Poem by Natasha – It’s sooo Cold
The winds hurl, howl,
The rain batters against the windows and doors,
Too many are still walking battered,
Blown off course,
Left to sleep on the streets,
Beg for their dinner,
A warm bed, a shelter they can call home,
Comfort and a loving hand,
To hold the tears as they cry,
Listen to their suffering,
The pain of just breathing,
Crushing their will to live,
Their freedom to a road of recovery,
Left in darkness, screaming, turning and tossing,
Night and day,
As the man with the bottle,
Drowns his sorrows,
Into the drains,
Devoured by the rats,
The shaking and quivering,
Many still left to vegetate in front of a screen,
Hoping one day there will be,
An answer to their prayers,
The man left to walk blindly,
With a stick,
In the hope he will be able,
To see through the darkness,
Not be crushed by a passing car,
The man left to wheel his life away,
Hoping someone will come and
Stay for a while,
The man with the fingers slowly,
Loosing his feeling,
As he grips to the bar,
Hoping he won’t fall,
The man who lays helpless,
On the floor,
In the hope someone will find him,
The man who has lost his direction,
In the hope he remembers,
To take his pills,
Or was it a warm plate of food …
Oh it’s sooo cold …
It’s ok #Dennis I’m here …
Poem by Natasha Robbed of Life
In our every day World, crime, violence and robbery have become part of our lives. Like a label covering our eyes, our hearts, our minds.
Small inhuman acts are hidden, jeered at or not taken seriously. Some escalating to even larger crimes. Not a thought or a word or action is enough.
Something so simple as a child searching to satisfy his hunger for food or a coloured pencil which belongs to another.
Words of abuse as a mother screams at her child and drags the insecure poor child down the road to school.
The child who is violently abused through abusive language and acts from his fellow friends. Be it his colour, his religion, his hair, his body or his frightened smile.
A family who is left to starve as they are abandoned by their father. As his search for selfless acts of sex and pleasure behind the bottom of the bottle.
Violence of honor and robbery of self dignity as, women, children and men are stripped naked. Some left lying in pools of blood too defenseless to reach out for help.
The robbery of times of pleasure as each soul becomes the competition, the attacker, the hunter.
The crime of living a life of gluttony and greed. Where power and money are more important than a simple act of kindness.
Crippled, disfigured and distorted are their bodies, their minds, their hearts, and their souls. Robbed of life as they die from an incurable illness.
Crimes of passion as a life is stolen from the stab wounds and gunshots.
Robbed of a childhood and forced to the fields, the factory or the street corner to beg.
Robbed of the moment to enjoy the silence of the moment. The sunshine, the soft gentle breeze, the whispering of the trees and the smell of the flowers.
A world of deceit, of lies. Surrounded by anger, jealousy and envy. Robbed by a friend, a family member or a partner.
Robbed of the essence of life – of hope, of joy, of happiness, as he lies on his death bed and takes his last breath as the machine is switched off and the tubes all removed.
Robbed of a decent job to support his family as he stands on the corner handing out brochures.
Robbed of an education to attend to his brothers and sisters.
Robbed of assistance as he lies on the road. Not able to get up.
Robbed of his clothes as he wanders aimlessly the streets with his bare toes.
Robbed of his sight as he sits waiting for his cup to be filled.
Robbed of his home as he lies crumpled and surrounded by the daily news for warmth and comfort.
Robbed of his senses as he is strapped to the bed and tapped at the mouth.
Robbed of his freedom of speech as they listen to the call. As his emails are hacked, as his privacy is taken away.
Gone are the memories of robberies, of crimes and violence in our lives. Hidden in the cupboard, concealed in an envelope and behind the closed door.
Poem by Natasha – The Lost little Child
A childhood that was stolen away,
Raped of the very essence of dignity and joy,
Embarrassed and laughed at because of the colour of their skin,
Abused and tortured until there was no more pain,
Crippled and disfigured by the words and the moment,
Beaten and left till no more tears were left.
Crushed and stamped on by thoughts of so many,
Bullied and tainted by the emotionally insane.
Deceit and lies were part of their lives,
Hopelessness and defenceless became their way,
A life of struggle and strife,
Of misery and pain where-ever they looked.
Left to starve in a World of plenty,
Left unheard till their last gasping breath,
Crippled and wrinkled and scars of life.
Reaching out for comfort or a
Warm tender smile,
Reaching out for love or an
Reaching out for compassion or a
Kind tender word,
Reaching out, Reaching out, Reaching out,
The Lost little Child …
Remembering Nelson Mandela July 2020 and 3 Reflections- Climate Conditions July 2019, We and The Lost Child.
Original Music: Daniel Urban Parker