Third world credo

The sadest part of life is self-poverty.
We children of the third world,
Wherever we may be,beg for opportunity.
We may not shine in gold and silver,
We may not know what holiday means;
But, we do live eachday like it is our best.

The tears we cry never run dry.
The pains we feel never subside.
The burdens we carry are not few.
We are not as happy as you.

It may never be our destiny to ride big cars.
We may never see santa nor eat wafers.
We may be used by some to get richer.
We get nothing for everything we offer.

Our plea is for health,education and peace.
We plead for respect for our lands and our future.
If the future belongs to us, then,
We should take possession of it.

Comments

Bloody Men and Short Analysis

Bloody men are like bloody buses - You wait for about a year And as soon as one approaches your stop Two or three others appear. You look at them flashing their indicators, Offering you a ride. You're trying to read the destinations, You haven't much time to decide. If you make a mistake, there is no turning back. Jump off, and you'll stand there and gaze While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by And the minutes, the hours, the days. by Wendy Cope Short analysis and comments on this poem. At first glance, I thought this poem spoke the minds of generationsof single women. Then it occurred to me that it also could be applied to men. However, I would be writing from the perspective of women, who for no reason, are more affected by such fate. The first line harshly concludes the poem before it even starts and it is the anchor upon which the poem is held. It tells of the exasperation and sorrow men bring to women- single, and searching, desirous ...

A familiar story

A man came right up to me. He asked: "where are you from" "from France" said I unto him It was questionable for a man like him to interrogate a woman like me. Yet,it was an oppurtunity for me to discover the man behind the smile. He said "No!I mean where are you from?" Oh!I'm originaly from Nigeria.I said with a crooked smile "thats what I wanted to know" he snapped.And he continued "you may have a French passport but you are Nigerian" I looked upon him with a sense of familiarity and disappointment. After all, he was telling a kind of truth. For years,I have been told to give unto Ceaser what belongeth to Ceasar It came like a treason to realise that It would always be my deception. It was a thing to be born somewhere and another to belong. It surprises me to hear people question my good english because, as the man said "I went to Africa but I didn't understand what they were saying." I am sure he meant south-africa ...

poem III

I am When I was a child, mom used to say That I was as stunning as the day. She never told me anything less, then I met them from the west. Ignorance was so over-free. Nobody bordered on what was ill. Was it a crime to be beautifully black? I needed an answer but met refusal. I prayed all day and more on Sunday. Dreamed that an angel made my day, that I was universally loved with certainty; that his parents did not mind. Awake! But,why do people despise me? Looking deep down into his black eyes, His force sprung from his masculinity. He was Achilles. Only,his heel was his skin. He had to fight for freedom and esteem. My beloved, the creator is in your image. The soul is where the difference is staged. Because of who I am, I make an ally, And a bunch of potential enemies. Thus,with pleasure I am black! They could ask for redemption, As I owe them nothing. Believe me-My soul is as soft as a symphony. ©comfortomorodion 2007

Dream Land

Search This Blog