Fifty is a random number,
Attracted by the logical
Mathematical calculating
Alphanumeric functional
Mind that dwells in many
Vastly complex equations,
Fifty can be very random,
But in marketing, it is not,
Simple fact of its worth
Will only be noted when
The equation is challenged,
And instead of an integer
Like fifty, a more profiting
Number is the forty-nine
Point ninety-nine, and
That is the worth of an
Item worthy of a fifty,
Fifty is not that random,
It is half of a hundred –
A number that is labelled
Separately than all others,
A symbol, a century, and
Fifty is half a century,
And so, I choose to write
Fifty random poems in
One challenging month,
And now, I write my fifty.


There was once a businessman,
Corrupted beyond logical reason,
He would count the stars at night,
And before sunrise – before any
Witnesses – he would take one,
Because, to him, they were not
Very efficient on the dark sky,
He would rather take them for
Their energy and sell them for
Profit so that by the end of the
Year three hundred and sixty
Five stars were put in the safe
In one of his banks that nobody
Knew, and one night, there was
A little girl who could not sleep,
While the moon snored aloud,
But her eyes were attracted
Towards those diminishing
Stars nobody ever befriended,
Except her where she and
Twinkle talked for the entire
Night, but just before the
Sun showed itself, the man
Put Twinkle in his big bag,
His greed blinded him to see
The poor little girl crying so
Innocently asking for help,
Here and there, shouting at
Other stars to pull the bag
Away from that greedy man,
But nobody listened, so she
Decided to follow this wicked
Man back to where he locked
Twinkle, but what she saw was not
Only Twinkle but also the rest of
The stolen stars, millions and
Millions of them trapped in the
Safe, and so she decided to open it,
Break it, destroy it entirely, and
When she did the stars floated
Freely towards their home, but the
Businessman shouted at the little
Angry girl: “you have to pay for the
Loss of revenue!” but the girl
Shouted back: “they don’t belong
Here,” the evil greedy man said:
“I counted them all night, I labelled
Them, I made them efficient, and
Now, they’re gone because of you,
Didn’t you know that I owned them?”
The girl said calmly: “they were
Never for sale in the first place.”

Change the System Not the Climate

Now, you just need to write
It down like you did before,
Something you are angry about,
Something about this world, or
Something you are passionate about,
Something that you want to protect –
No matter what,
Something you want to forever erase –
No matter what,
Write about the voiceless justice,
Or about the cries of rotten rats
That swarm the news headlines,
Billionaires owning what we hear,
What we see, and what we read,
The one percent guiding us,
The ninety-nine, into believing
The benefits of their mastery over
Our voluntary enslavement,
A charitable movement from us,
The ninety-nine, towards them,
The one percent, and indeed,
We allowed our men into war,
Maggots feeding on the sizzling
Dish to be served on golden
Plates and royal cutlery that
Become tomorrow’s headlines,
And we believe in their heroism,
We cheer for their deaths,
And we cheer for their return,
Returning wounded and voiceless,
And if any exposes the buried
Atrocities, then we accept
The system that puts them
On the menu for Today’s Special,
And we vote for the one percent,
For their beautifully carved thrones,
A burden that we choose to carry,
In our name they decree airstrikes
On hospitals, schools, and places
Of worship with cover stories to
Allude us into dancing our feet
Off the ground until we believe
Our transformation into celestial
Creatures; angels that protect
The world from corruption,
From demons in their own lands,
The lands of the ninety-nine,
Resources sucked out dry
As their thrones continue to
Expand in our sacred name,
And as we smoke our air
Into smithereens because
The system is meant to be
Treated that way, we await
A dance ritual from the one
Percent to alleviate our
Suffering, and what we,
The ninety-nine, see are them
False banners about the attempt
For climate change in the next
Few decades, a hopeful bait like
A carrot to a donkey’s journey,
And one day the carrot will
Burn and the donkey will
Run in reverse failing to
Notice the enclosing floods,
And indeed, in our sacred
Name the planet will survive,
The one percent in their jets
Will survive, but never us,
The ninety-nine of us
Will continue to roll a die
Into the inevitable homelessness,
An acceptable collateral damage
Discussed in their board meetings,
So, no need to find a solution
Since there is no problem
In this profit-driven system,
Devised by the one percent;
Meanwhile, we applaud their
Beautifully carved thrones as
They dust us out of history.