the stories are a bit grim
It's tough when you have almost nothing. No water. No electricity. Just a hut. And your wits.
colour pencil sketch by dsnake1
(a copy of Mondrian's Composition C)
the stories are a bit grim
In the morning the sun brushes our squatter huts
with loving fingers of gold.
The politicians thump chests and assure us
that our squatter village is safe.
An old man lives in an abandoned pill box
and sells candy by day.
Aunt goes early to the market to pick
discarded vegetables to make achar.
Little Brother is playing with the mothballs again,
oh please not the mouth!
Some out-of-towners lost their way
but we do not speak English well.
Me and cousins raid the pill box for candy,
find only old books and blades.
The kind fisherman gives me and sister
a big catch of wrasses, all for 30 cents.
Dad comes back from work and says
someone is shipping missiles to Cuba.
Some nights, the groans and noises from
the neighbours' thin walls are too loud
We get very paranoid when the police comes visiting,
it has to be something big.
Surely, we are not having pigeon soup
with wolfberries again, it's awful!
Mother says go back to sleep but the neighbours
are fighting like wild cats.
Little Sister is out in the yard playing
with the chicks, squeezing them.
Some shore-leave sailors lost their way
and pretend to take pictures of us.
Uncle asks how does a man flies three times
around the world, folding his paper.
For a week the cops come, plain-clothes,
shoving mugshots into our faces.
We are expecting something better
for dinner tonight other than missiles.
Government officials come and tell us
that our huts have to make way for a port.
Dad says we are moving to the city core
but the stories there are a bit grim.
10/09/2019
**********
A variant of a ghazal. Doesn't look like one? I think this is a better option for that damn poetry competition.
Procol Harum - A Salty Dog
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019
(a copy of Mondrian's Composition C)
the stories are a bit grim
In the morning the sun brushes our squatter huts
with loving fingers of gold.
The politicians thump chests and assure us
that our squatter village is safe.
An old man lives in an abandoned pill box
and sells candy by day.
Aunt goes early to the market to pick
discarded vegetables to make achar.
Little Brother is playing with the mothballs again,
oh please not the mouth!
Some out-of-towners lost their way
but we do not speak English well.
Me and cousins raid the pill box for candy,
find only old books and blades.
The kind fisherman gives me and sister
a big catch of wrasses, all for 30 cents.
Dad comes back from work and says
someone is shipping missiles to Cuba.
Some nights, the groans and noises from
the neighbours' thin walls are too loud
We get very paranoid when the police comes visiting,
it has to be something big.
Surely, we are not having pigeon soup
with wolfberries again, it's awful!
Mother says go back to sleep but the neighbours
are fighting like wild cats.
Little Sister is out in the yard playing
with the chicks, squeezing them.
Some shore-leave sailors lost their way
and pretend to take pictures of us.
Uncle asks how does a man flies three times
around the world, folding his paper.
For a week the cops come, plain-clothes,
shoving mugshots into our faces.
We are expecting something better
for dinner tonight other than missiles.
Government officials come and tell us
that our huts have to make way for a port.
Dad says we are moving to the city core
but the stories there are a bit grim.
10/09/2019
**********
A variant of a ghazal. Doesn't look like one? I think this is a better option for that damn poetry competition.
Procol Harum - A Salty Dog
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019
posted by dsnake1 at 10:39 PM
17 comments
