"foreclosed" poems
Through the fog of disenfranchisement he emerges
Gold watch, Gold rings, Gold hair, Lead heart
He has the resources...
He knows the secret to making money
He must know how I can make that money
So I can finally be happy
As happy as I was before I knew I needed money
Unless the secret of making money is me not having it
He has the influence...
Over those with crumbling foundations of knowledge
And foreclosed homes of empathy
Their situation is dire
They need someone to admire
What channels will this river of adulation lead to, though?
Their minds sneak across the borders of fear
into paranoia
Their hearts scale the walls of love
into hatred
He has the power...
The Botanist tells the customer that the flower is actually a ****
And he must **** it
There are Bedouin villagers who know nothing of the outside world
Except for our bombs
Will the sounds of love be heard over our tanks and guns?
He has no control...
No control of the thoughts of those that live
in the shadows of uncertainty
No control over the brotherhood all men share despite our differences
He is not the sun
And time waits for nobody
And misery finds everyone no matter what
And you can burn the witch at the stake of your fears
But her banshee screams will unleash the titan of retribution
Through all this hatred
Love will save us, right?
Or is love what led us here?
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Fewer than none, less than a void
I be seedless as grocery store grapes.
Empty as the grave I have yet to be buried in.
I want
I need
I burn
I am
not done.
Not yet...
I should throw it all away
every scrap that is left
every parcel and shred of evidence
of memory
that is my enemy now.
Too close to call it a tie,
I've been foreclosed upon.
That's it, pack it up.
They're useless now
just let them die.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
1148
After the Sun comes out
How it alters the World—
Waggons like messengers hurry about
Yesterday is old—
All men meet as if
Each foreclosed a news—
Fresh as a Cargo from Batize
Nature’s qualities—
2.7k
In my neighborhood
Your hedge presses against my hedge
In my dreams
Your leg presses against my leg
In my neighborhood
People hate me
In your mind
You overrate me
In my neighborhood
****** burns the sorrow
With you
There's always tomorrow
Neighbors are the worst
They unquench
Labors of thirst
They're also the best
When it comes to people
They're the rest
If you could do me a favor
And not be my neighbor
I need you in my house
You're stuck in my head
You're my louse
Then the neighbors foreclosed my home
Morphing me into the roaming gnome
Does a homeless man have neighbors?
Like a wild dog
With no bone to savor?
It just breaks my heart
When people run each other off the road
With their hate filled cart
In my mind the roadblock is your face
Through the window I see the hate
We'll use my roadblock to erase
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
I see you daily
and I've come to realize
that nothing of you is flawed.
These past years
I have been privileged
to see you:
receive letters from division I athletics
blossom from the flower of puberty
and live in a gorgeous home.
But as I broke through your flawless facade,
I saw hurt and vulnerability,
I no longer saw perfection.
Your mother- lost to cancer,
your father- an angry man,
your siblings- hateful.
I have been puzzled
to see you:
deny admissions to division I schools
let your hair grow scraggly, your face become oily
and your house be foreclosed.
You are not what I thought you were.
You are like me
you are weak
hurt
abandoned.
You, like me, are not perfect.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
In this city the bright lights can blind you
let you forget the rustic coins littered around the floor
caught by grimy hands belonging to a woman
she holds her life on a thin piece of cardboard
written in faded Sharpie
If you ever lose your way with the crowd
and stumble upon the empty alleyways
they possess cracked glass from beer bottles,
old shopping advertisements, broken toys
and the stench of trash mixed with lost hope realizing
the pavement isn't always perfect but littered with cracks
Walk further down and you will pass the rejected streets,
houses gone foreclosed and no remorse
all that matters is the country's history,
pressed on notorious green paper belonging to greedy hands
forgetting about the family that lost their house
Wait at the train station,
for the rumble and two yellow lights
The snake of a train claims passengers
trapping them between closed doors,
only allowing them to face their own misery
some escape with headphones
others just stare into the darkness with sunken eyes and drunken sighs
Walking home see the gum wrappers and dead leaves skid around
the soles of your worn shoes
Graffiti garage doors only display discarded art
And when the night is still
you can feel the empty consonants and vowels crawl up your legs
forming the unspoken words from unwanted voices that lay
Hidden under our feet.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
It’s silly for me to trade
My worth for something made
Up just for a keepsake…
A keepsake paper trade route I adjourned
To pacify a need I had begun to forlorn.
Fashioned by the angst of my discretion.
Lo and behold! Here I stand my heart I made open
Know this, I never put up nor faltered a thought
Then again true colors sprung up revealed a dismay.
What I had longed for, I quivered…
Apparent of what I foreclosed…
For I will not resolve to disclose any matter.
Should I have to, I am welcome.
I am a lion, that’s what I am.
Yes, I may have faltered but never will I am.
I can only take the blame for the actions I had begun
And the hurt, I take it, from which had sprung.
But never will I lift a finger, once I know I am betrayed.
For I know the worth of a friend,
I was blinded by my self-dismay.
Settle your thoughts, my dear, for such resolution;
For I have placed God to be my absolution.
Distance plays disregard to known other virtue.
See me as I am and you’ll see me I’m true.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
I don't know what wood
this table is made from
as I bought it from a yard sale,
but to be brash
it seemed the people's home
had been foreclosed.
Knocking on the table's surface
imagine the beating sounds
of drums, a native tribe
secluded from the river of reality
and yokes the essence
of their seclusion to be culture.
Now imagine the opposite
and you'll understand the quality
of the table I just bought--
who has no history
and most likely
rested on IKEA's factory floor,
it's welcoming to the world.
There is no grain to this creature
as the metallic hands that crafted this beast
lacked a soul and its creations lack one too--
fittingly, it's perfection is a symptom
to the disease that lies in it's faux-wood.
Placing the poor table frame
inside some high rise studio in Manhattan
I can't help, but imagine--
the hands that will enviably gloss over this shell
and preach to their acquaintances
of a life the table never had.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Your children roam the gridlocked streets
hand-in-cardboard, feet firmly on uneven ground,
eyes heavy with the rubble of their foreclosed homes.
They live in grocery carts.
Forget Fifth Avenue, or the Villages,
or the cobblestone streets of young and old,
or the unseen gates of Striver’s Row.
Your heart lies by the subway stations
that ring with the songs of a lonely old man,
his teeth yellowed, but voice golden,
asking not for introductions nor coin,
but for a listener.
New York, they cry for you to hear them.
(Your poor, your tired, and your weary)
Bowery, 6.13.15.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
They flip out if One "owes" them a Thousand Dollars
but they don't do **** about
our $11,959,000,000,000 deficit
(or about 75% of the GDP)
except raise the debt ceiling
and shut down day-to-day processes
thus letting functionality grind to a halt
so they can still afford to pay themselves
their precious and exorbitant salaries,
whilst every-fucking-thing else
deteriorates by the minute
and is foreclosed upon.
**I think that we as a Nation should instate
that Politicians are unable to pay themselves
until we have a surplus of money
with which to reward them
for their keen, honest, wise and diligent* (get this: ) *Public Service;
*rather than allowing them to serve themselves
well above the supposed "Land of the Free"
they supposedly represent
supposedly so selflessly.*
The System is ****** for us, as citizens;
though it works exactly as designed
for those holding the marionette strings.**
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
Today,
Hurricane Joaquin
hammered the central bahamas
with torrents
that flooded foreclosed homes.
The forecasters warned us of this.
Same day,
ten kids get
assassinated by another one
bringing torment
to Oregon, no order found.
The forecasters warned us of this.
On that day,
every monster
forged a face as we all grieved,
as is our nature,
absorbing blows by no one's order.
The forecasters warmed up to this.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
Adam and Eve lived here
before she went vegan
and chomped the wrong apple
dropping them both into deep schtuck
with a difficult learning curve
before they got up to speed
as our progenitors
and began begetting.
With only two to start with
there had to have been a lot of ******
with begats here and begats there
and still, the gene pool stayed clean
without fits and starts
so there must have been a Divine Profiler
in the sky keeping the books straight
with our future at stake.
But there is a question?
In the beginning there were only two
so was Adam the midwife
and if so
where did he learn the skills
the whole midwifery bit
the gentle initial slap
to get the first wail ever on this earth
Interesting theological
and philosophical thoughts
not even thinking
about baby clothes
and the like
I suppose breastfeeding
was a must before Baby Formula
Deep thoughts for Easter
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
~~~
*A rich woman
Walked down the street
She met a workman she didn't greet.
But though they didn't
Stop to TALK
They were able
To exchange THOUGHTS...*
Hey! Look at me! I'm all that!
Think you're cool with that
baseball hat?
I'm in my designer clothes
I'm Dior from head to toe.
I have snakeskin shoes
And pure silk pants
My perfume comes
From Paris France...
**Designer Bags and golden rings
Jeweled tiaras and a
Real mink coat?
What to do with such trivial things?
Except wallow in the
Superficial joy they bring...
Please. Humour me
With stacks of DOUGH
That's street lingo
For cash you know.
I'll sit here and strum my guitar
Whilst I look up
And count the stars...
Please... take your spoils and go...
I don't have time for spoiled souls
I'll enjoy the things that matter most
While you celebrate
charades and toast.**
If life's a charade,
At least I'm a player!
You're sure not gonna
Run for Mayor!
C'mon DOUGH BOY
You know that you want
All the goodies that we flaunt!
Yes... I have a real MINK!
And my money has a STINK
But who supports
The people you are?
Why! You're nothing but
Shiftless POOR!
**I ain't gotta pay
to play this game
I got a Full Heart I'm all IN!
You can't just buy
Yourself some PEACE
I've learned life lessons
To pay my lease!
Your whole life is inside your wallet
And I'm sorry... but I must call it...
Inside your soul is
bankrupt and foreclosed
It's sad to see happiness is posed
Shiftless, classless and
OUT OF STYLE
But your pretty golden pennies
Ain't worth my while...
You've got cash, but it's just CRASS
Lady. Take your fortunes and
KISS MY BOOTS!!!**
WELL! I *never!
The last thing she thought
As she hurried away.
She's filthy rich NOW...
... but one day she'll PAY.*
(C) SoulSurvivor
(C) Frank Ruland
~~~
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Sprinkled 'round is the shade
beneath the dieing tree.
Leaning to the left a bit,
almost upon it's knees.
As if begging for the water,
that from its crown it can see.
The home now vacant, foreclosed,
the landscape left thirsty.
it's not just families that suffer,
in this upside down economy.
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
We used to intertwine like vines growing up a tree
Now the only thing that intertwines is this dark and me.
You’re tequila for my bones and braids, the starlet in my smoke,
This trick has got its grip on me; my song’s become a choke.
True love never fails and that’s my failure in the night
Marijuana medicine taken ‘fore twilight
Thoughts resurrect like zombies, grow between my veins,
Even when you’re absent you still keep me insane
Poetic, pathetic, diuretic, drain me of my blood
Mixing spit and hate and love until it becomes mud
Sheets of shame and guilt’s to blame for my empty heart
Foreclosed, alone, this isn’t poetry, this isn’t art
Eighteen and way too broken to be reckless and to care
Pull the trigger, shatter me, pull on my long dead hair
Scar-less little dream-catcher holding onto golden wings
Baby girl with bad dreams drinking up careless flings
I’m an alien with history just looking to get high
I prefer my world ******** on the rocks and extra dry.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
if i were president
i would tell my people
and make them
know that
if you have more
give more
and
if you have less
give more
because
it makes you feel better.
if i were president
i would give
all the foreclosed homes
in America
to the homeless.
when people feel safe,
they feel better
they would grow
and participate in society
they would no longer be homeless.
if i were president
i would tell my people
and make them
know that
societies norm
the one that
we are all scared of
but hide it,
the one that makes us feel judged,
and misunderstood,
that society
should not
and will not
define how we think
because we are stronger than that.
if i
were president
i would be a leader
act like
a leader
talk like
a leader
and be an example
for future leaders.
when i become president.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
When you think about it:
We spend the majority of our lives
Behind closed doors.
Whether it is in the privacy of our homes,
Or in our offices, schools, or church.
Most of what we do is hidden from the world.
And you never really think about what
Other people might be dealing with,
But a simple word could have them in tears.
We don't take the time to ask about
Their scars or any defining aspects of their life.
We live in a world of small talk,
And artificial friendships.
Talk to a veteran. Understand.
Find people that you have known for years,
But never truly got to know them.
Many of us don't know each other's full name,
Let alone what takes place in their household,
Or what their financial situation is,
Or why they stopped texting you back.
In reality we assume that we grew apart from them,
Or that they are mad at us; melodramatic.
But their phone service got cancelled because they
Couldn't make the payments,
Or their house got foreclosed and they're embarrassed
To talk about it.
If we consider ourselves to be their friend,
Then we should be there for them in every situation.
Be personable with everyone,
Forgive people who do wrong to you,
Love people; not just some people,
Love everyone.
We spend to much time and energy
Hating people and things.
How many times a day do you say,
"I hate"? And how many times a day
Do you say, "I love"?
That is what is wrong with people today.
Don't forget to pray
To keep it away
Keep the hate away,
Love everyone.
Inhale the future,
Exhale the past.
And pray.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
Our story that I tried so hard to write is coming to a close, babe you were my stronghold that my heart has now foreclosed.
I tried so hard to perfect the things we did and what we said, I wrote the letters over and over until I wished I was dead.
Page after page I would erase and rewrite, sentence after sentence my heart had less light.
You walked all over the pages and ripped out your favorite parts, you folded all the edges and broke my helpless heart.
I would come in running after you cleaning your mistakes, accepting your apologies I never realized you were fake.
You blamed me for your madness and said I was no good, but truly it was your fault cause I did all I could.
You broke all my smiles and you turned them to frowns, you took my happy life and turned it upside down.
I can’t take the pain you caused me or the images you left in my head, they all used to be happy until you said you loved her instead.
My fairytale ending wasn’t what I'd expected, I guess our love was never perfected.
I’m okay now we can say goodbye, I’m happy you left me, but the memories will always be mine.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
-1928-
There are whispers,
Whispers of something coming.
A time with no money.
Maybe it's just some
Panic.
I wonder what they'll do,
Without money.
It's all they talk about.
What'll they do,
If it's gone?
-1932-
They've gone.
No one has been here for years.
I guess it was true,
What they said
About the money.
There'd been some talk
For a while.
But this time,
It was
Real.
They ran out of money,
Or, maybe someone took it.
Either way,
They couldn't save me.
Meaning: This is told from the point of view of a house during the Great Depression. The family he is housing has been hit by the Great Crash, and have been foreclosed out of their house--him. The beginning (1928) starts the year before the stock market crash, and the end takes place a few years into the Depression (1932).
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
Stress the silent killer
Strapped for cash it always seems
Unpaid notice from biller
Repossessed, foreclosed and liens
Days of paranoid waking
Job, your kids, the homestead- health
Don't realize why you're quaking
Balancing act takes real stealth
The bill collectors calling
Day and night relentless rings
Repetitive thoughts, stalling
Heart palpitations it brings
Running wild are kids and wife
Brats- no control, spouse spending
To what do I owe this life?
For certain nightmares pending
I have a job, work all day
But look where it has got me..
Bust my **** for little pay
I'm trying, can not you see?
Take the car, shut off the lights
No water to shower there
Toll of stress will reach new heights
The level beyond repair
This whole **** world needs a change
Added stress we just can't bear
To the docs if you don't rearrange
Government ***** said it.....there
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
There’s mold in the attic
Next to the instillation and between the ears
so many people wanna condemn this place
Yet they have never lived here
They didn’t see it when it was new and beautiful
Before the outside world formed cracks in its foundation
Before years of storms leaked in and rotted memories
All the world sees is foreclosed eyes
That’s why they are so blind
Always trying to tear us down
Instead of building us back up
Then they wonder why we put locks on are doors
And plywood over the windows
They only wanna see something new
Even if its not there own
Some people houses look just like mine
Some peoples minds are abandoned homes
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 9:04 PM UTC
*The days have grown dim
and the nights slumber-less
piles upon piles of papers
clustered against the wall
it's ink rots and whither's
against the strands of time
tormenting me with unpaid bills
and threats of a foreclosed home
The idle threats of separation
have grown familiar, the sparks
of romance no longer seem apparent
I question our vows....
I question my church and I question my religion
rosaries wrapped around my throat
suffocating the faith that I still have left
These wine bottles have become my god
I drink the blood like it's water
the water cleanses my sins and blind my senses
it's sweet but bitter
I wonder.... What if.....
but, if I knew the answer
then perhaps this gun
would not be laying upon my nightstand....
What if...... What if......*
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
The lighter fluid set it off
The moment you and I were set ablaze
And in the haze
Of smokey bars and dreary days
I feel the ashes on the pages now,
The photo on the shelf's been
Overlooked for far too long
And been bleached out by the sun
And fingerprints of long lost children
Are engraved into the paint
You said I was a girl of novice strings
And I was into meaner things
Go on and make it airtight
Lock the door and seal it off
I do not wish to fight the future
Or the things that I was taught
I've lit the cardboard endless times now
Pressed the monster to my lips to burn the
Feeling of your kisses off my aching consciousness
There will be solace in the bathroom floor
She screamed it at his face
And when the house is all foreclosed
He will not miss the empty space
The steel was never sweeter
Now the clocks are way too loud
Turn the tables back three months again
Just where's your safety now
I can't put it down
I can't put it down
I can't put it down
The empty driveway was the prophet
Just like leading sheep to slaughter
When before she kicked the door
She fell like roadmaps at his feet
The sound of ringing makes the paint peel
Fall down into curling hands
I smell the stench of open wounds and overbearing righteousness
It's not far away from sunrise and the
Hole is growing wider
Swallowing the mice and monsters
Doesn't matter who was "nicer "
Palpitations for your journal
It was all a grim facade
Hide the body, make a new sound
Before your ***** hands get caught
Turn the clock back three months now
I can't put it down
5 years in a minute
I can't
Put it
Down
3 months
2 days
1 second
I can't put it down
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
American Sermon
I am uniquely privileged to be alive
or so they say. I have asked others
who are unsure, especially the man with three
kids who’s being foreclosed next month.
One daughter says she isn’t leaving the farm,
they can pry her out with tractor
and chain. Mother needs heart surgery
but there is no insurance. A lifetime of cooking
with pork fat. My friend Sam has made
five hundred bucks in 40 years
of writing poetry. He has applied for 120
grants but so have 50,000 others. Sam keeps
strict track. The fact is he’s not very good.
Back to the girl on the farm. She’s been
keeping records of all the wildflowers
on the never-tilled land down the road,
a 40-acre clearing where they’ve bloomed
since the glaciers. She picks wild strawberries
with a young female bear who eats them. She’s being
taken from the eastern Upper Peninsula down
to Lansing where Dad has a job in a
bottling plant. She won’t survive the move.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
I am the messiah of all the houses that neither you nor I own
In the building behind your suburban home
Beyond the gates that say
Go away
we are owned by the bank
Secretly drop outs snorting up crank
Holed up in a house that some poor soul could not afford
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC