There's a shindig in town where the upper class flocks
This societal stuff Joe constantly mocks
bow tie and black shiny shoes
entry for Joe they politely refuse
If you want to come in wear more than a pair of brief jocks
Poetry soup admin I do commend
no poetry division do you recommend
There seems to be some poets who think they're upper class
Me a pleb who's down below think the idea of division is a farce
Some poems that are posted
I cannot make head nor tail
In a class I term esoteric
Does this mean as a poet
my poetry attempts deserve to fail
For me the point of posting poems
whatever form I've written the reader understands
Who would be the referees to decide what poems meet a standard
The decision by the Poetry Soup admin I do clap my hands
This social status brings me to my knees, as I sense a divide, a widening disease.
The upper class, devoid of any pride, spreads their lies and hide behind the media while
others silently bide.
They try to appease, ignoring the pleas of those in need, lost in the social freeze.
A creed that breeds, like a newly sprouted seed, fostering division, where hatred's the creed.
While they preach to the masses, those dealt a cruel fate, social structures thrive, but their
hearts are sedate.
This creed only nourishes greed at the top, while so many struggle, just trying to stop.
elderly and Helen Mirren
It is hard work to be old; many people prey on us, the elderly
My wife is better at telling people to fob off than I am
When people tell me a sob story, I tend to believe
What they, why else will they tell
My wife and I are very different; she likes to speak to
people in a cafe or a waiting room at the doctor's, yes, we
Do see many doctors, with age comes the infirmary
I sit there and try not to look at the clock
She comes from an upper-class family without money
I am from a modest background with a tendency not to spend
money, but safe for a day, it might rain, and we will be
caught in the downpour without an umbrella
Yes, in public, we hold hands, we get the condescending
glances, oh, how sweet they are
I feel annoyed like Helen Mirren, wishing that people would
off and leave us in peace
The white wall
To begin a new cycle is hard not much happens around here, the street is the same as yesterday Rui, the English, is still working the till at the local supermarket, smiles, speaks upper-class English, And carries a secret, I would like to know about
I think he is from a wealthy family, but a scandal broke out, he made the housemaid pregnant, and in his circle, it was seen as the apogee of horror, or he was involved in financial fraud and had to leave, hide, and change his name to Rui
At lunch, in the café on the first floor of our building, the old couple sat. The man, who is in love with my wife came over for a chat, and his wife smiled she knows her husband was useless, as for me. How can I be jealous of a man who is older than me?
Nothing else happened that day except for Trump, who wanted The Panama Canal and Greenland too, this pathetic, old President with his blond hair trying to look young, but he is not fooling us, this idiot trying to buy Gaza and move the population to Egypt
Then it was late afternoon and time for a nap
We meat eaters
In the café on the first floor of our building
The food served is cooked on the day
Sometimes they serve fish which I'm not a fan of but when I have picked out the ing bones
the fish tastes fine
They serve wonderful chicken that only a few days ago ran around not knowing they would
Be lunch, but that’s life, we humans eat human flesh too when given a chance, living deep in the jungle and fried female **** are seen as
A delicatessen only served to the chieftains who are the upper class in their world and no, if you
Ask, there is no beans on the toast
An excerpt from my new short story:
After Adolf received Alois' final inheritance in 1913, he moved to Munich, Germany. During his Vienna years living in squalor, Adolf was keenly interested in the makeup of Vienna's multicultural society. Those living in the upper class were a mixture of cultures. Mostly made up of Jews. However, at that time, negativity stemmed from all the races. During his last years in Vienna, now as a young adult, the dark lord remained diligent. Adolf had a circle of friends who were Anti- Semitics.
National Socialist German Workers Party, better known as the Nazi Party. The dark lord's student has advanced himself towards a teacher's status. He is still on the ropes but is ripening from green. He has exceptionally distinguished himself as a notoriety. His prospectus holds assurances. Hope builds a future as evil takes the lead and lays down the foundation.
5/4/2024, Vaishali, Bihar
In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity,
And pain is a class identity again.
The color of people is cast
Into white, brown, and black,
All shades of the same soil.
People born as kings, servants, or watchdogs.
I live in a village of divided lands—
Bhumihar fields, Mallah shores, Nunia, Teli, Sonar,
Brahman, Rajput, split like crops on the farm.
I belong to the Nai—
A class of servants, kings, and watchdogs, all in one.
The air hums with stories of the Nanda Dynasty,
Pride wrapped around our class like armor.
Yet, sorrow lingers in the gaze of those
Whose eyes are heavy with dirtied dreams.
I live in a society where identity is seen
In color, cloth, and words—
Old roots buried deep like the broken tree
By Abhishek Pushkarini,
Which falls, like us, at the feet of the upper class.
My tearful words often seem lost,
As each passing day etches more pain into hearts.
But these small hands carry the strength to resist
The cruel stares of a classed society.
In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity.
Graduate to a higher framework of thinking.
Move into the Upper Class of the Divine.
Life is not narrow, restrictive or limiting,
It's all in your state of Mind.
Guard carefully your thoughts and emotions.
Sift them for the brightest nuggets of gold.
Glean the best and most perfect image
Of your Highest good that you can hold.
Then, let it shine in each moment and hour.
Fight yourself to save your own Soul.
You hold the key to your future and destiny.
Open your eyes to watch eternity unfold.
You are more powerful than you know;
more capable than you can believe.
Life unfolds moment by moment; breath by breath.
Graduate to a higher Understanding;
Finally, set your Mind and Spirit free.
Chula Fleming Copyright Sept 5, 1997
Roses spread with lace garter;
Boutonnière and charter.
Green meadow eyes clung to lass.
Juliet was upper class.
A shepherd was he, with crook.
All gentle men, she forsook.
Under the willow, the wind
Warmed petals with no rescind.
Tempo was slow with his bride
Deep smile, a groom could not hide.
Underneath his ruddy beard,
“Reverie,” the garden cheered.
How lucky was a poor man
To find a robust woman.
Off the balcony she came.
Her shepherd, never the same.
I would observe you, staring out beautiful windows
The pale light of the snow reflecting on your loveliness
I could only admire you from afar
A chance encounter in the ballroom, you looked so sad
I asked you to dance, a shy smile and you took my hand
our love grew over time, deep as the roots of roses in the garden
A time to remember, cold and grey through beautiful windows
Hearts would grow heavy as your upper class was not accessible to me
I of working-class stock, could not provide wealth but my heart was true
Others of fine royalty offered riches of everything but the heart
You had no choice, your family would not have me, I could not have you
So I watched you again, from beautiful windows as the snow fell
The glimmer of warm lights outside in the cold, I felt them
Your image in the window stays close to my heart
That beautiful house, looking at its windows, no light does shine
I look at them still, your grace long gone, a memory now
I walk alone thinking of those beautiful windows, lost in remembrance
Dark is home for this rogue Lioness,
still some monsters I can’t benchpress;
So I do whatever I can to survive;
The hunt can never really be over,
even while being courted by a lover;
Handsome he is at the foot of the bed;
Pretty words can persuade it’s true
that when needed he will shelter you;
Until you’re a weapon too hard to wield;
Snacking on the crust of upper class
similar to a kill in Serengeti grass;
I always protect my safe haven.
Being a rose I strike a pose, I'm preening for your gaze,
The flower queen by any means, entitled to high praise.
Of upper class I got some sass, no equal to my spell,
My thorns are sleek, adding more chic, may hurt yet meaning well.
And best of all - I'm standing tall, my stem juicy and thick,
I'm pampered so, nurtured to grow, I'm lovers' premier pick.
My scent's refined, my petals shine, the focus of the date,
But once I’ve bloomed, my beauty's doomed, the cycle of my fate.
So much to lose, If I could choose, my throne of beauty queen -
I would trade fast for what would last - the life of evergreen.
February 19, 2023
Sponsor: Joseph May
Contest: In Bloom
The quick fix had worked so
She slipped the needle away,
Her little liquid friend that helped
Through each long working day.
A toot of the horn told her
He’s out there with her lift
For her to work the punters
From the pub leaving shift.
Only a whore they said
When the body was found,
A battered shop mannequin
Lying on waste ground.
With their numbers cut the
Police couldn’t do much more
And, as the papers had said,
She was only a whore.
Somebody said there
Was a child somewhere
Quietly and efficiently
Taken into care.
Three girls at the funeral
Hardly a significant memoriam
Then she was ushered off
To the local crematorium.
A cup of tea in a cafe
In memory of a working mate
Quickly slurped down as
The afternoon was getting late,
The girls went back to work:
With their habits to feed
Any fear they may have felt
Overcome by addiction’s need.
Not high class call girls
With upper class clientele
Just a poor exploited women
With only one thing to sell.
So, Austerity still rules,
Unfair decisions are made,
And poor women are still driven
To the rough end of the trade.
Army officer.
His name was Jones, was not Welsh
perhaps his grandfather was
He spoke a peculiar upper-class English
sounded like a monologue directed
at people with low intelligence.
Jones was depressed his career had stalled
usually, a lieutenant was in charge
of a platoon, but he had gotten the order
His wife had a lover he could not divorce her
since she came from a military family
and it would hinder his prospects.
The Argentinians had a machine gun nest
On top of a knoll, stopping them, they had
to take it out.
They had tried to go around but got under
the fire, he had lost two men, took a decision
ran up the hill with his light machine gun
straight at the enemy and cleared the nest.
When the rest of the platoon got up
Jones was dead, but the nest was clear.
Jones was now a hero mentioned in
the dispatches and stories were told
of the dashing officer sacrificing his life
for the war effort on the Falkland
Ps. His wife married her lover.
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