP door
People,
invited by the madam
with great effort

Active transport
From low to high concentration
Requiring added energy

But despite this selectivity
of who can and cannot enter
That old mansion on the hill
And the jobs it provides
Is essential to the livelihood
Of the people in this town

Just like the cell membrane to our bodies
I tried another science analogy one. Personally I like my amino acid and fats ones better but I don't know. We'll see.
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