Long Poverty Poems
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At the End of the Tour
David J Walker
We would never have survived the poverty
Of the poets poetry
Nor the selling of souls for papered wealth
The death and rebirth and growth
from distant worlds
Abandoning the learned language of
Specific lovers and the invention of
Nuances waisted on foreign ears
Still
I loved you like the duty of a soldier
On foreign soil
I loved you with limited time intimidated
By the clock I forgot to wind
I loved you because the air you breathed
Tasted of the words of your foreign tongue
I loved you somehow knowing
The flag I was baring
Must be folded and put away
At the end of the tour
I loved you until our vehicle
Ran out of gas
And we both walked home
Alone
In different directions
Father God is rich
Eternally rich in Grace
Yet His Son was poor
Born poor for our sake
So everyone's good enough
To receive His Gift
Divine Poverty
Blessed are the poor in spirit
Theirs is the Kingdom
The Word became flesh...
(To understand each other)
...And dwelt among us
My heart's full of song
Angels we have heard on high!
Angels are poor too
A message, a song
Words are angels' sweetest gifts
And they enrich us
We have heard angels
Just like the song says we do
Telling us: love God!
God is loveable
Especially as a child
Angels sing to Him
Angels sing to us
Come and see, come and see Him
He's born, hold-able
In a manger laid
Mary, Joseph, lend your aid
Angels accolade
Becoming a child
This is how God reached our lives
An example set
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Originally posted by me on PoetrySoup back in 2018
(under the user name: MichellePoeTry)
Based on:
"The Smile of the Ragpicker" by Paul Glynn,
“Angels We Have Heard on High” lyrics,
the Beatitudes,
Luke 2, and John 1:14.
Another man has passed away,
Another soul has passed away without casting a silhouette.
Another son is growing into another man,
Who will one day pass away like all those before him.
To the deceased man, living had just been a burden,
He is now called 'downtrodden'.
But those who call him so
Have never been thus tagged in their glorious lives.
To the deceased man, life was a chain of systems,
Where the chain could neither be loosened nor broken.
To others, only his body mattered and when he tried to speak out,
It was nobody's concern in this tremendous town.
To the deceased man's family, death is nothing but a mere turmoil.
They have more crucial jobs to do,
They must run the machines and feed the system.
Smoke in the lungs can never be a headache for the downtrodden.
If the man were just another machine,
That machine might not be washed with pure, scented water.
But it would be both calm and content,
Never to be called 'downtrodden'.
Two or too provoking thoughts
A safe place i write of and at
We both travel throught
And in the invisible line
I am not found
The civil rights protests
Doth though forge ahead
Inside the building as I?
Outside of poverty, all night
The watching of blind
The picket lines of before
Your grocery and your store
Am i stored in place as safe?
Tolerant to entrance and cake?
To check out the freedom
Taking home no reading
Behind you i must climb aboard
Slaveries vessel ever toward
Another defeat beneath the heels
Furious and patience rarely fields
Inner city, inner doctor
Slumming transpiring caustically talking
Duality’s diagram to read and reflect
A lens and inspection, mapping intuition
In the war, in the cold, leading quietly
Awaiting snow
The crane’s lurking plunge
Hello in painting spunge
Again, once more, my defeat
For yours
There's a stash of swag and bling in Lady Liberty's lamp.
If you look closely enough, her tablet says:
"To succeed, you can grind along or just be a tramp.
You could spin cycle the system -be another government lamb.
Pick your @ss up and become your own woman or man."
There are the privileged, but they're rarer than one might think.
It's not a good fit for 300 million blue-collar workers you see on the street.
Hate is thriving in the darkest and brightest corners of society.
But in no way is it just a triple K or white supremacy thing.
It's crept into black and brown hearts and is gathering steam.
The media makes a lot of green from spinning on our misery.
Crime-gangs and poverty run ablaze in every big city,
Addiction painted on every pillar of low and high society.
Laws are lax, and punishments are getting a little too breezy.
Taxes go to the ogres who get perfume dabbed on the wrist.
Three squares- free medical, recreation, education, meditation.
Access to the internet to torment their victims again and again.
Freedom is never for free, but pursuit of happiness just may be.
Darkness wants to bend the barrel of the Second Amendment.
Chainsaw liberty-pull the tongue from the mouth of free speech.
Tear down every nativity scene while buffing up the pentagram.
Treating the black book and starry flag like back-alley snot rags.
Without doubt, a second civil war is stirring in the soil.
The blood is filling the pot and coming to a rolling boil
The desperately wise are hoarding caliber-scripture and bread.
Painting a winking bull's-eye on the soon-to-be dead...
Where in the he!! is our wayward God in all this mess?
Humans' prominent promises were shattered
Mingling, striking, searing, poorly down-pattered
They react quickly and pause to stay conscious
And in the face of denial, that's just obnoxious.
Poverty appears in a variety of forms and shapes
Money is now an issue, as are dreamy escapes!
I'm putting forth a real smorgasbord of hunger
It shatters the ego jaws aiming to rise stronger.
He clutched a placard in his withered hand
Near him, his malnourished toddler takes a stand
Eyes as large and round as plates without food
Asking to be served."Everything that helps is good".
Low-income minds were trained to overlook the pain
Adorable infant food wishes are refused once again
Before the fire, as his wife vanished, he hailed above
Is money clashing with his view of a serene dove?
Totality jingles like a dead man's pocket coins
Life is hammering a beggar pocket, hot loins
Healed seems to be a loss that only labor has faced
Free and single, with no rent to pay, the past is erased.
We believe that we are all-knowing genius
Only we can confront this moral weakness
Disengage from one another and the Divine
Where trust and respect are the core lines.
History reveals the true heroes of its time
We were led to the truth by an unseen sublime
We are a forsooth haughty and conceited race
Hiding from all the divine facts in the face.
Written: March 27, 2023
2nd place contest winner
Theme#1: Poverty
Writing Challenge - 'P' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
High society has always been
High above the rest
High in their castle and oasis
High in the penthouse and palace
High in the big house and gated suburb.
While the rest wander the hills and fields
Streets and alleys, making a living
Or scraping a living.
Seeking greener lands of the free
Ever westward;
Pilgrims and pioneers, trappers and traders
Roughnecks and rednecks
Seeking their own jackpot
From the Klondike to Vegas.
High and low have always existed side by side
One above, one below
It’s no different today
Just more of both
With the gap between wider than ever.
But what really is high and low?
Are those at the top better as well as richer,
And those at the bottom really less than?
One man’s wealth is another’s poverty
The loss of freedom within a gilded cage.
What is richness, or beauty, for that matter
If it is only measured against another
And not a natural quality of just being alive?
The gap between have and have nots
Is material, but that gap is easier to cross
Than the inner gap that doesn’t know
And cannot see what real wealth, beauty
Freedom and exalted being really means.
(9/22/26)
End of the Line
Yes, I've Known of Hunger
And I Know the Poverty Line
I'm Sure Some Have it Worse than Me
And We're Fighting Hard Against Time
You May Wonder How I Got Here
Well Buddy, So Do I
There Was a Time I Had it All
But That Was in Days Gone by
They Closed down the Factory
I Had Worked There Twenty Years
There Was Nothing That Could Stop it
Not Even My Children's Tears
I Lost My Wife and Family
They're Somewhere Way out West
I'll Find a Job Somehow
Then I'll Give Them the Very Best
It's Hard to Keep a Positive Thought
Amidst the Pain and Sorrow
But I Try to Keep in Mind
Things Will Get Better...Tomorrow
Connie Moore
I traveled and see
The mount of glory
Where animal and person
Live as friends
The mountain of peace
Caries two peaks
Home of wonders
Guests be keen on
Mawenzi is the smaller
Kibo is the taller
They all have snow
Melts to life juice
The mountain is splendor
Tanzania must celebrate
sheltered colonizers and travelers
Kilimanjaro is the mount
Where lord was worshiped
A mount of glory where glory lives
Dare not missing once in being
People come people go
They dare again going
They felt the beauty
More and they live
Our friends and neighbors
Live in mount’s gossip
That we play and teasing
Though lucky than them
Still illiterate and stupid
Of all the years!
No body had volunteered
Made policies
that attract sightseer
Only is thought
pouching and smuggling
I hate this life, full of poverty
On natural richness!
The New Morality
Trump has spoken, we get up from our chairs and salute, actually not.
The fact is, we are tired of this endless war
That is economically viable for many, an industry of death
we do not see on the factory floor where weapons are made.
A morbid industry, many states need to stave off poverty and
unemployment. Weapons used are someone’s property.
We are backward, us humans we have yet to understand that
most work is not needed, give people money so they can go
climb rocks and go fishing in the stream, swim in the ocean, and
enjoy life, which is an interval between deaths. We have finally
reached the zenith of existence, yet we, for an outdated reason, insist
everyone should work till they drop. Relax, let the Middle East
find its own nirvana.