Best Pawned Poems
Money money, ringing in your tills,
Calling us to worship,
The hundred dollar bills.
Bend our knees in wonder,
Bow our heads in awe,
At the power of the liar,
Who now controls us all.
From the darkest deep caverns,
To the stars in the sky,
From the infinite universe,
To the strangers passing by.
From your inner most conviction,
To your laughing in the night,
From everything you 're seeing,
To everything out of sight.
The new God has risen,
To claim the holy throne,
The one that we have emptied,
Our hearts all cold as stone.
The throne that we have emptied,
We killed the rightful king,
Sold his crown an sceptre,
Pawned his sacred ring.
Raised his bleeding body,
Up on that bloody hill,
The silent lamb still bleeding,
As the money fills your tills.
What does innocence cost, you ask?
It seems it's just a grand,
For I know a girl who had hers sold
By her Aunt, in a foreign land.
They sold her soul at fiftteen,
To a middle-aged traveling gent,
Who filmed it all for the internet,
In a dirty basement rent.
She begged her aunt to spare her,
To not let this monster soil
The cherished gift God gave her,
For an hour's salacious toil.
She swore to help them honestly,
And work three jobs, if needed,
But this was quick, the die was cast,
No matter how she pleaded.
She screamed and cried when the hour came,
While the man did what he pleased,
And she prayed God wouldn't see her,
That her aunt would be appeased.
When thru, the sheets were bloody,
And she hurt so down below,
But bloodier still, her spirit,
(Though that wound didn't show).
He let her use the hotel's bath
To clean the vile mess,
And gave her fifteen dollars
To replace her ruined dress.
"A buck for every year!" he laughed,
And threw it on the floor,
Then yelled at her "Get out of here!"
"You filthy little whore!"
Well, with those words, his horrid act,
And the soul he stripped away,
Over time that's what she's now become,
Though she makes a grand each day.
See, they didn't just rob her virtue,
They put her soul to death ...
Now she curses him and her auntie,
With every living breath ...
And she doesn't need her faith now,
There's no happiness or mirth,
For no God could ever repay her ...
For what her soul was worth.
~ 7th Place ~ in the "HASHTAGmetoo" Poetry Contest", Debbie Guzzi, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Let's Talk About It" Poetry Contest, Richard Lamoureux, Judge & Sponsor.
The world burns apart,
like paper over candle.
The only breaking point
that this planet couldn't handle.
Something turns to nothing
and that nothing's what remains,
that nothing turns to something
and that something turns to days.
Days are made of moments.
Moments; made of you,
moments make up hours
and together we make two.
We co-create a world
and pretend we're here forever,
let's break apart the pieces
come on, let's tear it down together!
This world was made to murder us
this world was made of fire,
we were born to join a homicide
and born pre-expired.
Time didn't want us,
we pretend we're here forever,
let's break apart the pieces
come on, let's tear it down together!
Our minds are vast and lonely
instant pleasure keeps us lifted,
it's no wonder every human
has to leave this world addicted.
God loves junkies more then pastors
We leave first, He knows us better.
lets break apart the pieces
come on, let's tear it down together!
You're simple and distracting,
I say "I love you" out of habit.
I pawned your love to get us high
And you still humanized my addict.
I’ll leave behind my needle
And you can wear that dress forever.
Our purpose in this world is simple;
let's tear it down,
you and I.
Long and lonely days
lost by hope in quiet song
from sounds this wishful heart has pawned
lay broken neath my endless thoughts of you
Nights in sleepless dreams
giving way to sunless dawns
casting spells that right these wrongs
fade in shadows chasing love I thought I knew
O how I hoped you'd know
how much I really loved you so
and how my heart could never let you go
be my life and dry these tears
hear only silence from my fears
Long and lonely days
made in memories laid bare
by hopes of what we might've shared
from promises left by your sweet caress
Times I can't forget
lost in moments gone before
like sand that's cast on distant shores
from tides that's swept with waves of changing fate
O how I hoped you'd know
how much I really loved you so
and how my heart could never let you go
be my life and dry these tears
be my love and hold me near
First verse taken from previous posted poem Alone
I sometimes,
through the noise of disaffection,
hear a distant song,
with soothing comfort in its embrace,
a calling reminding in its humanity,
an echo of peace once owned
but pawned for transient needs.
Its undemanding lyric beckons without command,
reasons in metaphors
and smiles knowingly with intent.
From fading vision,
its sound grows dimmer,
even as its need grows stronger.
Would if only I could join in its refrain.
Its melody might resonate in needful spirit
to mend this weary heart
and return the memories
of why I scaled its notes.
Distant Things Contest
Sponsored By John Lawless 06/09/2016
He gazes out the window, thinking of his man
The one who left with kisses and bruises;
The one who stole his everything
Before selling it all out
For fear, for acceptance, for a little slice of 'normal',
That our window gazer cannot understand.
He watches as the palm trees sway,
Whispering their secrets to the wind
And he wonders if they know his secret:
That he would still walk into Hell,
For the man who'd pawned his soul.
"He isn't worth you," they try to tell him,
The palms that bend, but never break That are thrashing wildly in the storm outside,
The one that seems to mimic what's within him.
But, he cannot listen, our boy
Because he is deaf to all but his lover's voice.
"This isn't right," the man had said,
After years of showing different.
"I see truth," the man had said,
Using phrases that dripped with lies.
"There is no truth," our boy thinks now,
But at the time, he'd been silent,
Struck dumb, his voice as dead as the rest of him.
He gazes out the window, thinking of his man,
The one who still owns him whole, but not the one who'd sold his being.
Twilight in a silver dream,
the tide hour with gentle breeze
Grassy paths trod many times
as pawned my footsteps in dust
Remember summer's sweet fruit
with music in the hammock
In a solemn hour for thoughts
- with young eyes another world
A Game
Chequered
!
Verbose;
Pawned divinity
Words are pieces
Phrases are moves
Players' wordsmiths
Egos crowned kings
Drawn out are words
Empty stands sheath
Reveal your Chess
Strategy-Tactics
Grand master Mikhail Tal speak
On checker board strategies.
"The deep desires
Of a chess player
To lead opponent
Into deep
Forest
Dark
And
The
Path
As Way out
Narrow enough
For only one to fit.
Quintessential paradox
Of battle games with words
Insiders from their prison cages
Re-arrange pieces in endless loop
Noisy minds trapped in eerie silence
Tactics is knowing-
What's done when there’s something to do
Strategist is busy -
In making, in contemplating counter moves
The gamer: the cold calculative mover, brutal
in purpose, moves words, forward and backward
The gamer knows; the words shall be rearranged
Checkered boards of Chaotic; Noisy; Wordy; Game.
The sale
Buy one
Get Two
The-Chessmatic mover
The-Charismatic Baiter
Squarer of self and ego
the believer;the knower
Biting bytes; Now is No
In -A never ending loop
The Self
But One
Not Two
Settled-flow-words when soaked in love
Entrenched-in- compassion all powerful
Wherein in-mated in thoughts and deed
To,
Checkmate the words-as-bait- is tactics
Know,
The web of words is A dense wild forest;
It is A habitat of 'Mind's wild wanderings.
.
The gamer; moves words; fore backward
In another brutal checkered board game;
~
Not so much
a lie
with little
truth to tell
Not so much
goodbye
with greetings
gone to hell
Not so much
romance
with feelings
dead or pawned
Not so much
to dream
with sleep
— bereft and gone
(Bryn Mawr College: May, 2025)
I'm lost hurt and angry
Why did you take his life
I want, No I need to know
Tell me, Tell me why
I deserve to know
Haven't you done enough to him
What'd he ever do to you
He suffered his whole life
Suffered more than anyone deserved
Tell me, Tell me why you did it
I have a right to know
Why'd you let him born to them
Born to worthless parents
Parents who didn't care
They threw him away like garbage
Pawned him off on someone else
Tell me, Tell me why
Explain how you could do that
You gave him Polio
You let others treat him like disease
You took away the full use of his legs
You warped his hand and foot
Tell me, Explain to me why
I deserve to know
You let others think he was crazy
You let it go on for over year
You didn't stop it, Why
Tell me, Give me your reason
Answer me God, Help me to understand
You go and make matters worse
You gave him Cancer
You didn't give him a chance to fight back
You just jerked him away from us
Tell me, Tell me how
How could you be so cruel
How can others not question you
When others do it, It's murder
But when it's by your hand
It's your will, Their fate
Tell me, What makes you so different
Your no better than the demons knocking at the door
You heard me beg and plead
You know I'm not afraid to die
I was willing to carry it all for him
I was willing to take my Daddy's place
You didn't even let me say Goodbye
Tell me, Tell me why I couldn't take his place
Answer me God, you owe me that much
Spiritual
Self made men like you are rare
Such vision and passion you had to share
So sure at such an early age
Of words you placed upon a page
Love flowed through your soul and veins
And spilled upon the pages plain
You pawned everything a man can know
So sure of what you had to show
Then politics became your passion
And people's poet was your fashion
Exiled by the heads of state
Hiding was your newest fate
Until awards upon you fell
And sent you from the man made hell
And though you may no longer live
The words you left will always give.
My muse blew a fuse
Without excuse fealty did recuse
In jilting fashion without compassion
Tendered passion did stingily ration
Lofty discourse from pen did divorce
With no remorse absconded every resource
My inspiration turned to perspiration
Hopeless itinerant somewhat penitent
The bartered lexicon I did recon
A vagrant shill seeking to rill
The run-off spill pages to fill
A pilfered title would move engine from idle
An embezzled theme would ideas stream
A trite rhyme would be sublime
A pawned metaphor to open the door
A brokered simile; a borrowed metonymy
Would re-collect the literary dialect
Now shorn from mind so forlorn
Mickey mouse strung out
China white
Oh my Minnie!
Zen
Yin
Yang
Thirty days in the hole
Tattooed dream
Scattered and covered
Ketchup and eggs
Alley blues
Toe rings and silver
Gold to be pawned
Living is just passing time
‘Time, time, time is on my side’
I am waiting and the warmth of you
I see the jewelry worn proudly
I have some as well
Don't let the ring weigh
No reminder of what was
My ring is worn but it carries hope
I always wanted you to wear it
The edges are worn and battered
But the inside is smooth and new
It will give you freedom and hope
A hope that Is a sunrise
It's dark but over the horizon I am
I sit with my chains and the sun
The rays gleam golden and warm
The warmth of you
I pawned some
Pawned for relief and I can run
The sun to my back we meet
Dance without music
Slips the ring on your finger
I let you feel the worn and battered
Share my triumphs and my victory
And the breeze lifts your hair
Like a Goddess and the wind
Wisps of hair fly to me
Entangle me in your embrace
The box you carry is lighter
You and lips raw from storms
The rain has washed us clean
Rain that lifts the dirt and grime
My ring is polished and gleams
Looks better without the past
The dance will go till sunset
Waking I watch the Sun
It's the Sun from my dream
I see you and the wind
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner
"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova
He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.
Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.
Compared with your arm.