Best Moneyed Poems
The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.
A bum called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.
Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a schizo titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.
The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with meth.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.
The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.
Old dan, he's drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain till soon there is a flood.
And no god’s there who seems to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.
Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”
Continued
Numero Un:
To have and to hold,
A Midas,
Replete with gold.
Lord of mountain hideaway,
In Aspen,
For family play.
Manhattan penthouse
Zooming Ferrari,
Moneyed clout.
Powerful and homely,
Spawning ground,
Socially comely.
Numero Deux:
To have and to hold,
A Casanova,
The force behold.
Sleepless nights,
Expel,
Monotonous rites.
Playful fun,
Two bodies,
Orgasmically one.
Always game,
For another round,
Of the same.
Numero Trois:
To have and to hold,
An Aristotle,
Intellectually bold.
Philosophy spewing,
Questioning,
Tradition chewing.
Brainwork overtime,
Soaking,
Prose and rhyme.
Original mind,
Prejudices, immorality,
Left far behind.
3 husbands,
Heroes all 3,
All with virtuous qualities.
Ahh……………. fantasy,
3 rolled into 1
Can it ever be?
The nation in question is a world largest oil exporter
It citizens is be deprived of what she has
Involuntarily long queues from night
In petrol stations till dawn outside the same stations
Makes the danfo drivers angry and happy with price hike
Who will be sorry for the stranded commuters
Is it the profitless street sellers
Or the red hotted conductors?
You then see a divided country
Each citizen angry with and harmless to the government
Frustrated citizens walk miles to chase Molues
No one cares for the other the aim is to get home
Though some do, the poor ones.
Who says it only touches the proletariat
Even the rich are touchable
You will see big fat men exercising in their cars
Suffering from the traffic jam created at the stations.
Who will condole with the cying lady
That cannot manouvre due to her twisted hand
And clucth ridden legs?
A country were urchins
Take to the streets as black marketers
The hoarding stations having collaborated
With them sell the gold four times its price
All moneyed men will buy from the law breakers
The owners says it is due to vandalism
What a suitable lie
For it is likely that the political skirmishes
Has reined on the innocent citizens
Even our eight year leader
Will not address us on the issue
Who says it this is not a dividend?
I say it is.
In Liverpool, England, there is one street containing
all the Chinese restaurants, side to side, back to back
and stinking drain to sea.
where once a year, twirling dragons pierce the afternoon air,
passing old men with suits and moneyed-hands, their
young thugs standing close with tatooed skin.
the crowd, mostly mums and dads and tots in prams, heaves
like weed on a Kowloon sea...hungry for the firecracker
bangs and dim-sum smells and potted green tea.
this riot of shifting colour drags and pushes at the cobbled
road underfoot, as the dragon takes another bag of pak choy
greens placed ten foot high, while the lithe boys dressed in
kung fu black and draped with skill, reach up to pluck the
fiscal bunch and pass it down, hand to hand, out of sight,
to the flashing, bouncing jaws beneath
and soon the fire cracker thunder and emptied shops
call the street to book: and a carnage of paper to-go boxes
and spilt terror join with the bars' beery breath
saying...go home now Englishmen, you are not our brothers,
this is our place not yours..go home til next year
To All Mothers Everywhere
To all mothers
everywhere
Why do you part your legs
toward
the 21st Centaury
Didn’t you know
That the future is our final station
Where the monkey sits and waits
To collect
For a debt that has long been owed?
And he will never be denied
payment.
That fateful stop is close now.
Didn’t you know that this train will never be slowed?
Maybe we should have planned our escape
Before the monkey smiled
Instead of wandering like dumb beasts
That serve as an exhibit on some distant safari
Under the burning glow of industry.
Yes
it gave us the TV and black lung.
And
Yes
we should be grateful
What other system allows you to own a Statesman?
Or
Pay for the right to soil your water
Or
Blacken someone else’s?
How else can you explain the water’s
And this century’s
Taste of curdled milk
That sits in some hoarder’s fridge
Waiting for the next great war.
Why do you offer your babes the fire?
Everything that blooms
In the forest where we once played
Is consumed
Immediately
Now a days.
On America
Which is the land of the disposable hero
And disposable victim
Where do you think your babes will land?
The hoarder?
The fool with a loser’s dream?
The second storey man
Or the industrialist who wallows in his moneyed slop
Or grows fat feeding on the blue collar?
Maybe the hero
Who will be torn apart for touching the wrong ass?
Only to fade into the gutter?
And did you think you could
Swim in this ocean of equations?
This is elemental my dear.
The only end is the shore of a negative.
The only outcome when you try to defy these waters
Is a riptide that will pull you under?
What role do you really think you have?
2
Finally
Under the sour winds
That blow in the coming shadow
Of the kakocracy
Nothing grows
But the desert
That brings
dry dreams of your children.
But at least their sheets are clean.
Alova ...
she’s the leaven princess
of oven bosom tear oppression
Her violet Persian neutering rug
has the sterile stench of
cougar mating feral aggression
It’s her purple passion
to Farsi emasculate with femme fatale hate
She’s a hardcase lover in a hardcore way
Alova is the Iron Mistress of Mellat Park,
a long dungeon drop from Brewster Bay
Alova she loves
scratching post, bent-knee coin proposals
Put her claws into the prenuptial loopholes,
and her lethal legal clause
always grab hold
of the moneyed beau mice —
Never letting go
At least, not until the cash settled divorce
is divided asset final: Platinum blonde mink coat credit portfolio
Golden parachute, silver safety net ~ Diamond and pearls ruby eject
Alova
Alova
Alova
is the self-flagellated chant of the Shushun purse palace sad
Alova is at her panther pouncing best at being sensuously bad
Alova ...
she’s the lynx queen of a cuckold, cheetah harem
The docile male lying pride
do as their told, with no nay say
Alova loves estrogen marking her eye bow territory
with an icy pleasure pheromone cold spray:
{Alova’s leather-tip tongue
make the powerful egos fetal prone beg
in every dog collar way}
Alova
Alova
Alova
how you treat me so bad,
is the “you’re no-goody” domineering chant
she loves to make ear kneel
every stiletto heel day
Journey' End
Seeing Franklin in the Music City I realised it is my journey's end
If the goddess of wealth would rain money and generosities
I would live in Franklin with my three daughter's families
One is already living there, moving in with two more would be easier
A place has value only because of people residing there
I would buy my own cottage with a flowery arbour
With three other cottages around for our utopia
Near Jackson Lake with ducks gliding for my grandchildren to enjoy
A country that gives way to an ambulance and won't let you die
Even in the remotest place is a country that cares for your life
The roads are broad and smooth where your bones don't rattle with bumps
Windows are without wire meshes and nature is crystal clear
Can see the beauty with the naked eye without obstruction
Clean grocery from round the globe sans cheating
Friendly faces eager to help, soothing to the heart and eye
Walking down the arcades a wave, a greeting and a smile
Being moneyed I would charter an inflow of loved ones to my utopia
The mesmerising autumn colours made me want life to just stop
The freshness in the air is all so energetic and rejuvenating
The week end trekking trails, yachting and exploring
New experiences experimenting to enliven life in all its spheres
All these add-ons make life worth living, more value
In my next life I wish to be born here with happiness abounding
I'm sure god listens to the hearts ticking away their time!
SECOND
Balveen Cheema
October 27, 2015
Contest: If You Had The Money Where Would You Like To Live And Why?
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
* This poem is specially written for my daughter who lives there as an expression of my love to be with her always.
A hankering for a well-of life,
Reminds me to focus on my dreams.
And assiduous itself, is my caliber -
That relies its origin from dedication;
Because nothing rules my mind, but the words,
I will, pursue my dreams.
Being intense about a well-to-do lifestyle,
Enthuses me to ponder on my goals.
And industrious is what reveals my progress and productivity;
Which is brought by tireless all day long day!
Because nothing encourages me, but the words,
I will, pursue my dreams.
Being ardent about that moneyed life!
Engenders me to contemplate on my professions.
And hardworking itself, is my best friend;
That keeps me me unremitting and single-minded.
Because nothing lies deep in my heart, but the words,
I will, pursue my dreams.
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 34
If only the tired masses had time to think
If only they knew leaders were prisoners too
Would not security forces with us link
The rocks some throw will into proper heads sink
Even leaders will no longer be taboo
If only the tired masses had time to think
The real Enemy makes money to clink
In the ears of leaders who’ll join their ranks too
Would not then security forces with us link
Though this less-than-one-per-cent makes the World drink
Dance drunk much material progress to woo
If only the tired masses had time to think
Masses choose leaders who need moneyed-class wink
These mafia-made leaders dupe masses even more
If only security forces would with us link
In the end little use if masses could think
What leaders want more of is the vote or two
If only the tired masses had time to think
Would not security forces with us link
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
How can we take pride in a country
that is sliding into dissolution and chaos?
We praise ourselves for ending slavery.
yet racial prejudice is still much with us.
We pay slave wages and refuse to change
the minimum wage to a living wage.
We call all people equal under the law,
yet privilege and money or the lack of it
make legal decisions unequal every day.
We have liars, cheats and criminals in
our supposedly democratic government,
chosen primarily by a voting system
that is funded by moneyed corporations
with a vested interest and the wealthy.
Goal: to remain in power.
We declare all are entitled to liberty,
justice and the pursuit of happiness,
yet how can a people be happy without
security that they will not go bankrupt
because of hospital and medical bills?
How can we be proud of a country
where the supreme justices of the land
arbitrarily take away our rights
to make decisions about our sex lives
and personal decisions about our bodies?
Who choose to exercise the power of a
ruling class against the will of the people?
In a country founded on freedom of religion
we are more and more governed by those
who propound a certain religious mindset.
We are not yet living under a dictator,
and have freedoms not dreamed of in
dictatorships, but for how much longer?
Our freedoms are being taken away,
unilaterally, without recourse.
Our democracy is in mortal danger,
not from enemies abroad, but from within.
Five vow to be corporate wench
To twist votes with their monkey wrench
The freed business fist
Full of money--they've kissed!
Gives Robert's court bench quite a stench
Moneyed pigs love this press release
Their chunks of great wealth must increase!
These skunks gorge and snort
Their ads—thanks Supreme Court—
Are greed that’s been freed and won’t cease
(Please! Donald! You Need Help!)
Yes, "Not invented here" it seems Trump's motto for today!
So, institutions long revered are taken out of play.
"What is not mine cannot be saved," the lesson through the noise,
The truth is elementary: You like it? Hates your toys!
Yes, baddest bully in the school, don't doubt it or he cries
Glib prostitutes his only friends, for friends are treats one buys!
The rich are laws unto themselves, let others pay contracts,
If they resist, use scabs and launch Orwellian attacks.
Yes, only fools owe any tax, it's cheaper just to cheat,
Corruption (learned at Daddy's knee), a voter's prime red meat,
Our government, rich swallow whole, your children their dessert,
And golf (where they keep score) life's game du jour. Time to convert!
Yes, patronage is game he plays, "Me patron, you peon!"
And competition's no problem if Donald's champion.
Unless the Russians are involved, then Putin is the man!
"He whups my ass, just like my Dad! Dictators! I'm a fan!"
Yes, moneyed folks know Trump's no mensch, keep daughters at arm's length,
But secrecy surrounds his house; in death throes, still shows strength!
He rants and raves and says he'll sue (it helps keep folks off-guard),
But if you look over his fence? White trash camped in his yard!
Yes! Donald's wife? Hates her life too; don't think you are alone!
The only sex toys still in use are "Fox and friends" by phone.
As global warming melts earth's ice, moves planet toward shipwreck,
Crimes mortify close fiends, his flesh; may gravestones read "Oh Heck!"
Long Tooth
April 21, 2018
On my street there are many MacMansions
Full of stuff but not many grandsons
No pets with dirty feet
Just black balance sheets
And morality they have abandoned.
These nouveau riche Ole moneyed Scrooges
Have dinner talk of subterfuges
The poor they abhor
Not a tear on that score
No mangers please, they’ll take cruises.
No room in the Inn “Oh my what a sin”
Said the bankers foreclosing within
No bed for the King?
The streets just the thing
Perhaps the liberals will let Him in?
Hear the muttered snivel of our kids
Puked away to gloom, twinge and disease
Wrecked by creeds
To fulfill an antique mores
Whose ruin is beyond scientific darn
See the boulevards and the creeks
Before sight are male Mal-nourished toddlers
In rag togs, blistered feet, beseeching alms
And ingesting the remnants
From the poorest buffet
They toil in tackle capacity
Inversely allied to their weight
From sun rise to sunset
To earn much less than you
See the boulevards
How they stir; bunched
On the trot to any kind of dub
To good and to evil
Death becomes a familiar friend
At first light and at dark
From toil, food, water and sleep
Such a despicable way of live
But then the espoused antique mores, woes
Regenerated by ills of the society
To the blanketed vision of the moneyed
To plunge empathy and impious reliance of all
Can this be our way of life?
Trouncing fortunes to antique mores?
Reticence to rascality?
And nationhood to meanness?
Dawn Forever Rising
It starts
Street lights fade
their tiny soft-winged tenants flee
checkerboard facades change
last night's illumined squares now dark
become but yesterday's portals
some polished
some weather streaked
all reaching to reflect first breath
Steam ascends from the city's vacuum
gratings rattle with subterranean yawning
people-movers wind their way
through mazes of starts
stops
Topside tracks
like fixed contrails
glisten with frost
not yet enjoined by speeding transit
their skeletal tributaries
readying the trickle of humanity
into a mass ocean of glass and steel survival
Uptown
Downtown
A street sweeper's tire rubber and swirling brushes
beneath the overalled believer in Lottos
holding firm the wheel and gears of faith
of trust
gathering gutter-lodged disposal
glass and plastic
paper and cardboard
spinning into the vortex
lifting yesterday's careless cast-offs
inviting today's Starbuck anew
reflections of another kind
Leashes strain from anxious sniffing
bladders hold
ready to burst
seeking just the right tree
the right hydrant
the "ah, yes" that only a canine can know
Rays of sun begin spilling down alleyways
the long-tail rodents scamper for cover
their bellies full
seeking safety after a long night of ancient ritual
food of anything
digestion of history
all in a night's work
Suddenly
Full light cascades down avenues and streets
itinerant pigeons and seagulls spread habitual wings
ready to adore the steadies
the loners
park walkers
window ledge dependables
homeless with dance cards of crumbs
envying the moneyed insomniacs throwing chunks
baguettes gone stale
fit for few
a feast for many
senses loving the coos and warbles
the bobbing thank you
the reciprocal bonding
few but the lonely can appreciate
Finally
The steel and glass imitation of nature
comes fully alive
a sun's illumination without reserve
energy's provision for another day
Rich mix with the poor
money exchanges hands
the hotdog vendor
the hedge fund taker
the cookie jar provider
Most become tomorrow's yesterday
knowing little of the other light
requiring no rising or setting
illumination that never grows dim
something as nothing
forever light
never of darkness
Such for some
awakens from a New York sunrise
this dichotomy like no other
forever reminding
our eyes of dawn
one's inner light
is forever rising