Best Riche Poems
The tulips in the vase,
a clan of lassies fair.
Their buds they hold the gold,
the pollen of their youth
and promise sunrise told,
the tulips in the vase,
they lounge in waisted glass
with petals kidskin sleek
in shades as warm as fire,
oh, glamor girls trés chic.
The tulips in the vase,
romantic redheads bloom.
Their teacup tepals filled;
ideas nouveau riche
with secrets sunset spilled,
the tulips in the vase
as Venus feeds their dreams.
Demure, in damsels’ dupe,
a still-life painting prop—
enslaved for art they droop.
She wore a tiffany hat with a bow and six big plumes of red and white,
it had an ultra wide asymmetrical brim that rolled up to one side.
When it came to dames like this I believe God ran out of humble stock !
She wore pompadour shoes, like she had nothing to lose
and rouge so red it made the cardinals have fainting spells !
Her hair was soaked in henna, elderberry & radish extract,
and I believe her dress was stitched in the boudoir of coco-channel!
She was a nouveau riche reveling in her new found fame
and everything in her life was right as rain until that fatal day,
when her hat expanded 10 x its size, growing past her shoulders
like a great big beast, of leavened yeast!
Her hat pins strained from the strain of those great big plumes,
moaning and groaning from her lithe walk and all that perfume !
Then First World War arrived and suddenly it was unpatriotic
to be concerned with one's appearance !
She was no Rockefeller and didn't own a rupee nor a heller,
so she became a steadfast loyal dame, like dear old Helen Keller .
What happened to that big old hat, with the plumes of red and white ?
She stewed it, brewed it, boiled it down then poured it in a flask,
and yes she drank it slowly,... just in case you thought to ask !
March 30/ 2025
Poet, Rich of my quiet cherry trees,
Of my peaceful lilacs like pink stones,
Rich in my willows in ardent prayer, prose,
I can finally think of your tranquil eyes.
Poète, Riche de mes cerisiers tranquilles,
De mes lilas paisibles comme des pierres roses,
Riche de mes saules en ardente prière, prose,
Je peux enfin penser à tes yeux tranquilles.
inspired by french poet Paul Verlaine
It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
To head rhymes or alliterate,
to find a word for its mate,
perhaps a rhyme to please the eye,
peut'etre French,I'll give a try;
Then vary it with a rime riche
and harmonize to find a niche;
One of the identical kind ?
internal ryhme is on my mind,
slang or,royal for this rhymist
a knighthood bring,if I persist !
the Manitou heathen have sunken two of your majesty's king Rupert's ships a fierce battle with in minutes after a warning of shots fired by your ships the heathen technology far greater than your majesty has ever seen even one heathen infantrymen equipped with a shiny silver bow like device which can place a cannon size hole through the bow like dragons fire the intensity was devastating straight as an arrow the fiery projectile about the same size The canons and rifle men were of little use for the heathen men appeared as grey wolves like something from a mad Merlyn's vision then vanished before our eyes we have withdrawn to the safety of the seas and moving southerly to hope a hidden cove while retreating we were hailed a voice reverberating all around us from some strange megaphone the Manitou rise seeing our plight we request your majesty orders king of Britannia - we now fear upon seeing the Nouveau riche lands of these new borders
Decades ago, we met one afternoon
the talk was of change that was coming soon.
Betty Jean's dad gave his insightful view
that the elite life may not continue -
in his gracious estate on Cheswold Lane
across from the Cricket Club's courts of fame.
Peering out of his big picture window
and wondering which way the winds would blow.
Trying to fit in, find ways to belong
breathing in deeply, singing life's sweet song.
Who were we? Who did we dare think we were?
Chasing into life in a blazing blur.
Part of the "in-crowd", on top of the heap,
privileges afforded, no fear to leap.
Cliques became a fated cloistered class
we never thought that this could come to pass.
Nothing could catch us, or so we all thought,
futures so firm, the best that could be bought.
Main Line culture fell into slow decline
in a way the blue bloods could not define.
Wealthy old families lost their tight hold
the nouveau riche then surged forward bold.
This happens looking through the picture glass
dependent on birthright coupled with class.
Who'd thought bucolic beauty so brittle?
Certainly not us, we knew so little.
Couplet 26 lines 196 words
Color Pencil illustration by G. Gaul
Reference to the area of Main Line Philadelphia's
Merion Cricket Club
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?
Albeit cold shower with sudden zoo
ming onset of
brisk fallen temperatures
may not be amenable to you
dear reader, but after Matthew
sets to washing
creating substantial lather,
visited with healthy slew
of frothed shampooed hair do
(cuz - jest like
Spongebobsquarepants,
I like abundant suds),
which initial shock
of cold water jolts mine
body inducing "Whew"
to escape soaped over mouth
(here, lemme lean in
so yukon get a whiff)
this self proscribed
quasi (very diluted off the
Peco boo grid) deprivation
of hot H2O tolerance,
qua minimal self
elected survivalist
modus operandi value
bull electric kool aid acid test
undertaken in the
event devastating adversity
(mainly an electricity
power outage) doth render
livingsocial uncomfortably
cold to the bone and sinew,
where mind over matter decides
riches superfluous,
especially if parvenu,
when scads of back up
generators conk out
total unbelievable wreckage,
sans the overnight
natural germane Blitzkrieg
imposes savage apocalyptic
devastating hellacious milieu
(on account of a mega disaster
such as hurricane Michael), who
doth not indiscriminate
toward gentile or Jew
obliterating entire infra
structure super glue
equalizing economic disparity hew
wing fair playing field reducing
whether disposable wealth harkens
from "old" money, and/or nouveau
riche, this sudden
catastrophic event brew
till lee decrees indeterminate
penury, and trappings
of theoretical leisure class
bon voyage every stitch of cloth,
and other material goods
forcibly bade i.e. adieu.
re-post inspired by John's contest
To head rhymes or alliterate,
to find a word for its mate,
perhaps a rhyme to please the eye,
peut'etre French,I'll give a try;
Then vary it with a rime riche
and harmonize to find a niche;
One of the identical kind ?
internal ryhme is on my mind,
slang or,royal for this rhymist
perhaps a trophy emoji,if I persist !
Folk art
and flowers,
'spiky baroque'-
nouveau riche decorative
motifs
http://www.kettererkunst.com/bio/dagobert-peche-1887.shtml
http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hi/hi_pechedag.htm
So he loaded up the fossil fuel and they moved to Beverly
Hills that is, Hollywood, movie stars ? Afore their golden years...
Her Queen of Buckingham Palace sent for Shakespeare as to enquire
His nether worlds nouveau riche nostrum Prince, Nightingale Night Blindness
If their Fab Four would be accompanying King Abbooboo to the Jim Crow festival during
Astarte's, William the Conqueror's, Normandy of Christopher Columbus', avant-garde days ?
Signant his reply carried past the Black Hills of Dunderhead Falls; via Her Whites Templer Thee, Search'light.
What if I happened to win the lottery
What would I do with the money
Spend it on all kinds of frivolous things
Or a year long trip with my honey
Eat in restaurants three times a day
Choose the richest item on the menu
Act like a snobbish old mucky muck
And obnoxious no matter the venue
They'd surely know I was 'nouveau riche'
By my big mouth flamboyant air
But I wouldn't care, with a bulging wallet
I'd do everything with panache and flair
Quite a pipe dream I'm currently having
Not a chance this lovable jester
Could be anything but the belle of the ball
A vision of beauty in polyester
Odds are about fourteen million to one
So I won't be buying the beer
More chance of becoming a cultural icon
Like Mylie or Britney Spears
© Jack Ellison 2012
I try to imagine how it must be for you to feel this way,
rising like the undead under deep coffin skies,
when Death warmed over looks healthier by far,
lurching blindly in the dawn with pallid face and bleary eyes.
To be the nouveau riche where addict illness is concerned,
the candle burned both ends with your superficial wealth,
I flinch to think your currency is all but used and spent,
a lifestyle, it would seem, so detrimental to your health.
What if blood might streak ceramic in the toilet bowl,
your tongue a piece of liver on an acrid cocktail stick?
Would you wonder if it's ever been as bad as this before,
do you pray that paracetamol and coffee does the trick?
Is it even less amusing when you start to sweat and shake,
with the sun spraying rays of sawdust in your eyes?
Does the low hum of the 'fridge heard beyond the kitchen door
resonantly escalate into a swarm of buzzing flies?
Does the snap and thud of pumping blood go Click.Boom! in your skull,
a cerebro-vascular accident set loose within your head?
Lord I wish that you would give it up, I'm missing you so much,
see the light that leads you home, and return to me instead...
I, GOT A RHYME
To head rhymes or alliterate,
to find a word for its mate,
perhaps a rhyme to please the eye,
peut'etre French,I'll give a try;
Then vary it with a rime riche
and harmonize to find a niche;
One of the identical kind ?
internal ryhme is on my mind,
slang or,royal for this rhymist
a knighthood bring,if I persist !