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Ceyhun Mahi Dec 2016
Beyond that bitter, grudging and vile lip,
Who only spews and is covered with pride,
There lies more when you make it with love flip,
Like an old coin who has another side.
The first few verses I wrote after I woke up from an inspiring dream.
This world is set of vice and virtue
Good and bad play their due part
In front of Satan say we do, we do
Good ones have their way to depart

All those who are servant of God
Uphold the verdict not to astray
They are fully protected by Lord
They travel like a clear light ray

Servants of devil take double death
They carry along deplorable plight
They carry death with every breath
Their eyes are blind not to see light

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Poetic T May 2016
All were silent as corpses as they laid
next to the campfire, listening to every
ill spoken word. Now silence has graced
this dimness of syllables that fed the fire.

There was a wishing well, others sent
for ill fortune had granted there lives.

"Wishing well please hear my plea,
"I was told you could solve issues for me,

Moments past and not a motion or spoken
word did seep from its depths.

"I thought this was a stupid idea, *******
belief that a well could solve problems for me


Then as footsteps echoed away, and repetition
was vaguely heard till sound birthed forth.

Feed me that which I desire, for metal has no
value where wishes are conceived and birthed.

"Tell me what you need, And whispers were
held upon there thoughts, and no other was
to no as a wishing well collects on everyone.

"So our story is like a circle but one not get finished
but nearly complete in worth,


Around the fire not a word was uttered, breath
was silent from one to another nothing expelled.
all were listening to his expiration of this stories
telling now eagerly undoing with each word.

Seeds were sewn for a wishes worth to come true,
Stories have endings of dreams and truth. but this
isn't one of those endings this is a certainty.
A story much have a start, pause and an ending unfold.

"Now all you have heard my tale, you were good
listeners as the dead speak no words. I take a token
from each of you,


"The eye is a token of the soul, and it needed ten
tokens of worth,


So as the fire lost is worth and syllables were replaced
by ten bodies now in rigor motis. All wept tears of
deaths embrace, as ocular openings feed upon the well.

"I give gifts, keys to ten souls, each of colour fresh not cold,
"Hear my plea of a wish I want in truth,

"Your contribution has been upheld, let a spoken word
unfold, be it riches or youth,

"One wish is yours now speak but heed my words, once
uttered the deal is sealed souls sealed in word,


"I want you to crumble to seal others ill fate,

"Those that were killed had suffered before
due to your needing of donations of souls
needed effect,


Crumbling fortunes to a gate of souls that
lingered at the bottom of a well. For all who
had perished had done so as retribution
for others lost to this curse. All who's eyes had
been taken and found no eternal rest.

He sat around the campfire and all was muted as
no words were spoken. Ten pennies in the well,
now it choked on its serving and all was silent.

Wishes are for fools, as a price is always asked
and unthinkable acts do not meet its worth.
Cameron Boyd May 2016
We trade words like old coins,
Rattling them in our piggybanks
Until they clink past our teeth
And onto the floor between us.
Coin for coin,
They slide in exchange.
Fair is fair,
Each is stashed in the others collection.
And when we leave,
I know our sums have stayed the same,
But somehow I always feel richer.
RH 78 May 2015
The glint of a gold coin discarded and under a hedge.
The unmistakeable ***** and ****** of the shrapnel congregating at the bottom of my pocket.
I can find any combination of currency in a lovely jingle jangle of metallic discs.
The cashier slips me a note and some change on top which spills onto the counter.
A 10 pence piece tries an audacious spinning escape morphing into a ball.
The change rattles again as it all settles at the bottom of my pocket after dropping in the new recruits.
I slide the discoloured crinkled creased five pound note into my leather wallet nicely nestling next to a ten pound note.
I love the  smell of ***** money!
ΟΥΤΙΣ Mar 2015
and in it she stood

awash with crescented chrysanthemums

with honeysuckle skin and wisteria eyelashes

and with it i said

if nights were like coins

id spend them all on you

and twinkle them between my fingers

shaking them up and admiring

the glint and value of

the night and its stars

and the coppery, nickel-y dusk

that stains my hand with

the bouquet of metal and flowers



goldenrod warmth

from nights and coins

invariably spent

alongside only you

with a perfume of

evening

and pressing summer heat

and my whispers and promises

that tell you

that if nights were like coins

id spend them all on you
lots of wordplay in this one, particularly with pressing (of heat, coins, and flowers) and bouquet (an arrangement of flowers or a characteristic scent)
Swathi eruvaram Mar 2015
Two big eyes watching
A mighty spider crawling
A cob web spinning
A tiny lock hanging
The sound of coins dropping
Your first piggy bank
Your first savings
Back-stabber count your silver coins,
all thirty pieces do enjoy.
For thou have torn it from the ****
of he whom thou deem to destroy.

Conveyed before said holy male
who fears to take decision home.
Responsibility he doth bale,
forth-giving this to man of Rome.

Upon to Pilate do I see.
Should I relinquish my belief?
Will mine own peoples see me free
instead of murderer or thief?

In my defence nought do I speak
to only God do I ask praise.
Forgive me not for thou art week
and power to thee is but a phase.

Upon mine head a crown of thorns
secured firmly into place
as harassed by unfriendly scorn.
Holy blood, bathes holy face.

Barbs of metal scourge my all,
unlawful hurt do I withstand.
Burdened with weight I make a fall.
Samaritan doth lend a hand.

Rods of steel fix flesh and bone
to that of mans' wooden *****.
In painful agony, though not alone,
with Holy Father I connect.

Hoisted aloft on knoll of high.
Visible means to fear their weight.
Drawn upright, that I may die.
Design to clear of human slate.

Soon this pain will free of me.
My passing so that they may live.
Exalted father thou can see
this son gives all a son can give.
First printed in the 2011 Anthology. Suspended in Ink.
Chris Weallans Jul 2014
Transactions have redundant residuals
The remnants of commerce and trade
In pockets the small dust of currency
The left over cash of price paid

The clinking froth of things purchased
The metal remains of exchange
the leavings of costs and desire
the chinking bulk of loose change

It fits in you grasp like *******
Warm, round with a vague sense of sin
What used to be golden and silver
Is now mainly nickel and tin

We are tired of the weight in our pockets
We are shamed by the drag of its need
For if it should fall from our fingers
We forsake our grace for our greed

For there is something quite reassuring
When you empty your pockets at night
You glimpse a glance of old memories
The sixpence of childhood’s delight
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