Upper Class Poems | Examples

elderliness and Helen Mirren

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

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

meat eaters

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

The Realigned Effects Of Evil: Part 2

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.

In the shadow of classes

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

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

OFF THE BALCONY - Anacreontic Couplets

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.

Beautiful windows

 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

Safe Haven

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.

Confession of a Conceited Rose

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

New Elizabethan Britain

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.

An Army Officer In Falkland

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.

Different Strokes

In final exams scored zero:
Who drives The Cleanest Pajero;
The Guys ahead of him in class
Aware he is of Upper Class:
Enjoying financial morning
But after exams mourning...

Todd could with The Law have a brush
And a cop to hospital rush:
Bodyguards with exploding shots,
Richly paid but in agreed shorts...

Wishing to be like Todd A Gross:
Those who'd guessed they couldn't be Boss.
Life, forever, Different strokes;
The first lesson for all hurt blokes.

Day of the Dead

La Cavalera Catrina 1910-1930:
An etching by cartoonist and lithographer, José Guadalupe Posada
Of a Garbancera, elegant skull, an upper-class woman of the Porfiriata
Has become a character icon of the Mexican “Día de Los Muertos”
A celebration of life in which it is much believed or “muy fuertos”
That the spirits of the dead are to return to their home 
with relatives on these two days to spend time, it’s well known

Writing “calaveritas” which are short, humorous poems shared
With family and friends who show how much they cared
About a living person, how they died, then published to publicize
In magazines and newspapers, mostly celebrities and politicians to satirize  

There is art that is added to the light-heartedness of the occasions
Skeletons drinking, dancing, and celebrating, depicted in humorous situations
Sugar skulls or calaveras made as edible or decorative skulls for the day
Another tradition, they are baked from either sugar called Alfeñiques or clay

It is custom to see sugar skull makeup on children, adults in array
to represent departed souls for Day of the Dead and All Souls Day

21st Century

This is the 21st Century
Where it seems the masses
Are still placed on this Earth
To serve the upper classes,
Feed their acquisitive appetites 
Wipe their delicate arses,
And all in all perpetuate
That longest of running farces,
Respect for so called betters,
Eating crumbs from their table
Serving with dedication 
For as long as they are able
Until comes that day 
They can no longer try
Then have the decency
To just crawl off and die.
Its the same the world over
Every where you can go
The system is dedicated 
To maintain the status quo
Is god still in his heaven?
Will we all get an entry pass
So we can continue serving
That heavenly upper class.

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