Best Amount Of Money Poems
Jesus gives me directions
To love as He has loved
With a sincere compassion
That knows no conditions
This love of His has no limits
It goes beyond worry and strife
It fills the heart with a joy…
That can only be expressed in rebirth
This love of His has a purpose
To give generously, without constraint
With a true sensitivity to the feelings…
That someone else has felt
This love of His has been given
To bring salvation to the sinner
Reaching into a wretched heart…
And bringing about a complete surrender
This love of His holds the answers
To every question we might ask,
Creates a sense of peace on the inside
That could never compare to another serenity
This love of His sends us promises
That our greatest fears will be overcome
By the assurance that no harm can arise…
For those who trust in God’s only Son
This love of His mends what is broken
Whether it be a heart or a spiritual pain
It restores the one who feels shattered…
With a promise of true hope and faith
This love of His succeeds where nothing else can
Pleading victory from these nail scarred hands
Reaching down to the poorest, lost sinner
And giving a new life, a new way, a second chance.
This love of His is worth more than millions
No amount of money can possibly buy it
Through grace, it is eternal salvation sent to us
Who simply have the faith to accept Him
$hawty Got $wag
Shawty got swag,
Shawty mad dope.
Face all cheesin’,
She real turned up.
Goin’ to da club,
She steppin' wit her peeps,
Lookin’ so ratchet,
She’s straight up hoochie.
No racks in her pocket,
No stacks in her wallet,
But she all into bubbly
Slurpin’ and burpin’.
Lookin for a big baller,
Who’ll give her wat she wants,
Wildin’ on the dance floor,
Tweakin’ an’ freakin’,
Shawty actin' so cra cra!
She just like da rest a dem,
But Shawty real fly,
Sure likes a lotta ice,
Bling bling, and Benjamins.
Shawty creepin’ to hook up
Coz she needs a boo wit finesse,
Who’ll give her Yves St. Laurent,
5-star hotels, and 5-star restaurants.
Shawty off the chain,
Shawty off the hook,
She got game and she’s aight!
Shawty da bomb - fuh real!!!
08-18-2014
Contest: Ebonics – Let’s Do Some Slang
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Placement: 1st
Some Terms and Definitions:
shawty – a young attractive female; dope – cool, nice, awesome; swag – style;
turn up – excited; mad – really a lot; peeps – friends, close pals; baller – a
thug that made it in the big time; racks/stacks– lots of money; aight – alright;
wildin’– to go crazy, acting out of control; cra cra – crazy; tweakin’/freakin’ –
dancing provocatively and moving around out of control; cheesin’ – smiling;
finesse – man who has swag and can spend a huge amount of money; ratchet
– ghetto diva; creepin’ – sneaking about; bubbly – champagne; bling bling –
expensive flashy jewelry; Benjamins – hundred dollar bills; boo – one’s lover;
da bomb – the best of the best; game – skills; ice – expensive flashy jewelry
usually diamonds or jewelry with diamonds; off the chain/off the hook –
excellent, fantastic, awesome; fly – cool, in style; hook up – getting together
with someone romantically; hoochie – a female who dresses trashy; straight up
– absolutely, really.
Cecil the lion of Zimbabwe, famous and beloved,
Shot by a bow hunter after being lured from his home;
It took Cecil forty hours to die, how he must have suffered,
They tracked him down and shot, skinned and beheaded him.
It was senseless, cowardly, cruel and barbaric,
Oh I weep for Cecil the lion with the rest of the world;
And all animals victims of trophy hunters who kill for the fun,
Our voices must be united and be strong, we must end poaching.
We must demand justice for Cecil and all animals,
The hunting for sport must be stopped as it is murder;
No amount of money makes it right, no more heads on walls,
No more animals killed by cowards with big egos and money to do it.
Sign a petition, make your voice heard loudly,
Laws need to change so that animals no longer die;
This particular killer will be tracked down just like he did,
But we will be more humane, we won't shot, skin and behead him.
This coward in hiding must face justice in Zimbabwe.
__________________________
August 26, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Justice For Cecil The Lion
Copyright Protected, ID 15-703-723-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest , What Is Your Form Of Justice,
sponsor, Tammy Reams
First Place
Hey little kiddies, have you heard this story
Bout the Teddy Bear who could count up to fifty
Only problem was, the numbers weren't in order
But his Bear friends all thought he was nifty
He'd start out, “one... fifty-two... sixteen... two”
Mama Bear said he was doing just fine
Didn't want to hurt her little guy's feelings
She knew he'd figure it out in good time
“He'll learn them before he grows up,” she thought
When it's important to get numbers straight
Like when he's buying honey for his sweetie
And the store sign says five ninety-eight
At first he would count out nine eighty-five
Now that was too much for the honey
Then he remembered what Mama Bear taught him
And gave the man the right amount of money
You can find him going around counting all day
He goes, “one... fifty-two... sixteen... two”
And laughs when Mama Bear gets all flustered
Then says, “one... two... three... fooled you!”
Bottle me in a fragrance
Use me up to the last drop
rubbed me all over your body
than I hope that the flesh rots
cause the way left me
sitting here wondering
while you were out with her
i'm a bottle type of gal
I guess that's what you thought
that if you put me on a shelf
i'd still be there
to use when the
nite was done
But you couldn't bottle me
not for any amount of money
you couldn't keep me here
I refuse to be the other woman
I am not trapped in this
situation
I am not reusable
I am not just a tingly sensation
I am not your gift
you don't deserve me
I am not some cheap
fragrance
A play thing
before she returns
I am not your bottle
I am not your refreshment
before the meal
call your wife for that
you can't bottle me
and all my pride
I am the best damn thing
tell her to return the ring
If you need a fling
just know it won't be me
All immigrants or persons migrating into Australia shall be extended no more courtesy that the average Australian unless unusual circumstances can be justified
No financial aid will be offered to any person migrating to Australia unless unusual circumstances can be justified
24 months after becoming an Australian citizen will be first time a migrant shall be allowed to claim for any financial assistance of any sort from the Australian government unless unusual circumstances can be justified
All Australian traditions, icons, beliefs, and religions shall not be defaced in any way; if they are then the person or persons responsible shall be required to leave Australia and citizenship and passport will be revoked unless unusual circumstances can be justified
All immigrants shall follow Australian law
No employer shall be allowed to pay a migrant a lower rate of pay than an ordinary Australian would receive in the same position in accordance to the award wage. If an employer is found guilty of underpaying workers they shall be shipped to PNG and passport revoked after reimbursing twice the amount of money owed unless unusual circumstances can be justified
The train approaches in the distance
Through a tunnel we gave birth
The chimney smog marries the low clouds
Of increasing heavy traffic and haze of garbage fires
Red roof tops absorb long wave radiation
The neighbourhood’s listening to the world
Through aerials and satellite dishes
The potholes feel like exploding landmines
As vehicles detour onto the pavements
People stroll in the middle of overcrowded streets
While children play soccer and drive brick blocks
Through new eyes,
Everything still looks the same or worst
Who will drive the train of progress,
Who will pilot change?
The township must be demolished!
It symbolises everything wrong with us,
Stagnation, procrastination and assimilation
The corners are occupied by gangs of ‘nyaope boys’
Who have made it their career to be unproductive
It’s a gaping sore of apartheid’s legacy
That will never heal, not in a century...
It is on the periphery, a dumping ground
Not prime land earmarked for human habitation
Through new eyes, we must have a clearer vision
A landscape with a lush vegetation on the horizon
No amount of money can ever buy a slum,
The infrastructure of a safe neighbourhood and good sanitation
When the very same people who seek to improve it,
Don’t reside within it and merely claim it to be their roots
No RDP can ever be a beautiful home, through new eyes
No amount of Shoprite stores will make it look right
No township will ever evolve into a City proper
I repeat, demolish the township!
It has been drawn into attention that you constantly mention my faults. Point one at me and three you'll see point back at the enemy. You're no longer a friend to me; woman! My mind is like an anus. I'm in need of an enema; flushed from your hatred and cleared from your betrayals. I need a clean slate to scratch new records to turn tables. My head is stuck into a kink; of sorts. To name a few things, my shoulders have shrugged often; leaving my neck at your mercy; woman! Torture is my eternal chamber when I'm in your grasp. A bubble from my nostril; water fills my lungs. A hand pressed firmly atop of my face as the hot and cold water runs.
An illusion of the mind... Good one; woman! A falsehood created by manipulation of my own being. A battle with one’s own self righteousness as another holds the strings; the puppeteer is almighty; believes only in herself. She will cut your neck and wrap the strings around your throat. Left for brain dead and mentally broken; but I… (Yes! Me) I still want to help you. I care about you…; woman! For some unknown force compels me so. I can't place the blame because the blame hasn't a place; you know. It leads back to me. You control me because I let you; woman! You lie to me because I let you convince me; woman! You control me…; woman! But I (yes me!); I love you; woman! I love everything about you, even though you make me feel like **** and only care about yourself. You're an infectious disease which effects mental health. I love you more than I love myself. Woman…; lying, cheating, manipulating…; woman! But wait; just you wait a minute… man! (Minute man) I've heard that not all women are like you. I know its true (yes! Me) I really, really do! I met a few. They care about people and don't feel entitled to things that they haven't personally earned. (And-Even) Offer respect and help when a man does his part. Work is an obligation to provide. Which should be rewarded; not discarded as a lack of parenting that cannot be replaced with any amount of money; but give me a break; woman! We all must survive. I love those kids and want to have them in my life and I want to be part of the decision making…; woman! I hear there are many, many women would respect this. You are who you are; women! Please let me be who I am... There's a rumor floating around that not all women are like you… WOMAN!
2014
For us they are on border,
Who can't break the order.
Who always ready to sacrifice,
They are as hard as Himalayan ice.
Salute to the Indian soldiers!
Because of them we are alive,
And, we are secure in Indian hive.
Who always look for command,
Who have only one brand.
Salute to the Indian soldiers!
They fight in Battle without any fear,
There is no security of future year.
Who don't know the difference of day and night,
Who always ready to fight.
Salute to the Indian soldiers!
Who celebrate their festivals with bullets and guns,
We play Holi with colours;
But they play with rifles and guns.
They know only one colour which is 'Blood Red'.
Salute to the Indian soldiers!
We complain for hot and cold day,
While they stay in harsh Siachen everyday.
They are never sure of their own life,
They don't know will they ever meet his daughter, son, and wife.
Salute to the Indian soldiers!
Their village's routes are best friends of their wife.
Why Politicians play with their life?
And, why payment of their life is done by some amount of money,
Is that all our duty towards our great Indian Army?
Again and again salute to the Indian soldiers!
Let's see... how do I feel today
Pretty much the same as yesterday except one day older
Guess that's the least anyone can expect
Wonder if an enormous amount of money just plopped in my lap
Would that make any kind of a significant difference
Sure would like to give that a shot
Perhaps I'll buy a ticket for the next ten million dollar lotto
To know how it feels when they call up and say
“You are our grand prize winner!
After the government grabs it's share
We will be sending you a cheque for $136.50!
As part of the rules of the contest
You'll be required to make a televised statement
Excitably explaining how this win has changed your life!”
WOWSERS! I'm overwhelmed
Been wearing these same old holey beat up jeans
For nigh unto ten years now
You won't believe how much this means to me...
Don't know how I'll ever begin to thank you!
I apologise if this sounds a bit cynical
But where did the other $9,999,863.50 go
This reply came back...
“Sorry this question does not compute!”
(I'm exaggerating a wee bit, of course!)
© Jack Ellison 2015
Two Aloha-shirted Hawaiians
of generous girth were strumming
their ukuleles
on a small stage in front of the hotel’s poolside bar
in the late afternoon,
rehearsing for the night’s performance.
It must have been the low season,
as both bar and pool were deserted.
and the singer, unburdened
by a leis-laden audience’s
Mai Tai-soaked expectations,
was going through a mele
as if trying it on for size,
his voice loose-limbed with an easy grace.
Wrapped in the ukuleles' lolling strains,
his falsetto notes tumbled out into an
uncongested airspace,
where no ceiling formed by small talk, disjointed laughter
or tinkling glasses impeded their progress,
so they unfurled their wings,
lifted themselves into the hibiscus-brushed breeze,
and climbed,
hopscotching and frolicking on their ascent,
skipping from Tiki torch to treetop to balcony.
Some straggled, loitered on windowsills.
Some, afraid of heights, fluttered back down
to rest on top of beach umbrellas
next to shadows of palm fronds.
Still others hang-glided out over the sand
and the lapis water,
lured by the marigold light.
So that, when they alighted on my
hotel room balcony ten floors above,
they were fragments,
excerpted by the intervening air
from the upflowing cascade into
a broken yet voluptuous murmur,
a soft, lilting South Seas benediction
floating around my head.
I’d just sat down in the balcony chair, alone,
my wife being inside the room busying herself
with the correct placement of luggage
after we’d checked in.
And so it was that I found myself looking out
at the beginnings of a sky-painting Maui sunset
accompanied by air that quietly sang.
Maybe it was my senses unwinding
after the bustle of the journey,
or maybe it was simply that I was caught unawares,
but the feeling of contentment,
the almost Zen-like awareness of the here and now,
that overcame me at that moment was something
no convergence of sights and sounds
has been able to reproduce in the 20 years since.
It was, to be sure, an experience I’d paid more than
a negligible amount of money for.
The irony is that it was the first time
I truly understood the simplicity of happiness.
Mahalo.
If I could, I would write a love poem that never exist
But exist in the lost mind of the betrayal of love.
If I could, I would stop the movement of the clock,
If I could go to heaven to see God, I would go
On sunday and ask him why men are different from
Women whose brains are always at their back head.
If I could love, I would love pretty ugly women,
If I could marry, I would marry ugly women
So that I won't be able to share my jewel with
Anyone who does not know how to wear his pant.
If I could dream, I would dream like Joseph and
Dance along the earthless edges of the world with smiles.
If I could say yes at the presence of the sun,
I would behold the moon and ask him of my father.
If I could get money, I would be happy and good
But Alas, no amount of money can supplant the sadness I have caused in the presence of my pursuit.
No amount of wondering can rephrase my reneged promises to those children of the butterfly street.
Now chrismas is at the corner of my door waiting,
If I could water her soul and bath her body,
She would be happy to stay in my house and be
My guest; for a night stand with a sister like her is not a sin to the adulterous Romans whose lips are calling me.
If I could, I would stop the Chimpanzees from jubilating and languishing their joyless moods.
If I could, I would call on the rain on those lost daughters of yours whose legs are blindfolding my eyes.
The seasoned soup has watered my palatable stomach and I hope to release my tomorrow to him.
If I could make love to that lady, I would begin from her head.
If I could become a father today, I would be a wise father.
If I could dance I would dance just like David.
Im sick and tired of being lied to.
?''Our culture has came a long way, and it could be much worse.''
who are u referring to in with this comment?
because for about a billion people in the world, i dont think things cud be much worst.
indeed, our standard of living is phenomenal.
but at what costs are we willing to pay, for US to have this way of living.
and for me, its not just that theres flouride in the water,
and theres heavy metals in our deoderant,
but its the fact that we are all being lied to.... ALL THE TIME.
how do you feel when things are advertised as healers,
but in actuality,
these same substances are toxic to such a high percent of the individuals using them?
the pharmaceutical industry is one of the largest profit grossing industries to ever be.
now, if you owned a business, whats your ultimate goal?
to generate the most amount of money possible most would say.
people being sick and dying = greater profit.
war against a made up enemy ie. the russians ie. the war on terrorism,
war on drugs = greater profit.
geez people are actually generating millions throwing weed heads in jail.
war on drugs = greater profit.
hmmmmm, the system we live in, to me seems ruled by the few elite,
controlling the masses through media and television, with hidden agendas of total
dominance and financial immortality.
again, im just sick and tired of being lied to.
I am a drunken pen, or at least thats what they call me in the betting shop at 4.55pm on a Saturday afternoon. Kept deep inside the cavity of a old polyester jacket to converse with a packet of wrigley's extra strong mints in the dark. I often find myself just listening intently to my master as he begins the day in articulated fashion, and slowly slivers his way towards a gibbering wreck of despair & destruction. He is struggling desperately to make ends meet, as i frequently share space with 1p & 2p. Yesterday i heard him chatting to himself in the kitchen whilst trying to open a tin of spaghetti hoops. Bills haven't been paid in weeks, and the odour that fills the atmosphere can only be matched by that in the backstreets of Calcutta...not that i've been there to experience the aroma.
My use is simple, i write bets! nothing more, nothing less. Starting the day in a elegant manner and posture my nib floats around the paper like a ice skater at the Montreal Olympics, and quite often i will polish the ego by scoring myself 6.0,6.0,6.0 for artistic impression. But as the hours roll by, and my master takes in the full range of liquid refreshment i find that my posture and style have deserted my being within three turns of a clock face. My master is slowly sinking into the abyss of life, and he sits in the towering inferno of middle aged obsurity with no exits. Everytime i appear from the deep well of his pocket i continually keep praying that this journey shall be my last. Maybe i will break, maybe i will have a blockage. Or even better than that, my master may be fortunate to win a cascading amount of money that prompts him to fling me to the gates of pen eternity allowing the master to purchase the Rolls Royce of pens....The Parker!
Until that moment arrives i will continue to be everything my master wishes me to be. Because at the apex of this life's voyage, i am only as good as my master's intensions.
LIKE YOUR LORD, DYSLEXIA IS A FRAUD
I know her secret and no amount of money can mine lips be sealed
I am here for her secret for to be finally revealed
I know it all and I didn’t even have to see it being done
While her and a prolific poetic profile pretend to be one
Yes, oh she’s dainty sometimes, rude on other occasions
but hers is a vile and victimizing occupation
She sets to verse the property of others that amaze
And that’s why she only writes on certain days?
If she wants to write a self-portrait she urges descriptions like “mine be not a
prominent nose”
Something she found in a maudlin magazine where an advertisement usually goes
I’m just waiting until a few more people espy her lie
Because the chick can’t write poetry or bake a cherry f-----g pie
So you all are amazed at the thoughts that flow from her mind surreal
But you see, I, being a wizened one, know that which is real
And when her deeds are being done I am ever there
I, a squire, be a liars one and only fear
The lady takes pen to patient paper and scribes that which is untrue
Well one day this plagiarist will get her due
Her poetry is all blurbs purloined off museum walls and if she denies it what do you
expect her do?
And my ego commands I lie and defame her because she’s a much better poet than
me and you!
© 2011.…Phreepoetry ~free cee!~
(I told you, I got your back Dyslexia!)