Poetry: Inside the Bowl of a Beggar | R2BsL

The music starts when the coin selects the corner of the bowl to make friends
Then upon touching earth, It taps its first dance.
The next coin, like another dancer, lands with a strut.
As if to steal the show, he does a head spin.
The third lands as if from a parachute, calmly.
Looks to the audience and then takes a bow.
And so the fourth, the fifth and the sixth make appearances.
Some get to mingle and run into distant relatives.
Their hellos envy goodbyes. Their greetings are loud.
Some exchange cards and numbers, while others take notes.
Until the curtain is pulled on them and they’re taken out of the show to their jingle resume

Then there’s the bowl where no music ever starts.
The choristers come in late or never come at all.
The floor gets too dusty ,the coins frown at a touch down.
They glue to the palms of their owners
Some even hide behind the curtains of pockets and only peek.
They never make a show.
At the end of their nightmare,
A weary coin reshaped by too much quest for adventure
Falls off a kite and is lost in the dust
And then the stage is moved.

Leon

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Inside the bowl of a beggar
is a deep dark room for more.
It holds a darkness with a story
that doesn’t need to live here.
The songs that surround its walls
is a craving for more.
More light to hold the day
More strength to hold his voice.
What is not more he still accommodates
like round metals that accumulate weight with its brothers.
Its secrets cannot be covered in bills
No matter who dominates the note
Just note, the bowl will be here again
to ask for more
More roads that leads to the givers
More compassion that accompanies the countenance.
Inside the bowl of a beggar
lives a hole
a hole that never gets filled.

Ruddapoet

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Before our wings could paddle the wind
And the carcasses of all that lived drowned
A dingy room exists
Abyss of the foundations of its crust
Where fate artistically carved his wrath
Beneath the flesh of men.

On some it’s like a tattoo
A beautiful calligraphy
With whispers of fame and wealth.
They dine on thrones as kings
Wear robes of velvet and pink.

Others are engraved amidst walls of lack
Hugged by arms of hunger
Tickled to dreams by desires and ponder
Forgotten by the bus en-route to a future.

So, when next you see a bowl
Drop inside a coin or dine
It might belong to a beggar.

Bamvi