TABOOS! OPINIONS AND VOICES: Silent or Silenced?

  The Search.   He controls each of them meticulously. In some he is lucky and in others no. Around him people are all busy,  chatting buying and dumping. No one seems to care, yes everyone has his own problems. It's a busy world no time to waste on lunatics. In his tattered jeans and worn out shoes he continues his search. As people shift, his stink too much to stand. Yet his worries seem nothing compared to theirs. Once again his hand goes deep into one of the bins, Ah atlast his eyes brighten up with  his trophy; Some crumbs of left over pizza, discarded by an overfed stomach. He sinks his teeth into the crunch, every bite munches aways his hunger. This man is oblivious to all the gliterring around, while lights of latest cell phones flash and people worry, his hunger is satisfied. The dust bin is his lunch table.   Munteh, 23.10.2018

  Political Bugs.   With sunken eyes, in their desperate mendicant rags they gather; to welcome this bedevilled crew; that losely waves at them. They gaze at this poor with fake smiles, in the comfort of  limos and luxury cars. These swollen bed bugs bleeding a nation to death; They utter nothing but shameless promises of a better tomorrow;  thugs and thieves well clad in burrowed ropes; but nothing ever changes. Handing down tins of sardines and slices of bread, as bait for their prey, In exchange of their victims' lives and livelihoods. Its election time and the zombies are out again. The mercililess vampires tour the streets; proclaiming their faded clichés of interminable years, as if in mockery they caress their well fed bodies, as they pry for more, overloading  their banks and egos. The hypnotized holler and shout their praise, trapped in their snare, unable to react, to free themselves from the tyranny. It were better the rule of our fore

  My beloved land in travail and groaning. My land desacralized and deeply hurt; The soil is drunk with the peoples' blood, By the occupiers' sacriligeous acts. My land throbs in pain for her sons and daughters.   My beloved land bemoans her woes; Plunderers and rapists parade her contours. Heartless murderers contaminate her shrines; Recklessly torch ancestral homesteads. What did we do wrong, she ponders, As old women and men roast in their slumber.   My beautiful land raped as a virgin shrieks; No one is spared, everyone is an enemy. She hollers and shouts but the World is silent. Who shall save her from these molesters, That execute without mercy men of God, Messengers clad but in peace garments.   Not even the mad have where to hide; Their blissful world with inhuman fury shattered. Babies clung on mothers backs whine and fret; Whole families seek relief in the wilds, Still their cries are silenced by thunderous shots; As t

  Life's Circle.   As they wobble, and mumble, We stare at them and giggle, These trembling legs and quivering hands, As though they were never young. Age having robbed them of vitality, Wrinkles hollow their faces like a sheet, Failing eyes, lagging memories, sagging jowls. Nothing is the same as life's atteries drain, And they each day imcreasingly looking strange, Women and men once strong and vibrant. We think and wonder like it was their fate; As though we will never walk their path. A year passes as quick as a day; It is the turn of others to stare and giggle, As we wobble and mumble.   A. King. 15.12.2018