"impoverishment" poems
Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
for S. B.
by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction
so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction
let me explain better
she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored
the poem**
strikes her eyes lovely
daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged
for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!
who can own this ability
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification
to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times
you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you
for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative
11/21/18
Miami
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
the desperado cowboy-poet awakes
anxious, needing-ending relief,
the craving greater than great,
he begs-raggedly, with Raggedy handily Andy words,
to all and anyone in the aroused surrounded vicinity,
give please give, of something to write
the bay, soothingly plays the would-be author,
"place me, look my way,
have I not droplets endless
from which you've drunk exquisitely,
so many more to fair share"
the birds twit and flit,
raucous caucus demanding
to be seated
by the tablet's keypad
to gain entry
to one more congressional natural tribute
the sky and sun organize a
joint session, extraordinary mission;
"we are the first of your day,
thus primarily,
we win the primary,
deserving in your recording of our
nomination as the first day's
sound and light show victorious"
sorry folks,
got a better tale to tell,
natural in its way,
titillating, and quite suitable
for reputating Au Naturel humanity
and it's a quirky, say hey tale,
morning coffee fresh,
a first word report from an
untelivised convention
of a different kind of congressing
awoke to find the:
*chauffeur in bed with the cook,
the Poppy, beside the sleeping Nana,
the poet, eyeing the lying next to him, tango dancer,
the classicist eyeing the sleeping moderne,
ditty ditsy Ogden Nash astride a Shakesperian sonnet,
the thinning gray line defending his bedded half,
from an invading horde of unionizing blonde tresses,
the republican with the democrat,
the conservative with the liberal,
heated discussions, non-neutralizing negotiations
conducting and watched by
peeping tom skies, clouds, birds and waters
pretending to fly flow past*
wow
now that,
is quite interesting
deserving worthy of a
disrobing disputatious disreputation,
very newsworthy and why not,
a poem all its own?
the bay waved goodbye,
the birds disbanded in silence,
quietly disenfranchised.
the sun and the sky hung around
pretending to be UN neutrality observers
wearing cute blue and white helmets
looking every where but not,
at the line of demarcation
the beggar, by his new impoverishment, enriched,
another love poem writ,
niched and pitched
one more itch,
so very well scratched
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Plane Poetry: I go to Barber
aisle seat C 14,
an emergency exit row,
forced to solemnly swear
that for the extra legroom,
I will solemnly assist to open
the exit door, me first as my reward,
and keep my terrified screaming
below an elephant's trumpeting mating call
what hast this to do with a trip to Barber?
you Brits and Aussies, ever economical,
say went 'to hospital,'
leaving we Ameddicans
to dignify that august institution
as going to
The Hospital
Thus advised, be apprised, a
Nota Bene Benidictus:
I go to Barber,
Not
I go to the barber.
Samuel Barber,
Adagio for String Quartet, Barber
If unfamiliar with this piece,
you will recall it well
if "Apocalypse Now" registers at all
If not stop immediately,
return to Go,
start here,
www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRMz8fKkG2g
be prepared to surrender your mortality,
listen and if effected,
if you find yourself on your knees
weeping, recalling the days of loss,
the early empires of hope,
the first kiss
of your firstborn
and unknowingly,
the last you gave
a loved one
if you have the courage to
be touched and impacted,
as I,
then welcome back to
right here where why...
*I go to Barber
where violins soar me heavenwards,
where violins rip open sores long since scarred over,
I go to Barber
and float, eyes sky'd, as water
fills and departs my body simultaneously,
I go to Barber
to know that art can rise beyond,
that my weakened, wrecked human flesh, surpassable
I go to Barber
to harmonize my disconcordia,
romantic lyricisize my waning days,
I go to Barber
to voluntary confess, admit my impoverishment,
to acknowledge that they, my days, yet are capable,
I go to Barber
to remember and to forget,
to mark and unmark time
I go to Barber
to be created and recreated,
to be destructed and despaired
I go to Barber
to acknowledge, as human, better is forever possible,
for of the god spark, yet unextinguished
I go to Barber
because there is no plane as fast as his slow adagio,
to transport me to the who I am and should yet be*
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
If your daily life seems of no account, don't blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its treasures. For the creative artist there is no impoverishment and no worthless place. (Rainer Maria Rilke)
Paris, February 17, 1903
Letters to a Young Poet
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
In the doorways of regret where the cold winds of disappointment and let's not forget debt,reside
I have hidden thoughts and notebooks,there inside the darkened,unlit space,afraid to face and yet I must decide
that where these things reside, do I also want to live.
With nothing left to give or choose and holes in both of my worn out shoes,cardboard for a comfy bed,I am being slowly led into my own impoverishment.
Intent on keeping from the workhouse door and wanting more than what I've got
I spot each opportunity and score accordingly,
three points for a no hope job placement and being lent on by the job centre,who seem bent on placing me,somewhere where I should not be.
A point each for all charities and gold stars for the few who try to please the many,I haven't any words that can express just how the streets can mess you up.
Soup runs get a special mention for delivering to my attention,beef and broth and crusty bread
so if is that I am being led into the downtown streets, at least I'll go well fed and with company,
so many folks like me
down and misunderstood,both bad and good and some who could be so much more than
the man you'd rather not run into when out with friends and they ask you to,dig deep and
contribute
you, in your suit cannot explain
why it is you give and don't complain to politicians sat in high court clubs
and you,sat in the city pubs with colleagues,leagues away from streets which pay
no attention any more
to regrets inside the darkened doorway.
Here I stay like yesterday,the day before and like a hundred days or more,
if providence prevails
one day for sure all ships will sail into the harbour
and these thought I harbour greedily as I lay down to drink my cup of tea and sift through countless memories
and try to make some sense of it.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
As he grew he looked and desired,
others had more and he was tired.
Possession became his love and soul,
all those heaps could never fill the hole.
Glimpse the depts to find the cure.
We are here to Endure.
What did they do to deserve what they get?
His heart ached, he could never forget.
He wanted it more, he deserved much better.
He made his mind a filthy place to litter.
Pat your shoulder and reassure.
We are here to Endure.
Shunned by the universe,
he rose in a heroic verse.
Thought everyone else was bleak,
to himself did he lie and cheat.
Admit that you're insecure.
We are here to Endure.
He was hurt and he was blamed
he was never reclaimed.
At every turn he became aggressive.
Offended world would misconceive.
Repent, forgive and feel secure.
We are here to Endure.
Pressure drove him to frustration;
His yearning became his passion.
Disordered desire bind him in slavery.
Suffered he, in shame, sadness and misery.
Redirection is a manure.
We are here to Endure.
Low self esteem put him through hell,
disquiet apatite became his shell.
Departed away from the Divine.
Impoverishment and disgrace is a sign.
Abstinence will seize epicure.
We are here to Endure.
Failure left him without traction;
murmuring the songs of wishful imagination.
Dreams he sought are his anchor,
glued to the couch, he just hanker.
Without diligence you're immature.
We are here to Endure.
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 2:22 PM UTC
Impoverishment ?
The sheen
of sun
on parked cars'
rooves
and
bonnets -
materialistic gods
in many lands.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 7:06 PM UTC
As a testament
A documented file of bones.
A sight appears daily
Inside somedays, outside others.
But always -
Here.
For history mostly
An attempt so vain that the facade of denial rots a hole in the stomach feigning recognition.
Sad mostly as boredom subsides.
Drown in collected moments of mediocrity and save the gold coins for the enemies eye lids. All along you kicked them around when you needed them most; crying about loss, misfortune, and isolation.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 10:58 AM UTC
Right and wrong
remaining relative
I work for a better tomorrow
My views differ
from that of others
Making me always wrong
Given this life
Given no light
Through the tunnel we're sent
No instruction or hint
Finding one's self in poverty
wishing for property
for freedom comes
with ownership
Having just self
is impoverishment
And to think
just a drink
Will make myself disappear
With fear I move forward
for a better tomorrow!
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
my job is a useless service.
i absorb the excess which finds its way to me in a broken economy.
and if i continue to accept this charity then i am party to the crime.
what the mouth of excess steals from the bowels of impoverishment will have nowhere to go.
so i sit and wait
and it spills onto me.
i have money to eat.
but i should have food instead.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
Tell them to look towards the stars
And within them they'll find their dreams.
What you won't tell them is that
Halfway across the world they dream of seeing
Another child does the same
Only to watch their dreams snatched from their fingertips
Carried away by the white clouds
As rain clouds fill their night sky
And the stars disappear
As the neon lights
Illuminate their impoverishment.
They will not dream of the same things
As our children,
But of education, of food
And of rest
Of a clean water source
To which they aren't required to walk miles
And as the cats roll into town
Their eyes spiralling and their grins wide
The children will look down from the stars,
A sight they know in their hearts
They will never see them again.
We only have the right to express ourselves
Through the way in which we decorate ourselves
Because these children don't dream anymore.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
The slippery seeds
of discontent
are spent
on the soft
and fertile soil
of my fractured soul.
Anger fuels
a field of fury
and I push myself
beyond the simple confines
of physical comfort
and a sane mine.
I plant my feet
and feel the soft earth
part and slowly swallow
the portions of me
that are hopelessly hollow.
The rage against
human violence
and the impoverishment
of humanity,
the devastation
of the sharp blades
of heartbreak
from rejection
form a sword
of self-hate
that I use to
cut away
any weeds
that might impede
my growing season.
The pliable dirt,
soft brown earth
allows me to sink in
for the final planting.
All my seeds drop
rage,
pain,
fear,
doubt.
Then in the spring
something unforeseen
comes blooming.
Instead of a sick
and disgusting human thing
full of deformities,
a new creature emerges
for the harvesting.
A long stalk
of self-improvement,
a truly creative,
and compassionate being
is freed,
and I harvest him.
He nourishes me
as I strive to be
the man
I always wanted to be.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
The Answer
Won't be solved
Until we realize for our self
Understanding will be the beginning
Guilt will follow
Impoverishment will be the result
Our resolution to absolution
Ties with engagement & commitment
Our duty will equal our homage
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Faith believes what the senses belie
Its roots go deep tho the flower is shy
Strongly waxing in impoverishment
Meekly waning in fulfillment
Almighty is Faith’s power
Ever gentle, but never cowers
Binding humanity to our Creator
Loosening the chains of the destroyer
Though often flawed in its conception
Faith elicits near perfection
Though smaller than a mustard seed
One's greatest hopes it may exceed
Dreams become reality in its presence
While reality turns to nightmare in its absence
Faith is a mystery I choose not to ponder
But rather prefer to bask in its wonder.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
The cracked and umber, cyan, lichened bark,
its wintry deprivation echoes stark
impoverishment: the denizens live their
neglected, leafless lives, in Highgate Park.
The winter icy earth’s, anaemic fare,
enough for hungry birds and squirrels, there
is insufficient food for bigger beasts,
who huddle, famished, in the frosty air.
A grassland’s faded, green, uncut, now greets
all walkers down its dwindled concrete streets,
replacement for old honeyed flags: new flaws
displacing golden pathways, lined with seats.
The squirrel, hungry in the cold still gnaws
her nuts: she holds the winter food in claws,
and quickly looks for danger, then a pause,
and runs, avoiding snapping canine jaws
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC