"bullion" poems
406
Some—Work for Immortality—
The Chiefer part, for Time—
He—Compensates—immediately—
The former—Checks—on Fame—
Slow Gold—but Everlasting—
The Bullion of Today—
Contrasted with the Currency
Of Immortality—
A Beggar—Here and There—
Is gifted to discern
Beyond the Broker’s insight—
One’s—Money—One’s—the Mine—
2.7k
It was the first gift he ever gave her,
buying it for five five francs in the Galeries
in pre-war Paris. It was stifling.
A starless drought made the nights stormy.
They stayed in the city for the summer.
The met in cafes. She was always early.
He was late. That evening he was later.
They wrapped the fan. He looked at his watch.
She looked down the Boulevard des Capucines.
She ordered more coffee. She stood up.
The streets were emptying. The heat was killing.
She thought the distance smelled of rain and lightning.
These are wild roses, appliqued on silk by hand,
darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly.
The rest is tortoiseshell and has the reticent clear patience
of its element. It is
a worn-out, underwater bullion and it keeps,
even now, an inference of its violation.
The lace is overcast as if the weather
it opened for and offset had entered it.
The past is an empty cafe terrace.
An airless dusk before thunder. A man running.
And no way to know what happened then—
none at all—unless ,of course, you improvise:
The blackbird on this first sultry morning,
in summer, finding buds, worms, fruit,
feels the heat. Suddenly she puts out her wing—
the whole, full, flirtatious span of it.
2.5k
One cries from a foxhole
A tear splashes an urn
Some dance laced in bootstraps
Many diminished returns
Two shuffle tarots
“All in!” Shouts a third
Homesteads brandish wind chimes
Infant dreams lay deferred
A quiet malarkey
As hunger pangs ring
Piled high, bullion
Cages hearts and clips wings
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
. . . Bonjour,
Banque de
Bruxelles...
Bonjour,
beautiful
Betty!
Benjamin
Baker!
Barry
back?
Barry's
back—
Bye!
Bye,
Betty!
Bonjour,
Ben!
Barry
Beauchamp—
Brussels'
best
broker!
(Barry
blushing)
Benjamin
Baker—
Boston's
best
businessman!
Brokerage
balanced,
Barry?
Been
better ...
Been
better?
Bad?!
Below
benchmark :-(
Bygones
be
Bygones ...
Bullish
bearing,
Barry?
Best
be
bullish,
Ben!
Better
be
bullish,
Barry!
Brokerage
best
buy?
Best
buy?
Bonds!
Best
buy
bonds?!
"Be
bullish"
Barry?
Brighthouse
baby
bonds!
Brighthouse
baby
bonds?
BHFAL—
Balanced,
beneficial
buy.
Baby
bonds
bad
bet,
Barry.
Best
bullish
buy?
Bitcoin!
Bitcoin
bites,
Barry!
Bloomberg
broadcasted
Bitcoin's
bubble
bursting.
Best
bullish
buy,
BARRY??
Bullion
bars?
British
Britannia?
"Be
bullish,"
Barry!!
BEST
BULLISH
BUY??
BlackRock,
Buffett's
Berkshire—
Better
believe,
both
bullish
buys!
Bingo!
BlackRock,
Berkshire—
Buy
both!
BOOYAH!!
Bought!
Better
be
bullish,
Barry!
Bye!
Bientôt,
Ben!
© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
The lucky red Chinese lanterns filled the restaurant atmosphere
with a happy glow. David and I had just concluded
our meal and set about opening our fortune cookies.
David’s read: “Some extra bucks are floating your way”
“I like that!“ he exclaimed, his face lighting up like the
lucky lanterns swaying from the ceiling.
I opened mine: “From the heart you draw true happiness.”
“I like that even better,” quipped David. I agreed contemplating
on how true wealth is not measured by the amount of
green paper or gold bullion we can cram into our pockets
but by the nature and vast reservoir of love stored
up in our hearts. For it is love that brings the bliss of
self knowledge and makes clear our purpose and path of service.
Of course, the green stuff is necessary for a balanced,
optimum life but it should not become the be all
or end all of our lives.
Sathya Sai Baba says: “Wealth does not accompany one
when he leaves the world. Wealth is necessary only for
meeting one’s essential needs.Too much wealth is
an embarrassment like an over-sized shoe.
Too little of it is likely to be painful like a tight-fitting shoe.
So, it is desirable to have only that amount of wealth
that is adequate for one’s basic needs. You should
try to promote the wealth of good conduct, strive to earn
the eternal wealth of the wisdom of the Spirit.
Happiness is union with God."
Lots of Prema,
sonya ki
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
When all the world is a giant burden,
Banerji sir, my colleague, a true SST Allen.
“Maan ki bat Modi ke Sath; rest other shun,”,
Says always my friend Banarji, never stun
Or stagger or startle, never remains barren.
Best friend who teaches Dhruvi and others Balkan,
Or India with psychology, without an apron.
Kenil, Hari, Bhavin, Shivani had some unban;
With Favourite dish of Dada, a fish; talks on Patan,
Sings hymns, buzzes about Mahakali one.
Says, “Your age is less than my profession.”
Scolds us, “Worst batch of year” – a Pun?
He is Bangali babu, wears dhoti, kurta even,
Talks about SST, and about doors wide open.
He is a Brahman, takes plausible action,
Wearing a chevron, is our Divine’s lion.
Meshwa, Diya, and Pitambar are clearly won,
With Aryan, Harsh, Nupur, Dishal and billion.
Let it be Shakespeare or Keats or Byron
He is through with all, has a great fortune.
Appreciates my Monorhyme and region
Never keeps quiet, but is pure bullion.
Dear to my students, Esha, Jeet or Rohan.
Prosper a lot is my wish, Oh! Aaron!
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
O lord, thy slaughtered guardians
Were brutally killed,
Killed with hundreds of bullets
Fallen to their valiant faces.
They were viciously injured;
Their bodies were struck with bullion slugs.
They sacrificed their life
To protect thy people and thy nation
For a peace that remains a dream
Can never be achieved with a piece of paper and a piece of pen.
The firmament cries with grief,
Their mournful wives, broods, father, mother, siblings and comrades will no longer hear them talk,
And see their precious smiles.
They can never listen to them again saying “Yes sir” and witness the glimpse of their valuable salute.
O lord, defend thy guardians and give them shelter
For they fought and have fallen.
Raise them with your caring hands and heal their wounds from war.
Give them rest in thy kingdom where they can find everlasting peace and love.
Bestow upon their dear ones the acceptance and forgiveness
For them to eliminate the excruciating pain of losing,
And find the importance of life and the thousand reasons to live,
And discover hope in spite of anguish and heartaches.
O lord, let them know that peace is found within you
And wars and chaos will never end if someone hides in the shades of darkness.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
It's been two hours and we are still driving
The radio has repeated the same songs over and over
My seatbelt has grown too tight around my right collar bone
And my mind has fallen into my lap due to my eyes focusing too hard on the scratches in the window rather than what is behind them
I turn to you and ask,
"Are we almost there? I know I've asked you a billion times but I'm so hungry and my foot's asleep."
You look like an angel, draped in a white t-shirt, almost glowing
I cannot get enough of your aura and scent of burnt pine cones
You turn to me and lick you lips
"We're almost there, just be patient."
Your mouth forms a slight smile as you turn your head
And here I am melting in the passenger seat
I have never been so captivated by someone
I could watch him drive for hours and never get sick of it
As I'm looking out the window I see him smile out the corner of my eye as he glances at me
Oh there has never been a sweeter feeling
I can feel my body loosen and I feel as if I could slip right out of this seatbelt
I don’t think he knows what he does to me
It's been two ours and we are still driving
The radio has the repeated the same songs over and over
My seatbelt is cutting into my neck
And my hands are getting tired of holding this steering wheel
I feel as if they are numb and my left foot has drifted asleep
I see her turn to me and ask,
"Are we almost there? I know I've asked you a bullion times but I'm so hungry and my foots asleep."
God, she looks like an angel, her golden brown hair spilled down beside her face, framing it perfectly
She smells of vanilla and spearmint gum, I can't get enough of her
I turn to her and lick my lips
"We're almost there just be patient."
I smile because I just can't help it
The way she makes me feel is like nothing I've ever felt
Her whole being entices me
I could look at her for hours and still find new details that I love
I glace at her and smile, God, she's so beautiful
Oh there has never been a sweeter feeling
I can see her body relaxing as she lays her head back on the seat
I don’t think she knows what she does to me
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Bullion stacked against a window sill
piled high enough to watch the street parade
from behind bullet proof glass panels
wives and children safely ensconced
in upper rooms closer
to the helipad on standby.
He watched the streets burn
Moloch madness known
ego blown and ballooned
on taming the nightskys own fireworks
with the stars in attendance.
with God as his butler.
The man on the street did not think so.
The bills mounted high
and his power was cut for the presidents party.
with a loaf of bread to feed six children
he lost his soul to the furnace in his brain
molotov cocktail in hand
he marched down the alleyway
to the highway of the presidential palace
to set fire to his anger
on the parapets of broken promises
to lay waste to the promised kingdom
to break bread with his brethren
until his message was written
on the politicians plate of plenty.
The helicopter rose
straight into the molotov smash
and the fireball consumed the palace.
The rising ashes replaced the starlights
in the sky and the gold bullion melted back into the earth.
Author Notes
The Revolution has just finished in one place. It will start again in some other.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Quite interesting that,
No political machinery,
Is pushing a different narrative,
Around elective positions;
Especially at the highest positions of,
Federal, state and local tiers of government in,
A horse race to secure power by any means, and,
To what end, really?
One backed by bullion war chests of,
Infinite origins or two of,
Rich origins that remain quite unclear and,
Three acclaimed to be extremely frugal;
Any side of the triangle appears to
Be propelled by ordinate ambition to,
Lord it over the living and the inanimate in,
Obstinate patriarchy to be the head and not the tail;
So, and not so surprisingly, still,
No political organisation in the running has,
Conceived the idea of a female candidate in,
The position of president or the vice, why?
Busy with primordial pernutations,
The entire land is in a heightened frenzy with,
Ethno dichotomy and religious bugaboo, both,
At the fore of national discourse, sadly;
So here we are, the woke and unwoke, all,
Pretending to be mute, deaf and unseeing in,
What evidently would have been the,
Icing on the national cake where a woman to emerge;
Why can't a woman be your running mate in,
This quest to change the miserable trajectory of,
Impending doom this contraption is headed for,
And a gender balance at the echelon of state power?
Whatever anyone says or doesn't say, now,
Nobody should be left any doubt whatever that,
As a people this geographical expression is not serious with,
The things that matter; like a female vee-pee;
And until the national focus shifts toward the,
Preference for a female vice president or president, even,
Over religious or ethnic balance in pairing flag bearers then,
All and every attempt at anything, whatsoever, remains, still, a huge J O K E.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 4:10 AM UTC
These poems are always born colourful.
Pointy and symmetrical, they are life, crafted
Specially for schools that have no bell-rings
Or even recesses. How dull it must be.
They come in different morals: steaming ships
And inexperienced rafts, all trying to taste the
Same water at once. The ships do have an advantage
With big chimneys but it’s the rafts that are more careful.
And how kaleidoscopically they flaunt themselves!
Angels are always with their kin (how saintly), and tigers proudly
Race with their predation pride. The normal ones
Adapt normally, till the gold one comes oval-gaping for air.
It is almost operatic, the bullion fatly singing
A joyful soprano that spirals its corpulent body,
Indelibly marking its forte and making
Everyone else envious. The rest soon join in the orchestra.
Colloid-free, their airy world so thin and wet, the
Little air bubbles drop, drop, drop as clock-like as possible
To balloon and reign the surface. The water’s
Fully bloomed now. They are ready to breathe.
Doctor’s miracles, they are born with unblinking eyes.
Their skin flat and overlapped like thin slices of birdfeathers
And wide bloodless cuts run at each cheek. They defy
Physics with their aerodynamic bodies and a thousand striped hands.
Every nook and cranny of their house is carpentered accurately:
Mirror-rimmed and exact. Windows glued for viewing, flawless.
The tenants move about freely, occasionally pausing to wave
At the guests through the translucent eye pieces.
Untiringly they follow the irises that gawk at their gill-full skins.
The cameras icily smile flashes and these water-gods snap away
Like graceful thunders. Their scissor-tails dance from side to side, panicky,
With only three precious seconds added to their memory.
Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
there once was the dollar and cents
and now there's the new trumpence
will it float
will it fly
is there bullion in the sky
can we go to the bank and collect.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words.
You know that since our founding fathers’ reign
Our kingdoms have been linked like tilting twins,
Sharing the fruits and frowns of war alike,
Two striding shanks, each foot outreaching each,
My Mexicans, the eagles of this island,
Across the lake, your leopards of Texcoco,
Dainty Tlacopan third and least of all.
CUITLAHUAC
But, since the death of wise Hungry Coyote-
Your father- one alone has hitched the wind,
One arm engirdling our fractious state,
Which on one mighty truncheon hops her way.
MOTECUHZOMA
Our Triple Alliance therefore is dissolved.
Now must this galled umbilical be clipped,
Tlacopan liquidated for our bullion,
And you to trudge your solitary trail,
With gods’ best blessings for your bond and bail.
HUNGRY PRINCE [aside]
Oh, let my heart freeze up at this cold news,
For if this tongue should blab the ****** thoughts
These staunchless chambers seal inside my chest,
The tyrant should extract this swollen fruit,
And make my skull the drinking cup of God.
Thus should I truly mirror this prodigy-
A heartless sap, who’s plainly lost his head.
TLACAELEL
Hungry Prince,
Take aim at only what is possible,
For you and I alike both know the fancy
Of human justice only enters where
The pressure of necessity is equal,
And that the stout and rivalrous exact
All that they can, the weak grant what they must.
Of gods we do believe, of men we know,
That by a natural proclivity,
Wherever they can wield the whip, they will.
This primal rule was not drawn up by us,
Nor were we first to heed its nascent call.
The trail’s long blazed, and we do but inherit
This trait, and shall bequeath it to all time,
Content to know that you and all mankind,
If once enfranchised vast as we are now,
Would do as we now do.
Exit all but Motecuhzoma and Hungry Prince.
HUNGRY PRINCE Thus it must be,
Since thus you have declared it for a rule.
And though this outlook seems the sophistry
Of inharmonious and immoderate minds,
Who will say ‘no’ when you have said ‘it’s so?’
MOTECUHZOMA
Do not return, when taxmen come to call,
And whine that I require too much of you,
Since now you nod assent to my decree.
You know the fortune of capricious war:
Today for you, tomorrow it’s for me. Exit.
HUNGRY PRINCE
Then revel it, old ruffian, while you may.
Tomorrow’s but a fitful sleep away. Exit.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Bullet or bullion:
police and politicians,
neither is better.
Jan 17, 2025
Jan 17, 2025 at 8:07 AM UTC
I am
Crying
Crimson
Inside
I am
Forest
Fullness
In deed
I am
Buried
Bullion
Ingots
In the
Words I
Will con-
Cede here
To you
Pistol
Packing
Tulip
To you
Loving
Looping
Rhetor
To this
Beating
Bulging
Tremor
Tuning
Heart hailed
Hue horned
Taxis
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
in a night, where the moon and the ragged star
give way to bell chimes of a chinese
horoscope, and the knuckle crunch
of neighbour's fences rattle,
in name of the wind made craft,
one the bullion among the million,
the acre of earth among the harvested sized-up,
too the tooth-pulling ardency,
whether russia or a satellite, beyond the iron grip,
in the richly wed grip of lost value of gold,
kept secret for the soviet sway,
to keep iron the soviet gold, at a loss
for a gain... each to his cold...
quo vadis? qua vecto, vecto non locus,
circus etc.
(where are you going?
as going, there's no place of origin
to return to, circling on & on).
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
It’s only a connection of hearts
That has kept us together
Not the knowledge that I bear
Or have acquired in institutions.
Where Love exists all Laws bow
No PHD or Masters needed to live this life
Measured to no amounts of cash
No traded soul survives
Not even exchangeable to a full Bullion van
For this am mean enough to say
No love for sale
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
Buckets
of flashy yellow nuggets
by the bullion
it is there
if you are fool enough
to search for it
Apr 2, 2022
Apr 2, 2022 at 11:32 AM UTC
Silence is not
always as golden
as they say it is.
If it's about saying
mean things to others,
it's bullion.
If it's about loneliness,
it's the foolish kind.
I'm rich but hate
being poor.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC