disillusionment is easy

when dreams are dead

when beliefs are questioned before

they are formed

self-esteem, trampled upon

before it even has a chance to rise.

they play dead, these youth

from desperate backgrounds.

they have burdens to bear,

these young souls,

burdens of becoming

and those of making family dreams

turn real.

they come

afraid of what the city walls

will offer them,

of what they will learn from a foreign language,

when they havenít learnt from their own.

before long, the sparkle in their eye is gone,

their dreams, buried over the heap

of crumbled egos.

who cares about dreams anyway,

do dreams put food on the table?


Hour glass

Where sand pours

as fast as age carries you.

Or as slow.

Racing. Rushing. Pushing.

Or simply waiting for some.

At eighty eight, all I do

Is wait.

willing sand to flow

hoping that soon, there will be no more.

At thirty eight, my grandson

Holds it askance,

Trying his might

To slow the flow.

Ah! But time eludes him,

Slips faster

than he can hold on to it.

I wish I could slip him mine

And take his.



My Voice | Poetry At Our Time | In The Name Of Poetry | Editor's Choice | Our Masters
Who We Are | Back Issues | Submission | Contact Us | Home