"affluence" poems
Whirlpool of whirling quaint
Inequality brewing in the
Winepress of smithereens
Fragile polity.
Voices of weariness cried
Out from the wasteyard of
Waste for succour,
Pointing fingers of
Recrimination towards
The abyss of drouth ,
Entangled in conflicts
Of interest.
Winds of improvised emblem
Bearing hunchback of
Woes,
Raising hands from the
Drowning deep sea
For rescue like
A dejected beautiful
Vigaro in a
Turbulent ocean of quarrel
With her spouse.
Whereas reddish fluids of life
Runs across the same veins
And arteries of haves
And haves-not but
Cottage of interests
Hoisting avalanche of
Rainbow-coloured flags
Standing aloof on the
Pole of misrule,
Demarcating their interests.
No accommodation for wants
In the corridor of affluence.
Wants on a trade mission
With wealthy but caged in
The confinement of wealth.
Winds of inequality blew
Whirler of wants into
The marrow of the
Haves-not.
Rains of inequality passing
Through a lockage of lack
Into the improvised,
Doling-out poverty to
Gain the control of
Wealth.
Alas! Blindness sees inner
Vision of darkness from
The households of political
lamia.
Alas! Deafness hears
Discordant vague voices
Of failure from the forest
of frustration.
Alas! Dumbness speaks
Language of gnomes out
Of the vale of forgotten
treasures.
Alas! A four year tenancy
turning into decades
of challenges.
But we shall revive our hope
and raise our voices
tomorrow.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
In every direction, to the limits of sight
Squirrels
Scrambling to fill their cheeks
With treasures to sustain
The coming sleep
In every corner, of every block
Squirrels
Frantic, pacing, scouring ground
For imaginary ignitable jewels
Dropped in a dream the night before
Down the paths of affluence
Opulent interests guarded with teeth
Squirrels
Frenzied hoarding for more
Smart black top-coat,
Covering a shiny shell,
On stiff skids of leather
And an armor of importance
Spitting orders, to the others
To forage and pillage,
And steal the nuts
To fatten and fan the
Flames of false dignity
And good intention
Inside holes hidden deep.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC
If I could speak
I would spill these lamentations
cloistered sins and secrets
whispered vespers for wretched dreams
Retching sentiment
this malignant manifesto
a macabre mantra
eats my skin from within
transient refuge for temporal treasures
inexorable moments carry life away
tick tick tick
the seconds scurry
flurried ineffectual supplications
demigods of affluence
the cacophony of the machine
I spin within
cogniscient of my myopia
the funneled tunnel vision
drips from the end of a pen
furtive verses on paper
fading ochre moments
somber drops of ash and bone
poetic exorcisms
of wicked things unknown
phrenetic
sensibilities trickle
spilling life
black and withering
is the gain worth sacrifice
crackling fat of dreams
too costly
this shallow palette
self obsessed
eyes gouged out
hands shackled
to the reality
the immortality
trust the dust
the dust becomes me
soul focused on decay
spectre death
devouring this unsparked spirit
If I could speak
truth into your heart
would you
believe.....
in anything more than what you see
I trust the dust and dust will be
the remnant me
TL Boehm
042508
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
“Ah! when shall they all meet again?”
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
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Summer—we all have seen—
A few of us—believed—
A few—the more aspiring
Unquestionably loved—
But Summer does not care—
She goes her spacious way
As eligible as the moon
To our Temerity—
The Doom to be adored—
The Affluence conferred—
Unknown as to an Ecstasy
The Embryo endowed—
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Dragon – a reference to government or a leader with such great powers.
Economics can determine the future?
The decision making, which can force millions to abide to the law established by government, can determine the future. That’s it.
An extension of affluence for all,
But where is the long term?
Poverty and high unemployment,
Now an argument?
With two years to educational progress,
Juan Dela Cruz drew back and recoil.
Humankind’s race,
With such declining economies..
A need for taxation of the working class –
To stay number one, or should I say, the Top 10?
For those capable to success,
No full-time salaries.. No livable wage..
A further education..
Would it be worth it when a full-time was offered?
For the move of the dragon,
Is there a downgrade forecast for the nation?
GDP has been calculated, water dragon may not be drown..
Meagre realm’s tyro – for their incomes deduction.
(4/2/12 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
fortunate dreams, folded within security and affluence
a laundry pile of capital
you’ve tried and succeeded
prosperity, wealth, Constitutional rights in abundance
American dreams lay thriving, slithering between your fingers like sludge
nice sludge though
snow crystals rest upon the sludge, decorating it for the holidays
barren attempts to take hold of opportunities, you didn’t really try
efforts lay unmade, like the bed he shared with you
penniless
inferior in the corner of the kitchen
last night’s events crawling across the tile towards you
running over stains and chips, creating unshaped perfect squares
a city on fire; flames stumbling in the breezes
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
London,
Beating heart of England,
Charismatic time-capsule thrumming to its own rhythm,
History looming, akin to massive waves splashing down,
Drenching all, the unwary, the scholar, soaking it up,
Savouring every scintillating droplet, blissful, hopeful,
Weaving through lives, changing with every moment,
Variety of race and creed, intermingling, jostling, noticing,
Sharing sight, sound, colour, scents, smiles and frowns,
Pulsing soul of people, thriving and alive, buzzing with spirit,
In Camden, easy-going, a friendly riot of textured-hazy-peace,
Artful structures of Belgravia, magnolia temples of affluence,
Lauding architectural finery while mere mortals pass through,
Mind swinging through centuries, flowing along the river artery,
Bridges carrying us home, keeping their own dark secrets,
Cranes rising high, creating modern palaces, new beginnings,
Old lives wreathed in the foggy past of legendry deeds,
Embellished beyond reality, ghosts crying out, warning,
We can never own this city, never know this city, not really,
Guardian dragon allows us entrance, pours herself upon us,
Takes our love, progresses while we observe,
All left behind, knowing, feeling, sensing,
We are but shadows in her Light,
Dust on her famous streets,
Blessed to know her,
To breathe her,
Love her,
London.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
*Squalor and affluence
Live off each other’s benevolence
Albeit unknowingly.*
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
I played witness to a society crumbling
streets cracked and schools shut down
the landscape has grown beyond troubling.
My litter stains the earth just as
the blood stains the streets
and still no one takes notice.
Every anti-action can be guilt free
when not one person considers this place
or how it’s become a monstrosity.
Who, now, will watch the world end?
Your future children, or theirs after?
How long can we hold this green-patched trend?
How long before the affluence takes hold?
Or has it got it’s grips on us so hard
that everyone believes what they’re told?
Everyone has someone to answer to
but no one can provide an answer
that speaks a complete and honest truth.
Discrimination has not yet been abolished
but the modest effort can be seen
where it’s been masked and lightly polished
to be put on display as a once-was.
Politically corrected and cleverly disguised
but I still see a still-is that’s nearly silenced us.
What has occurred cannot be undone
but I still want to change the world
at least before my hate crime comes.
Dec 13, 2009
Dec 13, 2009 at 5:23 PM UTC
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
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A full day's work
Has me feeling exhausted,
But as I take hard rights
And skirt the uneven pavement
I am a machine.
I am fused to my seat,
And two spinning plates
And one fork are
Extensions of my will.
The nine point five miles
Seem so much shorter at night,
After the suits have made Their daily rushed exodus,
And the streets and avenues
sleep, quietly.
It rained all day, so the road
Is wearing a blanket of diamonds,
And the motor oil wrinkles shine.
The downpour has filled the world
With fragrance,
And as I pass through
Affluence to arrogance
To intolerance to vagrancy
On my trek across
A divided city
I'm overwhelmed.
Honeysuckle and lilac
Give way to pine and dogwood,
Then car exhaust and a polluted river
Precede wet garbage, dog ****
And marijuana.
I saw my first rat in the District tonight.
Nine months in,
And I've only seen one.
It makes me glad I grew up
Where I did,
Where all you need for
A rat in your apartment
Is a baseball bat
And a Lightning Bolt record.
I'm glad I learned how it feels
To live with two feet
Planted firm to the earth,
To feel harsh 1930s sidewalks
Haphazardly littered
With broken glass
Burn my bare feet
Every summer,
To feel the cool
Narragansett Bay sand
Sleeping just under the surface,
And to feel the sole
Of my five year shoe
Finally give up.
I'm glad I've seen success
From the underside,
So that when my arthritic hands
Finally reach up and grasp it
I'll know what to do with it.
But mostly I'm glad
I get to pull up to my building
At ten past midnight,
Sweaty and tired,
Climb three stories with a
Bike on my shoulder,
Pet my cat, and crawl into
Bed with a warm soul
Who was brought up the same,
With no clouds
For her lovely head
To get lost in.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Sin glows
With sparkling richness
Of all luminaries
of blanketing galaxy
Sin is worshiped and enshrined
Righteousness is
but blase fallacy
With all over-flowing
Affluence
of new pentecostal churches
and their greedy pastors
And easy-come riches
of Chiadzwa diamond fields
with her flippant Gwejas and Gwejerinas
Life is but black
like Soddom's ****
I hear the knell of dawning doom
As Angels of doom boom...
I swear by ****** Mary's blessed ****
I saw a Stephen preaching down Rekai Tangwena Ave
And was run down by a speeding motor car
"O poor chap, was a good fellow," muttered God
I saw drunken Thomas roaming the streets
Of cogitation convincing himself
it was true news
That brother Jesus, pot-bellied in Armani suit
Was back riding a top of the range Lamborghini
And God shrugged his shoulders,kept quiet
Afraid it may be fatally true
I saw God wet his pants
When listening to Elliot The Idiot's "Songs of Sobs"
That applaud Simon and Peter fishing
From people's pockets
Songs that revere and adorn the vigilant
Pillar of Salt
Scorn and mock
the meekness and softness of heart
At Golgotha...
Sin is vermin spreading
In this our home,the infierno grande
-dougwa-
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
Crossing the Limits: An Unforging Wasteland
Boom goes the economy
Blooming a shade darker every full moon
Ragged wires and broken tires
All we ever did was try to sustain
The pain of a million pesticides
In our food, in our dreams, in our sleep
Open your eyes and realize
The harm of every arm cut up and torn apart
Trapped in corrupted media
Brainwashed by subliminal messaging
Lend an eye for an ear and save our economy
A foreseeable wasteland near to come
Once true to youth
As with the endangered animals
Prone to extinction
And breeding babies to come
Rising with hysteria
Completion for resources, affluence, sanity
An ecological disturbance hard to ignore
Deterioration
Depletion
Destruction
Truly, the origin of the storm.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
white roses and Jacob's Coat
purple bearded irises and ferns
dark red wax begonias
scents of night jasmine
French lavender
antique tea roses
loquat, plum, guava and lemon trees
all swaying with an ocean breeze
casting shadows in the setting sun
memories of childhood
bamboo and nipa houses
coconut groves and fragrant banana
witches, faeries and wok-woks
a favorite white haired grandfather
living off land and sea
harvesting root crops and fruit
fishing for viand
barefoot and ******* sarongs
in a private paradise miles from town
bonfire festivities
tuba wine and drunken salamats
an open adoption
a house tiled with affluence
and visits back home
a war's interruption
people lost or found
married off to life in America
lumpia, pancit, beefsteak and beeco
spaghetti, burgers, *** roast and pizza
dinner's table set for eleven
the house on Wagner street
the loss of husband and son
advancing age and declining health
ER's and ICU's
a final farewell
a garden of children
grand children and great grand children
branches in Lala's family tree
her progeny sprouting roots
looking to the future
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Days extrapolating feeling
Rise before beloved nightfall;
Fill my wisdom teeth with malice
And my writing hand with red sound.
Could it be that such a nightfriend
Wishing me his presence bear be
Such a creature of convulsion to
The color-coded fireworld?
Yet again, it could be thus:
A figment of the waterthought
Defending self-same affluence
In verdant speech clouds’ spheres.
Here simplicity should be foregone
Whilst incorporating to my ken
The worthiest of childhood urge
And true descriptions seen therein.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 2:17 PM UTC
H e is fused and used by lust and longing,
A nointed with insensate stains of scarlet sin—
M aking nations—, boring bleeding pits belonging
M ore to demons than progressive nails that dwell in
E very aspiration of the affluence loving kings and
R ulers, who in due course find that they’d been
S tripped of scruples as he led their hands.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:19 AM UTC
She eats with bare hands;
A handful of garbage,
A mouthful of life. A day's
Survival and revival,
And healing of a frail
Body failed by a society
Of affluence, by a faith
Preaching benevolence.
She is an anathema to the
Conscience shaped by a
Consciousness that defines
Being as having. Having
Her before our very eyes
Is itself a sin to our very
Selves, if not to a God who
Sees our humanity as frail
As this child's body.
"How is it, that every
Execution offends us more
Than a ****** It is the
Coldness of judges, the painful
Preparation that a child is
Here being used as a means to
Deter reality. For guilt is not
Being punished , even if there
Were guilt; guilt lies in the
Educators, the parents, the
Environment, in us, not in her
Innocence."
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
The king says with a long grim face
My wealth brings me no happiness
With all the courtesans around my throne
There’s no fulfillment and I feel all alone.
My courtiers have only good words for me
I know they’re not genuine but mere flattery
They smile at my smiles and frown if I frown
They wouldn’t have cared a fig but for my crown.
You may not know but my crown feels so heavy
With the curses of my people for the taxes I levy
They suffer to see me in wealth and affluence
The king’s might make them bear it in silence.
You may envy me for all my treasure trove
Not knowing how much I pine for little love
Crave for freedom and life’s little pleasures
That cannot be bought with all my treasures.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
Throw away your brooms and your mops
and all the tops to your good old canned goodies
and in fact throw your little cans of goody foods
with soups and little fruities away down
your flight of stairs and flight of windows down
those shining new linoleum walls
no need to worry about garbage here in these streets
so clean so clean so mean, and lean
and here everyone cries their child cries
and their bottles whistle that empty milk whistle
red wine milk drink drunk drank drinker
old clean city blues I see your dirt musings
can’t hide from me this great dirt
more dirt here than dirt itself has to offer
all things candy coated sticky nightlife
sticky affluence all your feet
stick to the black tar candy sucker floor
and I see you’ve been rat-free for thirty years
no bugs no slugs no moss
only late night sad sauce
always empty and wanting more
no rats no cats no dogs here
only cowboy hats
and all those old boys move
on down South anyway
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
Affluence drives the influence,
Brevity mistaken for clarity.
Conveniently concise in assured confluence,
Dependent on constant hilarity.
Engaged in a cult of personality,
Forced diction to subdue the masses.
Grotesquely shaped by a warped reality,
Hidden in plain sight of our fat *****
Irony isn't noted, only subdued and ignored,
Jaded eyes with headlights all dimmed.
Knowledge is left for survivors to hoard,
Laying in the waste that's been already skimmed.
Might over right, the motto tonight,
No room for a shred of reason.
Oppose this with light, and fall out of sight
Privilege lost in the change of the season.
Question it all as it encloses you in,
Restrained by those who suppress the opposed.
Stricken by goals of absolvement of sins,
Temporary ends to a means they supposed.
Under our cloaks are a beacon of hope,
Values that lie in the morals we hold.
We believe unity is the method to cope,
Xenophobia leaves all involved cold.
Your turn to decide: time to run or hide?
Zealous feelings aside, all along for the ride!
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
Golden bells,—bedight o'er towers—
Amidst the betrothing melody,
The touch of stained glass—
Beams the rosary beads
Binding me with a man held high;
Now to be crowned his wife.
"My lord, lend me thy right hand,
As thy loyal servant,—
I vow to pledge our country."
The Moonlight Song,— let our haunches be mere pitches—
Of forests rocked by branches
Ah, my fatal reverie—
Savor this antique scenery,
With classic gothic frames,
And worn laces,—Peaking the figures'desires
Cradle me,—
And thou shalt drink my glass,—
To offer a sip;-- so to paint moist on windows.
Sunrise, leap me to this town!—
How gracious men and children,
I shalt dress all thee;-—Make a stronghold that prospers the needy;
Lest the void of promised land—
Wither the faith of mankind.
With the King's side,
Reformation sets the nation to affluence;
The bonfire relives the glorious centuries—
Never scorn, swords unfold!
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 3:17 AM UTC
Chanan closes his book.
His companion
has gone sightseeing.
The coffee is drunk.
The day is fine, the sky
a watery blue,
pale clouds drift.
He sits and meditates
on another coffee,
another cigarette,
watching passing crowds,
visitors and natives
of Dubrovnik.
He raises a finger,
a waiter nods,
goes off.
Chanan notices
across the way,
at another table,
a woman sitting,
hat red
at an angle,
slim fingers holding
a holder with cigarette,
the red lips,
the blue dress,
cleavage,
crossed legs,
red shoes.
He studies her,
takes in the hand
on knee, the hand
with holder,
the fine way
of inhaling
and exhaling,
the smoke drifting.
She leans back,
sky gazing,
in between drags
she sips her wine.
He takes in
the fine figure,
the turn of head,
the shoes of red.
He imagines her
(while his companion
is out seeking the sights)
coming to his room
at the hotel,
soft music playing,
lights down low,
wine bottle and glasses,
the usual patter,
the romantic air,
the twin bed waiting.
His coffee comes,
the waiter departs,
the woman stands
as a man approaches,
dark haired,
slim figured,
trimmed beard,
well dressed,
an air of affluence.
They go off
arm in arm,
she wiggling
her hot behind,
her red shoes,
tap-tapping.
Chanan stumps out
his cigarettes,
sips his coffee,
nothing ends
like it seems,
he is left
with an empty evening
and a lonely dream.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Heart-affluence in discursive talk
From household fountains never dry;
The critic clearness of an eye,
That saw thro' all the Muses' walk;
Seraphic intellect and force
To seize and throw the doubts of man;
Impassion'd logic, which outran
The hearer in its fiery course;
High nature amorous of the good,
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom;
And passion pure in snowy bloom
Thro' all the years of April blood;
A love of freedom rarely felt,
Of freedom in her regal seat
Of England; not the schoolboy heat,
The blind hysterics of the Celt;
And manhood fused with female grace
In such a sort, the child would twine
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine,
And find his comfort in thy face;
All these have been, and thee mine eyes
Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain,
My shame is greater who remain,
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.
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