Best Changes Hands Poems
Days of past and wintry times
The chill of night within my bones
Words that last and cling to rhyme
Crackling flames and yuletide tones
Birds of night sing one last song
Then capture flight to warmer lands
Where they shall stay all winter long
Until the season changes hands
Ribbons and bows beneath the tree
Neatly tied 'round gifts of love
Cookies and milk near Santa's seat
And the mistletoe hung
so high above
Hugs from friends who come to call
Children's faces filled with dreams
Good tidings and tinsel lining the walls
That share in my winter
with warm memories
Michael 2013
They call you corporate?
Well then so am I
You’re that same guy I saw pass by
And cut your eyes in my direction
Like I was some kind of menace
But we’re both lawless
I run my world from where you wouldn’t dare
You run yours from that big corner office
Same hustle
Different size slice cut from the same seedy pie
The only real difference?
You run your sins from a hundred floors high
But you hustle just like me
Mr. White Collar critic
I may openly live it
But just like me
You push your product towards the weak and impulsive
So like it or not you’ve been right in it
Just like me
Supply and demand
Different trade, same plan
We target the same clientele
That same vulnerable man
Cause’ once that money changes hands
We both have no shame
All green money spends the same
You got your stocks, insider trade
I got my rocks
We’re both self made
You got your inside sources turned state’s witness
I employ the young and ambitious
Sometimes they slip up
And they too become snitches
So the flavor in your greed taste just like mine
Two people who at the end of the day
Pull up their britches in the same way
One crooked leg at a time
So you see
You hustle just like me
You got your “just in case” insurance
Stashed off shore, to be dispensed upon request
You launder
I make threats
Eventually,
What both of us want both of us gets
You keep a tight circle
I keep one too
But mine’s called a crew
In any case it keeps us less nervous
But they serve the same damn purpose
They help us sleep while our money stays in service
What I sell makes people believe they can fly
So yes,
My trade is predicated on a lie
But I guess
Your trade is just as cleverly disguised
It’s just that your lies are forgiven by less judgmental eyes
But both our business models have destroyed innocent lives
So in essence
When you stare at me
It’s like a mirrored view into your own scandal clad eyes
You know why?
Cause’ you hustle
Just like me
Copyright © 2014 by Daryl R. Gaines. All rights reserved
With you here in my life:
All enemies seem far away!
With you here in my life:
No longing have I now to roam!
With you here in my life:
The world seems like it’s meant for play!
With you here in my life:
Your aura’s warmth is always home!
Chorus:
Oh where were you when world began,
And where suppose was I?
And where the bridge that crossed time’s span
In twinkling of an eye?
From dust we’re made, to dust in kind, (1)
From star’s hearts we were blown,
To share Creator’s heart and mind,
It’s all we’ve ever known.
God knows this cannot stand:
Illusion hide your heart from me?
God knows this cannot stand:
Demonic agents Love erase?
God knows this cannot stand:
Our stars subvert astronomy?
God knows this cannot stand:
Without us is there even space?
Chorus:
Oh where were you when world began,
And where suppose was I?
And where the bridge that crossed time’s span
In twinkling of an eye?
From dust we’re made, to dust in kind, (1)
From star’s hearts we were blown,
To share Creator’s heart and mind,
It’s all we’ve ever known.
Brian Johnston
Sept. 11, 2014
Poet's Note:
(1) ‘in kind’ – An English idiom. Suppose you are selling eggs, and I am selling bananas. You give me 3 eggs and I give you 2 bananas in trade. No money changes hands but we both accept that the exchange is a fair one. The sale then is said to have been 'in kind', i.e., produce for produce.
God gives us the star dust to make our bodies and when our lives are over, we pay it back to him 'in kind.'
Written in honor (in memory) of my adopted Grand-Daughter Neethu Panicker who left PoemHunter.com on Sept 10, 2014 for private reasons but whose spirit and blossoming poetic voice will be sorely missed by all who knew her. Vaya con Dios Neethu.
Smells of boiled hot dog sausages,
beef burgers and onions.
Mingle these with - wafts of candy floss,
toffee apples and brandy snaps.
Whirring of engines
chugging over noisily,
half drowned by thumping music,
screams and laughter.
A multitude of lights flash and spin,
in time with the rides
that dash before your eyes;
round and round,
side to side,
back and forth,
and upside down.
Over and over, on and on they go.
Crowds pushing and shoving,
impatiently they each await their short turn.
Money changes hands,
speaker blasts; 'Hold tight, here we go...';
While greedy fair lords
count their cash profits;
before packing up at end of night,
to go home to their caravans;
sleep briefly
then hit the road once more.
Onwards they go to next town,
ready to start all over again....
Summer waves goodbye, as it tip toes forward.
Autumn shadows the land, without saying a word.
The hues of fall gradually makes its appearance.
The traces of summer breeze by, saluting in reverence.
Autumn light rain covers over the splayed ground.
A gentle wind cradles the leaves falling all around.
Summer passes on by, taking the toil and the heat.
Autumn breathes in coolness, as the summer retreats.
Trees turn over a new leaf, as autumn commands.
The green plush ground fades and changes hands.
Grayish clouds appear and the sun is obscured.
Autumn abounds with mystery and full of allure.
She takes the stars up in the sky
And connects their dots at night
Like a giant Etch A Sketch
Her own Galaxy Lite-Brite
Using neon highlighter
All the colors she can find
Drawing close the Cosmos
She closes both her eyes
Adding a bit of the abstract
She changes hands from left to right
On this giant Etch A Sketch
Her own Galaxy Lite-Brite
Thousands upon thousands
of postcards
lined up in boxes
People from different lands
milling about
Cards of political figures
actors, musicians
A DELTIOLOGIST'S DREAM
Money changes hands
and hard fought deals are made
Some scoff at this fine hobby
But take a chance - come to a card show!
If you remember the Beach Boys sang - those who don't just have
to put it down"
Postcard show
(for those who don't know a deltiologist is someone who studies postcards)
As a poet I use words to facilitate.
Whether it is to inspire, for grief, love or debate.
A word to me in rhyming form is God’s gift.
I do not use it for my benefit I use it to uplift.
From my thoughts and spirit these words are written.
To use this gift for hate or to despise is forbidden.
My poetry is God’s stewardship.
My God given talents is to build spiritual relationships.
I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me
To write gives me peace and sets me free.
On His voice and His commands.
My pen time after time changes hands.
Through my trials and tribulation.
My pen is on a mission;
As God’s poetic disciple.
I write the truth from the bible
Free From Money
I search for money and money I cannot find
What do I perceive;
more search and tired mind
I search for money and money I cannot find.
I don't need a bank
to lean on my flank.
In pursuit for money, more and more I kill
What do I achieve;
an abundant blood spill
In pursuit of money, more and more I kill.
I just want to be free
like a bird on the tree.
At work where I'm employed my job is hard
What do I receive;
is not enough as a reward
At work where I'm employed my job is hard.
To chase after money
harbours disharmony.
Money I surely need, but not to rule my life
What it does bereave
replaces it with deep strife
Money I surely need, but not to rule my life.
Should you kill or steal
it cannot bestow weal.
For, as money changes hands to another
counterfeit to deceive
brother kills one's brother
As lucre comes and lucre goes to another!
My happiness is nil
when faced with a bill.
Another we dominate, when money we have
hegemony we believe
"oppress them to the grave,"
and call it "a chosen few who are quite brave!
Condemn me therefore,
cash I'll always deplore!
We trade, we rob or toil; yet, we cannot sleep
we waylay to thieve
we laugh and they weep
We may rob or may trade, we continue to weep;
Money gives no freedom
What it gives is boredom.
02nd Oct' 2013
Rather Galesburg Joliet
Terrehaute Florence Colorado
to the shores of Bogotá
flushing heroin fentanyl
through the gates behind bars
thee corrupt prison ran
by gang leaders paying
off prison guards you can
ask yourself what brand
to buy into Hoover vacuum’s
are reliable American made
while Kirby Brands offers
negligence falsifying death
row inmates finally hangman’s
curse while the hoover
vacuum continues to crawl
over the paisley patterns in
the federal building breaking
even on Lasalle and Van Burean
where Gargano once controlled
most of the revenue trading fenced
with osh gosh severe terrorist
threats released only when corrupt
prison guards do exactly what
he says attack who he says attack
while Kirby vacuum holding twenty
convictions drugs violence victim
intimidation battery hit and run
corrupt family members controlling
Wisconsin prison system looking to
transfer power back to Joliet upon
Hoover stamp of approval which
might cross over interfering with
the free Hoover movement this
certainty opens the flood gates
for Gambino early release programs
for death row inmates just can’t
have all power to the people without
including all prison across America
not to exclude Gitmo with the
boarders rise in Islamic crossing
over Lore Mannino territories all
corruption throughout prison systems
changes hands through Gambino rackets
funnelling crime throughout abuse
of power corruption evenly distributed
meanwhile power is being tampered
with 40 years of dirt swept under
the rugs until the Hoover vacuum
is plugged back in all bets are off
ask yourself what’s your Brand
Hoover trustees or unreliable Kirby
designed to malfunction fictitious
score boards chips blood everywhere
devouring the structure of all power
terrorising FBI confidential human sources
during an election where corruption sinks
fast folding swiftly better get a broom
No fear of terrorist threats from
violent offenders gang leaders
corrupt prison guards organised
corruption abuse of power intimidation
of an FBI confidential human source
FBI informants CLEAN IT UP
Perceptions By Taalib Brown
My New York lens is covered in grime
A filth large enough to receive a fine and pass the city dumping line.
Pedestrians are rushing and racing to their cubby holes.
Trees leak a yellow-greenish sap the way sewers leak when overflowed.
Dogs barking boldly and their masters will not admonish.
These people look like untimely rainbows;
Colors brighten and diminish the urban shine.
Concrete worry-filled both cold and hot—
It makes an interesting combination.
Musky, stale air fills this subway station
stacked with the second class,
Sprinkled with the first.
These windows shift from clean to dirty to water-stained
Whether in high altitude or on an underground train,
My windows are covered in stains.
They fog up like hot breath hit them and then remained.
Through my windows I see the hustle,
Fast cash changes hands,
Poor people where slave muzzles,
and color is more of a cover.
Pick up the man holes and let out the men.
Their homes are built from sticks—
Not bricks.
I feel like I’m a giant looking down from where I sit.
Too bad this view won’t last,
New York changes with every minute passed.
Power changes hands in a country, and how. State of affairs are diametrically different following a hostile takeover of a once peaceful, democratic society. The country has descended into totalitarianism, ruled with an iron fist by a brutal despot. Corruption and anarchy now hold sway. The reign of terror has citizens living in fear, and there's nowhere to hide. They're spied on by a shadowy organization; every punctilio is observed at social events. Free speech is muted and there are dire consequences for bad press or protests against the oppressive regime. Opposing activists disappear without a trace. The despot and his loyal lieutenants exercise absolute dominion over the populace. They employ fear and intimidation - their modus operandi - to maintain control, but the new normal is far from acceptable. A day of reckoning is coming, a secret cabal is setting up strategy on how to finally topple the regime.
oppressive regime
despot rules with iron fist ~
things about to change
love like currency that changes hands,
that falls into cracks between the pavement,
protected by some, squandered by others,
unspent, overdrawn, overwhelmed
Building bricks
Brick by brick we build our nation
And stone by stone we build a generation.
The children are the future, the old our voting class;
The young have given up voting because politicians have no class.
Building new laws and building new houses;
Nothing this government does smells of roses.
Leaving the EU seems like it will come back to haunt us.
Rosie is in the hospital, the NHS is seeing closes.
Sack them all because they choose money over patients;
Every generation loses faith but nothing ever changes.
So they plant a tree as they knock down a forest;
Stop with your lies, just give it a rest.
Let the people vote and then try to take the decision back.
Politics, dirty tricks; power of conviction you lack.
Money rules the world and money changes hands;
Ideology and philosophy, but still you have no master plan.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Terrified innocents, departing indigenous lands
afraid to end with a sad ullagone…
merchandised as cargo.
Once money changes hands…all hope is gone.
They are herded into dinghies on an empty shore
united through a desire, a longing,
dreaming of peace, education and love.
On board each one clings anxiously to ice cold hands
elderly faces stare blankly. Children ululate
Silently one by one they fall overboard
bodies thrash as the cold invades their bones
until silence is the only sound in darkness
Once proud inhabitants, bound in dreams of
a better life away from impoverishment
To end life as ghostly apparitions…