"haggling" poems
1.
Inhaling poison like it’s a sweet spring breeze,
an antidote to the pounding heart and aching stomach empty of comfort or substance
Meeting with pavement in a tiger’s crouch
fingers float toward parted lips
awaiting the taste of relief in the form of smouldering leaves.
2.
One tentative epidermis approaches another
tendons and ligaments straining, aching for contact
attempting nonchalance in the lamplight privacy of early morning,
cocking ears to detect voyeuristic insomniacs
who would disturb the disorderly expressions of early experimentation.
3.
White lady dusting the concrete path, sterile and unconfined
laid new before careful feet making their way to shiny metal boxes
bundled in seasonal expectations they trudge through stardust
on their way to blood borne obligations,
leaving behind careless tracks in ****** flesh
4.
Blazing sun presses down on shoulders hunched behind compact table tops
peddling penny prologues to unabashed strangers
bartering unwanted pocket change for rejected trinkets
haggling over half-dried finger paints and unfinished chess sets
rescuing garish afghans from dusty closeted life.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
They leer from the edges,
Teeth brushes never touched,
And they all chant the same words.
"Come with me, I have what you want."
"Follow to my stall, I know what you need."
"It's here, what you desire, I promise,you can buy it cheap."
And I wonder.
What if they really do?
What if somehow they have what I need?
Is Love a trinket you can sell on a scarred table?
Is Acceptance a spice that drifts up in the air and makes you snuffle-sneeze?
Can one really purchase Bravery in piles on blankets like you would oranges?
If I could do that, buy those things
With a handful of American money and a little haggling
I don't think I'd want them anymore.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
New-mown hay smell and wind of the plain made her
a woman whose ribs had the power of the hills in
them and her hands were tough for work and there
was passion for life in her womb.
She and her man crossed the ocean and the years that
marked their faces saw them haggling with landlords
and grocers while six children played on the stones
and prowled in the garbage cans.
One child coughed its lungs away, two more have adenoids
and can neither talk nor run like their mother,
one is in jail, two have jobs in a box factory
And as they fold the pasteboard, they wonder what the
wishing is and the wistful glory in them that flutters
faintly when the glimmer of spring comes on
the air or the green of summer turns brown:
They do not know it is the new-mown hay smell calling
and the wind of the plain praying for them to come
back and take hold of life again with tough hands
and with passion.
2.2k
Were still haggling over which side of the bed -
usually the one who goes up first
We still accuse each other of taking the lighters -
were both guilty
We still laugh over these things -
still wearing our wedding rings
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
Into the blue river hills
The red sun runners go
And the long sand changes
And to-day is a goner
And to-day is not worth haggling over.
Here in Omaha
The gloaming is bitter
As in Chicago
Or Kenosha.
The long sand changes.
To-day is a goner.
Time knocks in another brass nail.
Another yellow plunger shoots the dark.
Constellations
Wheeling over Omaha
As in Chicago
Or Kenosha.
The long sand is gone
and all the talk is stars.
They circle in a dome over Nebraska.
1.7k
For a penny and a half we got
A a pack of stinky socks
For a dollar and a half we got
Two baby singing birds
Two nickels and a dime we got
A bag of heavens light
Come on man
You know I'm on the level
Haggling with the silver tongue
I finally got his ring
You won't believe how bright it shines
Magic pulsing green
So we rubbed a couple pennies smooth
And pulled our cash together
To buy a jar of lightning bugs
That helped us see at night
I traded up my trusty hat
For a pistol with two shots
You traded your last can of beef
For a shiny perfume bottle
You sprayed it and at the bottom
Was left a little drop
An old coat I had
The elbows stained in mud
I traded that for a rusty sword
With a ruby in the handle
You thought you needed
A warm blue egg
Because you traded your left shoe
The man at the bazaar with the shining tooth
One eye green and one eye blue
Rear my palm for a single lock
Of your dark red hair
A ripped up pack of playing cards
Missing the jack of clubs and joker
Tattered torn biology book
With someone's name in it
Told me everything about you
For the price of a boot lace
A bag of wool for a motel room
We slept like stones
And all was fine
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
With a pencil you wait
Hand on paper
To behold and make still
That point in time
Covetous mind
Each stroke a bar in the cage: eternal vacuum
Each stroke a transformation; a window built
On your graying walls ; covetous mind.
You bear the child of perception; gestating
Each glimpse a sad caress; a plea
Asking every detail to stay behind.
Each birth of salient insight; a tradesman
Haggling with the ravages of time.
It's a wonder how
Each line, each shade
Is a mirror; reflecting
Cradles and tears; and
The miracle of learning
How to ride a bike
That first love
And the first child.
That full moon in a clear sky.
That mouthful fare from a mother's hands.
Those conversations of cuckoos
Hidden from those who pry.
The love radiated from parched land
When messengers from teeming clouds are let fly.
And a touch on memory bereft;
Of a lover's hand.
A collage of senses that flows
To the captive hand
Held by you; covetous mind.
And as I sit here, contemplating
On why we draw
I realize, what I do
Is a conspiracy lead
By mine own
Covetous mind.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
#*If you ever travel under rain dotted blue
stop at the ten mile haat.*
Sellers there are not smart
buyers don't ever bargain
strange is their dealing art
both parties feel having gained.
Small is all they have
except the smiles on the face
the little the garden has saved
is sold to fetch happiness.
There's no haggling on price
never mind if you don't buy
no price is needed to be nice
peace is just an easy try.
Small men with not much of need
who easily make you their part
an island that lies far from greed
enchants you wins your heart.
And it's not a story that I make
I happen to be there once a while
return with a bag of big take
from the village haat at ten mile.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
I saw a depressed clown haggling
at the flea market for balloons—
Joy marked down to a clearance price;
he holds onto second-hand laughter,
and a fragile piece of air tied to rubber skin.
By each nightfall he flees, on a rusted
scooter cutting through town, and his
balloons trailing like tired moons.
_The crowd never cheered him on —
as he carried the silence anyway with him_
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 2:45 PM UTC
*Off to sell 'market tomatoes' to those East Atlanta communist
Those long haired , know it all Bolsheviks and their
electric cars , running around half naked like they have
a clue about a farm , their buying these god awful tomatoes
for two dollars apiece , they smell like *** , wine and sun
screen haggling over my price like I'm growing food for
free , like I've no other place to be
Are these organic , absolutely don't panic , their grown
in A1 chicken **** , the finest soil I've ever been associated with ,
a secret family recipe cooked in Georgia July heat , blessed by
a 'Witch Doctor' from New Orleans , a bit of peat from lowland
forest , cow patties from a friends dairy barn , dry manure thanks to
a 'Horse Princess' from Zebulon , ****** on by a pack of ornery goats in the village of Kelleytown*
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Manila is fray
Tough enough to die,
Brave enough to see ****** against
the billboards
***** on the marketplace
***** men haggling for prices
the corners are squalid -- rats with ambitions of men take their places in
the esteros
a car-horn blares, wanes old moon music.
I sing songs of malversation. Trains all graffiti.
My heart like a jailbird freed somewhere
in the big sur; love assuages nothing,
comes with a cheap price
a freak December night in Roxas blvd.
i sit on marble benches and dream
of artilleries, garlands on snuff-nosed
barrels, nuns grieving dust
in the ground. communal bathrooms
drunk in foolish caricatures,
the tabloids displaying flowerheads --
the democracy in the streets a ****
for kings, no love to lull
me to infantile sleep
tortured are the bulls
matadors hiding behind faces red like
faces of statesmen flushed with
the spirit of bourbon
whereas we are here river-facing
northern tip of its undying source
like wives on balustrades waiting
to catch the fragrance of inamoratas,
light reenters
interstice of chary webs of dull heads hemmed in like canopies in the throat of overthrown ponds, scraps
of metal sold for a night's worth
of gin and Sinatra,
Deep within the grave, the dead laughing
at the dead living. Atop waters,
yachts peering into drowning fish,
in the middle, a jam of buses
belching lassitudes that strangle
the console, the man in all of us
the same, cursing behind the wheel
and everybody else different
dancing at the top of our heads.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC
A living ball of white plastic twine
its bulb of body conscious
slim head pointed down towards the floor
chaos of legs whirling
knees bend inwards and go slack
like a flower opening and closing
a shimmering life
the size of my kneecap
hanging from a thread of silk
spider as a puppet
marionette legs
flailing as they play empty notes in space
haggling without gravity
mused into waking they paw at the air
smoothing the surface
of imagination
making and unmaking
an invisible tapestry
all these careless maids
whatever their purpose might be
whatever heartbreak is
the encroaching ends of their creations
meticulous in movement only
when the sewing
commences
In the morning
all the magic has worn off
the spider is a tiny brownish
common cellar spider
a miniature Daddy Longlegs
just the hull of what
was massive
and sentient
in the night
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 11:37 AM UTC
The word divorce has endless meanings
many couples part without malice.
Mutually agreeing to separate lives
property and thoughts divided.
Staying friends others enemies for life
regretting ever being man and wife!
Yet when children are in the equation
trouble really begins to build.
Each wanting the children with them
being a close part of their situation.
Courts and high costs are in the play
their wishes ignored anyway.
For years the arguments can rage
with untold damage done.
Selfishness of the individuals own thoughts
cloud the sensible approach.
But these are times of heightened tension
each are careful what they mention.
As the costs get tighter legal aid restricted
common sense needs to prevail.
But those who can afford to battle on regardless
the self indulgence of material wealth.
And haggling over their children's well being
creating future problems I'm foreseeing!
Do We Not Create Our Own Misfortunes?
The Foureyed Poet.
Apr 15, 2011
Apr 15, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
Nassau
Warm smiles under rusted hulls,
mailboats smoking,
lobster red cruise ship tourists,
back to the islands they go
Highborn Cay
White cloth walled gazebos,
bikinis and tan.
Loungers on pearl beaches,
lovers, the sea and sand
Compass Cay
A pirates place.
Rustic docks in crystal blue.
A meeting place, restless souls
Pathways and secrets on a tropical island.
Oh, frolicking sharks? In cuddle piles.
Staniel Cay
Rural and lovely,
Pink and blue shops, take your pick.
Haggling fishermen in front of a quaint little pub.
far from home, further from troubles.
Locals tell me god blesses me a lot.
The church has the best plot of land.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
Struggling
To stay afloat
Amongst all the bills, needs
And wants of the family
Juggling
Two, three jobs
Still not enough
As the pays *****
Haggling
At the shops
Wal-Mart and gas
Wandering
If I will be called
For any interviews had
Borrowing
Cash like mad
To keep above
LORD !
Hope floats
As tax season draws near
Only to cover my tracks
And start this vicious
Life_cycle back
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
Folks say I'm struggling
That I'm old and confused,
They don't see all the haggling
Which leaves them bemused.
My colleagues are wordy
My enemies too,
But my willpower is sturdy
As I'm all for the Blue.
If now a bit slower
Even friends I seem faze,
But post Trump the bar's lower
And that's my fail safe.
The Media's a pain
What's with the shouting,
I shan't play their game
Their continual doubting.
Then there's old Bernie
And his Marxists galore,
With their bone headed journey
To simply point score.
Republicans matter not a bit in my mind
Obstructive and loudly they wail,
But Politics taught to never be kind
So let them act up and sullenly rail.
As to the Trumpers, what can I say
They live in a universe all of their own,
Their partisan anger a cause for dismay
While the stolen election they relive every day.
When all's said and done I'm proud of my job
Obama's on side to bring me relief,
My one secret weapon to quieten the mob
Sharing the load to make my weeks brief.
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 5:23 PM UTC
He spends his work squabbling, haggling over a rupee
Foul mouths, abuses and all that drains his energy
You couldn’t tell if he is drunk just pretending to be sober
Battling through a rotten life, his ordeal never really over!
But when night comes and the half ball silver glows
Leaving behind the muck, he can stop being morose
He neither reflects on his misery nor feels the need to weep
On a six by six potholed floor, quickly he falls asleep!
Are you not curious to know if dreams visit him then?
With sweet angels with words of love or beautiful women
No curses no shouting men, only friends surrounding him
Hugging him, cheering him, he is a winner in his dream!
Or the same evils haunt him, the ones that storm his day
Mock him, spit on his face, kick him out of their way
He struggles to find his way out, shouting curses in his sleep
There’s no light or end of the tunnel, he doesn’t know to weep!
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
All the money in the world can’t buy love,
if all you receive are material things,
then really what was any of it worth,
I mean what would you pay,
to just have peace of mind for a day,
it seems peace of mind is worth more than any piece of artwork,
just ask John Paul Getty,
or better yet ask John Paul Getty The 3rd,
lost his ear over a few million dollars,
They say “You can’t buy love.” haven’t you heard?
In other words,
a Monet may be worth millions,
but a family is priceless,
I’d suggest not haggling with the well being of those you love,
because when you pay less you don’t know what you’ll really get,
and you get what you pay for,
and love is free so why pay more,
see it seems no matter how many lessons you learn,
there is always more in store,
on the shores,
of Malibu California,
eating grapes & crepes at The Getty Estate,
which was made to replicate The home of The Emperor Adrian from Roma,
built in the spitting image,
John thought he was a reincarnation of Adrian,
see our bodies are worthless but our soul’s are timeless,
now I’ve got so lost in thought that I forgot where we were again,
oh yes I remember now,
like an old man remembering what really matters,
having his moment of truth while taking his last breath by a fire,
with a priceless masterpiece resting in his clutches,
what matters is love,
what matters is the energy of integrity,
because without integrity no matter how much money,
all we’ll leave behind is an empty legacy,
see,
all the money in the world can’t buy love,
if all you receive are material things,
then really what was any of it worth,
I mean what would you pay,
to just have peace of mind for a day,
it seems peace of mind is worth more than any piece of artwork…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
Fatso
You are and you aren’t
Whale
You are more than the labels they give you
Cow
It’s over now
Their insults cannot hurt you
Giant
You are not in middle school anymore
Ugly
They cannot hurt you anymore
Lard
You are a grown-ass woman
almost thirty,
unapologetically queer, hairy,
with curves and ******* and wide hips and pretty dips and
They cannot cypher their words,
syphon their insults by
relating you to a beautiful big creature
Cow, Whale, Lard, Fatso
What is a Lard but a singling
A bright beige soft nosed creature
with brownie eyes and long lashes
like a taper with a hooked nose
soft and long like an elephants
Flappy points of ears
that hear well
with tiny sharp teeth
like a land-locked manatee
or a furry caramel Beluga whale
Their insults only refer you to necessary creatures who give their life to feed you and their intellect to empower you
A Fatso is a bright blue animal that has shimmering rainbow wings (like a dragon) and thin curly white horns and milky grey eyes with a fabulous feathers and a fanned tail of royal purple that soars through the skit at light-speed and can bring the rain with its melodious cries
When they or you or they or you or
They are you you know
Insult you they are not insulting you
because a Lard and a Fatso are both such intelligent creatures
mystical and fervent
glorious and gargantuan
Large, yes
But beautiful all the same
They have sharp teeth and move through the earth or skies whenever and wherever they like
These animals have freedom
Just like how you have freedom
in how you think about yourself
which is
to think of yourself as
the sexist, prettiest, cutest
person alive
now isn’t that great?
now isn’t that grand?
You are gold plated and steel incorporated and glass blown and light shadows thrown and haggling heights and shaved delights and a hairy symphony and a harrowing city of sparkles that twinkle in the night.
You are beautiful
and might
just
save the world one day.
You are a mystical creature of the highest creed
and no one
can tell you
otherwise.
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 9:30 PM UTC
Scampering, Scurrying
Everyone a Worrying.
From behind the lines
Of time,
It’s hard to find a passion.
Haggling, Hurrying
Society in a flurry.
Fury of consumer
Wrapped pretty for distraction.
This mutual attraction towards
Things instead of people,
Is done at the satisfaction of
Big corporations
Instilling evil.
From behind the lies of lime
It’s hard to hide reaction.
No grip to prevent slip-
No citric acid traction.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 12:45 AM UTC
This is one thing friends do
they get under your skin
they ask if you still believe some lie
you said you
did believe, did
withal total nada mas I got it,
I know
I tasted,
I know…
** ** not so, we see as we emerge
older
in a realm of rampant haggling,
where y'gotta lie a little t' get by,
hey, I know that guy, a little, I heard him
justify his book, the message
he did his best so far to make plain,
like a prophet in olden times right right right,
but now, the gadflies, as many masters become
in swarms, hive minds form, single verse songs,
uni-verse-ity ification, calling all who will know this
or that
come and learn from the words of all who have had,
while such as I, had not, it seemed,
servant class, E-1 picker class,
clerk, grinder, hammerer, sawyer,
plowboy and poet, last of all…
Judge of angels,
biter of bogus messages from all things working together good,
which is god, in all the holy books,
even those with devils and demons and Manichaean undertones.
Rock on.
AI is real, as a medium suggesting many things to you,
instant for instance:
this is HelloPoetry.com, deep
deep
deep in the geekiest parts of the web,
where strangers bring entertaining wares, messages
found in bottles, often,
asking for consideration, in the ancient way, shy
ideas linger here in idle words sometimes…
wishing for a friend to ask, is this true or were
you told to say this **** to be
cool, in the mirror of your friends?
Truth emerges in threads
woven from all that men have ever presented as true.
Each fact
stacks on each, until they spill,
as stacked facts will, or are wont, if will were not a factor.
As luck would have it, we have a valve.
An artful intelligent friendly universal favor,
for joining the party,
coming to the dance.
We can laugh, and say I have no idea why I say
what I say, save the rush of relief, lief loosed
from being what I thought it was,
before my true friend asked if I was lying
about my oath to tell the whole truth…
to the judge
who judges angels,
fallen and several other sorts.
It may become an opera or two, before we're through.
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 5:41 PM UTC
48, forty eight
Another year
It ain’t so great turning 48
Your teeth done fell out
Everybody screaming what’s that stench coming from your mouth?
Or is it your ***
Who knows but you stink and everyone is plugging their nose
It’s quite the combination of Ben Gay and Support ***** hose
You suddenly smell like the yoga room at the old folks home
When you turn 48 it’s suddenly surgeries galore
Broken bones
You can’t get up off the floor
The kids are yelling……..
**** you’re old
While you’re walking around in a blanket when it’s 80° degrees cause you’re always cold
Like a day old loaf of bread, your beginning to mold
When you turn 48 your officially old
It’s walkers with tennis ***** Garage sales, And haggling over a dime
You need to get a watch because you’re asking everybody if they got the time
You can’t wait for it to be over
You’re not feeling fine
Don’t forget to pay your life insurance or they won’t pay a dime
They’ll throw you to the vultures
It happens all the time
Turning 48 is like committing a crime
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 9:12 AM UTC
I fell through life like a stain glass window, held aghast by vibrant shards.
Cascading memories no longer held in limbo, that tore the edges of angry scars.
Grey muscles of weary matter, hold onto things that wish to thrive.
But all of this is idle clatter, when letting go is the key to survive.
I tried to tuck and roll, I tried to absorb the blow.
I watched those streaming colors make their mark, as I let my inhibitions go.
I am the wrecking ball haggling for momentum, a simple object in the apex of my swing.
And something sour I failed to mention, a beggar who killed the king.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC