Best Lucre Poems
Write here, right now. Write now, right here!
Capture the moment while it's near
and seize the day. You now know how:
write now, right here; write here, right now.
The rhyme is tight. The time is right
to write some rhyme this time of night –
a rite of writing, lacking light.
The time is right, the rhyme is tight.
Another draft you craft in ink.
No lucre comes from thoughts you think;
though relatives may think you daft,
you craft in ink another draft.
All you can see you then can say.
At dawn, as dark dissolves to day,
with light, you write. In poetry,
you then can say all you can see.
The play’s the thing, you need to play
with words. Then, playfully they say
what makes the heart smile, cry, or sing;
you need to play, the play’s the thing.
Now play on words and let them dance
in rhymes and rhythms of romance;
teach them to sing like carefree birds
and let them dance. Now play on, words!
[swap quatrain]
written 18 July 2021
Sweet petrichor, you rise like a phoenix
from the moist lush green vegetation,
filling my nostrils with your earthy essence.
Tell me, is it any wonder that the sky cries?
Peering down at the earth’s destruction she sobs bitterly.
Her torrent of tears causes rivers to burst their banks,
houses built on flood plains are in peril from a deluge of water.
It is the greed of man who ruins our earth
Changing the natural course of rivers,
constructing houses in areas of coastal erosion,
destroying our rain forests for filthy lucre.
Is it any wonder that the sky cries?
Peering down at the earth’s destruction she sobs bitterly.
Rain Contest Sponsored Eve Roper
06~08~16
A Grisly Tapeworm
In Anger and in Hatred, a Tapeworm I see
Unless internally hosted, its Life will not be.
From egg it starts Life, ‘fore an adult worm
Fed on Host’s blood, it gains a portly form.
While finer or fatter, greedy Worm gnaws,
The wretched Host, pale and thin he grows.
Then the anaemic Host, too ill to live a day
Falls in the dark pit, where there’s no ray!
*
The same story is true of a Man with Hate
Hate soon embraced, is an iniquitous mate.
So, I avidly learned , my temper to narrow
Perspective being that it eats man’s marrow.
To nurture it in Heart, Hate will grow so big
And wiggle one’s Dignity; like a tail of a pig!
For, Anger grows so fat that Man is in sorrow
By eating all his vim to leave a man hollow!
*
To internalise Hate is to eat a sharp blade
That curves from inside while fast you fade.
It spins some mortal blow in its incisive poise
That fates and finishes by its hushed noise:
The structure curves in, trusses cut and gone
He falls on the floor with not a single bone!
*
Hearken ye therefore, Hate begets dearth
Piety Mad Haters who know no inner mirth!
For, to lavish in Love, denigrating foolish Hate
Bestows inner Peace or sense of pure sate.
Gimme not filthy wealth, gimme not lucre
I’m a happy man giving Love and Succour!!
JM
31st Oct’ 2013
Starlets tender their heralded names
Just another pretty face; another superficial dame
Brokered pawns in tawdry, transparent game
Bartered tinder is their trite acclaim
Stars that twinkled then imploded in combustible flame
Fickle lives; filthy lucre their singular aim
Pleasing the masses with articial drama their claim to fame
Egotistical debutantes who proudly gilded their shame
Fealty and familial bonds with pleasure they did cripple, mame
Fading memories that inspired more of the same
Burnished symbols remembered only by their surname
The Harvest Is Plenteous*
Written: by Miracle Man
1-9-2020
In chasing filthy lucre, notoriety, or fame,
We allow these to take us out of God’s game.
We accumulate earthly goods, all timely spaced,
And in this pursuit, allow God, to be displaced.
But nothing in life comes without affixed cost,
Shouldn’t we be witnessing, trying to win the lost?
Of what importance are earthly things we pursue?
When the harvest is plenteous but laborers are few.
As I look at prophecy I believe time is short,
Until God’s declares time finished and HE’LL abort.
Don’t let other things suck the air from the room,
But watch and pray for the return of the groom.
*Matthew 9:37
“Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few;”
Who Among Us?
By Franklin Price
12/20/2020
Who among us will now stand up, as our founding fathers did.
Look at where we are today, because we've run away and hid.
Washington is driving us, not the other way around.
They don't listen to the people, don't like the song of freedom's sound
They're on the throne, controlling us, to take away our given rights,
established by the Constitution, which is also in their sights.
Been building now for many years, their thoughts of royalty
The Parties there, pull us apart, there's no middle road to see
They put lucre in their pockets from the rich and well to do.
That's why many are in office, they're not there for me and you
It's time that We the People, who have little but our voice,
make it heard in Washington, so that Congress has no choice.
We must come out of hiding, get our heads out of the sand,
stand up to those in Washington, or we soon will lose our Land.
Put our net and mail to work. Let the ones in Congress know
If they don't listen to the people, then they, for sure, will have to go.
Do I hear that you can't do it, that you don't know what to say
Then talk to friends and neighbors you have met along the way.
Was not one founding father, who first started all this fun.
Gather again the ones for liberty, or these United States are done.
If you believe these words, please pass them along to all you can, in any manner you have; especially to your Senators and Representatives in Congress.
Government policies that toilet stink
Presidentially approved
by a potty-mouth politrician rat-fink
Give the progressive town halls
more executive bathroom stalls
Read the foul language scrawls
on the Oval Office latrine
dollar-bill green painted walls
Flush the rank noise
with a few
smelly issue tissue tweet bawls
That dung aroma gon make your nose blink,
bowel vapors
will have your thoughts vomiting in the sink
Get the voting public
standing at nausea attention
Prep the ballot masses of breathy dissension
with sound bytes
of bitter chocolate bung mint,
duly veto sent
Tell ‘em it’s their sworn patriotic duty
to greedily eat the excrement
Taste the butt-hole flavor
of nasty worded inhalation torment
Truth got swallowed whole ... intestinal sold
Filthy lucre lips
do love the ruble con savor
Condition the brownie-nose party bound chumps
to double dip the cow chips
into the raw sewage salsa with the brown lumps
Be stricken by the loose tongue,
back-end diet
of diarrhea verbose crying
A cheeky butt buffet ...
odious motives with odoriferous intent
Buy the all-you-can-eat lying,
go feast on the swirling fear excrement
The price was thirty pieces of
silver
From the treasury of the Holy
temple
The contract for life, a deed in
blood
The Chief Priests and Elders
signatories.
The kiss of a friend, the betrayal of
a brother.
Piercing painfully than the dagger of
an enemy.
For the price of 30 pieces of silver.
The treasurer of the Son of Man,
The King of kings in earthen vessel
The lure of 30 pieces of silver
Of filthy lucre,
Ensnaring the soul deadened by
greed
So was the son of perdition bought
For a mere 30 pieces of silver.
That placed the noose over his
head.
Whose destiny was wreaked forever.
The Bishopric transferred to another;
All for filthy lucre.
30 pieces of silver
The worth of the Son of Man
Whose heavenly throne is arrayed in
precious stones,
Whose Kingdom streets are paved of
the purest of gold.
Oh my Lord and my God!!! Have
mercy!!!!
Ah, the bloom was on the Rose
yet, the taint of alcohol and drugs
looms nightmare like behind her baby pink cheeks.
Porcelain skin tones, raspberry rogue
nails to scratch and lift bits of dirty lucre.
She was clawing her way up,
and hopefully out, he hits her, “****,” he screams at her.
a sometime replacement sat beside him.
His Chicano inner-city drawl hurt her ears
and the fake diamonds studding them.
The new girl beside him
giggles…
She’s due at work by nine,
grabbing a smooth wrap-top and a mock
grey skirt, she rushes from the room to the bank.
She can still see his long fingers playing in other girls cleavage.
Rose, well, Rose pays the rent. She strikes a teller’s pose
behind the formica countertop...
Long days, counting other peoples money
kindness, and sweetness sucked from her
like a ripe plum on a summers day.
She needs work, more work.
I asked her to help in the garden.
Long blonde, buxom, bending over weeds,
only six months to go to graduation
an associate degree…
Rose chuckles, “Look who I’ve been associatin’ with?”
I eye the twenty-five thou lottery ticket in my jean pocket.
“You want to move here Rose?”
“What would they do without me?”
I sigh, thinking of her alcoholic mother
off bingeing and her “boy fiend”.
The lottery windfall went for Rose’s college tuition.
The bloom is off the Rose now,
two hundred plus pounds later
strung out beside her Mom on a ratty couch,
she eyes the Diploma in it’s cheap black frame,
and rocks her baby girl
some things, never change….
*Names have been changed, and the amount given, but part
of the ending has truely come to pass already [sigh].
The rest is all true.
Everyone, from children to grownups,
carry the world in their hands, they see the past
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers;
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of
illusion and reality.
The little glass plate they are staring at is,
though, a two dimensional world, they go
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos.
Because you see everything at the same time
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.
When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held,
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all,
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain,
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.
For a grownup,
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.
From the touch of smooth
but cold skin of the snake,
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.
The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time,
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.
The grownup who haunted by anguish,
walks on the path of life and death, because
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.
It’s outrageous but,
all generations alive today, seem to be confined
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
Money has no color,
whether it came from Black, White, Asian
or any other tribesman, a dollar is a dollar, not more or less.
Money doesn’t smell,
therefore, it weighs the same, whether it comes from
marijuana dealer’s pocket or holy temple’s offering basket.
Money doesn’t have a heart,
that’s why its size is the same whether it was earned
with sweat and tears or swindler’s easily made filthy lucre.
Money doesn’t have a face,
whether it came from hypocrites, wicked or honest wage earners,
they circulate in the market place without distinctions.
Money doesn’t have eyes,
that’s why if it was pulled out from a brand-named hand bag
with slender fingers or a old beaten purse with stiffened fingers,
they dance together hand in hand.
Money, though, is a quantity but not a quality,
money from wealthy ones always shines regardless how they
were made, while money from poor are treated contemptuously;
why is that so? Probably, money invented by men has
now become an uncontrollable monster, and goes,
to make a new myth, leading this corrupted world.
Although money is a quantity,
since the time when money controls men, the size of money
became a standard and the weight of the money became a status, virtue and dignity.
And now, after men have accepted the paradox of money
as a course of nature, it became impossible, even with collateral,
to go against the current of the river. Rather, for weak or strong,
bad or good, or even dead or alive, it flows only downward
pushed by the rushing water.
Holy Georgina
Mother of Regina
Pray for me in this sanctified arena
That I may escape your Hurricane Katrina
With your scintillating fingers around my oesophagus
How do I stop your wind and take a breather?
Maybe it was I that summoned the phoenix
From the ashes,
Granted!
I must have conjured your sleeping affection
And swung you to the realm of suffocating emotion,
Granted!
I must have tilled your wanting dry soil
And sailed you to wonderland with my toil,
Granted!
Yet, have I not evinced a crystal clear intention,
Through my dodging and parrying of your ignition,
That I defy your indiscriminate lucre demand
Or must I be blunt and outrageously spit out my reprimand?
In the morn…
You caressed me with a Circe-like embrace
That I might part with reason and pay your price
But I parried and escaped your cage.
In the noon…
You kissed my lips with the hips of the Sirens
That I might lose myself to your voyage as Odysseus
But I parried and escape your cage.
In the dead of the night…
You romanced my sleep as the trespassing succubus
That I might get scavenged by your nocturnal octopus
But I parried and escaped your cage.
Maybe…
My dangling diggy and the twin pendulum
Together with their fastening frenulum
That has rested in passivity for half a decade
Is the ultimate solace you seek in-between your bushy barricade
That you might rear a seed in my frenzied façade
While I reduce myself to a lifetime of regretful escapade.
Holy Georgina.
Mother of Regina
Pray for me in this sanctified arena
That I may escape your Hurricane Katrina.
Bolaji Ramos
copyright 2017
The sun's savage fingers have penetrated
the calving sheets of ice, delving deeply
beneath the blankets of the frozen surface.
And the oceans, bruised mauve and swollen
like a pregnant whore, rail against the rocks
of man's kingdoms with their bowels ripped
open by bleached coral and rising temperatures;
from which clouds rise up, bitter like a smog
eclipsed sun, only to fall back to earth with
corruption pinned to the coat tails of every raindrop.
And, across the fields, a coal-filled crystalline air
drives a guilty world's dreams towards unprotected
lungs and evaporating lands. Where oil worshipped
totums portray the sordid lucre of promised bounty,
producing lopsided views of a dying humanity
And the keeper of the rain forest's keys deals with a
polluted man, chain saw in one hand and palm oil in
the other. Leaving the abandoned trees to rage
unheard against the indignity of their rape.
Leaving embattled tribes, gentle guardians of the land, to
stand defenceless against the idolatry of the dollar; whose
spiteful colours of destruction are spreading their kaleidoscopic
tendrils across a world full of dust bowls and refugee famine
Proud are we who stand tall against a world that gave us
a garden to play in and a sea to banquet on. And proud are
we who make the toys that blast holes out of creation and
bind the full power of the sun's wrath against such a tiny emblem
"Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much. Wisdom
is humble that he knows not more" (William Cowper 1785)
You made a lot of money
selling lewd photos of nude
Then you parlayed your profits
into cyber surfing —
triple X cinema ***** crude
Nasty video sex business you were so into
Your vested interest was
a skin flick portfolio bankroll ...
Dirty money bottom line
Letting curious customers
put their cyber bit coins into the virtual pay slot
So they can take a ride on the carnal carousel
Then make them get off ...
Have them taste naked flesh boiling hot
in an abominable lascivious pot
You are so proud of yourself,
Mr. Sleazy bit coin billionaire
You make it so easy —
sex suckers love to lick poisoned lollipop sticks
Getting minds addicted to wicked desires,
those tempting tokens are gonna take ‘em there
You’re so filthy rich cavalier ...
crushing souls, you really don’t care
What those turned-out cyber tramps,
hopefully, will come to one day understand,
those grimy bit coins
is greasing somebody’s dirty hand
And that palm is on a beach somewhere
getting a penthouse triple X suntan
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty old man
with a Howard Weinstein leer
Bit coin billionaire,
you got sticky floor hands
and semen oil slick hair
Spreading your cyber surfing
triple X flotsam everywhere
You’re just a devilish voyeur,
a nickel-and-dime fleshpot billionaire
Your trashy ways smells like
a STD flea-bitten garbage can
And your infectious craves are a
CDC health hazard quarantine
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with semen snake oily hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy green scaly skin
In need of some brimstone lotion
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with sticky floor hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy lucre ashy skin
In need of a brimstone suntan
This poem was inspired by the
talented Richard Lamoureux’s poem,
“Church Perfect Surface.”
— Romantic Warrior
How can I poet slam them politrician liars,
let me count the ghetto ways
In the calendar of infinity,
there are how many days?
Forever and a clean smile,
I love doing this dirty job
Putting snake eyes down for the count
gives me spiritual rise ...
make me wanna eagle mount
Politricians ain’t gonna tell you the truth —
why should they,
they get paid by the filthy lucre dime
Farted out serpentine suits and blood splat boots,
cheap designer lies is a moral fashionista crime
Strip away the fancy honorifics,
empty titles that don’t carry no righteous weight
Politricians ain’t nothing but two-faced whores
looking for another voter sin paid date,
to put a five finger pinch on the tax collection plate
How can I poet slam dim politrician liars,
let me count the True Light wattage ways
In the cosmic year of supernova,
the Second Coming is the end of the last demonic days
Down for the count,
the wicked forever unable to rise
Dropped by a straight right cross TKO,
defeated by a crucifixion surprise