At times I blink twice, even thrice
at Chicago, a city that used to be nice
where I grew up in a lower-middle class milieu
but never was discriminated against as a Jew …
Today I live in an upper-middle class part of the city
and what folks shout at me is not very pretty
Swastikas drawn on our schools, even attempts at murder
An Israeli friend just visited us ~ what she witnessed unnerved her
Hallmark?
sappy stories of rich or
upper middle-class people
starting businesses or
trying to save existing ones
handsome men and
beautiful women
newly divorced
or never married
modern versions of
daytime soap operas
you may not watch for a month
and not miss anything
good thing my wife has
a television in the guest room
downstairs I can watch
ANCIENT ALIENS!!!!!
"Hey buddies. so what are we doing !"
Looks around and the clique has snotty faces on,
pedigree pinkies in the air. "You are not one of we,
the beautiful approved ones. You are uncultured and that's gross !"
Whatevs, go .... ........ !
(Junior follows them to camp and
pisssssssses on their campfire !)
Satisfying, takes a plug of tobacco and spits on their
jelly clog-Birkenstocks-for snob hill gardening-
before they lasso the noose and hanggg me high !
Worth it.
(Disingenuous Anglish prudes gather in their jerk-circlejerk...circling typos and chanting to Mammon...
We call upon the forces of the Upper Middle Class and beyond. "Get these Wal Mart shoppers looking for bargains for the poor out of here, they are not the "beautiful ones"...")
Bows to the beautiful ones.
All hail the clique ! Click.
The elite poets
I have been watching a program about poems and the creator of poetry,
what is typical of younger poets they are an upper middle class, university educated and know everything about the craft.
At the end of studies, they feel they have to write a book of poems hungry as they are for literary fame,
having read the old master think they have to be dramatic and write about experiences they have not had yet,
nevertheless, they get favourable mentions in the Guardian and the rest is hype and bull.
Valerie Garman entered the world upon the tail-end of the upper-middle class
A place where the schoolgirls were tantalisingly innocent and the men were
Increasingly unbecoming
The sidewalks gleamed and the church bells rang
The winters snowed and the summer birds cooed in unison
The earth was lain with the vinyl siding of the haves and the discarded Marlboros of the have-nots
Yet this shall not be a tale of social woe; there will be no east egg and no west
And though Valerie Garman acquired her footing along the gleaming concrete Of the suburban streets
She came of age in the darkness.
And though Valerie Garman took heed of the silver spoon
She came to life on the business-end of a silver straw, shortly thereafter.
The girl is an ultra-modern scholar,
Belongs with an upper-middle class family.
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly.
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University.
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare,
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket.
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....
The girl is very good.
The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...
The boy is very good.
They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his.
They are changing silently
Losing individuality.
Time flows.
Love goes to another address...
Tanka
Working class people
Do not trust socialist intellectuals
Don´t get lured by them
They are upper middle class people
Who want to run your revolution.
the rich, the poor and the middle class
an invisible subliminal system of caste
we are suppose to be a nation of freedom and opportunity
a democratic society based upon equality
but in all actuality
it's about the economy
to be wealthy and have anything you can afford
to be the CEO or the chairman of the board
to be rich and have enough money to pass
just a few steps above the upper middle class
those who have to go to work most everyday
yet they still receive a substantial pay
and the poor, what they call the working stiffs
barely getting by, hoping their finances will shift
it's about the economy
and how much you are worth
it's about the amount of money you have
in your wallet or your purse
don't be naive and think money does not matter
it's about the economy and the rich whose pockets get fatter
if you're wealthy your name is on the building
if you're rich it's on the door
the middle class' names are on their desk
but if your name's on your shirt then you're poor
The fable of a hero broken into lies
A demon always able to make us all despise
An angel preaching cures that didn’t tell us why
But the people standing clueless could only ever cry
A mountain overshadowing the endless night
A sun that sits behind and begs to be in sight
The wisdom of a sage growing to see this fight
But still the shadows of the people overtake the light
Raindrops into mildewed, empty clouded eyes
Teardrops as fake and silent as an angels lies
Fear forever freezing prosthetic dead end cries
The fallen angels stepping back from the devils prize
Lonely heroes fading into empty crowds
The upper-middle class caught up in their shrouds
The fear that whispers not to ever look up into clouds
The self centred looking out but never hearing sound
A sacred empty room that’s worth more than gold
The possession of our sight, something we all sold
Love and self belief is something growing old
The infinite besieged by the devils deceiving goals
The fight is still to come; the only thing I know
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.