cosmicii Jan 6

I know you think I'm materialistic,
But let me please be realistic,
I need to work to make all of this,
No fairy is going to be granting my wishes
And I need to have all of it

Poetic T Nov 2017

She was a landmark of
            many journeys

The only quandary
            at this moment
is others had travelled
her more than self..

She was a
               penny machine
letting others deposit in her.

But she had left this emotion
                     long ago...

She collected her pennies,
         throwing them angrily
into a wishing well of despair..

Steve Page Oct 2017

(With a nod to Michael Rosen's poem, Chocolate Cake)

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now I love it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it
all spread out on the table
and I would sort it
and stack it.
And dad would say,
"keep the coppers away from the silver"
and laugh at his private joke.

We'd count it all,
bag it
and weigh it.
And then dad would give me a little for myself:
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.

I'd stack them,
and count them again.
I'd put 3 aside for my tin
and count out 5 for school.

I'd take one thrupenny bit to school each day
and at morning break I'd take my thrupenny bit
and wait in the queue at the tuck shop.

But some days,
when standing in the queue
with my thrupenny bit in my hand,
I'd think again and wrap it up in my handkerchief
and I'd push it to the bottom of my grey trouser pocket
for my secret box in my wardrobe.
-
-
Anyway,
once, when dad was sick
he asked me to do the count
- alone.

To spread it on the table,
sort it,
stack it,
keep the coppers away from the silver,
count it
and weigh it.
And then take my share,
2 shillings,  8 thrupenny bits.

I sat in the kitchen
in the silence,
looking down at the spread before me,
full of fear and pride.

I sorted
and I sorted again.

I stacked
and rearrange the stacks.

I saw with a smile
that I had kept the coppers away from the silver.

I counted
and counted again
And for the sheer pleasure of it,
I counted again.

Satisfied,
I took my share
3 shillings, 12 thrupenny bits.

4 bits for my secret box,
3 bits for my tin
and 5 put aside for the week's tuck money.

I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now sitting in my kitchen
with my red box here in SW1,
full of fear and pride,
I love it even more.

I needed to write a poem about an object or collection for a local event.  I chose money as the ultimate object of our love.
Poetic T Oct 2017

Collecting cans on a street corner,
                      a penny for my thoughts
as I gather my riches from discarded efforts.

One became two,
                        as many became more..
Hard work is the fortitude of motion.

So many empty breaths caught
                        within final swallows,but like a magpie
            I collect there glistening droppings..

I was homeless once, but I collected throw away
                                                                 moments...
But now I'm on my feet, and I never throw away
                        my memories like cans I now collect them...

Temporal Fugue Sep 2017

There's aplenty o boners, in Bangkok
at least, that's the scuttlebutt, and talks
perusing, the lady's gash
on the corner they flash
a boner with no cash, can getup, but walks

Never been, don't think I want too :/

scraping enough coin together
isn't a sought after chore
there's always a payment needed
to settle an invoice's score

the wage packet slim
ever stretched right out
no surplus bucks for
a good bandy about

being short of funds
that's the jingle to sing
a red ink cheque account
can't afford any bling

luxury items are but
a rich codger's domain
being well cashed up
with plenty of grain

money
has
us
under
the
veritable  
gun
a
lack
of
it
ain't
much
fun

the landlord has called
to collect the rent  
he'll get paid and it'll
leave a wallet dent

Walking the streets of Denver
Is a Buddhist Mediation
On Impermanence.
Things are constantly changing
In this Boomtown.
The pace Economic Development is FRENETIC
And the Outcastes and Drifters......
The Unwanted Souls Of America
Are migrating here
Along with the Big Money.
However, thought the impact  of this change
Can be disorienting
There remains a certain Cultural Continuity
And it is the Cultural Institutions,
Which are able to sustain themselves over Time
That can nurture Those who feel DISLOCATED
Whether they are Refugees
From Collapsing American Families
Or People who just migrated to Denver
In search of Easy Money
And a Rocky Mountain High.

Zero Nine May 2017

In darkness
My apartment
Lies lonely, low
Holding me
Blinds drawn
Sweating rust
Internally
Smothered
Thick dust
In darkness
My finger
Tips trace
Outlines
Of hearts
Xbox heating
PC heating
Waste in still water
Filling room
Want receding
Need retreating
Refuse of product
Parent made

How do I wager
My heart for cash?
Money get me out,
Imagine. How do I
Live or even leave,
When the past tucks
Me in, surrounds me?

....
EJ Aghassi May 2017

nana gave me cash
for gas--bless her heart--and still
i spent half on Pabst

a haiku for my grandmother

A hippodrome as smoke adjourn
those can wrap Havanas blunt
while Manila fish for sordino
they reek of harvest yet exhume Moro
then San Mateo shall not a maraschino bane
whether they've sought bastion in Italy then
once their hopes shall keep ships ahoy
and Sabatini sing San Marino here
that sandcastle star await his lover in
"The Sea Hawk" a fine costume whence sail
those Antilles with a conquistador as buttress
in this play they call Those Philippines alas meet
El Duarte in a duet with his song set aflame with
great sleeves in such kleptocracy worldwide again.

Next page