Money Writing Poems | Examples
These Money Writing poems are examples of Writing poems about Money. These are the best examples of Writing Money poems written by international poets.
Horton hears
a “who done it?”
March is Dr. Seuss month
and Women’s history month.
How come we gotta’ share
the month with him?
Can’t every day be
Womens’ Day?
Can’t every day
be Black
History Day?
Is that too much to ask for all
the men, heroes, and brave people
who helped make our country
the UNITED states of something
or other?
I don’t remember
all the presidents names
(lower case p)’
but, I remember great speeches
from the mouths of history.
That history will repeat itself
in vicious circles
of confusion,
like a caged ball
python;
still searching for the same
thawed out, dead rat,
unless powerful
people with money
pay
attention.
To this blank page I summon the Muse,
I’ll give you time if you give me fire;
Electrify my pen light that fuse;
Whisper in my ear let us conspire,
where shall we venture to today?
To say I don’t want you I’d be a liar;
Make my thoughts and words sway
with playful phrases not heard before;
It’s even money no need for a parlay;
Heat lightning is impossible to ignore
let’s capture the world and shake it’s core.
I sit here every day collecting many things.
People stop by and just hand over their stuff to me.
You would be amazed at some of the things that they bring.
And they just give them to me, absolutely free.
So, as I sit here taking in all these donations,
I can’t help but set some of the good things aside.
Although the boss puts me at different locations,
I’ll still find a way to get the good things outside.
I rationalize what I do with one, simple thought:
“Everything I take is being given away.”
The money I’d spend if these things had to be bought
Give me the motive I need to take something each day.
As another long year comes to an end,
I'm glad to have known you for all these years.
I'm proud to be able to call you friends.
You are the true meaning of the word peers.
Though I may be much younger than you guys,
You quite often invite me as a friend.
It's because of this, and by no surprise
That, on the two of you, I can depend.
You're not afraid to tell me how you feel,
Always giving me your honest advice.
I appreciate that you're always real,
And no matter how you say it, it's nice.
So, thank you so much for being my friends.
May the next year keep us all healthy.
Whether it's money or not that God sends,
With friends like you, I'm already wealthy.
My job brings new ideas to me on an hourly basis
Sometimes up to six ideas an hour
I cannot retire
This is a forest of situations
A plethora of circumstances
A jungle of characters
If I retired, I would not have anything to write about.
So here I stay,
at a job I love,
making great money,
writing myself crazy.
It is embarrassing to try and pretend I am working all day
Earning the big bucks, I get paid
When my husband gets online and reads the poems I write
While the powers that be are paying me
While I probably should be doing something else
While I am earning money, I may not deserve
I have stopped bragging about how much work I do
Because of the online “outing” I get daily
And his ability to clearly see
what I do at my job
Of this I know this that I am sure I'm in the flow;
The writer in me wants you to know;
For no rhyme no reason;
Or in any given season;
I don't write for fame nor with charity;
I won't write for money or compose a symphony;
The writer in me;
Just once you to see;
I'm just one of the poets of God Harmony;
If they're just one person's heart;
I would do just a spark;
Honestly abundantly versus ark;
All right for some inspired by God;
Every letter words versus phrase sentences;
Ah! Did I just mention this;
Oh! That the writer in me wants you to know;
Do you really really like to read my poetry, so;
8/3/21 2012©
For the Writer in me Wants You to Know Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Oh not again,
It's the same every night.
Straight after tea
You sit down and write.
Writing your poems
And the stories you tell,
It wouldn't be so bad
If you wrote them to sell.
Don't get me wrong
It's not about money,
Some that you write
I think are quite funny.
But the car is a mess
The gardens overgrown.
If your not writing poems
Your playing on your phone.
I work every day,
And I come home to this
To a sink full of pots,
Are you taking the piss.
We spend our lives accumulating material things,
Even though we know we can’t take them with us in the end.
Whether you’re rich or poor when you die, there’s nothing you can bring.
What counts is the life you lead with your family and friends.
Some people have a lot of money, but do nothing good.
While others who are rich spend their lives helping others.
Some people have no money, and don’t live like they should.
While others who are poor always help they’re fellow brothers.
You’re only here for a very short time on this Earth,
So why not live your life doing what you know is right?
It doesn’t matter what your material things are worth.
It’s your soul that you must hang onto with all of your might.
There once was a bard with no money
Whose poetry flowed like sweet honey
But his bag of prose tricks
Contained no Limericks
His phrases weren't witty or funny
So he labored for months to regroup
Adding spice to his writes by the scoop
But by Limerick creed
It was certain that he'd
Ne'er get rich with his ... poetry soup.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Tax & Finance Limericks - Old or New" Poetry Contest, Carolyn Devonshire, Judge & Sponsor.
And so the bullies win
when
one stone
causes
an avalanche,
when
attention
is focused on
them
when
we accede
to their
demands
when
we give up
our lunch money
our words
our right
to write
to speak
to share
our hearts
our minds
our souls
when
we withdraw
into the darkness
of the bully’s
shadow
when
we allow them
to perceive
gentleness
as weakness
when
we submit John G. Lawless
to their ©8/20/2017
tyranny
They crawl into your shadows
Simmering in the quiet
Lanced in the heart by the world
Swirling in automatic-stop emotions
There in a cab somewhere in Detroit
Out of money and full of mind
A thousand thriving theologies
Dancing in their brain
Unable to open the door
Unable to pay the man
They are kicking invisible cans
Down the aisles of libraries
Burrowing like Kafka into
Any and every trail that
Holds the false promise of salvation
The Media
By Franklin Price
12/13/2015
The media is so confused
About the part they play
They're no longer just reporting
They love to hear the words they say
Their reporting mostly biased
By the things that they believe
Or encouraged by the powers
And the money they receive
Much like the politicians
On the ones which they report
At times they show no thinking
What they say is just retort
They twist the truth quite thoughtlessly
Bring forth the way they feel
The freedom of the press for them
Is not an honest deal
If you want to get the truth
The truth is what you'll get
Just look at any posting
By friends on the internet
Don't contact and yell at me
I'm only having fun
Not serious like the media
Who have only just begun
I may never win a contest
Or be published in a book
and somethings I have written
May not be worth a look
No, I don't write for glory
Money or great fame
I write because inside of me
Burns an undenying flame
Maybe a hundred years from now
With just a little luck
Some publishers may find my work
And make themselves a buck
Certainly can sometimes get over zealous
In extolling my love for you souls
Suddenly realize how overbearing it must be
So I'll try to show a little more control
Got a bunch of affection for all youse guys
You all have that special something
It's totally unique from one soul to the next
Which gets this old heart a-beating
Just love to discover what each person has
Have I seen it before in someone else
Each one of you adds your own little twist
It determines everyone's wealth
It's not the money you've got stashed away
Or those fancy car you might drive
It's stuff you've got deep down in your soul
It's the friendships for which we strive
© Jack Ellison 2013