contemporary poetry Archives ⋆ WORDNEWS27

Family Poem – Beans Spilt Over Tea

Beans Spilt Over Tea is a family poem, reflecting on the invaluable support you can get from a friend or family member.

Beans Spilt Over Tea

My aunt, dotty as she was, would sit me down on her crochet blanket covered couch, make a clean sweep of my lame pretexts from the kitchen where she was already brewing up fine tea. Childless, she treaded life in slippers not up to kick, her beady eye hell-bent on bringing to light unspilt beans and lining them up neatly over a cup of flavoursome leaf tea. On her couch, your guts would soon lay bare ready for soaking up and fixing up despite layers upon layers of clobber. Her quirksome footwear was matched by the transparent hands she’d send to craft fair strings of beans into choice jewellery for the road. Protestations and walls would tumble, my beans spill within moments, on my tongue, the taste of clear tea making its way to fixing my guts. She’d purchased colourful mohair wool to crochet the throws on the couch for idling, didn’t mind in the least if tea and beans stuck to the soft fibres. She still doesn’t.
Family Poem – Beans Spilt Over Tea

Resilience Poem – Paper Plane

Paper Plane is a resilience poem, a description of how children can and do rise above tragedy, full of bravery, strength, and love.

Paper Plane

When Father died and Mother lay sick in bed, the child stepped up and made a paper plane, ready for take-off in minutes. But the howls of his little sister and his brother’s dirty diaper messed up the flight schedule.

Not to worry, he thought to himself, I’ll sort them out and bring them on board. Nappy changed and tears wiped, he cleared them through security, though soon halted by the guard’s x-ray glances. Too much hand luggage, he said, no knives permitted.

But Father died and Mother’s sick in bed, the child protested, handing over the banned items with a thick smile to keep his siblings reassured. At long last, they were ready for departure.

The paper plane’s jet engine drowned out Mother’s asthma attack during take-off. Up, up and away they flew beyond birds and clouds, weightless through thinning air, beams of light, and passing time.

When Mother’s pocket alarm shot down the paper plane, the child stepped up and phoned emergency services. You’re lucky, mom doesn’t need to go to the hospital, they said, prescribing potent medicine she’d have to swallow for years to come.

No one batted an eyelid when the child grew up to become a pilot, sure didn’t he bring his siblings on flights every day for years, they nodded to each other. Thank the Japanese for Origami, the child would always say.
Resilience Poem – Paper Plane

Peace Poem – Common Ground

Common Ground is a peace poem, a reflection on conflict resolution and the absolute need to build on our shared humanity – first and foremost.

Common Ground

 digging up common ground and
magnifying similarities
break ground for 

sisterhood
brotherhood
solidarity
love

fencing in and
highlighting differences
choke out

sisterhood
brotherhood
solidarity
love

Capitalism Poetry – The Big Race

The Big Race is my contribution to capitalism poetry, a reflection on the value and ethics of free market rules.

The Big Race

Race day brings swarms of 7.7 billion runners, limpers, jumpers, 
hoppers, one-leggeds, joggers, sprinters, crawlers, 
wheel-chair-bounds, and dead-weights. 
 
Mixed weather at the starting line, with sweltering heat, biting 
frost, piercing hail, leaden showers, mild breezes, balmy 
sunshine, and tepid temperatures painting the 7.7 billion 
springboards.
 
Onlookers discover a hit-and-miss medley of footwear among 
footed competitors, air-cushioned breathables alongside 
dirty protruding toes, itchy sweaters besides sunburnt or 
frostbitten torsos.

 To call some athletes would be in bad taste, those at the back 
of the field, behind the 7.6999999 billion, scrambling for a 
foothold. As for the legless, some are blessed with crutches, 
others are not.
 
Blood, tear, and sweat-costing brawls about hunger pangs and 
homes or the lack thereof break out hither and thither. 
Meanwhile, the starting line is smooth and fair - free passage 
for 7.7 billion pros and rookies.
 
At the bang of the gun, they're off, the field cut at once, 
billions dropping like flies before the first hurdle from 
pre-race exertions, blisters, deadweight equipment, 
leglessness, balls and chains or sloth.
 
An unruly mob of spectators hurls power snacks and energy 
drinks at the foot-cushioned frontrunners wearing non-sweat 
running gear, soon coasting toward the finish line. When they 
tire a little, they hitch a rest on a bunch of no-hopers.
 
Sponsors bestow them with enviable endorsements like foot rubs 
and shoulder massages or cool sponges to the forehead. 
Buoyancy-boasted and basking in tough-training-rewards, the last 
few rivals dig deep, not shy of a dirty trick or two. 
 
One or two teeth-grinding, heel-digging once-amateurs 
latch onto the glory but never quite catch up. The red ribbon in 
sight ignites the final sprint to draw out the winner. 
 
Gloating to a prominent reporter before getting his trophy, the 
champion applauds splendid organisation, fair-play, and credits 
gruelling preparatory work. The first handful of losers seethe 
a little over a glass of prosecco.
 
As for the bulk of the 7.7 billion, some vow to try harder, some 
cry foul-play, some despair and die.

Cultural Identity Poems – DNA Diversity

DNA Diversity is one of my cultural identity poems, a reflection on national and cultural identity, xenophobia, multiculturalism, and racism.

DNA Diversity

I’m not the pure-bred I thought I was / I’m a mongrel. Paid top dollars for one of those DNA-ancestry tests and now have to swallow that I’m a cross between a Poodle and Dalmation, with deep traces of St. Bernard, Collie, Setter, and Greyhound.

My twenty-seventh cousin seven times removed was a champion sheep-dog, my great, great, great, great aunt pulled sleighs across the Central Siberian Plateau, my great, great, great, great, great uncle worked chased foxes across the Scottish Highlands, while my third cousin twice removed got dumped in a ditch in Alaska, and, not to mention my great, great, great, great grandmother the boldest Dingo dog ever.

This made me think twice about starting the habitual scrap with that dimwit half-bred next door this morning. I bet we’re related.
Cultural Identity Poems – DNA Diversity