Best Cashes Poems
My New Poem, Raw and Uncut
Oh What a day
Oh What a day when black people stop pray
Pause and realize where their horizon lay
Where the pastures are green, yet remains unseen,
What a day when we look in perception
and see the path that lead to today ,
yet we keep reliving the past
the ignominy of a bygone day.
Oh What a day
when we clear the path
of delusional ideologies and alien songs
Home is where the heart is
But in Africa, Humanity began
Oh what a day
when we see our purpose,
That from the cradle, the creator blessed us ,
not conceding to the thought, he cursed us.
Oh what a day
when our leaders
plants the seed of economic sufficiency
than clearing the path to cooperate greed.
When will our leaders in the west indies
Revisit our history and shine a light
To our glorious African history
That’s kept from our sight.
Oh what a day, when we hang our wall
An image of our creator
Blessed with the dark shades of the sun
Telling the truth, of how it began
Not reflecting what its never been
Oh what a day,
when we learn to love,
our African brothers despite what is said.
West Indies may be your homeland
America and others are a part
But if you are a blackman
Jamaica may be your homeland
but keep Africa in your heart
The motherland,
your primary thought.
Oh what a day
When we see the light
And know the meaning of life
That regardless of material things
There is a glorious life
In sharing, caring, preserving life.
Oh what a day
We don’t need no gold or diamonds rings
No motor cars, no air plane, none of these earthly things
For the riches that the earth possess
Even if you are a poor man , they are priceless
And if you are a rich man, they too become useless
Oh what A day, when the angels sings
And cashes not, just to wear the bling
That steals the soul, and corrupts the heart
Costing life at an escalating cost
Oh what a day when we start again
And share the spirit that our ancestors had
The love of our mother, sister and brother
Where dad played his part ,
Getting the harvest, bold and strong
Defending the virtues of the mother and Motherland
Oh what a day,
when the daily propaganda, no longer influence
Because we have taught the youth
Home is where the lesson is learnt
Righteousness the only path
For human coexistence,
We need a kind heart/
Oh good, happy hour
The bartender cashes my
Unemployment check
(William Hammer, Thomas Alva Edison's assistant,
has reached the end of his tolerance. His boss is
planning to electrocute an elephant for a publicity
stunt.)
If he goes through with this, the dam has burst.
I'm done with him. Of all the tricks he's pulled,
this is the lowest, cheapest, cruellest. Worst.
Yes, Edison. He can't be serious,
can he? To execute an elephant?
He's out there, grinning like a Barbary ape.
Where two or more newspapermen are gathered,
Alva loses all his self-control.
He'll be there now, perspiring, shouting, lathered,
excited to his flinty, vulgar soul.
I'm William Joseph Hammer. Who are you?
A quarter-century I've spent with him,
but now the scales have fallen from my eyes.
The man's a pirate and a charlatan.
Inventor? Him?
Well, since I'm stranded here
in shabby Coney Island in the rain,
ignored and slighted, spited yet again,
I'll tell you. Edison did not invent
the light bulb - that's what he employed me for.
Besides, I'll name a dozen scientists
who'd made a working lamp some years before.
What is he good at? He's a patent-mill!
He takes out patents like a dentist, teeth
(except that dentists never put their name
on what they've pulled). The man has got no shame.
The team has all the talent, he the grin:
we think the thoughts, and Alva cashes in.
I think he's met his match in Westinghouse.
The so-called war of currents. Who will win?
America will buy one set of goods,
and where this country leads, the others go.
To get his system in American homes,
He'd kill his grandma.
Hence this all-time low.
He's worse than Czolgosz. At the very least,
the latter had nobility, although
misguided. Alva has no other cause
beyond himself. Those motion picture-things
are here for Alva's glory. When the blow
extinguishes that poor beast's life, you'll know
whose self-promoting hand was on the tiller.
Saint Thomas Alva Edison's a killer.
A second hand book shop watches the Sunday rain
beat against a resentful pavement. Its second hand
door opens up its second hand world to second
hand people, carrying first class money.
The newly welcomed, carrying in second hand rain,
congeal into groups of mildly interested beings.
And a dedicated few splinter off toward the first
editions, looking for a stiff pick-me-up in the arts
The best books of the shop lay open on stands, their
flawless condition protected behind glass casements.
The books residing within are aloof with peacock pride
and no price tags.
A finger raised and a pointed nod selects a book for
viewing. An auction begins with only one bidder, a price
in mind and not a penny more. The bookseller matches
the price to the man.
A 'special' price for a 'special' purchase. 'And for you sir,
the deal of the week. Trust me'. Suddenly the shops
odour changes from musty velum to second hand car lot.
The cash register rings another life line for the bookseller.
The rain begins to ease and the newly welcomed become
the cheerio'd as they rejoin the non-paying, nondescript.
The dust begins to revisit old homes and make a start on
the newly acquired vacant plot.
The bookseller cashes up his till, hoping for more rain
tomorrow. The books go back to reading themselves
and the shop returns to looking out on the bedraggled,
content with the day and happy to have lightened the load a bit
why did this have to be me
(my life)
a perfect mother by day
but an escort by night
i live in the biggest home
have the best cars
and i wear the prettiest clothes....
but only because my mother
(is a hoe)
different men....
more then one in a night
she says she doesnt have sex
(with all of them)
but sex is not why i cry
sex is not what its all about
shes the talk of the town
and the rumor at my high school
she pays it no mind
swaring its just a job
but i see no time cards
and she cashes no checks
all the men keep telling me is
(your next) (im next)
but itll be a cold day in hell
before i follow in my mothers
(footsteps)
why couldnt my mother
be a normal one...
or why couldnt i just be....
from another home
Life in Jozi is good so far,
I got a job and made some friends
Among those friends is an elderly man
Who stay in the heart of Ebony pack
There is some thing about this guy
Though He has gaffes like every man,
And I can quote the booze for one,
He drink’s his beer like its tape water
What caught my eye about this guy?
The green, green grass out side his house,
It cashes eye from far away,
“This is no ordinary loon” he says,
“It is the green, green grass from Canada lands”
“I don’t want paper or any trash
Anywhere near the green, green grass”
It’s always cut, and fairly cute
No dog or rat plays on it,
They understand it’s not a toy
When You Are Old Poetry Contest
Sara Kendrick
Yeats' poem describes his courtship that sank
With his misconnection he is bitter
And he takes digs at his beau's true glitter
Alluding that his fire drew her blank
He paints a now-and-then picture of her
Saying he'd be the one holding her hand
Should old age leave her without charm and bland
Yet she wasn't guilt-tripped at his demur
She then cashes in with another man
Which likely prompted this poem's planting
And Yeats' mocking her with his self-ranting
Saying his being was dwarfed by her span
Rises when trapping a rat
Not once has it suffered
From high blood pressure
The rat it cashes for meals
It enjoys in calm peace
MARK THIS DOWN AS BEING TRUE MARK
Some people just don’t get the fact that some people just don’t get other people
Why, then, does it seem so evident that I get every type of person who exists?
I know junkies like me, and I get why they’d steal my wake-up shot
And yet people cause harm to other people in the name of I don’t know what and it
only persists
Some people don’t get some people but that person gets them
And they recognize when a person can get played
Like that blonde over there searching for an old Sugar Daddy
Because apparently 85 year old men still want tol get laid
A player can only play a person who’s eye is on the prize
So he’s too busy praying to look out for people who’ll play them, like me
They’re easy to recognize because they’re at the slot machine for hours
They’re a big winner so he or she cashes out, and then I follow, rob him or her and
then flee
He’s called a “mark” and I’ve known many “marks” even some named Mark
I can pick them out of the casino like an old lady can pick out a ripe melon
So we junkies and low lives spend all our cash yet still live low on the hog
Until we all go to jail and become just another f*****g felon
© 2011Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
PRISONER #666666666
Nirvana awaits dada dear
thine paternal parent,
who helped sire yours truly,
a widower these
last fourteen plus years,
he laments absence,
and sorely misses presence
regarding scatterbrain spouse,
single word description,
he would readily concur
appellation linkedin with
bubbly headed just legal bride
born November thirteenth
ninety thirty five
learned thru the grapevine
(I must telephone him...
before the curtain call...,
whence his spirit
exits stage door left,
cashes in chips
gives up ghost
kick the bucket
rest in peace
et cetera, cuz
heavy sadness still pronounced
since me birth mother (his wife)
departed about three years
following grim terminal prognosis
metastatic uterine cancer
sabotaged her vivacious person
doggedly die hard zest
Arthur Murray ballroom instructor
unbridled questing nabbed,
(albeit flirtatious Lolita)
husbanded coy demeanor
snookered young, tall, slender,
handsome, athletic bachelor
unwitting prime ketch
female instinct pheromone scented
bewitched, enthralled, intoxicated...
pretty thang wrought yoked
without resistance ohm mat tickly
generated electric charm
crackled, popped, and snapped
synapses nsync between infatuated pair
future groom invoked flying colors
courtesy maternal grandmother
marriage spanned approximately half century,
not entirely wedded bliss,
yet each swore fidelity to the other
..."until death do us part".
When my ex wife cashes her alimony check, all tellers shoot her a hard glance.
I never write "Alimony" in the memo section, I always write, "Lap Dance."
Trump Cashes In Again
Trump cashes in again on backlashes,
While many people he always trashes,
Since a tyke,
No one did like;
Orange shower is color of eye lashes.
Jim Horn
a strong and adverse reaction by a large number of people,
especially to a social or political development.
Trump Trashes and In Cashes
There are many people that Trump trashes,
In on all the deals, he cashes and cashes;
Stocks withdraw,
With each claw;
In golden shower splashes and splashes.
Jim Horn
The Eternal Ember
Decades are passed, an embrew slices Earth's chest
And countless Energy invests
It blooms
Bamboozles doom:
Decades past
In search of and at last
Pause and steadfast like mast,
It is swaying and living
It's breath giving
Spreading light and delight
Catches might and cashes bright
Twitter positivity in melancholy
Singing joy and cherishing cheerfully
Saying goodbye to pessimism
She is the flame of optimism
Guarding like boundary wall
A spirit stands by at her side
It covers her and clicks in her glide
And in thick and thin, it stands tall
Decades pass
A flame flames
Light in thick darkness
It lits and brightens chaos.