Beibee’s Ben…poetry. prose. diaries.

o despicable impeccable roach
how we roam in embarrassing chase

at your wind-swift run
into your sanctified crevices

and fire gaseous missiles
at your incorrigible flesh

how we scream and jump in awe
nay unthinkable sight of you
in our spick and span space

let’s praise the roach that makes us
forget our spites sometimes
and reminds us we can run better

let’s praise the roach clad in caftan
after years of the spider’s spinning
thread
she has no cloth to show for it.

heaven draws her curtain over the sky
sprinkles some stars across the sky
to give mankind light to see
silent night full of sleep
my daughter sleep cannot clip

heaven draws her curtain over the sky
sprinkles some stars across the sky
to give mankind light to see
that give my daughter no chance to sleep
take your stars that she may sleep

flicker flicker all your stars
slumber slumber
dear daughter of my mine
all through the night
heaven draws her curtain and slips away…

PRIZE OF POVERTY

standing amongst a faceless minority

forming a throng of silent majority

caught in the web of distability

on a parched land ravaged by iniquity

save our souls becomes priority

thrusting out my hand with empty bowl

a shot of unintelligible words

pass across my ears

as hunger-stricken scowls

meet my eyes

fixed on the prize my gaze

nothing in me represents a brawn

just the grey matter standing as my brain

faces

all contorted in scowl

with stricken jaws no one can drawl

all expressions turn grawl

anxiety grips the hand holding the empty bowl

my brain brooks no brawl

all i care is for a grub

like famished beasts we all grawl

trying to survive in a land ravaged by drought

my thin limbs under me quake

as i take the excruciating step on the endless Indian file

i watch from the distance as a drop of morsel

drops into each empty large bowl

all before me

is my prize poverty?

residing as an alien in my own land

it will soon be my turn

i breathed to myself consolingly

it will soon be my turn…

it is my turn i said as the world moves

crazily around me

my empty bowl drops carelessly from

my hand

as my faint face hit the ground…

in the heat of consuming conflagration
our homes sang in unison
a dirge of horror

in reverberating ululation
a dirge beyond the prophetic lamentation
we can only grope again and again

march march march
smash smash smash
jackboot everywhere

raise this dirge
howl please
jeremiah had hopes…

Plain of Decision

like a herd of rushing roaring lions
with feet of galloping war beasts
gathering thick gloom in their trails

ten thousand charging chariots
having no riders

we saw crowds
crowds in the low plain of the decision

we saw men commissioned
yes they sanctified war arousing powerful
men yes they drew near

they came up all men of war
up to the low plain of the decision

beating ploughshares to swords
pruning shears to lances
powerful men ready for the battle

where rivalry will be done
yes forever gone.