"monetize" poems
it ain't easy, when you relate, restrict and delegate,
when you draw a narrow lane on a highway that says
only left footed
poets need apply
<>
it does not say
**slow cars stay to the right,
only trucks,
or oddly even,
no trucks**
I love seasonality,
without thickly thinking
you take a break
from the poetry writing
one day I'll figure out a way
to monetize my love poems,
publish them as Shakespeare's couple(t)s,
"new edition plus
a couple of
newfound poems!"
maybe some fools will buy some thinking Shakespeare has been, resurrected!
*love grows goes hot all over and
grow slower older
and grow colder,
in between those fine
ticklish teasing moments*
when the miracle of resurrection repeats itself
something is said
a gesture is made
a finger strokes the cheek,
unexpected
and it all comes
rushing back again,
overfilling
that coffee cup mug she bought
just(ice)
for you
*ain't gonna check how long it's been
since last I declaimed, disclaimed,
inflamed,
these pages with an only love poem
but I do know this:
it is something I think about,
It is something I know about,
it is something I feel about
daily
even on the nothing days,
when routine takes over
I know you couldn't remember of its passage,
is the waking up and the lying down to sleep*
but the poets eyes are always open his emotive secret senses,
always alert,
what's that thing they always say,
his heart just wasn't in it!
(🥴if they only knew the truth😘)
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
An old and tattered Bible Is the crux of a dispute.
Bernice King has possession of what her brothers see as loot.
The book was dear to Doctor King thru trials and tribulations
And with him on the Selma march in the days that changed the nation.
To her; a priceless heirloom of King’s Dream to equalize.
To her brothers it’s an asset that they hope to monetize.
This book, signed by the President, is not a ****** prize
to be bought by some collector and hid from others eyes.
So now there is a lawsuit and I hope the judge is wise
Wise as a modern Solomon in how he will decide.
This Bible is a legacy, inspired word and proof
Of what one man can accomplish when addicted to the Truth.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Clothed in its blanket of birds
Great arms reaching impossibly high
Her leaves filtering the light between shadows
And flashing diamonds of sky
For thousands of travels round the sun
She worshipped the turning earth
Through raging fires, the shaking ground, frozen winters
Droughts for decades burned the soils,
The rivers disappeared and still she held herself
High and strong
Even the humans recognized her power
Leaving offerings around her roots
Fruits of the earth, fish and painted stones
And then George came
The natives told him it was the largest tree in the world
The Mother Tree
He needed to monetize it
No one was going to come out to see it
And he needed capital for investments (mostly *****
So he cut her bark off
Just the first 20 feet or so
Carried it off and put it on a train
For paying customers to see (two feet thick and 20’ high, oh my!)
They say she lived for another year or two before she died
They drove iron spikes into the trunk so visitors could climb up her skeleton
And over a century later, over a hundred feet of her trunk
Still rises over the valley of the giant trees
I like to think that the Mother,
That burned spar on the hill
Is still trying to protect us
From ourselves.
Selah
2015
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
monetize and institutionalize
is the way to gain the modern prize
marriage isn't affirmation of love
it's a 10-grand headache
as the IRS sits above
funerals aren't celebrations of one's life
they're ways for the fat cats
to profit off your strife
churches aren't for learning about god
some pastors make six figures
now isn't that odd?
you wonder why you're in so much pain
grasping at straws attempting to stay sane
unclench your palms from those useless umbrellas
go outside, and dance in the rain
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 3:01 AM UTC
a derelict dream
of financial prosperity
gleams in each
deceiving smile
he offers the
photographer
white teeth
dead eyes
the film cannot
capture its
soulless subject
attention
shoppers
swallow the cyanide pill
and get in line
disregard humanity
engage in
intellectual suicide
sheep
mewling for a
millionaire's autograph
a Saturday morning
cartoon villain
with a pair of
henchmen and
a Yankee's ball-cap
who'll never realize
poverty isn't an
asset one can monetize
capitalism addles
brain cells and sets
brother against brother
a snake-oil peddler
selling hope for
$26.00 bucks a book
but when the people
have nothing left
to eat they will devour
the rich instead and
we are running
out of bread
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
my fingers have blistered as i can no longer harness the sun
warmth is foreign and intrusive
warmth serves to damage and even sometimes destroy
fill my tear ducts with sulfuric acid
monetize my emotions
bury me in a mass grave
dug for no one but myself
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
The entitlement to our existence.
There is no room to breath,
the very oxygen in this room,
they only see how to monetize it,
how to groom it
for consumption,
irrespective of its destruction,
no concern for its disruption.
The entitlement to our air.
How can I reform that which seeks to destroy me?
That seeks to own me?
To own my wares,
shows no care,
demonstrates no sympathy for my racial
and colonial history.
No empathy to put himself in my shoes,
to see the trauma of the generational injuries
wrought by his ancestors.
The entitlement to our space.
Reform sounds nice,
but more than thrice,
I've been told revolution is the only way
to recover what's been stolen from us.
Reform is their message, palatable, told to us
so that they can keep their wealth, money, and resources.
The entitlement to our bodies.
They sold to us a lie
they would work with us
And we believed it because we wanted
to believe in their redemption.
Redemption is the lie reform embraces.
Revolution is the only way to break out of the cages
they set for us.
At its heart, it is counter to their goals,
and so it is labeled as dangerous,
increasing their fear of us.
With revolution they will be entitled no more.
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 2:33 PM UTC
For an attractive man, he can drowned his sorrows in frivolous interactions and ****** encounters with women of little depth.
For a rich man, he can dispel his vexations with opulence and the ego fiscal stability brings
For the genius? Without either of the other two gifts, he is left to eek out his days in abhorrence. Alone, carrying the excess of his own mind.
If only there was a way to monetize IQ points....
There is, just not literally.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Is there a God? Will I have a happy life? How old
is old? How is paper made? Will I die if I drink
ink? How will I die? What will I think
about when I am sixty? Why am I nervous
to speak in public? Why doesn’t everyone
love each other? What is the solution
and how can we monetize it? Why do apples
grow on trees? Why do I need to pay
for water? Why doesn’t the sun
set the world on fire? Why doesn’t God
do it for the sun? Why does God keep coming
up? Why do I need to calm down? Is everyone
around me calm? Why does grass turn
brown? Why do leaves tumble from trees
when it gets cold? Why does it get cold?
What is light? What is dark? What is
love? What are lists? Why do I feel the need
to write questions down when I can’t
answer them myself? Why am I here,
and why do you care?
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
What do I have left to give
I’m spent and fading like a week-old rose
I gave my beauty to uncaring eyes
Who never saw beyond the makeup
I gave my talent to unfeeling moguls
Who used it just to monetize
I gave my wisdom to foolish clowns
Who read my musings upside down
I gave my razor wit to empty faces
Who never tried to get the joke
I gave my toil to unappreciation
And unwillingness to compensate
I sang my song to deafened ears
And never got to hear applause
I wrote my words on tissue paper
And they left them outside in the rain
I gave my heart in hopeful sharing
And got it back in shredded pieces
I have nothing left to give....but up
And somehow I just can’t do that.
ljm
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
premises of,
fools prophecy,
open my mind,
gateway to die,
from this, hence
the metapsychology,
metaphysiology,
anarchy,
and dont monetize this,
to see NOTHING, knowif it ever was
really its reality
playing tricks on me
the following message brought to you by
rfid
inside of me, im sure of it
sure as **** spit it out
no doubts
take a knife and cut
around the flesh,
to make your demi gods smile,
the idea of me if u succeed to see,
is just belief, make believe,
fluid mental fiction
talking of the rogues,
to the street **** dereliction,
tongue in cheek,
check my weight, weightless
what is here doing in my.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
I
4:30 A.M.
The Moon shines directly into my eyes as I sit,
prosaic and calm,
It some 238,900 miles away and they say
3.8 centimeters farther from Earth than
this time last year.
I read of a plan to monetize the Moon.
Monetize the Moon?
The Moon must have read the same
article and thought,
Enough of this Moon/June
tune/loon business.
I’m finding myself a nice uninhabited planet
to lighten, to orbit, to influence.
Monetizing is not in my Moon Contract.
So long, Sucker Earthlings!
II
Cosmic Matters
The early morning moon is cloud-smudged,
exhausted from a week of heat,
can’t pull itself together to make a tight circle.
Really, though, some galactic giant gyring from orb to orb
could have step-stoned the moon - on its way to Mars,
perhaps -
and discombobulated the moon’s defined
roundness
and now, its pale, borrowed, low-karat shine
is disheveled and bleary.
This leaves me with two questions:
Will it be cooler today?
How did the cosmic giant miss Earth…or did it?
III
Missing Moon
Is it the June Gloom’s shroud
that hides your early morning glory
or is it not that time in your cycle,
for your cold elegant light is unseen
and my morning writing is not illuminated by you
but by a small bulb controlled with a switch.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
SURVEY
They took a survey of the world
To see how it was doing
The end result was horrible-
It’s gone to wrack and ruin.
Nobody stops if you fall down
Unless you’re dressed up nice.
There is no help for homeless folk-
Respect comes at a price.
Rudeness is the latest trend.
Coarse language is the norm.
All signs of courtesy are gone
As life has changed its form.
We seek a way to monetize
Each ordinary thing.
If I lend hand to you
Cash registers must ring.
The bullets fly so fast and far
We don’t try to keep track,
Whether it’s a hundred kids
Or one shot in the back.
The old wild west has come again.
The cowboys now are cops.
They’ve beaten up so many guys
You wonder if it ever stops.
The kids are smoking Bubble Gum
If they’re not smoking crack.
The age for drinking starts at ten
And we can’t give their childhoods back.
What can we do if we can’t hide,
And have to face the fact
That we have truly ****** the world
And there can be no going back.
We’ll have to live with what we’ve done
And who we have become
If we could make a tiny change
It might not be so glum.
But that will never come to be
And I just sit and seethe
While waiting for that coming day
When there’s no air to breathe.
ljm
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC