UnSHREDDED DREAMS

It’s another weekend!

Where the light shines no more

At the the tunnel’s end

Unless we decide to roar.

Life has come to a limit.

As everyone is in remit,

To their weaknesses

And not just sicknesses.

Soon looms another year,

As December is here.

January is yet pending,

And we all hope to be there.

But where are the hopes?

Our past ambitions,

Those dreams we shared with the popes,

And our prayers of petitions.

Whatever we hoped to taste,

All seems burnt to waste.

We asked for money,

But we only got to sip honey.

We prayed for grace,

But our faces fell in grease.

Maybe it was not your time,

So God didn’t give you a dime.

But if you are reading this rhyme,

Know ye that you are about to shine.

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HOT BALLS

Should little drops of water a lone be said to make up the ocean While rivers and rain help fill it to brim? When a man complains of hunger, Should he wait till a cropping season While he expects his wife to feed him? Would anyone sit on hot balls Without protection for his own balls? Hot rolled corn balls, Cooked and sold outside the mall Even though today's profit may stall, Vendor hopes to one day stand tall. And what sayeth the founders of wisdom When we ask for a life so wholesome? Patience is key they claim Followed by no pain no gain! But there's a feminine soul Who stood on one sole Slept late, awoke early Empties her bowl Just to fill her children's belly Twisting and turning Forgetting she's burning Farming without earning All her efforts keep churning Yet what is her reward? A gloom by her so called steward. A rich man can cheat A woman does so and she is cheap Go to the street Ask the women you meet How they made daily meat Just because of a gentleman's...

YOUR own PEN

Something mostly divine, Sometimes, it's ours to define. Unlike the plant called Vine, Destiny seldom has pine. And it is our duty to prune and refine. From the feet till we see the spine. It may be a good omen, To which we shout Amen. It might have a fault to mend or dirt to filter, Which might make us think that God did falter. But we can write our own destiny. Yes, we always do. Remember that road you used to the mill, The particular person you talked to, Has it not been your own will? When you wanted to learn, Even when in prayer you did yearn, You took that training seriously, And you passed out successfully, That was your own destiny. That was your pen on paper. When you write, no one can alter. I am the secretary of the God you don't know. Now wait while I print yours out to show. Written down by you as white as snow.

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