"handouts" poems
I find myself sidewalking everything
So Silverstein was lucky to know where it ends
Will I ever be privileged to discover such a thing?
Too many trivial needs distract from its pursuit
But how am I to know?
When it's time, I only cared for my toys
The way the sheeple only care for their handouts
Do tell; if the Pentagon lays off 800,000 people
Will we know they're telling the truth about unemployment
When their words flow between mouthfuls
Of stolen fruit and gold
At the table of the elite
So tell me, who is John Galt?
I sit at a table with a mind that knows how to think for himself
And can't help but think this is the purest form of elitism:
Until at last the time has come
For the imminent end of all serfdom
Brought by the brawn of the brainy
How are we to keep our heads when the others ***** us over
Take our heads clean off to see the contents
Only the strongest can withstand the attempts to skew ideas
Upon who's minds the lying flies
Forced off by intellect
The simple last defender of God and liberty
Big Brother would have us not discuss such things
At times, I feel that we are the last in the world
So, tell me- if this paper is the last in the world, have we written something significant?
I've no doubt the world will see
The mistakes of society
Time then, will bring forth a new renaissance, with us as creators
And they, as the readers of some disconnected thoughts
Written at a time when the end of a page was a good stopping point for poetry, but not for the limit of government infringement on personal freedom.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
When you hand out
bankrolls of cynicism and cheques of failure
I will show you my bullions of perseverance
Diamonds of reality
When you show me twenty stories of disappointment
I will display five stories of utter joy and hope
Take your handouts of regret and chances-never-taken
Face me and tell me my dreams will never grace this earth
But I laugh
Even as I cry
And bleed
Hope I don't regret this
Hope is all I have
Hard work will get me far
I hope hard work will see me alive at forty
Dying regrets but hope hope hope
I hope I hope at forty
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
While the calmness returns,
the strangers gone,
noise of gunshots,
the cry of the wounded
and dying are no more heard,
our children and women
came out of hiding,
the young men smiling sheepishly
as they survived the onslaught
of the insurgents.
You can see the older women
in small groups scattered all over
selling food and all kinds of stuff.
The stragglers returns,
loitering all over the place,
trying to adjust and blend
into the communities.
Laughter and shouts of joy
is again heard in our land
even the morning songs
of the turtle dove.
The stray dogs are seen
looking for food and handouts.
The women pounding
their yam in mortar
with the pistil are
heard in our backyard
with the noise of
happy children singing
and dancing at the village
square in the moonlight,
while the elders and young
men keep watch.
What a beautiful moment
as peace returns.
With grateful heart we
celebrate this day.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
sometimes it's heaven,
sometimes it's hell,
I hope I pick the right one
if not, oh well.
I tried to play nice,
But it didn't work out,
sittin in back with a bucket of ice
with my held held high
you're gonna kiss my ***
while i kiss the sky
vindictive by nature
can't supress who i am
with my nose in the air
i'm like toucan sam
I'm a free spirit
and i don't really care
if you don't want to hear it
cause i'm free, free fallin'
enjoyin every minute of it
kickin back with a bottle of ***
if you're against me **** you
if you're with me get some
i don't like handouts
so hand it to me
gonna play these strings
like you can't believe
brings tears to your eyes
brings you to your knees
if i stop
you'll be begging me
please , please, please
I need more, more, more
like you can't get enough
like an unused *****
I tried to play nice
but it didn't work out
no it didn't work out
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
Even the beetles
know
how to roll dung
uphill
to make a living.
I can't believe
those lazy mofos
hanging out
to collect our spoils,
with us toiling daily,
spilling more dough,
into the coffers
for easy handouts.
They're lazier
than shit-beetles.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
I am Mexican:
Brown and forgotten inbetween,
Brown like the dirt poor I am.
Iv'e been in hard labor:
I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
I am the backbone of the working class.
Iv'e been poor:
I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.
Iv'e been a hustler:
Every penny earned off my back
Makes dollars for "their" pockets.
Iv'e been here:
I am no *******
I am the American dream,
Still I must show identification.
I am Mexican:
Brown and four generations deep
American, I am still
The immigrant face.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
Oh oh oh oh she use to be the sweetest girl oh oh she use to be the sweetest girl but when a good girl gone she gone forever and see you can't make it rain without stormy weather and its funny cause when it rains it pours and listen this wouldn't never happened if I wouldn't have gave him my all
This wouldn't never happened if I never traded in my love for lies but I take the L cause I don't want to see my brother lose even for I been through it all
I could never fill my mother shoes and nah I don't want a no handouts I just want to tell the girls that can feel me that I just play the cards that a ***** deal me and see eveything I been thru try so hard to **** me
but I just want to tell the girls that can feel me that boys are all the same in my eyes and I'm tried of running into the same types of ****** but listen ****** are the same in my eyes and see I just don't want to hurt anymore.
This is just a little something and I want to give a big shot out to all the real men's out there....
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Meaningless is the introspection
of a solitary lover
with a succubus to impress
just to fail like all the rest.
Greedy are the handouts
of a body borne charity
satiation of the poor
without knowledge of her lore.
Osmosis to attention
she commands the lustful gaze
radiating an appetite unrivaled
a raging libido with no title.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
How does it move away?
Does it pack up what is racked up
Heading for the horizon and simply fade?
How does it walk away?
Does it stomp with every step as it squash whatever's left
Like footprints in the sand lost to the waves?
How does it stay away?
Does it rotate slowly with frustration, lamenting your suspicions
Frustrating you, festering and pestering,then it wanes
Till darkness blankets your brain?
How does it slip away?
Does it go unnoticed for days then weeks,
Wondering from the sunrise till the flickering of the lights in the streets
Insisting,persistent,yet resisted then dismissed,
Offering random handouts like a dog begging for scraps
Running and hiding, punished for trying then eventually dying
To an eventual parting of ways
What makes a Solid Bond struggle to maintain?
What makes it strong and easy to depend on?
XIN
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
like my mind is filled with ideas
my material world is boxed in by things
over capacity knowledge stores on paper pads
and journals by the pound
around me they surround
time capsules prepared industriously on the daily by me
notes and books and handouts and work outs, all strewn about
my mind externally, representing fragment thoughts ideas left whole
thoughts pursued and cast aside and fleshed out to live a life of their own
Ordinary mortals see a cluttered desk, books and papers spilling over this
But it's a furnace of the imagination, taking shape, each item a puzzle piece to be
put together, and torn apart and worked on through the night until it's just right.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
they all turn up as friends at first
our friendly and warm-hug super powers
with their supercilious smiles and handouts
they come with nice words and packages
and promise of development and infrastructure
and bearing gifts and loans
and remarking on affinities
and history and culture
and they throw in aid and money
and promise of riches and wealth
but they all turn bad guys
all these friendly super powers
they want a presence first
and then
you are theirs, time present and future
they turn up with new-year fireworks and promises
and then they want to invade your country
and they want to make you theirs
they all turn up bad guys
don't they
these friendly super powers -
and their warm hugs turn into bear hugs
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
T'is the season,
pigeons fare on handouts,
the homeless sell papers
that no one reads,
Mexicans wage a drug war
around about Juarez,
the Chinese run their factories
on foreign waste,
North Korean bunglers
roar 'n reign,
while South Koreans fawn and feign,
the Russians fine tune
their vanishing democracy,
Europe is all a plunder,
Greece, Ireland, Italy, Spain,
Bailed out ***** bankers
bailing bundles of bullock,
they securities and sell,
Retirement fund managers can't buy enough.
The US is on overdrive,
hot color alerts,
underwear bombers everywhere lurk,
every life is precious
when it serves our needs,
at the airports,
*** tourists smile with glee,
looking forward to having their packages ******
Oh, to be a Belizian, or maybe Swiss,
and be able to say "cheese" to all of this.
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
I cant recall the nights I used to stare at stars thinking you would answer
Protesting my state and berating the loss
Children have been less needy than myself.. Handouts of sympathy no longer require my attendance....
Happy birthday only means I have the regret I created loss meant I couldn't be found
Blame is no longer sought... I burned all the memories but theres a few I forgot....
Nitetime hugs seemed so foolish as you always gave me a goodnite kiss...
Id trade everything I have for one more embrace.... Take back everything ive done for one more glimpse of your face...
Oh memories I guess tonight I know that candles on a cake are the one thing I wont blow out.....
with forgotten pain and new brought sorrow..... my birthday wish is simple " I cant wait till tomorrow".....
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
I wrote a paper in school
about ancient myths
using an old typewriter
and by candle-light,
wrapped up in a comforter
that cold winter night,
despite the propane heater
in the dining room.
All of our utilities
were shut off for months,
electric, gas, and water;
we had no money.
We were getting food-bank meals,
and making our own
candles out of reused wax.
It felt pitiful,
and in the days leading to
my paper due date
I was told repeatedly
that it must be typed.
The school library was closed
before my last class
ended, and we had some fines
at the public one.
Here's a myth I often hear,
though not learned in school,
party politics will say,
"They wanted handouts."
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Big dummy, you caught
Run around town like a little thot
Think you know better, but you “no” not
Always out trying to shoot your shot
Scheming on girls like wild thoughts
Giving out handouts, handouts
Numbers so high like your body count
Name everywhere, you can yell it out
Jun 30, 2021
Jun 30, 2021 at 7:52 PM UTC
Carefully, he laid the book on the table
He’d been re-reading Oliver Twist
In those terrible poor Dickensian times
He often wondered how the poor could exist.
The rain poured down heavy on the windows
The sky matched his mood, it was grey
For after they had both done their eight hours of work
They had picked up a parcel today.
Journeys to the food bank were in silence
Both felt an extreme sense of loss
That they had to rely on charity and handouts
From a government who treated them as dross.
The food banks get more, the poor get more poor
It was ever thus and shall ever be
He wondered what Dickens would think of it all
About poverty he thought, no change he’d see.
He’d look to the Houses of Parliament
No changes would he expect to see there
Then he’d look to the poor who still roam the streets
And see a government that still didn’t care.
Then he’d put his quill to notepaper
And tell them exactly what he thought
And ask if they’d do something about it
Or whether their votes had been bought.
All this the man mused as they emptied the box
As a solitary tear ran down his cheek
Then he held his wife and child in his arms
And he wept, for he just couldn’t speak.
©Joe Wilson – I wonder what Dickens would think…2016
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Breaching the surface
largemouth jumps up to see if…
It can hold its breath.
The pregnant fishes
lounge upon the riverbed
waiting to give birth.
Dancing smallmouth bass
pirouettes around boat
looking for handouts.
Learning never ends!
For even the fish will stay…
Forever in school.
Protective coating:
Slimy perspective to us;
Life saving to them.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
Trump nation, Aleppo sin
fighting battles we'll never win.
I am you and you are me,
something humans dread to see.
Burning effigies of terror and hate
in hopes of making America great (again).
Blue collars turned red from the loudest silence,
Inciting their God-given right to violence.
All for one and one for one,
that's how you negotiate and
get **** done.
Caring for your neighbors
does them no favors
and handouts aint for free,
but you can earn them and more
by becoming a slave
exactly
like
me.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
Bored meeting again,
And we’ve assembled ourselves,
Well situated, to see the clock,
Later arrivals take the leftover chairs
And the words begin to drone.
Pencils getting pushed,
While we’re thinking, how’d we get here;
We left in such a rush,
Our brains are scrambled mush,
When suddenly there’s a silence-
A response is now required;
More murmuring and muttering,
Chair legs being squawked,
Drawings on white boards,
Handouts passed about:
We wish that we just had the guts
To get up; walk right out.
Our lives are lived in neutral,
While clocks hammer out our days;
We owe our every bit of food
To something someone says.
This meeting feels interminable,
In so many different ways,
And just when we’re most sure, we’ll die-
Adjournment comes; the end.
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 4:23 PM UTC
Two a.m, the taste of alcohol lingers in my mouth.
L.A. at night is a walk unsecure, as wolves come out into the cold.
These green neon eyes of predators approach.
Nightfall creates a ghost town. Darkness, a companion of loneliness.
The city is its own wilderness, I watch my step or risk losing my identity. Desperate to escape but poverty is a frustrating trap that can make one break. I can only imagine the life of abandoned corpses, sleeping next to churches, after constant battles of defeat.
Here come the police sirens, protecting the elites, the security force of oppression and brutality.
Where does love fit in this city? It is like love has been removed to save a few dollars and polluted fog put in its place.
I get why people would give anything to hold onto someone at the end of the day.
A city advertised for dreamers but the nightmare of those that do not make it to the spotlight.
I continue to fight despite no handouts.
My memories shaped by experiences in these streets.
Reminding me of what I am made of.
I will walk in this misconceived city, still breathing, persevering, until I have reached my destination.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Poetry and poverty go together, the saying goes; this poem explores this bleak idea. The narrative is set in an ancient Chinese context.
Old Man Poet
you’ve grown a rich self
while your body grows weary
and your vision fades;
all your friends
Old Man Poet
have hoarded silver and gold
and all you’ve done
is to sing and grow old
you’ve not accumulated
and you’ve not gathered
though the dust gathers on
your scroll of poems;
your songs are stolen and sung even now
in distant villages
but passed on in new names
Ah, Old Man Poet
you’ve discovered too late
and don’t care though
nobody pays for poetry
and nobody reads such stuff
unless it’s flattery and free;
and though your songs may live
after you die
and they might sing it over your grave
and though villagers may sing it
as they sow and reap
it will all go in the wind
anonymous and unknown
all that when you die, when you die,
Old Man Poet, Old Man Poet -
but now, just days more
when you are frail
who will feed you, who will take care of you,
Old Man Poet, Old Man Poet?
ah, Old Man Poet
your neighbors call you useless;
your friends ask you if you need handouts
and your wife mocks you
and your children pour scorn in your empty bowls
and still you sing your songs
and you sit in marketplace corners
and you sing with your er-hu
and still you sing of sunsets and sunrise
and the rise of empires and the end of loves -
but who will feed you, Old Man Poet?
what will you do when
they put you in a corner when you’re too weak
and there’s no one to wipe the **** off your pants?
Old Man Poet
you’ve grown a rich self
while your body grows weary
and your vision fades;
all your friends
Old Man Poet
have hoarded silver and gold
and all you’ve done
is to sing and grow old
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 3:09 AM UTC
im me because i act different than you.im me cause i look at things different than you.the reason you succeed and i fail.i beacuase im not good for nothing except for living in a jail cell.dont give me handouts or benefitsfuck colors and dumb racist shit!god put me here to do the same thing as you.but im me because i act different than you...............
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 4:21 PM UTC
Here is where we are, then
And for what it's worth, you're less than welcome
Because when this is the best 22nd catch I've made
Well, who exactly is it that's worth all that time
Time when I would've been happily productive
You're the project that just keeps on smiling
Benefactor's bored
Enjoy your handouts, your good time, your precious notions
You'll never run out of them
And certainly won't miss mine
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
Today shed I a tear for every lost soul
Lost in the furtherance of ill-conceived war
Lost at the hands of a political goal
Lost now to good health, consistently poor.
As refugees they travel to find peaceful land
Relying on handouts from a charity trough
Reviled by so many who don’t understand
Who deny there’s a problem or just shrug it off.
Would a family not desperate get in one of those boats
And set sail over seas that so frequently ****
And give all of their money to who promises the most
Who manipulates their misery with such deadly skill.
Yes, shed a tear for humanity’s sake
Have we lost all compassion and good grace
Let us recognise the pain and the risks that they take
And be grateful that it’s something that we will not face.
But politics the ***** whose behaviour is arch
And the arms manufacturers and their riches
Mean more refugees will set off on the march
While so many lie dead in quickly dug ditches.
Man is truly his own worst enemy.
©Joe Wilson – Today shed I a tear…2016
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
A slip of the foot morphed into
an excruciating plummet into a void.
Before YOU know it, everyone else does
and you're bandaged up and tucked in bed
You've snowballed. It was out of your hands.
The word "Inpatient" echoes in your head
and you can't help but wonder:
"What did my parents say?"
There you are, still disoriented.
You're prospected expectations have
naturally become an escalated reality.
Now you're flooded with more
Diag-Nonsese and counterproductive
There-Rape-me spouts and handouts.
I didn't go down the road this time,
so how did I get here? Oh yes,
the ultimate phrase indeed "It's going to
get better, you just have to be patient."
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC