Showing posts from September, 2011

The Beggar’s Child: (Story)By: Jude Ifeme

Meena watched her Mama dutifully re-open the large infected wound on her left leg; she carefully scrape open the darkened incrustation with her fingernails and pinch them away bit by bit leaving a fresh lesion sprouting fresh blood and pus. Meena did the best she could to suppress her revulsion. “Wouldn’t you rather lie to eat than steal?” Mama finally responded, her eyes rolled awkwardly to the side to catch Meena’s, but that did not erase the furrows of pain engraved across her forehead. Meena looked away from the crooked look, her heart pounding. She knew it was time; her mother seemed to edging closer to insanity with her desire to attract more pity to herself. Her father was more decent at least; he did not inflict injury on himself. “Besides, we don’t force them to give us alms. Meena, would you not lie to feed your sick Mama?” “But Mama you are not sick, you are the one scraping your wounds every night so it wouldn’t heal.” Her Mama recoiled with a frown. Meena felt

When Terror Ruled

They tired the sun with bloodshed And weeping And flushed innocence beyond on tears shed They froze joy and dancing and let music Play into a mournful sky On the day when the sun went sick Mother and father, son and daughter The claws of terror held no prisoners! Beautiful dreams sent to a gruesome slaughter Their justice, cruel justice, gave not A choice, not appeal But sentenced all, haves and haves not The might of a nation stood still And watched And the tongue and fangs bayed at will They looked God in the eye Desecrated his creations And left but ashes and smoke rising high 2011© Jude Ifeme Subscribe to POETICALLY SPOKEN by Email Get the My Triond Articles widget and many other great free widgets at Widgetbox ! Not seeing a widget? ( More info )