Collops of fat line the tables of the few,
while the many stretch hands toward empty plates.
Skyscrapers rise in the capital,
yet in the villages, children bend under jerrycans,
walking miles for a sip of muddy water.
The economy grows, they say—
percentages polished and paraded—
but the growth is stored in vaults,
not in classrooms with broken desks,
not in hospitals without medicine,
not in the pockets of the farmer who tills red soil for nothing.
Every election season,
collops of fat are dangled like bait—
T-shirts, soap, envelopes,
promises swollen with grease,
but never nourishment for tomorrow.
The youth, restless, crowd into boda stages,
degrees folded in pockets,
dreams reduced to dust by unemployment.
Markets overflow with speeches,
but not with buyers.
Streets fill with posters,
but not with jobs.
Uganda’s wealth pools in corners,
thick, congealed, unreachable.
The nation limps,
while a few grow heavier, rounder,
their laughter echoing across gated compounds.
Collops of fat—
the evidence of excess,
the proof of imbalance,
the weight carried not by those who eat,
but by those who starve.
Cash
It’s king
Makes tills ring
But here’s the thing
What we call a till
I suspect, always will
According to my sister
(which, in slang is skin and blister)
In the U.S. is a register
But when tills (or registers) are ringing
Which explains why shopkeepers are singing
I watch, nonchalantly debating
It’s what I do while I’m waiting
How many words mean ‘money’
Well, pony and monkey
May be quite funky
But dough and bread
In my head
Still mean
Cash
If you get a list.? Means you go to shop.' That one things
Mostly true.'
If your boat has a list, well thats not good.? Give her a trim Is what you do'
And if you were the president.? And a list just came your Merry way' A rich one so to say.?
It could be a (sort of vice?) I mind.? Which would give you
Maybe some mighty say.?
And cash could be quite accessible? when it arrives that very shopping day? or hour.'
Now would you want to loose.? Or give away such a thing
Like a Wonka's zonka..Thats bonkers fiscal power.'
(I hear the tills (say ding a ling )
Labour of hate
Turn on the heating
It’s getting cold
Why do we shiver?
Just because we’re old
It’s Kier’s labour, who wants us all to die
Said he liked pensioners just another lie
Another lie
Angels are calling
Is this the end
We are elderly
No family or friends
Can’t pay for heating or any of our bills
While Rayner’s cheating, fingering the tills
In the tills.
Reeves bills are paid for
But she’s a millionaire
Rayner is raving
She doesn’t care
Release the sausages, where is his brain
Paying a photographer, Rayner’s so vain
Is so vain
Take all our money
With inheritance tax
Charlie didn’t pay his
He can now relax
Rich becoming richer, Starmer leads the pack
Free clothes and glasses stabbed us in the back
In the back.
David Cox 13/12/24
The Blackness And The Hard Labor Of The Housemaid
Store up the spasms of the low rims of busy suns
trudging work tills the upheaval of ragged soil
and what of shadow hours, sweat and hard toil
does indifferent soil its gasping unholy vomit spill
she folds the clothes and then she falls asleep.
Trudge the hours and crack the unwilling stones
as her shadow walks into bars of uneven ethereal mists
the dark red rouge smears in round about shy patterns
she wonders, where does brown dung of yesterday hide
She slaves as a worker, her tired muscles cramp
her mind drifts and then it accuses her of nothingness
today is for work, tomorrow the mice may play
her work is as ancient days a drifting into noon
she is bent as a scornful indifferent boothill
as she finally stops, yes stops, to dare to go to sleep.
Robert J. Lindley, Verse
June 2nd 1972
Note: My new girlfriend's mother is a housemaid. Works 6 days week about 12 hour a day/
Where are the medicine men and women we could always trust
Have they all disappeared turned into dust
Replaced by snake oil salesmen dishing out pills
Hear the ringing of their over filled tills
And the despot leaders who elect themselves
Spoon feed on lust,greed,deception
Glorifying themselves with royal reception
Raping and draining the citizens who had no say in their election
Where are the surgeons to perform their dissection
Where is the democracy in picket lines in choosing between heating or eating,
Sanctioning your own citizens all based on a lie filling their minds with fantastic illusion
And the bear doesn't care.
That morning I woke, just a normal day,
Shower running warm,
Ready for a new day.
Early morning team catch up, tills prepared,
Door unlocked, and they enter with their glares,
In they come, one by one.
The usual faces great me,
The daily moans and groans.
Lunchtime is here, and peace descends,
The ever flowing footfall of people is coming to an end.
Then in you enter, strong and tall,
Your at my desk, just before I fall.
A gun you hold, right at my head,
Terror takes over, I think I am dead.
You look at me with a darkened stare,
Your words so clear, yet full of fear,
You took the money and ran away,
You ruined my life on that day.
The years you took, I simply cannot forgive,
The person I became, I reverted to being a kid.
You broke me, I crumbled,
You made me feel like I was dead,
You changed my life forever and are forever in my head.
Song of the Hill
On this hill
One thing counts
Tax and spend
Large amounts
I’m afraid we’ve
No golden trees
We have to tax an income or two
We have to tax an income or two boys
We got to tax an income or two
Tending bar
AOC
Never served drinks for free
Now she has found
It’s always your round
She orders for the whole country
She orders for the whole country, see?
She orders for the whole country
Take a tip
From old Joe
Watch his family
Income grow
No known skills
They filled their tills
They had a good connection or two
They sold a good connection or two boys
They got a golden handout or two
We’re so kind
Can’t you see
Flushed with generosity
When there’s no more
Of your money in store
We’ll have to tax an income or two
We’ll have to tax an income or two you
Got to tax an income or two
Mommy what will it take,
To make time for me,
Building sandcastles at the sea?
Maybe I must light the house on fire,
To get your attention and love I desired.
Or rob a bank, give you all the money,
To pay the bills, so you can stop complain,
You are tired of hitting the tills.
I can cut my wrist ‘till it bleed,
Then maybe you will see,
I am real and not just part of your to do list.
But also exist.
I am tired of these lies,
I have to hide.
“Mommy can’t come to my concert or parent meeting,
Because she is away for business.
She promised next time she will come,
I am her priority number one.”
Head for the Tills
It's suggested Uk raise tax on treats
Outpricing salty and sugary eats
Go head for the tills
Bag all of your thrills
Afore the prices are too high to meet.
15th July 2021
Vendors ply their trade in open air without an air or grace,
the velvet chocolate slabs so neatly laid,
suitable for vegans but a salve to pointless guilt the label said,
my texting fingers drip
with honeyed scruple,
Like dates?
give us this day our daily bread is how we earn our corn,
a corny line no less,
pumpkin seed in barrels dot each loaf as if it were an invite
to a milling throng
another corny item on the menu,
off the wall, off the tongue and off the fork
from shell to shelf is how we go to market with such buzzword brand elan.
Yet us artisans must surely set our sights beyond the sound of cash tills or the pin pad swipe and scan zeitgeist
When that farmer Spring timely plants her seed
in her breast forms a soft fragile vase
seasoned over with sun and rain take heed
young Flora grows hopeful in a secret place.
Summer tills where doubt before had grown
watered with passion petals unfold in the heat
youth inhaling the scent that’s sown
senses not cool evening’s breath on Augusts’ sweet.
abrupt Fall comes in to shake the boughs of fruit
and my heart’s murmur feels too soon a tune
cruel Winter playing upon a frigid flute
an epitaph scribbled on soft petals too soon.
As seasons fade flowers blossom then die away
expel their breath to sing another day.
(click on the pic to preview my poetry book!)
The meadow lies ravaged
beneath the scorching sun,
fields covered with dust,
grasses yellow and flat,
sunflowers hang their heads.
Only dandelions survive
releasing seed into the air.
Few birds chirp, singing sad songs,
Spiders move slowly
weaving their webs.
Insects undeterred abound.
Ants carry their meager harvest
to their underground caves.
The breeze too cold,
the skies occasionally grey.
No farmer tills the land,
afraid of sweat and backaches.
No tractor sputters to life
no tools lie around,
Only a sickle is stuck upright
in the fallow land.
Contest: Warrior Sonnet
Sponsor: John Lawless
September 15, 2020
Petrarchan sonnet: abbaabba cdcdcd
Song of the Humble Scythe
My fellow men at arms, today we fight!
Courageous men of fields, that left the plough,
our foes have come; you hear their drums, but now
our storm will wet the soil with crimson might!
Your kin are scared to die, but hope is bright!
We are this wall of stone; you will not bow,
to foreign hands, nor foreign lands, and now
we raise the battle cry for what is right!
Take up the plough — that tills the Fields of Fate!
Take up the hoe — that weeds your earthly foe!
Take up the fork — that throws their bales of hate!
Protect your seed — that needs your love to grow!
The field is yours! The Field is yours! Now great,
we war with tools our fathers made to sow.
Lockdown
Trapped at home
Lockdown
Not allowed to roam
Virus
No end to this disease
Virus
Destroying families
Distance
No longer able to hug
Distance
Nobody knows who has the ‘bug’
Panic
Guilty shoppers should be ashamed
Panic
Eventually the stockpilers will be named
Food
A Burger King is not a necessity
Food
STAY AT HOME and make your own tea
Government
Are they telling the truth?
Government
For their lies, we are too long in the tooth
NHS
Tired warriors doing their job
NHS
Their family lives, this virus did rob.
Furlough
Helping the worker to pay the bills
Furlough
Allowing the bosses to turn off the tills
Future
No one knows what it will hold
Future
China? Will the true story ever be told
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