I rhyme for coins,I rhyme for fame,
But landlords rhyme with none of the same
They want rent,not metaphor
They say'' your poem won't mop the floor.
I wrote a sonnet,soft and brave-
He mailed it back: ''Pay or Pave!''
So now I rhyme to save my head,
My muse sleeps hungry, my landlord's fed.
Bubbling babbling burbling banter brimming at the bar
First sup.. hush…memory lane trip rush..nicely tickled
Plush lace ebbed…lush beer swirls race webbed
Whirls..down dimpled dappled jar....nicely pickled
Pagans perch….sip druid fluid drip…Iris’s secular church
Trumpet tradition.. beacons blush in embers of the past
Cluttered classy cast of polished pewter..ballsy brass
Whimsy wafting across tobacco tinted tainted times
Parched patrons quaffing while cavorting with crannies
Carousing with nooks sporting timber flannelled panels
As sons then become dad..on the same pews with their lad
Lawyer betwixt a tyro…local employer..bumpkin on the giro
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before
Gracious Landladies…loquacious landlords near and far..
Who let us roam in our home from home we raise our jar
To every special space.. familiar face in that third place..ta
Narrow winding road passing through the stretched fields
A flock of white storks strutting on the ridges
As if they were the landlords
Slight warbles and trills of birds
I went on enjoying the symphony during my morning walk
A chaos...
The purring of a gasoline car
All the birds soared upwards with a flapping
One confused stork flew in the reverse course
And hit the hood of the car
A thudding sound followed by a weak wailing
I sensed what had happened
Saddened at the sight of the discoloured bird
The static stork plucked my heart strings
An unknown bird...
Still, turbulence in my heart
The hard lucked bird has become my storyline
My tranquil RIP to the hapless soul!
Premiere Contest : 3rd Place
Public Corruption
During, prior and passed the handling of homeless surplus, and perhaps it requires the specifics of stating, only homeless surplus, there was no evaporation nor limitation to the law ordering the handling of the homeless installation of surplus housing money, earmarked only for the ability to acquire buildings for the homeless who are landlords in California worth 100's of millions of dollars in every city of California.
No penny may be touched by another in language or otherwise. There will be no lawful adjust of the penny in homeless surplus.
I grew up in a rural, seaside spot.
Where winters were cold, and summers were hot.
Spent sunny days on the riverbank fishing all day.
Until the bailiff came and chased us away.
We’d play games on the beach and soak up the sun.
Until strangers arrived and ended our fun.
They took over the beach and shooed us away.
And told us to find somewhere else to play.
More and more strangers arrived every year.
The farms were all built on as jobs disappeared.
The strangers kept coming and were happy to pay.
When our landlords sold out, we could no longer stay.
The place is now heaving on hot summer days.
The remaining few busy on minimum wage.
Priced out of the village where we had all grown.
A winter a ghost town, we once called home.
Our magical haven of tranquillity
Is now full of holiday homes and Airbnb’s.
The farm hands and fishermen no longer belong.
The strangers now own it and the locals have gone.
Real eyes see truth where the neon dies,
real lies get sold in the tourist guides.
I realize Harlem’s still beating inside,
though condos creep up and the rents multiply.
Real highs in the drums on a Saturday night,
real cries in the dark when the bills get tight.
Surreal eyes dream past the gentrified scene,
where bodegas were kingdoms and the block was a queen.
Reel lies keep playing on the subway wall,
but real ties still gather when the elders call.
I realize Harlem’s a poem, a hymn,
no matter who’s moving out or who’s moving in.
Real eyes catch the cracks in the concrete,
real lies get whispered where the landlords meet.
I realize Harlem ain’t sleeping—it fights,
its pulse in the corner, its soul in the nights.
Real highs in the jazz spilling out of a door,
real cries when the system don’t love us no more.
Reel lies keep spinning on a flashing screen,
but surreal eyes still guard the unseen.
Real ties in the roots of this sacred ground,
real wise in the stories the elders pass down.
I realize Harlem’s not fading away—
it’s stitched in my blood, it’s here to stay.
I am poor and Black, living in Florida,
Where the sun shines bright but justice hides.
My rent climbs higher than my paycheck dares,
And landlords call it legal—so it stands.
I walk through heat that melts my hope,
No breeze for me, no break in sight.
Police lights flicker like a warning flame—
Too often, they stop me, never explain.
The schools my children go to bleed neglect,
Their ceilings sag, their textbooks torn.
We drink from pipes that are made of lead,
And grocery stores are distant ghosts.
A hurricane comes—I have no car.
Shelters full, roads closed, options none.
They say, “Be resilient,” from mansions high,
While mold creeps in like silent blight.
At polls, my ID is “not quite right,”
So my voice is muffled under laws.
Hospitals stare at me with shrugs,
“Pre-existing,” they sigh, then bill me blind.
Still, I rise each morning, wary, worn—
To face the day before it's gone,
And that, my friends, is a sad program.
that would be perfect
maybe a touch excessive
as it's enormous
for just a basic meal deal
scissors and hair dye
of course there is the lipstick
but it will be fine
for several pairs of shoes
plus changes of clothes
when I get tomorrow's train
towards Manchester
speedily changing platforms
to another town
where landlords still accept cash
and don't ask questions
my bruises will fade in time
I will find a job
somehow I will start again
if I buy this bag
for me and my brand new life.
On one’s ability, nothing wrong to confide
needless gratification, glory hunting is wide
chances of victory from a one-man army divide.
Resilience that is bloated will be swallowed by the tide
seeking attention is their life, on a horse it rides
to condescend and to look down also riding side by side.
High-level difficulty to follow a guide
adopting modesty and quiet, the desire had lied
even in the smallest hole, self-importance won’t hide.
Everything seems beneath, so nothing to abide
the house caught a self-inflicting fire, and its residents died
the same report is of the properties whose landlords are pride.
Back of the stockyards, over 100 years ago
Immigrants were easy prey, as many now know
Landlords would slap paint over rat-infested dwellings
then twirling their moustaches, they’d begin selling
Those dilapidated structures with four-color brochures
hawking them as 'visions of paradise,’ sure to allure
Prospective buyers, trembling ‘greenhorns’
all too soon shorn
Of their entire life savings, only to find ~
that ‘rent’ was just half of what for they had signed
(Precious hearts robbed blind)
My dear landlords, it is my hope,
To tell you how your tenants grope.
For all their work, their time is spent,
While you, with riches, are content.
They struggle through, each and every day,
While you seem blind, in your own way.
But I know that your heart's not cold,
If you'd just see, what I behold.
Your tenants, if you'll only see,
Are human beings, like you and me.
You may not know the daily strife,
Your tenants face, in their daily life.
They long for more, and strive each day,
To make their lives a better way.
They say we struggle til we die,
If that's the case I don't want to fight to stay alive,
Feels like a crime,
Stealing money from our pockets the government doesn't leave us a dime,
Homelessness is at an all time high,
Yet Trudeau fills the media with all his lies,
Bring in the democracy,
Where's the inaccuracy,
We are worst off now than the great depression,
The people are getting worse with regression,
It's easier to by alcohol and drugs then food or a roof over our heads,
A fire in our hearts is dying,
As well as our want to live
No one wants to work when it doesn't do a dent,
They think it's easy paying off rent,
Landlords squeeze you for everything you don't have and expect you to repent,
They say we struggle til we die,
That's life,
I don't think I can take another strife,
I don't want to die,
But I'm not surviving,
I'm six feet in debt,
How are we supposed to pay,
I don't want to stay,
But there's no hope for the poor,
And to care for others is a chore when you have nothing to give,
They say we struggle til we die,
So here I lie in the debt of a ditch,
wishing to be buried and just get it over with.
Gilgamesh O’Malley left his home in Fermanagh
With dreams of steaming plates of Irish stew.
He ate his last potato last time Sheamus paid the rent.
Since then, there’s not been very much to chew.
The lords of the Ascendancy express paternal care
By flaunting all their privileges of wealth,
While tenant souls like Gilgamesh subsist on gospel words
Unsuited for the maintenance of health.
The famine’s grip was guaranteed by what was done to help;
The landlords’ ledgers chronicled events.
The mighty Earl of Lucan and the rest lived absentee,
Their middlemen kept busy squeezing rents.
So, Gilgamesh O’Malley left his home in Fermanagh,
And climbed aboard a packet ship in Cobh.
He authored his own epic as an immigrant at large,
To brave the flood and find a decent job.
Gilgamesh O'Malley left his home for foreign shores.
Should the Fates condemn your destiny, his fortune could be yours.
Hearts are meant to be opened, aren't they?
You never failed to make me feel unloved!
With your charming face, charismatic voice, vibrant soul
I recall heartbreaking moments...
I recall a visit to your ailing son, spent barely ten minutes
together, left him empty-handed
I recall moments calling you countless times,
days to the exam to receive the school fees you promised
Frantically ignored calls
Remembering two months' rent was due,
Landlords on my neck, sadly my door was shut
I recall moments being rained on from school,
Not because I lacked shelter but because my house was shut
I recall moments of being dashed out of the exam room, not because I engaged in exam malpractice but because you failed to pay my school fee
I recall countless heartbreaking moments...
Days pass, don't they?
Someday when you need a bill to be settled too
I will be watching, not because you failed to be a dad, but because you never failed to make me feel unloved
Someday you will need money to run tipsy maybe you will
Say my eldest son abandoned me but I will be watching
Because time is kind, and God is fair
What’s coming next, will there be homes?
Or nothing left to own just rented space?
Thoughts paid to the cultural landlords,
do we see we too can become infested?
Eventual decline of any clear logic,
followed the leader now you’re drowning;
I don’t want the money,
I want the freedom that it brings.
Bought and sold is what we must avoid,
trapped by a calm sea of go with it;
It’s easy to stay put and take a hand out;
No independence because why bother?
A virtual destination is just enough
to quell curiosity to experience a place;
No need to see the world and travel;
Easy to control nothing’s missing. Right?
I don’t want the money,
I want the freedom that it brings.
Soulless now they took your passport,
cut off ‘The Man’ trying to restrain you;
Rockets in flight, a boat, a car ride;
Powers that be want you dormant
content with mediocre and a table scrap;
Bring back ‘Work hard. Play hard.’
I don’t want the money,
I want the freedom that it brings.
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