Born on the streets

I was born on the streets

I feel not shy there

Surrounded by the noise

My loneliness not to awake

But cheer; the passing glances

The passing cars as if different

From another planet

I was born on the streets

With the blue sky my roof

Seeing the bats drop the remains of their booty

By my bed; wet by their fall

The dew, the moist cool breeze

Showing visibly on me like sweat on my forehead

I was born on the streets

I walk among the empty cans

The mountain containers full

Of rubbish: hiding the clear

View of the sun; our food

 Its odor the flies kiss

And surrounds us like they do with mangoes

I was born on the streets

Chasing the cars for a sale

My dad; ice water

Plantain chips on her head

My mother; I learnt

To snatch their purses

Because I must survive.

I was not born but grew on the streets

Because of a shadow of a passing cloud

Which left not on my path

Its acid rain which fell burning

But on my royal gown of gold

My brothers me forsook as I grew here

I was born on the streets

To feel not the cold in winter

Nor the sun my heart to melt

Walk by it in the day my food to search

Like the vulture

Where no one else will

I was born on the streets

Like an outcast

They saw me ; my life

They bothered not until time for elections

When they come near to convince me

Walking among the cans with me

I was born with a golden  chest

On the streets my key to this chest

I found not; because my

Mind though ready and fertile

To embark on whatever

Journey, long or short; had not

The directions but to grope in this dark

I was born on the streets

I grew up and earned my bread there

I once slept there but not anymore

They will sleep in my house

If time and tide pass me by

Not to suffer like I did, on the streets.

One met them

One met them on the major roads
Talking to themselves as they swept
The scattered pieces and bits roaming
In the pot holes and puddles left
In the gutters and as if not knowing
They were been watched.

On the pavements they are seen
With just a single cloth to tie
A baby around their waist line
So forlorn and dejected a scene
They passed in flip flops for a hire
As their toes almost touched the ground.

In their huts and shelters the Rains leaked
And formed a pool of bed
To feed their babies water dripped
From their breast making their dear
Babies grow lean and weak.

At the bus terminals like strangers
They stir as one by passes
Their dirty trousers thorn and patched
Can hardly on both legs walk but hop
Seeing clearly through the hat covered face
Beneath which a dusty mind stayed.

is it al to it?

Is it all to it?
Is it all about being careful?
What about married men and women
Where one stays faithful
Giving in only to one unfaithful.
Is it all to it?
What about new born babies
Who have no choice when
Entering into this world
Or made to play a role to choose
Which parent to stay with:
Rich or poor, sick or well?
Yet we look on
With all scorn
Against those with AIDS,
Against those to them who give aid.
All because they were careless
But were they all?
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