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On the Streets of Nairobi
When Padre calls with his usual endearing oratorial sermons
my head drums and aches, a myriad of voices assail my being
the growl of my stomach drowns his human-faced message.
"Padre, i have no ears to listen at your lies
on an empty stomach."My soul cries
Tell me how i can live, not survive on alms
or on remnants from the rich man`s table
like Lazarus of your good Bible."
On the streets, i am an ubiquitous element
dressed in grim clothing, those sooty and dirty rags
that adorn my body, gives me warmth.
This heavy load of garbage i must carry
for i would earn my bread from waste recyclers.
By the roadside in kimbo tins
i cook my hard-earned cereals.
Around the avenues` round-abouts, you'll see me
when the lights orders motorists to stop
approaching my betters with an innocent grin
attempting to weave abit of courtesy
to elicit a sense of empathy:
"Nipe shillingi.Nipe shillingi...."
Seeking alms with bare palms
is an art like language one learns by practice.
I am an offspring of a wanting society, innocent
abandoned, deprived of childhood and human dignity
a burden weighing down upon society
like a soul saturated in sin.
I drown in the murky yolk within the shell-
the hard chemical that boils humanity!
I look towards sunrise, the sun shines
but doesn't shine for me.
Padre persists to placate me with inspirational sermons
that Jesus would cast away the bad spells, soon
the hand of humanity is out of reach, so it seems
yet so near to my grey world.
Dearest Milton
We are all engulfed by the ocean of sorrow. Please let us pray for this World! Never turn to despair. Never turn to hatred. Never left the side of the Bridegroom.
:)
Take care, my friend.
Love in Christ.
Myra
I showed your poem to a friend, David, and he collaborated with me on this poem:
The Bride of Africa
in the streets of Nairobi death walks like a bride
waiting for her Groom to come and find her
she is wearing the rags of poverty
and in her heart tearless sobs of silence
dried blood in the cracks of her feet
on her proud head she is carrying art for the rich
oh! such is face of Africa:
she is striding through streets of pain
soldiers with guns pointed at their feet
eyeing her like she is a treat
she is strolling pass them
with her eyes on her Groom
approaching the Day of her Freedom and Doom
David McCollum and Myra Lochner
This reveals the heart of many - the offsprings
of wanting societies. The following stanza is, in
my opinion, the soul of the poem. deborah russell
..."I am an offspring of a wanting society, innocent
abandoned, deprived of childhood and human dignity
a burden weighing down upon society
like a soul saturated in sin.
I drown in the murky yolk within the shell-
the hard chemical that boils humanity!"...