Best Coinage Poems
Discarded in yesterdays trash
Cardboard boxes never last
New things arrive in them
Old things stored in them
Rotting boxes on a voyage
Leftovers to those with out any coinage
Tom O’Seary had come down on his luck
Just couldn’t seem to make a buck
An elder at church who snuck a shot in a lurch
Now he sleeps in the rain
Cardboard box umbrellas
His home and his pain
One cold winter day
Poor old tom was dead where he lay
Inside his cardboard box
Was his last writings and will and the lot
I, Tom O’Seary of no determined address
I write these words, for they are my last will I confess
I regret all the pompous ways I was an ass
I missed the meaning of the messages, thus I was crass
Now you will lay me below the green grass
I thought I’d be looking down from heavens gates of glass
I was wrong about that too, so wrong
I am just rotting here in the green green grass
My purpose in life may not have been clear
The irony of death is now I know what’s so dear
Live this life with kindness and love
Or else on your grave will be the droppings of white doves
'Tis a Dicken's prayer to arouse
Tired masses from their slumber
With an expectation born of trust
Leaving all in righteous wonder.
Hope travels light... a treasured friend.
It clears the morning air.
Hope brings forth the restless lion
We know is waiting there.
No regulation or coinage to
Pervert its shape or size.
No earthly way to strike it down
Or give relevance to its demise.
A shield against the coming storm
When the winds of chaos blow.
Hope creeps upon both fair and foul
As it permeates their soul.
The bedrock of a Christmas wish
With a courage born of reason.
Fluttering the hearts of young and old
As in keeping with the season.
So make merry with friends and family
Knowing our future remains unclear.
But with hope just around the corner...
We may yet survive another year.
The End
"A Goodly Warning"
by Rachel Heffington
O! Time is a faerie-maid, dark is her dairy laid:
Larders of mem'ry and amethyst lore.
But one kiss from her lips
On your lips as she slips
One cold hand in your pocket will finish the chore.
For her kiss it is sweet
It is death, it is meat
It is sharp as a bone-frost and light as a wheat
In her bed, poppy-reds
glimmer bright as she shreds
All your best years of life into raggedy threads.
O! She picks every purse with a laugh and a curse
but a beggar she stays till the end of no end.
For her girtle is trim
From the breast to the hem;
She must ever stay hungry to eat what you lend.
Never thanks, never smile,
Such small coinage is vile
In pay for the life-years snipped off of a man.
But a kiss for the road
- Age and Slumber your load -
And a red-lipped farewell where your trouble began.
O! Time is a faerie-maid, dark is her dairy laid:
Larders of mem'ry and amethyst lore
But one kiss from her lips
On your lips as she slips
One cold hand in your pocket will finish the chore.
There've been moments when 'twas courage I needed
like the time I climbed to the crest of a mountain
to overcome my fear of heights. It was superseded
with bravery I found in myself to give me credibility
instead of wishing by throwing a coin in the fountain.
Quarters, nickels, pennies wasted, tossed in futility.
To Rome's Trevi they flock as if that fountain was magic.
Closing their eyes in hopes that wishes will come true,
but crushed when their dreams were lost... how tragic.
Coins beneath the water's surface, glinting in the sun...
Coinage collected for the poor that fountains accrue.
It's tradition to share the moment with a loved one.
Over my shoulder, I've thrown coins into waters of a fount,
but not naive enough to think my wishes would find fruition.
Perhaps we've all lost more coins than any of us can count,
but serves as the perfect whimsical setting for picture taking.
Not a means for making dreams come true, nor an ambition,
but tossing a coin in a fountain is a fantastical undertaking.
Spoke to a cloud today –
the usual conversation
about shape and size,
lows and highs...whether
my need to tote a handy, spring
loaded umbrella...or a better chance
to go without pants, dance
on the beach ~ showing off
thighs, widening sockets
of older generational eyes – he
told me of clouds who gather and
threaten, causing ships to leap into
salty lather, sailors beware!
take battened-down care! – schools
of fishes diving to ocean depths
they share, with ancient vessels (and sewage),
a seafloor covered with sandy
coinage – a diver's delight; when
stormed into sight –
more subjects of our chatter
and debates, were those of tides
and tectonic plates; also of bony-splatter:
living shrapnel, from a well aimed cannon-ball
against a wooden hull, or artillery shell,
man's modern perpetuation, of that never
settling, always heartening seafarer's knell –
I went on to ask, if in all his travels, had
he ever seen anything truly divine?
Like an angel passing...or a saucer
flying...perhaps some mythical dragon
soaring, trying to lasso down a tasty
moon ~ bring him brightly closer,
doing some dragon flips, salivating
for cheesie fondue lips....
Philosophers, down the ages,
Have strenuously tried
To figure out language:
Their numerous narratives polarize
Into two Grand narratives, a binary:
Language is referential / differential.
This binary has yielded numerous derivatives.
On the referential side, for instance,
There’s the view that language is an instrument,
As advanced notably by Aristotle, Bhamaha and Dandin.
On the differential side, we have
Saussure’s notion:
Language is a system of differences
(without any positive terms).
Derrida, for his part, widened it:
Language is infinitely differential,
As suggested by his coinage differance,
which implies: language is
slippery, radically unstable,
which, in turn, gave rise to
mind-boggling derivatives
in this postmodern world!
Some of them are: Derrida’s (own) freeplay
of the (autonomous) sign,
Bloom’s (willful) misreading,
And Lyotard’s (incommensurable) language games
(which we all play in this postmodern space willy-nilly)
All these differences have led
Often to acrimonious disputes,
Couched, of late, in a language
that abounds in ambiguity
and neatly underpinned by illogic!
The predicament of these philosophers (old or new) is:
What they and we all observe
is not language-in-itself,
but language as seen by us—
which is similar to what Heisenberg said about nature!
These disputes remind us
of the dispute among the six characters,
in the age-old parable,
which reportedly originated in the Indian Rigveda.
(but now found in several belief systems).
It’s the parable of the six men
(as narrated by John Godfrey Saxe)
Wherein the characters tried
To figure out an elephant,
which, unfortunately, none of them
Had the faculty to see:
So, one called it soft and mushy;
for another it was like a snake;
for the third, it was fan-like,
And so on.
Thus, they “disputed loud and long,
Though each was partly in the right
…and all were [rightly] in the wrong!"
***
Topography Lesson
Geography, I was good at it in school but somehow I missed San Marino.
I vaguely remember a movie with some lady star of yore making
a film about the place, maybe I have got it wrong and it was Monaco,
which has a royal house with princesses and a prince or two?
San Marino is a republic one of the oldest around and that is why it is
unknown. What, no princesses, no romantic castles or a mad king?
Sorry no. Just dry republicans, banks and a vinery and wild boars which
is of no interest to popular ladies´ magazines like “Halloo”.
In Serravalle, near the Apennine Alps; there is a butcher who specialises
in cured ham which has some claim to fame, and in San Marino,
the capitol city, there is a good restaurant. Humiliation, going through
life not knowing about this tiny republic its history and coinage; my shame
is total. Should you go there do not drive too fast, because before you
know it you are back in Italy, spaghetti Bolognese and smelly toilettes .
The belief of the soul;
Culture is dynamic
It is the spouse of tradition(coinage)
Culture is life and
High influence of the nation.
Culture those not entice
Superiority among *****
Nor inferiority.
Culture created us equally
But the head determines.
Culture is virginity
Keep yourself safe!
Culture;
Nor racial discrimination,
Nor violence and
Nor religion common
To cultureis the globe
And the outerpart.
Culture is unique!
Culture is different!
Culture is pride!
Culture is not wealth
Nor abject poverty.
God is culture?
We are all one”says” culture
Has my life’s essence come to pass?
Each breath is taken to be a minute's last
Momentary memories to an hour glass
Are counting sands in my jagged past
Exhausting to count in humanity's hands
As time ticks life's melodic dance
As the human race lead an awkward pace
Have I outlived my life's race?
To chase the illusion of the next stage
Called capital; cash; chink or coinage
The grim reaper puts these dreams sleeper
‘Cause silence is evidence of this creeper
Now consider, this song not as a remedy
But a strategy to let men for tells the tragedy
With so much life we mourn,
Death spare life till dawn...
Few days more my dreams need to come true,
In that heart me to kindle a candle
The conurbation of lovers’ to locate
And to renovate the ruins of past
And to patch up with a friend much annoy’d
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To heal the wound of love deep and down
To raise the pennon of pain so high
To make the wind pleasant and saccharine
To glide the kite of hope up in Blue
To make every troubl’d eye to gaze at it
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To cut a gate through that steel of hatr’d
Negligence, ignorance and the race
To let the air overtake the barb’d line
To make the earth a place universal
With no country, coinage and congress
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To make my beloved to touch the peaks
Of my platonic love so untaint’d
To make her heart soft, tranquil and calm
To discover listening the grief on beats
Battered down by nay but native sob
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To make a Brooke to sing not from book
But from the half dead voice of the poets
The verses they compose from broken beats
Nay with steel Nibs, but by the rib’s edge
To make the mass to pick up the ache
Few days I need, few days more I need.
FRAGRANCE
It’s the fragrance, mother;
the intoxicating crispy fragrance
of colored newly mint coinage.
Sometimes the shimmering glitter
of gold or silver.
It matters not mother
what figures are imprinted on,
just the fragrance!
The fragrance that drives me
to plunder my core,
to pillage my country to nothing,
squandering it to desolation.
The fragrance that possesses me
to bare my nakedness to them,
to vend my soul’s worth,
to trade my country’s worth!
The fragrance that devours me
and sparks hunger pangs,
coercing me to crave and covet theirs
staining my hands with blood !
It’s the fragrance mother;
the musky musty odor
of old and used notes,
sometimes the dull hue of coinage
that quenches my thirst and ardor!
It matters not mother
what figures are imprinted on
Just the fragrance mother!
Just the fragrance.
Good cheer, my love, as we venture forth
Over land and sea without recourse
Banished to rove us we three
No matter the tempest, remember me
As I was in our former life
In love promoting,you formed your wife
No trickery connived to gain my trust
In wooing me you contained your lust
To ensure my purity on wedding day
No act to spare me as together we lay
Now bitter tidings have blown us around
Emerging battle scarred with lopsided crown
In my aching heart I know it to be true
In constancy our lives shall arise anew
Exiled I must depart to foreign shore
For asylum aid I had to implore
No coinage purse to tie about
my velvet kirtle I can do without
Remember me and your luckless child
As he clings to me knowing you are defiled
My last note written in heart rung pain
Shall I ever find you well again
Confined as you are in London Tower
As friends gather to plot your salvation hour
Keep alive your love for goodness sake
A promised recompense I trust to make
The ship's last call to board has come
With heavy heart I see baggage heaved on
Keepsake I send thee, in this note I kiss
A beribboned silver piece I threaded this
Etched in memory to my only true one
Remember me when all deeds are done.
Has my life’s essence come to pass?
Each breath is taken to be a minute's last
Momentary memories to an hour glass
Are counting sands in my jagged past
Exhausting to count in humanity's hands
As time ticks, life's melodic dance
As the human race lead an awkward pace
Have I outlived my life's race?
To chase the illusion of the next stage
Called capital; cash; chink or coinage
The grim reaper puts these dreams sleeper
‘cause silence is evidence of this creeper
Now consider, this song not as a remedy
But a strategy to let men for tells the tragedy
With so much life we mourn,
Death spare life till dawn…
Another concrete bomb shelter emerges, taking the shape of a Starbuck coffee palace embedded with the captive lure of free internet service. Like a crouching tiger on the prowl, this behemoth hungrily eyes the empty grass lot as a sure sign of progress.
A Chipotle rises up next door. This nondescript storefront eatery imitates an assembly line method of serving up a slew of fresh ingredients in the shape of a taco salad, unlike anything ever seen in Mexico.
Square shaped albatross blocks begin to nest in the corners of the parcel of unused land as the canal in front is drained and the arteries of sewer pipes are laid, then covered up as if they don’t really exist. An engineering miracle done on time and within budget.
Black top is pounded down and cooled, white borders are formed to insure no one crosses over into someone else’s territory, artificial suns are hung to illuminate the night to help travelers find their way into this barren moonscape.
An oasis of concrete bunkers offers up colored nutrients and drink, to the never-ending march of devotees who willingly lay down their coinage and devour everything being offered; the sure sign of progress when there is no place left to go.
I found myself in this utopia
Enclosed in this width and space
Why I got here is beneath me
The purpose of my being is illusory
The way I will be exiting
I do not know
Like an interloper
I have dwelt in this *exist-tense*
The excruciating pains that she gives
Is without limit and boundaries
This existence has seemed like a curse
The toils and struggles
Seems to blow out of proportion
The more I dwell in this emptiness
The closer I get to my demise
Like an interloper
I have been subjected
To all that has been thrown at me
one thing is for certain
I will exit this state one day
Like a thief at night
A mighty king will breeze in
And take me out of this *exist-tense*
Flying me to my real home
That is devoid of this *interloping*
That for now I am condemned to
*exist-tense* a coinage from existence
*interloping* a coinage to heighten my pains.