Best Mortgages Poems
POINTING TO THE PROBLEMS
{Bivouacs}
Beat down with legal fees
Tied up with taxes;
Tripped up with mortgages;
Ripped off with student loans
Insulted with insurance
Telephone updates.
Out of date opts,
New upgrade rates;
Food on the down-low
Carrots in the closet;
Conjugating with fake rice.
Plastic cabbage, inedible corn.
Tomatoes with fish dung
Water with lead, flatulent cows
Polluting the air.
Carbon emission:
Beyond the stratosphere:
Halliburton and agent orange.
Nuclear explosion -radiation;
Devastating the atmosphere.
I can’t explain, with no
nutrients to the brain.
No minerals to the lungs n heart.
Contaminated nation;
Sheer contamination.
Is it too late, to rise above the hate?
Tired n Devastated, tried elevation.
Tried to immunize, and fine tune
My body to this new moon.
With herbs n mushrooms.
Sun Hot, Global Scorching...
Illuminati wants hearts,
and good body parts.
Neanderthals,running back to their caves
Underground bunkers, where they’ll be safe…
Americans dangling off bridges with knapsacks;
Flimsy structures and Bivouacs
No air, no food, no heat,
Not even water safe to drink.
Like Dinosaurs and bees, fast becoming extinct.
I can’t even think, with no nutrients to the brain.
No minerals to fortify lungs n heart.
Contaminated nation,
Sheer contamination.
With nowhere to run;
What do you think should be done?
We ask God’s blessings for food we eat;
those who toil to grow it deserve our prayers too.
In 1985, Farm Aid musicians took their beat,
rocking in donations for those who grew
in debt, not just crops, as mortgages came due.
Mellencamp cried out, “97 families lost 97 farms!”
Just the local tally of the Reagan years' unprecedented foreclosures
that threatened the nation’s bread baskets, sending out alarms.
Farmers’ financial disclosures
were bloodied by high-risk exposures.
We ate the fruit, but cursed the price.
Bounty still filled the market’s produce section,
even as running a farm became a roll of the dice.
A Kansas tornado would have had less convection
than growers who were denied debt protection.
Bailout money was tossed to the auto maker,
where corporate jet vacations sparked ire.
But farmer suicides climbed, blood on each acre.
A national famine might have transpired
if to save farmers, rock musicians had not conspired.
Inspired by John Mellencamp’s Farm Aid song “Rain on the Scarecrow.” An Indiana farm boy, Mellencamp recruited Neil Young and Willie Nelson to organize the first Farm Aid concert in 1985, raising awareness about the loss of family farms. The Farm Aid concerts have remained an annual event over the past 29 years, and as of 2014, the organization has raised over $45 million to help farmers. I chose this song because it demonstrates the social consciousness of rock musicians.
Song is at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joNzRzZhR2Y
*Poem written November 8, 2014 for Kelly's "I Love Rock and Roll Contest.
Where will tomorrow take us
Only God alone can tell
A brighter future a cloudless day
Or an earthly living Hell
How much of its our doing
How much is down to me
Is the fate laid out before us
A future meant to be
I know I've tempted fate before
At least a time or two
Risked life and limb and maybe more
I'd risk it all anew
Cos life for me's a wonderland
A journey to behold
A beautiful utopia
For the young and for the old
Til man exacts his dominance
Over everything he can
And mortgages each single soul
Of every living man
A banking led dystopia
Indebtedness their aim
We're caught here in the crossfire
In a costly Rotschild game
The year is sixteen ninety four
And a deal is on the cards
The notes are shilling loudly
From the moneylenders bards
Twelve hundred thousand reasons
Mortgage woman, man and child
The deal's been done, the trap's been sprung
The laughing Joker's wild
The Devil dealt a crooked hand
The rules weren't Heaven sent
The loans they pays a kingly ransome
The bets at eight percent
Inflationary stirms prevail
Nations drowningbin the flood
The odds now stacked in favour
Of a deal they signed in blood
Now money's just a token
The game is truly up
Their sleight of hand's been deftly played
They fill their debtors cup
Human lives collateral
As the game stacks in their favour
No money's needed anymore
The game is theirs to savour
Where will tomorrow take us
Only God alone can tell
The Devil deals in dying folks
His deals a living Hell
The game's a crooked one we know
It's plain for all to see
And the fate laid out before us
Is down to you and me
World abandonment
vanity infests
greed escalates
charity nullified
Competitive paradise
prices uncontrollable
hunger staggering
debt maximized
Honest lost
integrity futile
words misconstrued
greed rapid
Equality vanished
pensions minute
labor intensified
jobs down sized
World absorbed
humans consumed
profits soar
mortgages abandoned
World immobilized
composure lost
hope desperate
destruction eminent.
Sometimes he feels like a museum on
a Monday - empty, desolate, withdrawn
from the celestial library where not
yet written prose and poetry are stored.
A sleep-deprived, he walks around the rooms,
he curses rhymes and rhythms, he assumes
a pledge to give it up, to live a life
a mere human lives - to have a wife,
to find a paying job, to meet with friends,
to be a fan of “Liverpool”* that tends
to take last place this season, to get old,
to pay off mortgages, to die from cold
but not insomnia…
As someone said,
nothing is fuller than an empty head.
*England's football club
11/14/2019
Favourite Poem From November 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
My poems are not for leisure
They are guns
Aim at imperial anatomy
Notes slipped to a teller’s eyes
For easy withdrawal
Of ancestral deposits
My poems are not for leisure
They are flowers for graves
Of dead theories and foolish warriors
Who slave for vanity
Flowers cover well the rot
Of lovers’ insanity.
My poems are not for leisure
They are for children
Who have heard the piper’s call
After the elevation of the rats
Who put banks on crutches
Of tarp funds, bailing out
On mortgages where homeless
Families wander
In insensitive arguments of the street
My poems will never be silent
Against Godless lies
And crooks impenitent
In Congress or Parliaments
Striking from the dark of consciences
Bleeding alone in teary trenches
Gasping the green gas
Of laws muting its militant lines
I give you my poem – not anesthesia
Just wine.
P aranoia permeates, etching itself into your fractured face,
A cacophony of constant pressure; life remains a stressful race,
N othing to hope for, no positives like promotion in the workplace,
I nability to love, relationships lift anchor and set sail without chase,
C hildren crushing dreams under mortgages; age grows with disgrace
!!
We dread this time of the year
We are absolutely sure
When we file our taxes
Sam will surely wax us
Greed of Uncle Sam is clear
Stopping off from work to drink a beer
Not an option is totally clear
Senators' raises
Citizens' gazes
So much as a beer can’t buy this year
Economy in quite a mess
Intellectuals must confess
We’re slowly slipping
Mortgages flipping
Armageddon is the conquest!
For and in honor of Carolyn Devonshire
And Contest
All the teachers were basically horrible,
each could be placed on sliding scale of
horribleness….thus;
1. (the worst) Complete ****
2. Largely a ****.. with a degree of reserve
3. ****
4. Headmaster’s toady prone to outbursts
5. Pathetic but lacking conscience
6. Searching for a personality
7. Lost…smiles occasionally
8. Dominated by all other teachers (easy to mimic)
9. A mess
10. Ineffectual (but sharp dresser, and most likely to become future Headmaster).
Only we, the pupils were perfect and yet to enter the land of shopping, mortgages, menstruation and Mondays.
Life is much bigger than I imagined it could be,
There is more beyond the horizon of Hope through my Faith.
I am Uniquely made as seen by the different shades of me
With the out -bursting of colors depicting a side that some
May never know - happy and gay, rejoicing, celebrating, funny,
hilarious, witty, caring, loving, appreciative, satisfied.
Strong of character but often self-willed, and usually turn the "other
Cheek" too.
Reminiscing on good things in bygone days and share
Experiences, direct and indirect which propels the renewal of thoughts
of what could still be done,
By using learned knowledge and skills in other ways, I
Create, evolve, develop and initiate whatever God directs me to do.
I cannot imagine how vast a prospect God's Purpose is for me,
But I do remember that Life is much bigger than I imagine it could be!
So, I regurgitate past achievements to Capture the color and mix,
To be a fit in Society's go-getting World!
Emulating the Lord when He asked: "Who do men say that I am"?
I use the gift of penmanship to excavate what got hidden inside of me.
I endeavor to search deep within and skillfully share in philosophy,
Humanity, nature, emphatic for emotional and physical pain.
Look deep into my soul and glimpse what God sees
Simplicity does not mean "Walk All Over Me."
My pen gliding over the page as I write, can tell from images
"Painted" the true quality of me.
It establishes a "blueprint" like in the DNA when mRnA transforms
And transcribes " messages". So like the pens of Poets I opt to portray
The best of me, striving for that Perfect point to be
Released through the "window" of expertise that God loaned me.
God too is engaged in poetry as some Psalms of David show.
Like Reverse Mortgages He loans gifts and talents by beginning from the
first to the last. Thus, his subjects display talents with youth and taper
off with age.
Even switching from skill to skill, the "blueprint" is the same DNA.
What I develop, evolve or initiate, the background is the same!
You keep money secure thank you bank
Financial institution you are high is rank.
Accepting deposits you create credits see,
Honey is collected too flower thanks bee.
Keeping people happy you share interest,
This may be compound this may simplest.
Bearing mortgages also you provide loan,
At due time you collect due is too known.
Of their current liabilities under torsion
Liquid assets are equal to only a portion.
Under policy of special gazette of nation,
Fractional reserve banking rules relation.
Liquidity in minimum capital you ensure,
Basel accords base you then us you assure.
Moving around you I observe the bankers,
In material life money matters say anchors.
Diamond you keep, silver you keep gold,
In safe locker all keep ornaments do hold.
Old you are new you are I hold inner core,
Values, virtues are my wealth feels chore.
Management of selfless banking is shown.
Safe banking I do on line on myself own,
I am soul the original bank of power light,
Supervisor of my bank is God is very right.
There once was a mortgage bank broker
Who sold mortgages more than he oughta
Then one day he found
With the economy down
His own house appraised way under water
One day this old earth shall pass,
When the cosmic gods unleash their last damning curse.
Everything will be digested, into the bellies of a billion skies,
The black smoke will paint hands, waving a billion goodbyes.
It will be the end of all roads:
The day the sun explodes.
There will be no one to witness this earth-shattering glory.
No reporter will cover this last breaking story.
The curtain of history will come down in a stellar blast.
The present will marry the future and become one past.
It will be the greatest show on earth, but no audience or applauds:
The day the sun explodes.
Physical matter will become statistics, that will never again matter.
There will be nothing to record, and no one to enter the data.
Gold will be worthless, unredeemable by dollars or pounds,
When the periodic table goes haywire, and bonds all its compounds.
No defense gadgets, stock markets or computer codes:
The day the sun explodes.
Millions of years dominated by the greed of humanity,
Reduced to vanity by unstoppable cosmic insanity.
Leaving nothing to stand, not a strand of grass nor a city.
Annihilating everything with no pity or peace treaty.
In a colorful ceremony to mark the end as it unfolds:
The day the sun explodes.
It will be the last day for the outdoors, the brightest sunlight,
But neither will a girl hold an ice cream, nor a boy fly a kite.
The last carnival on earth, the summer of all summers,
Before the gods bang together, their thunderous hammers.
No picket-fenced suburbs, no mortgages and leaseholds,
The day the sun explodes.
The sun is like a big whale and the earth its worm-like bait,
On a nuclear collision course, to set the record straight.
Not even our millennial graves will be respected.
While we are resting in peace, they will be desecrated.
Lakes and oceans will evaporate with fossils of fish and toads.
The day the sun explodes.
In Kenya, they are called value-added taxes, “yani VAT”.
They change and increase every year
And are placed on everything under the sun.
The prices increase daily,
But they say it would lead to everyone paying their fair share of tax.
They are better referred to as poverty taxes,
Because they punish the poor to become the poorest,
They entrench selfishness among the neighbours and friends,
They take away the only saving of the poor in the society,
and one wonders why the poor remain the poorest.
The tax takes the homes,
The mortgages become unaffordable,
The rent skyrockets in Nairobi, Kisumu and Mombasa,
While the gas prices become unbearable.
The cars and bus rides become a luxury,
and our lunches are taken from our mouths.
The tax man is always on the door,
You wonder if you are under some emergency evacuation.
Taxman takes every percentage of your hospital bill,
Or school fee, or your child’s pocket money, or church tithe offerings,
Until there is nothing positive to take away.
Worst of it, the bills and penalties are always in your postal mail.
The services offered at government offices are poor.
The civil servants are rude to the core like vampires.
The infrastructure development is wanting,
The electricity blackouts in rural areas are frequent,
Education facilities not well equipped,
Health facilities are rotting from inadequate funding,
and any innovation is suspiciously viewed as a threat.
The tax man never explains where is the tax,
Nor what development activities were completed.
The poor’s voice can’t be heard yet everything is taxed.
The poor continue to be taxed to poverty,
While the tax man feeds the corrupt all the taxes.
Variations on a Punishing Theme
When people are hungry and at risk of homelessness
despair
chronic depression
and climatic extinction
Is it because their leaders
and community developers,
learning incubators
and technical assistance providers,
grantors and lenders,
representatives
and public sector service providers
absorb too many investments and nutrients
for their own mouths and mortgages?
sleeping soundly at night
unaware of how their Continuous Quality Improvement intentions
economically and ecologically miss their mark
of solidarity and mutual subsidiarity,
of recreating the comfort and nutrients
they intended to invest in those with greater need.
Perhaps the self-blaming unruliness of hungry homeless people
Is due to oversight interference of well-intended practitioners
expert administrators
senior consultants
expertly dominating fragile margins of poverty
feeding dissonant anger and fear
and mistrust.
Chronically at-risk species fear living death's dissonance
and entropic non-thrival trends,
Because we are anxious to survive,
to build life; not so much death and perpetual advent.
Wilting personal lives
have no bandwidth left
for righting macrosystemic death trends.
It is mutual-mentors who co-invest in cooperative thriving,
That incarnate wise evolution of deep ecologically balancing lives.
Self-composting toilets
have surprisingly greater nurturing value
to people without a pot to pee in
than community-composting banks
and governments.