Best Rich Poems
So what are the Rule's ?
You wish to place place this wager on ?
And how is the Jury then to Judge ?
Your Bank Account
Your Real Estate
Your Stocks and Share's
Minks and Furs
Supercars , Jewel's and Gold
Versus
My 2nd Mortgage
10 year old Car
Overdrafts
And rising Credit Card Bills
Based on this alone I fear you win this wager
Hands down no contest
But what if we raised the stakes
To what we could actually
take with us to our grave
Like Friends and Family
Those we have blessed
Lives we had touched
I fear my Foe
The Currency in Death you shall seek
Will not be measured
In Money and Gold
But rather in Deed's and Actions
And whether or not you will be missed
Chandelier earrings dangling
Golden bangles jingling
Thick long raven hair
Twisted and pinned in swirls
With ornate gold embellishment
Luxuriously wrapped
In silk and brocade
Lavish lengths
Of rich flamboyant colors
Parading effortlessly
Their exotic saris
Swaying in graceful rhythm
Gliding by on air
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~NAMASTE~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on June 17, 2019 for contest YOUR CHOICE (10) IMAGIST STYLE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
Gold as far
As the eye can see
In awe I stood
As the sun lit up
Everything around me
Instant heiress
Of a golden estate
With unimaginable
Gilded treasures
My heart overflowed
Then in a split second
The clouds rolled back
And took it all away
My riches and my heart
Published in my photo/poetry book ~WEALTH~ 2019
AP: 2nd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on June 7, 2019 for contest YOUR CHOICE (4) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
Dr. Seuss-style-Mister Obama Please Tax The Rich Man!
Mister Obama please tax the rich man!
The cost's are up.
The pay is down.
Tax.
TAX!
All over town.
There is tax on GAS!
There is tax on tan.
Mister Obama please tax the rich man.
There is tax on CARS.
There is tax on trees.
There is tax on our food.
No
More tax.
Please!
We can't pay.
There is tax
On LAND.
ROCKS, DIRT, SAND
There is tax.
There is tax
This I know
On tobacco, too.
But tax, tax, TAX!
The rich do, do, DO!
Mister Obama
Please tax the
Rich man!
There is tax on pills.
There is tax on HEALTH.
There is tax on insurance
Just for wealth.
Just for wealth
There is tax
On telecom.
And on low tech
And CD-ROM.
Mister Obama
Change the queue.
Tax the rich man.
Just do, do, DO!
Now start this show!
Please Mister O.!
There's even tax on electricity.
There is tax on our dog...
Ducks and hog.
There is tax on our water
And imbibements we drink.
There is tax on our underwear
...and clothes.
Middle class has floundered.
It shows!
Mister Obama!
Tax the rich man.
Mister Obama!
Please tax the
Rich man!
It's time
For
No
More
Drama!
Tax the rich man
Please...
Mister Obama.
deborah burch©
4/30/2012
Book: "Marvin K. Mooney will you please go now!" by Dr. Seuss
If I had more than my share of gold.
Ranked favorably with Mr. Gates,
I'd travel forth to see the world,
Try all the lavish food that sates.
December would find me cruising south
And taking all my friends along.
We'd sail the seas and live in style
And without worries sing our song.
Spring would take me back again
To the snug house he built for me.
I'd walk the boundaries of my land
And give up all thoughts of the sea.
No riches could entice me to
Move from this home built with much love.
We nestled here for many years
Until God took him up above.
I love each tree that he had planted,
Each blade of grass so fresh and green.
Most of the time our climates mild,
The skies are blue, the winds serene.
Wealth cannot make me leave this spot
Here in the lovely Puget Sound.
My home between mountains and sea
Lies where I'm always homeward bound.
October 27, 2015
By Ezar
As snow flakes fall to cover the side walk my people get tired of the side talk
Work for me You won't be financially but at least you put a couple gifts under the tree
At least you can get your car fixed while I pull off in a new mercades
Oh ya make sure you fill out the paperwork for welfare
I will have my secretary sign it while I set by my pool in Bellaire
Have you ever been there you can smell the sweetness of success in the air
How is Jamal doing
I almost cried when I heard someone was at his school shooting
Thank goodness my son goes to the same school as the son of Patrick Ewing
You can stay in my guest house if you thinking about moving
Rent free that's the least I can do for someone who works for me
I was going to stop by but that part of town is too rough for me
I wanted you to meet my daughter she just got her masters degree
So she can take over the business after me
You know how important it is to leave a legacy
What collage is Jamal going to or is he still going to the army
I hear they pay for college tuition
I told my son its not worth it when your arms and legs missing
But I understand Jamal got to do what he got to do
Giving Jamals hand he got to move how he has to move
Well I have to go watch for the stocks on the news
See you on Monday I hope your situation improves Peace
If money was no object I wonder where I’d go
I’d love to visit friends who have just moved to Orlando
I could buy a wonderful mansion packed full of treasure
With servants to wait on me, so I could enjoy my leisure
But to move away from everything I know doesn’t appeal to me
Money doesn’t buy you happiness - well not from what I can see
So in reality I would not move away from my little house
I’d give my fortune to charity and live like a church mouse
When I leave this mortal coil I could look down from my home in the clouds
See that others have benefited, for there are no pockets in shrouds
10~21~15
If You Were Rich
Sponsor Mystic Rose
For Richard Lamoureux's "Any line" contest.
Richard Seale-d Door's line: slammed shut are the doors in "A mind made up".
You told me before
slammed shut are the doors
when my love for you went astray
I got my comeuppance
he's worth not a tuppence
and rumor has it he's gay
Lest I've need of another
visit to me brother
sometime for a quick howdy-do
or longing for discourse
in code as of Morse
on the stealth oiled a hinge, p'haps two
Ah, found me a crack
Leech-a is back
my love for the other's dissipated
you smile goodly, warmly
longingly, lovingly
my return welcome and anticipated
Delysia Hendricks
It was a week before my eighteenth birthday;
I was a drug dealer. Hooked also, but with no cares.
From a small town where no one had any money,
I figured I would get off like the rich kids whose daddies bought their freedom.
But my daddy was a convict, and he had no money.
He only had a son, me.
The judge decided to make an example of me.
Because there would be no fuss.
Because I was a poor boy from a poor family,
and my family was deemed “bad”.
I was “bad” by association, and of course, my mother was the town whore. Which did not help.
So they put me in for twenty-five years, and I was not even eighteen.
Don’t worry, a public defender who did not know me lied.
You might have to serve eight.
I got into fights because I did not want to do what others did.
I wanted to keep myself for myself.
Or for a nice girl.
I was a horrible inmate.
The guards were always dragging me to the prison doctor.
I got sent away before I was eighteen.
I came out a week before my forty-third birthday.
My youth spent in prison, with others who made a mistake,
most of them poor, many black.
I was one of the few whites in there,
because they do not usually make examples of us.
But I was a poor kid from a poor family,
and they wanted to make an example of me.
Lesson learned. Try to be rich in America.
And do not make any mistakes if you are black or poor.
The rich man had one reason to smile,
The poor man only had a million...
If I Were Rich
If I were rich, where would I live and why?
Perhaps that would depend on what is rich.
Is rich a state of mind that we apply
to wants, compared to what we have, to which
we wish for more? Suppose new wealth for me
would fill a greater want to move somewhere
away from home? Perhaps live happily
aboard a yacht to languish in the air
of sea with endless waves that splash the shore?
Just sunny skies and cotton clouds to see?
Unwise to change my life for want of more,
when more might lead to lone tranquility.
If I were rich I would not change my ways.
With family close by, live out my days.
Sandra M. Haight
~NA~
Contest: If You Were Rich, Where Would You Live and Why?
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Judged: 11/15/2015
Champagne and wine
Elixirs of the elite's delight
beverages of the upper classes
as they rendezvous and converse
amid soirées decked in elegance
mingling among their
latest art acquisitions
envied, even by the Louvre
The wonderful taste of caviar
In opulent ballrooms, near and far
where aristocrats and fashion find their air
ah yet sometimes I ponder
how the toiling working class
gets through monotonous days
I imagine them after their grind
at the Cox N Bull Tavern
drinking and lapping cheap O'keefe beer
chugging down their boredom
in idle gossip
planning petty crimes
No greasy treats from chippie van;
I have my starch now au, gratin
with blasted, deconstructed bass,
petits pois, served; in Demi tasse.
No pint of best down at the pub
I drink with chums now at the club;
Prosecco, or a Chardonay
depending on the time of day.
No picking up the kids from school;
done by Au pair now; as a rule;
she turns up in our four by four
dressed top to toe in old Dior
No visits to the Home Depot
I have ten craftsmen now in tow;
who add things at my beck and call
to my enormous stately hall.
No need to visit family;
They all now want to come see me,
drink all my wine, then use the pool;
methinks they take me for some fool!
There's nothing left that I can buy;
so why, you ask, that big old sigh?
I have new friends, but here's the rub;
I miss my mates down at the pub.
Yes, being rich is such a bore!
In my home, waiting arms hold me,
Sweet smiles make me welcome,
Tails wag no matter what the time,
Eyes light up at the sight of me.
In my yard, trees shade me from heat
And protect me from rain,
Flowers pop up and flourish,
Giving me fragrance and beauty.
In my garden, life unfolds in many ways.
I have the privilege to watch baby
Plants being born. I help nourish them,
They trust me.
My garden snake watches me,
“Lucy” the yellow and black spider
Helps me catch bugs,
And Cardinals humor my attempt to converse.
Purple Martins show their trust
By coming back to nest,
Giving the pleasure of watching
Those babies grow and take flight.
At night, everlasting Diamonds
Sparkle over my house,
And that big, shining globe spreads
Silver beams on my walks.
My sky is endless,
My oceans ever mysterious,
My mountains are ageless,
And my roads lead into eternity.
Not in tea leaves, in shoelaces tie existence--their harsh and meshing material
bound, tethered, undone with a gentle pull.
The bunny ears
and clumsy fingers bouncing along the faux-marble
hallways: the future politicians and CEO's and poets
wiping caked mucus on the white-washed brick foundations--
babbling babbling babbling babbling.
A blood-stone bed surge of tidal maturation,
soon to be lost in the variant eddies of life;
the finger-painted puzzle-box open and unsolvable.
Their parents, for they are honorable, as
picket-fences are honorable, as
tracksuits are honorable, as
Zoloft is honorable, sit ajar
on school streets of vibrant myriad cars quietly dilapidating
behind Armor-All dashes. Old ladies waving dutifully
at lifeless lawn ornaments like lifeless lawn ornaments soon themselves in front of homes because
the youth only want something old when it's time to marry,
Googling what the heart feels for the occasion.
Smokestack color windows of depreciating souls searching drunken
down the glossy oak
bar through bent light of whiskey glasses and broken values
they blame on Nietzsche and the price of condoms,
finding a sad reflection seated at this world's dampened end to spread
like ashen snow
again and again and again on sweat-stained futons,
after the lurch toward the water, sloppy with kisses
and lace.
Church bells sound off one and two
O! clock tower
marching Heaven to Hell but got lost in Devil's Lake. They do not hear
the beaten shopping cart radio wobbling like a tripodal Dog,
telling us Jesus stayed inside because White is translucent in the rain.
But,
the wander-footed waywards, leaden eyed, tranced in droning hums of small town streetlights--
or red red copper hangers
or lucid jaundice confessions
or gangrenous light-slivered closets--
break half-empty
beer bottles on familial-faced slogans plastered to an under-bellied bridge and sway
like ebbing wind on the unsure-step shore banks, drooping wasp legs
over the ever-rising precipice
to vein-rush Hellgrammite powder
with their one remaining shoelace
and leave their shoes behind.