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Long Money Poems | Long Money Poetry

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Long poem by Joe Flach | Details |

My Conversation With God

I have been praying to God ever since I first understood the concept of a deity.  Although I have struggled through life with my acceptance of and belief in the religion I was force fed as a child, the praying has always stayed with me – on an almost every day basis.  In some way or some form or for some reason, it seems, I find myself praying to a God I am not sure I believe in.

Over the years, some of the things I have prayed for or prayed against have worked out in my favor.  Other things didn’t quite work out the way I had hoped.  So, I wondered, was this proof that my prayers are sometimes answered or simply the law of averages?  It really didn’t matter, I was programed to pray and so pray I do.

This has been going on pretty routinely for over 50 years; so, imagine my surprise when, for the first time last night, God talked back to me!

I may not get this exactly right, but, in essence, this is what He had to say:

(I am not sure what font to type God’s words in, so I will just keep on with the default.)

“Joe, Joe, Joe.  I have been listening to you for all your life.  And, whereas I do enjoy your thoughts; your words; and your sentiments; I find it is time for me to respond.

You really do pray a lot for lots of things.  Mostly good and humane things.  Mostly with a pure and caring heart.  But, son, you need to stop doing so much praying and start doing more stuff on your own.  I am not up here to make your life easier and to do things for you.

When you were young, instead of praying for that bicycle, you should have been doing chores to earn money towards buying it.  You could have cut more lawns, washed more cars, got a paper route, sold lemonade, or many other things other young boys were doing to earn money for the things that they wanted.

When you were in high school and prayed to me to help you do well in your wrestling matches, you should have, instead, been working harder at practice; spent more time on your conditioning; spent more time in the weight room; and studied harder on the art of wrestling.

In college, when you prayed for help on your mid-terms and finals, you should have, instead, spent more time studying and less time partying – I think that is something you already know.

Even when you pray on behalf of others – you should be doing more.

Instead of praying I would help old Mrs. Conner at the end of your street, you should have gotten up off your butt and walked down to the end of the street and looked in on her yourself.  You could have offered to go to the store for her, pick up her prescriptions or simply keep her company in her final years.

When you prayed for me to care for the starving children around the world, you should have been volunteering to help out yourself or donating more money towards this cause.  If you funneled all the money you spent on unnecessary junk food and extra meals you consumed throughout the years towards charities that help feed and clothe the poor, you could have saved many of the children you prayed that I would save.

Instead of praying that I cure your family, friends and acquaintances that you knew were ill or dying, you should have been visiting them in the hospital or writing them letters or providing assistance to their loved ones to help ease their pain.

Prayer is not the vehicle for you to be lazy and yet gain the rewards.  Prayer is not a means to have me do for others what you have the power and ability to do yourself.

I am glad that you talk to me, but you have been granted the ability and means to do so much more by yourself and yet you choose to take the easy way out and pray to me – the God that I know you are confused about.  Please, do me a favor, and before you pray, ask yourself, ‘Have I exhausted all avenues available to me to achieve the result I want God to perform?’ 

If, after you have done everything you can possibly do, then I may be more willing to consider what it is you ask for.

And now, my son, you can wake up.”

I sat up quickly in my bed, sweating and confused.  Was I just dreaming?  Was that really God talking to me?  Then, somewhere from deep inside, either from my conscious or a left-over message from the Almighty Himself, I thought (or heard): “What does it matter?  Whether it was God or not – the message is valid and something I probably already knew.”

“Well,” I said to myself, in prayer, “I will give it my best.  But, is it okay if we still talk?  It kind of helps to give me strength?”

Silence.

I will take that as a, “Yes”.


Long poem by evrod samuel | Details |

The City And The State Of Play Today

THE CITY AND THE STATE OF PLAY TODAY

No one worries about morals today 
They follow the rules they create
So to them all is ok
Those on the outside looking in 
Are the only ones feeling queasy 
As avarice and selfishness triumphs
So easily 

Good corporate citizens they claim to be
Industry awards abound on their walls
As thank you tokens from themselves
Yet society harbours a lot of ill-will
As it feels the often brute force of 
The raid
 Grab 
And destroy mentality
Of people only wishing to make money 
Any which way 
While Using up all of society’s communal resources

Sharks abound
The waters are forever bloody as they 
Know no fraternity and would gladly 
Cannibalize anyone with no influence 
The ability to upend competitors
A cherished characteristic 
In a bullish machismo drenched environment 

Bullet proof psyches
Absorb and repel any pangs
About unfairness
Blocking any regulatory or chattering classes’
Attempt at nirvana and equality 
They employ better paid lobbyist 
So always have the upper hand 
In influencing policy 

The gravitational attraction of money 
Towards another even bigger pot of money 
Numbs any cautionary instinct
That would take a long term view 
The thrill of instant riches
Overpowers common sense 
And even decency 
Fat cats they all wish to be 

The slickness of glossy tongued lobbyist
Who spin wrongs till they become rights
Embolden oestrogen low males with no inbuilt brakes
To take risks that eventually cost them disgrace 
They are champions of graft not of society 

Loopholes in legislation
That were built in by too friendly politicians 
Coupled with ambiguous suits and claims
Cause far reaching hardship when the good old days are long gone 
The villains only muster some phantom national pride
 When begging for a lighter sentence 
Some are forgiven
Others fatally wounded by an unforgiving public

Lots of money can be made both legally and illegally
As one racket is closed another materialises instantly
The conveyor belt of dishonesty
Overwhelms bureaucracy 
Who is not David to the goliath that is money

The ethos is wealth
The acquisition and the maintaining of gains
Not often acquired through hard work
There is no limit of acceptable financial comfort
For the millionaire always wants to be a billionaire
And the mega rich super rich

Money must always be hidden from the taxman
Shareholders want tax free dividends
Investors want tax breaks for buying with other people’s money 
Infrastructure and new runways must be built 
But not from the pocket of those who wish it 

With their hands outstretched
And always wanting more and more
From a government too eager to please 
We have a tax system geared to the advantage of party donors
And non-domiciled moguls and tycoons
Who know no philanthropy unless it is tax efficient 

Disadvantaging society by  
Never paying their fair and moral share 
The largess they reap so selfishly
They wish not to share 
Wages are low
Taxes are nil
Only the investor wins as we pay his bills

Fast paced expansionist dogma
Is preached within city limits
Only the highest paid
The biggest company
The greatest profits
Are allowed 
They are held up as ideals that all who
Wish to succeed must follow
Gunslingers they all appear to be
Rushing in to capitalize on the wanton success of their peers
The cloud of misery left behind 
Is never seen for the look forward 
Never backward 
Hindsight is never welcomed in this parasitic environment 

The political will to weed out these reckless demons
Is lukewarm at best 
The revolving door of government creating opportunities
For industry and industry gratefully accepting politicians post government 
Ensures that self-interest is king 

An economy built on flawed assumptions of wealth creation
Is one that must forever be in hyper-drive
Creating ever expanding demand and supply 
That is as real as a thief’s conscience 
When taking the rings off a dead persons fingers 

Money must always be made for 
There is no alternative 
Wealth is good
Poverty to them is laziness

The city is not the heart and soul
Of the nation
It is but one player in a system skewed in its favour
We all must share in the wealth of this country
To ensure its longevity  


Long poem by John Arribas | Details |

ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY

ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS


ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY I’M SADDENED TO SAY
PUT YOUR HAND IN SOMEONE’S POCKET ITS TIME TO PAY
WHEN ITS NOT THE MONEY IT’S A CRUSADE
OR REVENGE FOR A CRIME THAT WAS NEVER PAID
OR A PSYCHO THAT’S TOTALLY UNHINGED
WHO THINKS HIS RIGHTS HAVE BEEN MISMANAGED OR INFRINGED
THE AFOREMENTIONED GROUPS ARE  A PALTRY FRACTION
ALL THE OTHER CASES HAVE A FINANCIAL ATTRACTION

TWO MEN GO IN BUSINESS AS LIFELONG FRIENDS
WHEN THE MONEY ROLLS IN THE FRIENDSHIP ENDS
ONE’S WIFE WILL TELL HER SPOUSE WHY DO YOU SHARE
YOUR PARTNER NEVER WORKS HE’S SELDOM THERE
AND WHEN HE’S THERE YOU MAKE ALL THE DECISIONS
THE SHARING OF PROFITS NEEDS  IMMEDIATE REVISIONS
THAT’S THE BEGINNING AND THERE’LL BE NO RECOVERY
FILE ANOTHER ENTRY UNDER “ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY”

THE OLD SCOTSMAN TOOK HIS LAST GASP AND PASSED AWAY
DOZENS OF HEIRS ARRIVED ON TESTAMENT READING DAY
NONE EVER CARED , KNEW OR MET THE OLD GUY
BUT THEY’RE HERE FOR THEIR ENTITLED PIECE OF THE PIE
ITS NOT HARD TO TELL IF SOME ARE LEGIT OR ALBACORES
THE ASIANS  AND BLACKS ARE QUICKLY USHERED OUTDOORS
THEY SHOULD BE EMBARRASSED YET MOST THINK ITS FUNNY
FILE ANOTHER ENTRY UNDER “ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY”

HENRY WAS UGLY AND HAD LITTLE GOING FOR HIM
BOUGHT A LOTTERY TICKET, HIS CHANCES WERE SLIM
MUCH TO HIS SURPRISE HE WAS THE ONLY ONE TO WIN
NEXT DAY HIS HOUSE WAS FLOODED WITH WOMEN AND KIN
EVERYONE HAD A STORY FOR HENRY TO DIGEST
ALL HAD A GOLD MINE OPPORTUNITY FOR HIM TO INVEST
HE HAD NEW FRIENDS AND FAMILY THAT SUDDENLY APPEARED
BUT WHEN THE MONEY RAN OUT THEY ALL DISAPPEARED
HE HAS LESS NOW THAN BEFORE THE GALS CALLED HIM HONEY
FILE ANOTHER ENTRY UNDER “ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY”


ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY (2)


THOSE TWO BROTHERS WERE ALWAYS TOGETHER
FROM  A  RICH FAMILY IT WAS ALWAYS FAIR WEATHER
BUT AS THEY AGED THEIR TASTES OVERTOOK COMMON SENSE
NEW CARS EXOTIC TRIPS AND WOMEN RAN UP THE EXPENSE
THEY PLEAD FOR THEIR ALLOWANCES  TO BE ON THE RISE
THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN THEY PLANNED THEIR PARENTS DEMISE
THEY CONCOCTED A STORY THEY CAREFULLY SPREAD
THEIR PARENTS WERE DISCOVERED BOTH SHOT IN THE HEAD
IT’S A IRONIC YOU’RE MURDERED BY SOMEONE YOU CALLED SONNY
FILE ANOTHER ENTRY UNDER “ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY”

OLD TOM AND THAT BUFFOON HE CALLED A WIFE
REALLY STRAPPED LIVING ON THE EDGE OF THE KNIFE
THEY HAD NO ASSETS AND LACKED IMAGINATION
THEY HAD NO JOBS OR OTHER FUNNEL OF COMPENSATION  
THEY PLANNED AN ACCIDENT TO CLAIM QUICK CASH
LEFT A CAR ON THE TRACKS ANTICIPATING A CRASH
THE TRAIN MOVED FASTER THAN HAD BEEN  EXPECTED
POOR OLD TOM IN AN ARC WAS VIOLENTLY EJECTED
THE BUFFOON LONELY AND SAD NOW HAS ONLY REVERIE
FILE ANOTHER ENTRY UNDER “ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY”

MY COUNTRY IS THE BASTION OF LIBERTY
WE HERALD THE THEME OF PEACE AND UNITY
WE OPEN OUR DOORS TO THE POOR AND NEGLECTED
WE LET THEM SCALE THE FENCE WHERE ITS UNPROTECTED
OTHER NATIONS ARE BRUTAL UNCARING AND FEEBLE
THEY FIGHT EACH OTHER KILLING THEIR OWN PEOPLE
WE DARE NOT INTERFERE WE NEVER TAKE A POSITION
WE’LL SUPPLY WEAPONS TO AN ALLY OR OPPOSITION
OUR DEFENSE CONTRACTORS CAN TOOL UP  IN A HURRY
FILE ANOTHER ENTRY UNDER “ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY”

MONEY IS NOT EVIL BUT THE LUSTING WILL BE
THE WANT FOR MONEY LEADS TO CRIMES OF THE NTH DEGREE
PARENTS  MURDER THEIR CHILDREN  TO AMASS TREASURE 
CHILDREN MURDER THEIR PARENTS TO PAY FOR PLEASURE
THE FIRST QUESTION IN A CRIME IS “WHO TENDS TO PROSPER”
THAT USUALLY CASTS SUSPICION TO ONE NAME ON THE ROSTER
IT WAS THE LUST FOR MONEY THAT CAUSED THIS FELONY
FILE ANOTHER ENTRY UNDER “ITS ALWAYS THE MONEY”








 








Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Shade

             Your past, your romantic past, is a shadow. Like all towns, Port Washington was a combination of rain and clouds, sun and mist, with a chamber of commerce, barrooms and boards of directors, the known and unknown. No one of course is completely unknown. I was known for my tragic love life. She had found another man, a backwoods man, living on the land but not above a night on the town, who according to her would wipe snot on his pants, a statement of poverty or thrift or anger against the niceties of society. All of us heated our hovels with wood but only the rich burned hardwoods, me and probably this guy were softwood gatherers.

            There were few aspects to my life. First, I can remember a nook in the kitchen of the house I shared with a beautiful faceless woman who wore a ring in her nose where I wrote and watched flocks of unidentified birds comb a tree for seeds. This particular day the sky was blue with clean pillowy cumulus clouds floating toward Puget Sound. I believe all the poems written in that nook have been forgotten by their author.

            Nights, for entertainment, I would wander the aisles of the supermarket, admiring everything and buying nothing. I had no money. The fluorescent lighting, clean straight neat shelving and floors, warmth and the fact I could identify nobody attracted me. I lived on cream cheese and honey sandwiches eating them leaning against the kitchen sink. Thinking go back to New York City which is what I ultimately did. Drove cross country nonstop three days and three nights seeing and feeling nothing.

           This was during the Reagan recession inherited from Carter. I'm unclear how presidents affect your life but good or bad, democrat or whig, alive or dead you've got to get a job, which I did. I supervised the living arrangements of developmentally disabled adults in what I thought were humorous contexts that gave no offense. They were beautiful and incorrigible having regular sex without protection. Normally harmless they'd sometimes have altercations with their neighbors. I balanced the checkbooks, paid the bills. Supposedly teaching living skills, I had few of my own as evidenced by my sleeping on the floor, I had no bed. One mature woman colleague judged me a short-timer living a useless fantasy about big cities. Still lost in my own history, still didn't know the calculus.

            I had a dog, Shade, black lab, leftover from my near-marriage until she realized I had no economic prospects, no interest in further sex or her logger boyfriend, and a complete inability to translate or imagine nesting and gestation. Like Aaron, my homework comes to me in daily disconnected increments. Shade lived in my gray van, a Dodge slant six, which I could never afford to fix. Once the driveshaft disconnected from the rear axle and I tied it on with rope. Drove 60 miles on a knot. Shade was hyper and sad, both. He smelled bad but was a good dog with a lonely heart. When my wife who wasn't a wife finally found a boyfriend who wouldn't wipe snot on his pant leg they took Shade to British Columbia where I believe he runs free on a vast estate by the sea. I once beat Shade like a slave because he attacked a small dog out of frustration and loneliness and until I had kids and started saying and doing things just as bad to humans it was the lowest meanest moment of my life. The farmer who saw it will never forget or forgive it.

            Having confessed all this there's just one last fact to tell. The mountains were cold, the waters clear, deep snow and shadows.






Long poem by John Posey | Details |

Tige

(Circa 1910) Grandpa had a bulldog whose name was Tige. They were close – as close as honey and bees. If Grandpa felt a cold comin’ on – Well Ol’ Tige was the one who would sneeze Grandpa was noted for his wealth and generosity. His love for me was demonstrated when he paid my college fees. The love he held for Tige was almost the same for me. And ol’ Tige was always with Grandpa wherever he might be. College life was different then, separation was the norm. And years at Alma Mater meant years far from the farm. Students have it difficult and allowances soon shrink So, short of money there, I soon began to think. Grandpa, bless his giving heart, quickly came to mind That bulldog owned his generous heart – if somehow I could find Some way to convince my grandpa to increase the money sent -- I came upon a devious plan – and this is how it went. I wrote and told my grandpa, “There’s things you ought to know. The things they’re doin’ here at school will set your heart aglow.” “They’re takin’ all these sorts of dogs – it came as quite a shock Grandpa, you won’t believe me, they’re teachin’ dogs to talk.” Now grandpa loved ol’ Tige so much it didn’t take him long To ask how much would it take to send ol’ Tige along? Well, when I gave a figure, Grandpa was satisfied If this crazy scheme was figured out, there’s no place I could hide. I kept feeding grandpa all sorts of good reports How Tige was a star pupil and mascot of all sports Two years passed and soon there came the time to take Tige home Grandpa was so excited -- Tige was never more to roam. Grandpa came runnin’ when I stepped down off the train. His eager eyes were searching for what he’d never see again. “Where’s ol’ Tige?” he asked, as we began to walk. “He’s not comin’.” I replied, “C’mon we need to talk.” This morning I was shaving in the bathroom by the sink And Tige was justa talkin’ when he looked at me and winked. “Ya know’ he said, “I’ll be so glad to be back home at last.” There are some things I’ve thought about that went on in the past.” “I was standin’ at the mirror with my razor in my hand Ol’ Tige was talkin’ ‘bout some things he couldn’t understand. I could not believe the lies he told – things he’d seen first hand Like the times he saw you wrestlin’ with that female hired hand.” His words just lit a fire with the pictures that he painted I almost couldn’t help myself – Grandpa, I nearly fainted. It seems that I lost it some and when I finally woke, I’d grabbed him by the backa his neck and cut his lyin’ throat. I know grandpa was shaken, I saw it in his eyes. A look of consternation he could not disguise He seemed to be relieved, as he looked at me and said, “Now, Son, I really need to know, are you sure ol’ Tige is dead?” Years have hidden the truth of this deception that I wrought. I’m the one who wove deceptive tales that everybody bought. But when the truth is told at last and no more lies are found You’ll gladly find an ending that surely will astound. Grandpa? -- He now lives with Jesus, and me? -- I’m headed there. Tige? – I know he’s still around though I shouldn’t tell you where. We made a pact some years ago when things went awfully bad. For years he’s been the best darn mascot my school ever had.


Long poem by Jennifer Cahill | Details |

Prose

Shane walked to the back of the bar and found the door opened to an alley littered with the garbage of the bar and the restaurant beside it, the one whose neon sign has two lights blown out.


“Sally, we should leave through this door if the man I told you about comes in.”


“We can’t”.

“Why?” He seemed agitated, and unused to disagreement.


“The alley has no exit, except for a locked chained linked fence, and besides, we have nothing to be afraid of.” She says, rubbing his shoulders soothingly.
The bar was crowded, and despite smokers hanging outside, the air seemed thick, or viscous, with something that felt like dewdrops suspended: they almost could not breathe. Yet they felt warm within the crowd, and the frigid air outside was an incentive to stay put, at least for awhile.


Sally and Shane ordered two beers, and nursed them for twenty minutes before they started to discuss the real reason they were meeting tonight, on such a cold night in a seedy part of town.


“The money is with my cousin, actually distant cousin; he will bring it to my apartment tomorrow night, just as the sun sets.” Shane wiped the moisture that had left a mark on the counter. Sally swallowed the last drops of her beer. She ordered another; Shane was still taking shallow sips of his.


“Okay, then. Put the money in a laundry sack surrounded by linen and bring it to the laundry mat across the street from my apartment. I will meet you there at nine. It will still be quiet at that hour. We won’t be seen.”


“Okay.”
“

I will pay the woman who has helped others with this money, and the problems we have been having will go away. She never speaks of such matters to others, and her word is good.” Sally was finished with her second beer, and tying her scarf tightly around her pale neck and tucking the woolen red and blue scarf into her brown jacket. She took a deep breath and declared the matter settled. She did not see the man with the knit black cap, pulled so low over his face one could not see his eyes, a scarf wrapped around his mouth, come in and approach the bar.


“One vodka and tonic, please”.


Shane immediately recognized the voice and became afraid. He whispered to Sally about this man, and she frowned deeply, only to smile abruptly when she saw Shane’s fear.


“The woman who we are paying knows of him. He cannot harm us.”
Shane walked quickly to the exit, Sally behind him, noticing the streetlights outside flickering as he stepped outside, and, pulling his dark coat tightly around him, bid goodnight and walked quickly down the street, his footsteps echoing like the voices of long lost friends. Sally waited for her ride, and as the car pulled up, Shane turned and saw the driver was his wife and the passenger his brother. Shocked, he almost ran to the car, now leaving the curbside, and called out “Sharon! Bill!”


A blackness enveloped his senses after unbearable pain and he was unaware of falling.
The next morning, at a corner newsstand near where Shane used to commute by train to work, the newspapers sold had as a bottom headline, in small bold printing, the news of the murder of a man: the commuters ruffled through the articles, and then set the papers aside after reading of such events in a small brightly lit city.


Long poem by Tadon Archer | Details |

Twisted

They had his life story twisted as he plotted his death in advance
outsmarting his enemies evading cops and *****es
People hated him they wanted him dead
They said that he was good for nothing
Humiliated him showed him as a negative image in the public trying to
take him down
Telling the viewers he is nothing but a thug and a negative role model to
the children
But that’s what racist people do they care less about a nigga that trying to
make a change and get out the gang life
He was a poet, a rapper and a political leader in many of his fans' eyes
Always encouraging them to hold on and stay strong things will get better
and tomorrow will be a better day
He was a motivator speaker always helping the poor and the hood
He wasn’t afraid to claim where he came from
He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind when things weren’t right
A lyrical genius that had his enemies spook and fans confuse
A lot of rap stars were envy of him because they weren’t as real and
talented as him
So they started riots and destroyed his sense of humor tried to drive his
fans away from him
They wanted him to fall
And his life couldn’t get any worser when he was shot five times in
Manhattan by two armed men
On his way to the studio not knowing he was going to get shot
He was set up by a snake that acted like he was his homie
I guess his rapping buddy didn’t know what hit him
Because he had to take the blame while the true phony set in the
background and orchestra the hit
  
And the one who did it is still living repping bad boy records signing
people and then sacrificing them just to rank higher and get up to the
highest club
It’s a shame how can you still hold your guilt for so long for almost killing
your own kind
You’re still being controlled by a white man you didn’t even shed a tear
when your homie die instead you celebrated
Because you knew on the business side you were going to blow up
You’re a cold hearted person and the only thing you care about is money
and fame
Selling your soul and going through gay rituals just for money man you
gotta be mess up
And my guy was marked for death because he wouldn’t **** Quincy Jones
in the ass
So what is the music industry all about?
Do you really have to sell your soul and do gay things or sex orgy in order
to get what you want which is money and fame
Man ya got it all twisted because I thought that you rise to the top
because of your talent
Not doing insane things like changing your religious and worshipping the
devil or sending many of your fans souls to hell doing blood sacrifices or
voodoo killing people
Man this game is dirty all the real people are either dead or gone
somewhere far hiding from the secret societies that’s trying to kill them
And now we’re stuck with these phony ungodly rappers on TV That sold
their soul and did crazy things to get where they are at
Now what type of example are these so call rappers to the children in my
community
They are nothing but puppets slaves that has to take orders from their boss
in order to sell records
What a shame but nobody will never be the greatest like Makaveli retire
from the rap game and still making millions
While people are selling their souls trying to make a million


Long poem by Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Details |

Girl Rising

Based on a true story from a television documentary on Human Trafficking...an international crime with participants from a broad spectrum of society...occuring on a daily basis. I have only seen documentaries on the trafficking of young girls between the ages of 5 and above!! Law enforcers, it seems are fighting a losing battle against the men and women who sell and enslave young girls and I have no doubt, young boys as well.

Somewhere this day on planet earth
A Mother-to-be, while in labor, cries
Not so much for the mounting pain
Nor the fear of possible death
So many fears for the future…
“What lies ahead in the coming years?
What “fate” will meet my child?”
And added to all her heightened fears is…
Will she be there to protect her child?

Those dark years have now passed into decades
When Tanya walked the shadowy streets of the city at late night 
While kids her age slept peacefully in their beds
They made her dress up so she’d looked twenty one
Days were spent locked in a room, under watchful eyes
She was fed cheap fast food to her young heart’s content
Soon she'd lose all hope of liberation
This was the second man she had been sold to
And after a while she’d adapt to the situation 

Still fresh in her mind was that last day at school
In her backpack was her favorite teddy bear
Her Mother had chosen to believe her step-father again
Now that her twelfth birthday would be in a month 
As no one cared, she decided to run away
While at the bus station she met this “nice” couple
Who listened to every word she spoke
They promised her a ride to any place she wished
And she’d always wanted to see Disney land

“Maybe, she thought, it’d be a birthday treat”
 However, that would be another promise broken 
Weeks dragged on and they bought her “stuff” 
Although treated well, sometimes she still felt alone
Then one day came the grown up clothes and make up
That night her innocence was stolen once more
Later she’d try to make an escape
Only to be caught and tied to the bed post
‘Make it easy on yourself and accept your “fate”, she was told

That was years ago, although it seems like yesterday,
When arrested by a new officer on the vice squad
Who saw the flaw in the picture before him
The pimp gave no reasonable answer to the simple question
‘Why are you parked late at night on the street corner with a minor?’
 
Looking back over the years, she came to conclude that “Fate” is just another word, made up to cast aside blame; when we do not want to see the path we’ve chosen which has led us to our present state
When Pilate symbolically washed his hands, though he had power in that moment to act..
When there before him stood truth and innocence, 
Yet, he chose to make a comfortable bed for his conscience

Today, Tanya is a college graduate and a Mother who has vowed not to leave anything to “fate”. She’d teach her children to take responsibility for the choices they make… 
She would teach them that no one is of lesser value than another..
 Male or female; black or white, all hues; rich or poor 
All have a God given right to live free!
~*~
8/03/13
For:  Richard's "Girl Rising" Contest

(3rd Place Win)


Long poem by kj force | Details |

Garden Club Ruse Finality part 2

The years passed, things never did get better..
Her Garden Club was the only thing that held her together
The mental abuse had taken it’s toll...
As far as he was concerned he owned her soul..
She now felt she had no recourse..
And decided she had to find a source..
To end this life as she knew it..
And move on without the commitment...
It was a Friday one cold winter day..
He told her he was going to Vegas to play..
But we have no money, you said yesterday..
No, YOU !  have no money he said and...
I wish you were dead...
He had bragged for years, this day would come
When he would choose another one..
But before I leave...he had a request..
Make me my favorite dinner...for me and a guest
She is younger than you and oh what a catch..
So she went to the freezer to find and fetch..
A suitable roast for he and his guest...
She found just the right thing for his favorite meal..
A large leg of lamb, or was it Veal ?
It was heavy, about twenty pounds she thought...
What was I thinking when this was bought ?
Back in the kitchen, he was still raving...
About how useless this marriage was of saving...
I really don’t care what happens to you...
But I’ll see you get nothing, not even a shoe...
With that she swung the 20 pound roast...
It smashed in his skull, he was dead right away...
Oh my, she said, what a way to start the day...
She grabbed the roast and put it in a pan...
And began to figure out a plan... of what to do with this man...
She thought for a moment and remembered the strife..
That went with her ordering that “ Ginzu “ knife...
It was a TV offer she couldn’t pass up, never needed sharpening....
 and cut thru bone..order one now and get one free..
It was the first and last time she used the credit card and that was in 1963.
The knife worked well, she thought , now that was a bargain
Placed the parts in a bag and headed for the garden...
Body parts were buried in the dirt..
And she smiled upon the burning of her shirt..
She took the roast to her Garden Club meeting..
It was a special event and guess who was speaking ?
The Chief of Police and his subject was on spousal beating..
And by the way he said he would like the recipe for his wife..
The weeks went by, she was happy everyday...
 And then it happened, is was the first of May..
 The big event she had waited for all year..
 Her entry of the “ *Amorphophallus Titanum “...
 Oh how proud she was...when awarded top prize..
 A very rare plant, said the Judge...and has a very weird odor..
And it’s not very pleasant...as a matter of fact
 It smells like rotting meat , said another, sorta sour.
Which is why said the Judge..it’s commonly called the ...* Corpse Flower..
                                                                                          

 * Native to the rainforest, flowers are rare and if it blooms,
Is one of approximately 140 recorded in history...
Most recently on display in New York City in 2012...


Long poem by jeffry cohan | Details |

free cee NAUGHTY NEON NIGHTS

      NAUGHTY NEON NIGHTS

Apron strings gave way to springs unstrung
her hubby made her cry       	
when he said baby, bye-bye
and so she had to think of what to do now  
when freedom shook her hand
there was only one thing for her to understand 
she needed to comprehend the nature of making it on her own
all alone
picking up stakes
moving on after making a maze of mistakes

so it was the neon lights
an aura of colors calling consistently to a woman who needed to be uprooted
all her elderly apple trees never fruited
and so she packed her luggage and called a limousine
may as well spend the bucks since you'll never again be seen
                      not in those surroundings at least
her days of currents that lifted her aloft were a sumptuous feast
mid-priced condo, mid-priced car and a mid priced future ahead
yet and still she lay comfy in her bed
sleeping like a stone
all alone
because they cut the apron strings and
hubby told her to cut the ties and get away

and that's the last words she heard the man say

just her style
mile after arid mile
she'd travel the road
minus a load
free to do that which she wanted to do
while to her soul she had finally been true

and the neon lights
                 they beckoned
with a past to be reckoned
tomorrow coming up fast
day after day yet none would last
in her own inimitable way
she'd traded pans and pots
for the slots
only the nickel slots though
the lady would take it slow
loosing money
winning money
spinning the wheel
rolling the dice
while the ante was two children and a husband
alas to her the greenbacks were paramount
and all the winnings she believed in the money she would   count

but then there were the days lady luck opined “good luck, you're on your own”
all alone 
because she cut apron springs, had some flings and lost a lot of meaningful things 

for a while she was a hummingbird
hearing not a condescending word
flapping her wings to keep in mid-air
floating between debts and income
slightly naughty
slightly numb

and the neon lights kept flashing
cashing in on her credit card
but life suddenly wasn't hard
it was easy to have breakfast in bed
and without the casino always ending up ahead

but then one late Sunday night black Jack called and said “come on over and win”
well that's the night that all the havoc would begin
it turns out that the breakfast in bed wasn't complimentary as she had thought
she had to pay for all the bangles she bought
and found out that the holy dove was captured and caught

and so it was back to Brooklyn right over the bridge
as she could afford nothing except what she could keep in the fridge
because she owed the electric company money before she left for the neon lights
and that's why that lady now spends a lot of opaque 
 days and
 lonely nights
  2012.....PHREEPOETREE~free cee!~


Long Poems