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Famous Short Money Poems. Short Money Poetry by Famous Poets

Famous Short Money Poems. Short Money Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Money short poems

See also: Best Famous Short Poems | Short Member Poems | Best Short Member Poems | Top 100 Famous Short Poems

 
by Robert Herrick

MONEY MAKES THE MIRTH

 When all birds else do of their music fail,
Money's the still-sweet-singing nightingale!


by Edward Lear

There was an Old Man of Kilkenny

There was an Old Man of Kilkenny,
Who never had more than a penny;
He spent all that money in onions and honey,
That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny.


by Mother Goose

Young Lambs To Sell


If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry young lambs to sell;
Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell;
I never would cry young lambs to sell.



by Wanda Phipps

Morning Poem #6

 groggy voice
hangover head
phone rongs
work call
money writing
muddled thoughts
adrenaline rush
hands clutch
power book
pauses comerapid doubts
make calls
take notes
ming push
fear waits


by Charles Bukowski

Working Out

 Van Gogh cut off his ear
gave it to a
prostitute
who flung it away in
extreme
disgust.
Van, whores don't want ears they want money.
I guess that's why you were such a great painter: you didn't understand much else.


by Mother Goose

Money And The Mare


"Lend me thy mare to ride a mile.
"
"She is lamed, leaping over a stile.
"
"Alack! and I must keep the fair!
I'll give thee money for thy mare.
"
"Oh, oh! say you so?
Money will make the mare to go!"


by Edgar Lee Masters

Ace Shaw

 I never saw any difference
Between playing cards for money
And selling real estate,
Practicing law, banking, or anything else.
For everything is chance.
Nevertheless Seest thou a man diligent in business? He shall stand before Kings!


by Carl Sandburg

A Coin

 YOUR western heads here cast on money,
You are the two that fade away together,
Partners in the mist.
Lunging buffalo shoulder, Lean Indian face, We who come after where you are gone Salute your forms on the new nickel.
You are To us: The past.
Runners On the prairie: Good-by.


by Richard Brautigan

San Francisco

 This poem was found written on a paper bag by Richard
Brautigan in a laundromat in San Francisco.
The author is unknown.
By accident, you put Your money in my Machine (#4) By accident, I put My money in another Machine (#6) On purpose, I put Your clothes in the Empty machine full Of water and no Clothes It was lonely.


by Sylvia Plath

Metaphors

 I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off.


by Mother Goose

Old Chairs To Mend


If I'd as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry old chairs to mend;
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;
I never would cry old chairs to mend.

If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry old clothes to sell;
Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell;
I never would cry old clothes to sell.



by Emily Dickinson

Work for Immortality

 Some -- Work for Immortality --
The Chiefer part, for Time --
He -- Compensates -- immediately --
The former -- Checks -- on Fame --

Slow Gold -- but Everlasting --
The Bullion of Today --
Contrasted with the Currency
Of Immortality --

A Beggar -- Here and There --
Is gifted to discern
Beyond the Broker's insight --
One's -- Money -- One's -- the Mine -


by Ben Jonson

On a Robbery


VIII.
 ? ON A ROBBERY.
  
RIDWAY robb'd DUNCOTE of three hundred pound,
    Ridway was ta'en, arraign'd, condemn'd to die ;
But, for this money, was a courtier found,
    Begg'd Ridway's pardon :  Duncote now doth cry,
Robb'd both of money, and the law's relief,
    ? The courtier is become the greater thief.
?


by Robert Burns

Tibbie Dunbar

 O, wilt thou go wi' me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O, wilt thou go wi' me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse,
Or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side,
O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?

I care na thy daddie,
His lands and his money,
I care na thy kin
Sae high and sae lordly;
But say thou wilt ha'e me
For better for waur—
And come in thy coatie,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!


by Robert Burns

269. Song—Sweet Tibbie Dunbar

 O WILT thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?


I care na thy daddie, his lands and his money,
I care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly;
But sae that thou’lt hae me for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar.


by Carl Sandburg

Under A Telephone Pole

 I AM a copper wire slung in the air,
Slim against the sun I make not even a clear line of shadow.
Night and day I keep singing--humming and thrumming: It is love and war and money; it is the fighting and the tears, the work and want, Death and laughter of men and women passing through me, carrier of your speech, In the rain and the wet dripping, in the dawn and the shine drying, A copper wire.


by Charles Bukowski

These Things

 these things that we support most well 
have nothing to do with up, 
and we do with them 
out of boredom or fear or money 
or cracked intelligence; 
our circle and our candle of light 
being small, 
so small we cannot bear it, 
we heave out with Idea 
and lose the Center: 
all wax without the wick, 
and we see names that once meant 
wisdom, 
like signs into ghost towns, 
and only the graves are real.


by Dylan Thomas

Twenty-Four Years

 Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.
) In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.


by Geoffrey Hill

Mercian Hymns I

 King of the perennial holly-groves, the riven sandstone: overlord of the
M5: architect of the historic rampart and ditch, the citadel at
Tamworth, the summer hermitage in Holy Cross: guardian of the Welsh
Bridge and the Iron Bridge: contractor to the desirable new estates:
saltmaster: money-changer: commissioner for oaths: martyrologist: the
friend of Charlemagne.
'I liked that,' said Offa, 'sing it again.
'


by Walt Whitman

To Rich Givers.

 WHAT you give me, I cheerfully accept, 
A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money—these, as I rendezvous with my
 poems; 
A traveler’s lodging and breakfast as I journey through The States—Why should I
 be
 ashamed to own such gifts? Why to advertise for them? 
For I myself am not one who bestows nothing upon man and woman; 
For I bestow upon any man or woman the entrance to all the gifts of the universe.
5


by Amy Lowell

Fools Money Bags

 Outside the long window,
With his head on the stone sill,
The dog is lying,
Gazing at his Beloved.
His eyes are wet and urgent, And his body is taut and shaking.
It is cold on the terrace; A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes through the glass And is content.
The Beloved is writing a letter.
Occasionally she speaks to the dog, But she is thinking of her writing.
Does she, too, give her devotion to one Not worthy?


by Philip Larkin

Nothing To Be Said

 For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small-statured cross-faced tribes
And cobble-close families
In mill-towns on dark mornings
Life is slow dying.
So are their separate ways Of building, benediction, Measuring love and money Ways of slow dying.
The day spent hunting pig Or holding a garden-party, Hours giving evidence Or birth, advance On death equally slowly.
And saying so to some Means nothing; others it leaves Nothing to be said.


by Charles Bukowski

Poem For My 43rd Birthday

 To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
.
.
.
in the morning they're out there making money: judges, carpenters, plumbers, doctors, newsboys, policemen, barbers, carwashers, dentists, florists, waitresses, cooks, cabdrivers.
.
.
and you turn over to your left side to get the sun on your back and out of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985


by Hermann Hesse

I Know You Walk--

 I walk so often, late, along the streets,
Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,
Suddenly, silently, you still might rise
And I would have to gaze on all your grief
With my own eyes,
While you demand your happiness, that's dead.
I know, you walk beyond me, every night, With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress And walk for money, looking miserable! Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess, The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight--- You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.