my painting teacher once told the class
"you'll never miss it if you don't know about it"
he said some paints weren't good for us
& even though they looked better, with richer, more brilliant colors,
but they weren't safe for us
too much exposure to them could poison us;
for they included a toxic component.
we never used them
and so we never missed them.
i wish i could say the same about you.
~a poem about cadmium colors
There's a giant disparity
No economic parity
Or intellectual clarity
When they're scaring me
So I'll collapse invariably
Under coins they're barreling
They nickel and dime me
So I'm pinching for pennies
No peace I'm finding
Working at Wendy's
For the money lending
Sharks that are trending
We coin those with stacks of cash
Even if their heart's black as ash
Money doesn't grow on trees
But it seems to float in the breeze
The direction these people please
Or happen to sneeze
But those apes
No sin absolved
Without their call
Because I don't put up with their torture
I haven't made a dime this quarter
Because of dollar hoarders
Ruling through law and order
Creating tribalistic borders
Nobody's paying my bailout
I'm too small to fail now
My life's become stale, how?
The **** of a male cow
I tear apart my only couch
Looking for a coin pouch
To get me out
Of this drought
I cut my fingers
And bruise my knuckles
My fatigue lingers
Until I buckle
My stock tumbles
As I scream uncle
We allocate all our resources to a few
While the rest of society turns into a zoo
Where people die to pay their dues
And are given a pocket of coins to use
Which ignites their fuse
But their obfuscated views
Are swayed by the news
Teaching trivial truths
Change starts jingling in my pocket
When I get on a revolutionary rocket
So they buy a gun and **** it
To preemptively block it
They use marketing to stop it
Like it's just another stock tip
They have the guns
They have the money
I have to run
If they start hunting
Because those that say something
Are the edges they're blunting
With coins they're dumping
To protect one thing:
The profit margin
Like social Darwins
They say the hard win
With unholy marred sin
By collecting the coins of their foes
To help economic hostility grow
Until coins are all we know
I ran towards the door
not so they could let me inside
I pushed through the crowd
not so i could buy
I thew a coin to the wishing-well
not because it was a transaction
I said nice things to my reflection
not for him to reply
I ran towards the door
not so they could let me inside
I wanted to feel the option
to be kissed by lips
not the curb of the pavement
I hoped I knelt I prayed
I never asked for a reality
just the right to dream
for a reason to live isn't needed
when i can make a million reasons not to die
I saw you in Roman Holiday years ago
but you are much thinner now
today is Monday
both you and your master have a day off
the sea horses make no waves
nor the Triton and the chariot
Wishing for a happy return
I stand with my back toward you
as done in the movie
and quickly toss
three five-hundred-lira coins
Hoping they won’t devalue too badly
before they hit bottom
When I visited Rome in 1992, Italy was in the middle of great depression
I walk through the park every day.
Sometimes I squeeze through the crowd and toss a coin into the fountain, longing vibrating through every molecule of my body.
I’ve done it maybe twenty times now. I wish for the same thing each time.
(I can’t say what it is, though— then it won’t come true. And I really need it to.)
Amid a cluster of intermingling people, I stand almost-alone;
Me and my coin and my one wish.
I wonder, sometimes, how much it matters.
If I’m just deluding myself and tossing
pennies nickels dimes quarters
Into the water, emptying my wallet splash after splash in naive pursuit of something I know I will never have.
Small children join me in tossing nuggets of wishful thinking, their parents laughing at the naivete of it all.
I imagine a world where I don’t rely on a coin to shift my luck.
I wonder if I know somewhere beneath this self-deception that it doesn’t matter.
That no matter how many pennies I toss,
No matter how many stars I wish on,
No matter how many dandelions I blow into the wind, eyes squeezed tight with desperate desire,
Sometimes wishes just don’t come true.
But I know I’ll toss another coin in tomorrow. I don’t have to wonder about that.
I pray my pen
Flows not with think
But with spirit embodied
As there is more to impress
In the ink of Christ
Than there ever was or will be
In this expression of me
My life is mere reflection in a silver coin. Here one hour. Gone the next. See ya round.
There was always two sides of a story
But sometimes no connection could be made out of them
Because both were lies
☯ and all the wishes stuck in their throats.
(i.) when i throw quarters
i wish i knew
what the universe tasted like
in my tea; and then i wished
that i could hug my babushka
& dedushka again for the last time
before their hourglass ran out.
i wish i could still witness the way
the light dribbled like honey in
that foreign land familiar street.
Back then I was taught that love
was contagious by nature,
that love was unconditional-
---maybe that’s what the universe really
tasted like to begin with.
(ii.) when i throw dimes i-
wish that my antidepressants were more
like leftover echoes
that i’d eat for dinner.
i wish i hadn’t said that but it’s too late
‘cause this ode is too busy
tripping over it’s own shoes;
i wish my poem knew how to tie it’s own shoelaces,
and knew how to say grace.
but most of all...
i wish there was a softer metaphor
to lower me into this hurting;
just like the leftover echoes
(iii.) when i throw nickels
i wish i could erase the murals of flashbacks
behind my eyelids;
before i fall asleep.
i’m convinced that they’re to blame
for my eyesight that acts more like
a broken compass than a disability.
i wish i was blind to the way
the world spoon feeds us the dark;
like it’s a requirement for us
in order to flower into people.
i wish i could fish my name
from infinity’s belly.
please just never wish for
(iv.) when i throw in pennies
i wish i wasn’t their daughter.
i wish i didn’t have russian strings
and american footsteps for bloodlines;
i wish i was born a moon somewhere,
orbiting or worshipping the the color of
space, which is coincidentally the color of poets
the color of ink.
i wish my forbidden fruit was poetry,
i’m glad it isn’t.
(v. ) and i think,
i will always wish
for quicker deaths.
I don't write like I used too,
and I miss the dark.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Have you ever wonder what is at the end of a rainbow. Or do rainbows ever end?
Believing or not believing that would all depend.
The Irish, such as myself have always believed at the end of every rainbow, a little man called a leprechaun awaits protecting his *** of gold.:
If the rest of the world can see UFO's and green little men called aliens, then why is it so hard to believe in a leprechaun and stories our ancestors told .
The magic of the rainbow is it is caused by the sunlight, yet always appears on the opposite side of the sun.
The colors, an array of beauty as it's pattern always has seven.
They say in Ireland if you sit and listen you can sometimes hear the sound of the leprechauns gold coins hitting hos iron pail.
Beware of trying to find him or ask from him his gold because he will never tell .
But there is one thing he will do to make you see his trickery and play you like a fool
He will grant you three wishes but before you know it he will run off to never be seen again because leprechauns live by only the leprechauns Rule,
Some call it a myth some believe it to be true
Me , aw yes I believe in leprechauns and his *** of gold too