Best Marx Poems
Karl Marx was a historian and scholar
Groucho Marx whooped it up and hollered
Both of them were starved for attention
Neither of them honorable menschen *
____________________________________
* 'Menschen' in Yiddish literally means 'men.'
But it is used to describe honorable, decent
human beings, kind and caring.
Don't scream about equality.
Life's unfair, that's reality.
Just do the very best you can
to be a truly worthy man.
Productive work and mind said Marx,
beget the humanizing sparks.
Self-worth and self-respect, said Rand,
can make for ouselves a better land!
THE MARX BROTHERS or The Unimportance of Being Earnest
I will praise the brothers Marx for their absurdity
As all ‘fools’ who mask high wisdom with the artless
May they lift our spirits faced with an adversity
The rejection of such gladness would be heartless
For when loosed of strictures rife with disapproval
Their spirits could create with wild abandon
Then without constraints demanding the removal
Of that which breaks the sanctity some stand on
So I bless them for activities unbounded
Say our God is not a solemn old curmudgeon
Their folly then belied the earnest tied and grounded
Freed from stark importance laid on with a bludgeon
Could it be they heard on entering The Hereafter
Not only harp strings, but the joyful sound of laughter
10 September
Contest: My Upcoming Birthday Celebrity
Sponsor William Kekaula
Karl Marx house in Trier.
Know you where it is,
Abode of wisdom today we live,
Renown for industrial change?
Labour unite...still remember the say?
Man! It is a place to be,
Athenaeum of global change,
Rare to find in somewhere else,
X-rays of wars on man and growth.
Herein philosophy lived,
On the table under the tree he wrote,
Uniform of the legend intact in’robe,
Spoons and forks that fed the brain,
Excellent works of yester years.
In the anthology photos speak;
No to exploitation is all they say.
This environment beauty to behold,
Roman empire relics here and there;
In Karl Marx house in Trier,
Eyes have many to learn:
Respectable mount of thought.
Do anarchists drink
Herbal tea because proper
Tea is theft?
Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
(and second oldest heir)
Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
titled The Communist Manifesto,
and Das Kapital
which political philosophy
incubating seeds of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
historical materialism, dearth
of equitable wealth, and inherent
contradictions of industrial capital
distributed unevenly
across avast swath of Earth
thus inviting his perspective
(conveniently exploited,
mined, and usurped) advocating
the working class (proletariat)
to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin exchanged for labor bled
fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
till slaving laborer nearly became gratefully dead
despite being cased in 12 point
Times New Roman garb, who incessantly fed
insatiably maws of production,
(no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
within schema of Capitalism),
a predominant paradigm
stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
between bourgeoisie red
dilly controlling means
of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
as historical materialism,
where figurative landmines forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
would supposedly lead down the road
where self destruction wrought marriage
birthing Socialism offspring from shot gun wed
ding, thus coaxing eventual establishment
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association of producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
campy population hood pitched a tent.
Jesus Christ and Karl Marx seek lost children in the City of Gold
In shackled shack with weight of broken bricks on tin roofed promises
she rest her head against the precious paraffin cooker empty and cold
Five children to feed no milk in once beautiful breasts life sour and rancid
abused and battered and her husband long gone in yesteryear’s crossfires
‘Tulinagwe’ is free from luxurious troubles plods on no fancy resides in
her township a voyage no carrier of progress and a storm with no sail
‘Mawuli’ lives close liberated from hardship quite posh in his mansion
a world away in marvellous marble box tree hedges protecting ascent
He rose manicured hands roses lawns perfumed clothing no sweat while
his gardener reaps thorns and oppression from inside walls’ dwelling
Born free after the fall of Apartheid his stars and his God have sheltered
adorned crowned zenith’s success a story from another page in the book
‘Mawuli’ lives resolute on ‘Tulinagwe’s shoulders brethren in union while
her dreams have dissolved and yet my free flight of fancy calls resurrection
For both in their names Christ shed his nails for Christ’s sake or for their
blood so let us be reminded that revolution does never start at the top
Has either read Shakespeare or for that matter the bible when ‘Tulinagwe’
has no privilege to read while 'Mawuli' browses his browser brokers his shares
Two sides of a hopeful reminder that Marx still inhabits money and freedom
and that the burden of change contains a message for all children of God
06th May 2017 written for ‘Fancy Free’-Contest
Most people did not know that Arthur was your real name.
However, with your brothers, you achieved great fame.
Even though you could talk, you never said a word in your flicks.
Your fans loved all of your comical antics.
Harpo, how many times did you reach into your bag of tricks?
Your brothers and your agent once played a card game.
That was where you and your brothers would earn a nickname.
Because you played the harp so well, they would call you “Harpo”
That was the professional name everybody got to know.
You have been gone from this world for half a century.
However, in your movies, you have achieved immortality.
I met Carl Marx in a bookstore
hanging around in the classics, waiting
some casual reader's mind to seduce
his weaver, painter, plowhorse, produce
a strange dream of worker equality
the value of labor, everyman matters,
An oxcart teeters, ideas splatter
into his subtile, beguiling reasoning
I read on, in a dream, this worker paradise
A place where each of our labors have worth
If I study and become a doctor of medicine
I am the same as the welder and the shopkeeper
I felt the burdens of the laborer upon me
I saw his vision of classlessness preside
I wanted to buy that book! but it's silly
I am a capitalist, shamelessly bourgeois..
Classic Radio
I crave classic radio!
Boston Blackie and The Shadow;
Captain Midnight; Fibber Maggie and Molly;
Ace detectives fighting crime;
Or comedians making up limericks in rhyme.
Keep the TV for my husband to watch now
As I wear earphones, letting him wonder how
It is I’m laughing so much through every hour
As snarky sleuths and Groucho Marks make our
Pups wag their tails as my happy mood devours
The winter gloom that can pervade the room.
The old jokes I hear are so old they do seem new.
The shows span post-war-2 through the mid-fifties,
Before every home in America had TV’s,
So thus passed every hour by radios every night,
Waiting for suspense dramas or live boxing fights.
I was a baby in those days, hearing the Lone Ranger
On Silver riding masked into the sunset, a better
Man in an era when good differing bad was clear.
Still, it’s I who now, in this era, keeps a mask near.
You can search Classic Radio shows on the net,
For hours of escape in our chaotic days, and get
Your hands busy to do other things, for you
May exercise or write or clean or dream into
The imagination expansion power of Listening cues.
———————————————————————————————————————
c)sally Young eslinger 1/30/21
("Utopia and Terror Merit Badge", 2010, original oil)
To This Day
Even now over 175 years after Marx
Set a tide of revolution in motion
There are still ever expanding and encroaching
Tendrils and tentacles of his influence
In every aspect of our lives.
At the root of all this hope and change
Is the vision of an idealized society,
You could say a vision of heaven on earth
Which should make it clear
It’s more a dream here than literal vision.
At the heart of desire for change
Is discontent with what is.
Sometimes this makes sense
Like wanting to come in from the cold rain.
But sometimes it’s just a wish to deny reality.
It comes down to choosing our battles
Defining what we actually control
And thus the limits of our power.
As they - they being the generic voices of wisdom - say
You can’t change the world, only how you react to it.
Yet due to the myriad of modern achievements
We easily forget this timeless wisdom
We think we can change how others think and act
And can one day eliminate all suffering
All injustices and sin, and ugliness too…
But, you know, there’s a simple way to solve our problems
And that is to accept them for what they are.
Apparently it works for cows and dogs
But less so for humans
Especially the more idealistic and ambitious among us.
So there in a nutshell you have it,
We choose our problems
Because we don’t want to be cows or dogs
We want to be gods, masters of our destiny,
And so to this day continue to dream, in vain.
(8/28/24)
He was a herder of many sheep.
Often he whipped his tongue and spared the rod.
He lived for the Lord, for the harvest to reap.
With all his heart and soul, he loved his God.
What words can suffice to send off a soul?
A soul of a priest, a servant of He
Who by words so sacred, words that extol,
He descends from on high for you me.
Gladly he sat in the person of Christ,
Healing souls and forgiving our sins.
Offering what God had sacrificed,
Gaining grace for us to save our skins.
Now gone, he goes to join the patriarchs,
The saints on high. We'll miss you Father Marx
Whar art mine fervent zeal for Marx Brothers?
While figuratively trout fishing
for ideas to write about
analogous (hook, line and sinker)
idea wormed itself into mind with clout
moment of awareness arose
without shadow of doubt.
As a long haired pencil necked teenage geek
zany Harpo, Groucho, Chico ranked as idols
mine most favorite slap stick until I reached
cusp of early adulthood, yet of lately uptick
regarding said comedic acts unexpectedly a
rose, spurring me to revisit adolescent mem
rubble entertainers overarching unstoppable
nostalgic ache for their nonpareil antics did
pang ping pong within mine corporeal esse
Scents trademarked and christened Matthew
Scott Harris, somewhat alleviated watching
courtesy Internet random You Bet Your Life
momentarily experiencing giddiness bursting
with laughter - shy kid relishing hearing quip
lightning fast barbs oft imitated sporting his
greasepaint moustache nsync with cigar size
of small walking stick renown world over an
American iconic figure (+entire motley crew)
lively bunch post World War II boys groomed
since birth begat Minnie Marx (born Miene
Schönberg, 9 November 1864 or 1865 – 13
September 1929) mother and manager of the
Marx Brothers, a family of vaudevillians,
Broadway and film actors, she dominated
band of five boisterous and hilarious brothers
who dominated silver screen more'n nearly 3
4ths century ago sired by patriarch Sam Marx.
No particular rhyme nor reason explains why
aforementioned nitty gritty personal trivia thy
actually more accurately & specifically yours
truly metaphorically unexpectedly did qualify
as teetotaling poetaster to craft poem well nigh
acknowledge inexplicable passion regarding my
heartfelt affection constituting zany wily troupe
linkedin with baker's dozen films iterated wild
3 ringed circus antics did all these years schtick
well lodged within me noggin + gamut of stars
whose career launched during quaint silent film
era albeit (Betzwood, one time, between 1912
and 1924), one of the largest film studios in the
world located in downtown Philadelphia and
their studio lot in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania,
right next to the park, I kid ye not, and... take
look see for yourself by visiting following link.
https://americasbesthistory.com/
spotlight2017-11.html
They used to call it the Empire State.
But the empire isn't doing too great.
Democrats in power, big ideas they plan.
Too bad for the middle class and the forgotten man.
Low-income high rise in your village
Middle class won't escape the general pillage.
Congestion and crime, they'll surely bring,
Practical doesn't matter, ideals are everything.
Landlords, its coming, statewide rent control.
They think you fat cats should be in a hole.
Squatters' rights beat your rights, so you can't evict.
Pols keep finding new ways, troubles to inflict.
Borders wide open, worldwide crooks pour in
MS-13, Venezuelan gangs, we lose, they win.
Homeless camps appear, old diseases arise.
Politicians let a killer loose, and Laken Riley dies.
They say, "Just pack your bags, if you disagree
We don't need you, go to Florida or Tennessee
Idaho, Montana the stampede fills them in
Locals priced out, waters rise, can you swim?
Shoplifters know hundreds of items can go.
No downside, they end up rolling in dough.
For assault, arrests are made but holding is rare,
If you're the next victim, guess who doesn't care.
A store owner could ask, what am I working for,
Just to watch my goods exit out the door?
I know people who no longer walk at night.
Hard to believe pols didn't do this from spite.
They'll remove your oil and natural gas.
You can't pay the AC, but more laws they'll pass.
They'll remove merit from the medical schools.
don't crash getting out, you'll be mended by fools.
What they really believe they tactically hide
Till you elect them, then the four horsemen ride
No room for the little guy, the pols feel disdain.
Look out the window, you're on a runaway train.
dark is the morning dark is my phone with aliens rushing our border
i watch these vermin with contempt
i take my eyes off at 8am sharp
the commute is only an hour but a good first impression i will attempt
i bought the new phone today
it’s 0.5 centimeters bigger and even has another camera to survey
i stopped by the restaurant because its payday
the cashier’s wage is pitiful and yet they obey
that restaurant is slick with oil in the night
tomorrow the donkeys wake up to the styx
it's just the usual politics
though no darker than the previous night
some donkeys have houses, some half detached
some donkeys work carts, some clack away at keyboards
all sleepy
but passionate enough to wage wars for pigs in hordes
our fat shadow casts a melatonin over them
honing an crepuscule covert with its shape
sluggishly, one eye scans for solidarity
satisfied with the turbulence over the landscape