"monied" poems
while the debate goes on and on,
as to which country has the longest, continuous
democratic parliament, have it on on good authority
that the subject above,
is it better to love your kids too much than not enough?
was the first among all temporal discussions ever held,
despite periodic tabling, the debate remains unresolved,
the question unsettled even after 1000 years+ of argumentation
when over time, Universal Adult Suffrage finally came to be,
the debate became renewable, enflamed, divisive most contentiously,
various coming down on each side of a point of view topically
since mother, father and child, i.e.
pretty much everyone, definitionally,
claimed total expertise,
and sparing the rod was deemed by most to be illegally,
no plebiscite, amendment or ballot initiative was resolved resolutely,
the beat goes on continuously as new children reach voting age, sagaciously repeating their view, personally
my view?
I’ve tried both and failed equally
so I’ve little to contribute,
so let it be stated in manner unequivocally,
the sweet sensibility says too well,
but helicopters crash and monied snowplows
run over other both their own and others better deserving,
leaving all of them buried in snow piles street side,
while those who blame their faults on insufficient love,
are later most demanding more attention than any,
having becoming painfully hardy, by being treated hard about,
hard on themselves and worse to others
everyone knows the answer to this question for themselves
but I’ll leave you with this,
permitting a child to fail is a winning strategy,
as long as there is no legal limit
regarding the amount or frequency
on lifetime hugging
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
Verse 1
on the stock market floor lay losses galore
and in time they'd be redeemed
a price collapse saw the upward trend end
it would be a long haul pulling it out of the pall
ooh, ooh and in time they'd be redeemed
busted at the seams were all the investment schemes
putting paid to fortune's prosperity
the dream run had less future's equity
New York's exchange took a hammering
Chorus
ooh, troubled was the trading
ooh, troubled was the trading
Verse 2
as we watched the steep downward slide
the money men didn't feel like smiling
a wrecking bear had hit finances in the kitty
shocking became the fiscal outlook
Chorus
ooh, troubled was the trading
ooh, troubled was the trading
Verse 3
and the homeless dwellers in the slums
look in bins for something to eat
and they've no dosh to buy a passage out
and this is their unfair place in society
once the cream could be skimmed
yet nothing is left but life's grieving
on and on the losing streak goes
there's always a cycle of poverty
and troubled was the trading
resigned to fate's course of lows
the market floor held in distress
gloom beset the bright lights in dull tones
your redeeming breath can be inhaled
an injection of capital will aid
ghetto dwellers all in want
wealth is but for the few
monied folk posses the long bond
forgotten all the people in need
values riding on a share price
who is listening to the tune
it tells of crash and of boom
this we all know too well
Outro
and in time they'd be redeemed
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
These times strike monied worldlings with dismay:
Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air
With words of apprehension and despair:
While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,
Men unto whom sufficient for the day
And minds not stinted or untilled are given,
Sound, healthy, children of the God of heaven,
Are cheerful as the rising sun in May.
What do we gather hence but firmer faith
That every gift of noble origin
Is breathed upon by Hope’s perpetual breath;
That virtue and the faculties within
Are vital,—and that riches are akin
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death?
1.8k
Rising rents
Doesn’t seem to care
Who they affect
The City could care less
The mayor giving
Tax breaks
Playing high stakes
With peoples lives
The landlord
Controlling the soundboard
With rent control
Now seen as a nuisance
No one used to want to live here
But now they do
They say there is not enough housing
To fit they appetites
Well don’t be so hungry
Don’t be so greedy
Share a space
Don’t displace
Contemplate actions
Homeless shelters
Next to highrises
Single occupant
Apartments
Could fill ten beds
Instead of one head
Even Jack gets kicked out
The bar that supplies the ghost
Is a poetic footnote
To the money hungry
Seeing dollars
Instead of history
The nations remaining
Black bookstore
Painted The Color Purple
Now shut down
By monied clowns
Stating their needs for millions
Over millions who need
Books
Culture
Life
Instead of
****** glossed over history
Without a shred of the past
Marcus Books
Where Malcolm, Ali, Davis
Gathered
Now lost
To the highest bidder
People come
People go
But the erosion of history
Is a swift reality
Of the gentrification
Of The City
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
On the playgrounds of the future
Children will laugh and sing
And we’ll cross the bridge to real peace
Where the bells of sanity shall ring
Until then we’ll play the game
Which will all add up to naught
“It’s your fault, no, it’s theirs…”
Why some fail at what is taught.
We’ve been given new books and bosses
Numerous regs to do the job
But money flows to the burbs
Inner-cities fair game to rob
Touching the future may seem easy
From a point too far away
One could assume it’s all just ditto -
Then lunch - then math - then play
If this is your belief
You could not be further from the fact
That success is measured forward
As we have our students’ back
So forward we will plod
Secretly teaching to the mean
We will test, and test and test
From which all congress shall glean
Information in nice neat form
Of bars and charts sublime
Symbolic of teachers and students
Who have been sentenced to hard time
And the monied districts shall rule
Golden in and out
And the bootstraps will appear
Accusing all who doubt
Good will be the words to spread
And many who will eat them
The failures will be shown the straps
But for pity’s sake, don’t beat them
G. Davis-Feldman
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
i became the jumpin' jack flash in november '77.
there was slush in new york city and the bums at the piers
still burned trash in metal barrels you could see from over on coney island even.
just like kerouac said.
in the daytime foolish kids picked weeds in central park
and called them flowers. they got laid by stringing charming words together as they gave them
to the thousand daughters of manhattan's old monied men,
the wall street hacks hanging from the teats of the
great & frenzied cash cow of capitalist interest. the milk
came slow that winter.
one week, early december when the slush gave way to furtive snowfalls
i took a bus to patterson, NJ
for a few days, drank a lot of awful coffee writing obscenities in my journal but speaking
them aloud in the restaurants and bars and so
was deemed just like everybody else in patterson, NJ.
drunk & high, helicopter tours, stuffed with bread and half-truths.
and when shortly my irish luck ran out i raced back to the big smoke
in a drop-top mercedes driven by a man whose thick accent i couldn't quite place.
whose only serious question was whether i knew anyone
who had good coke.
in the city it rained for three weeks straight and
david byrne, in some bowery apartment wrote a song called 'flood'
which was never released on any talking head's album
but lingered in his brain as a reminder of the three weeks
he spent cooped up, eating saltines and dancing to the rhythms of the thunder and rain outside.
totally alone with his mind & a bass guitar. tina weymouth, naturally, was furious.
the bass was the last thing she had left in a band she half-started. and david had stolen even that.
but that was tina weymouth, that was new york.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Breathing unconscious the air permeating
an oxygen right into lungs finely formed fed
waters so carelessly drunk quenching thirsts,
revitalizing with hydrogens exact innards all.
blood red coursing true from vital forces aplenty
Terra firm formed so right for me to walk straight
finely tilted earth enough for my days and nights
turning over for summers and my springs bright.
Now fine bodies and limbs,a heart pulsing sound,
minds capable bestowed by a time eternity bound
given lovely comrades, mothers, sisters, lovers and
brothers, friends, angels all for me destined especial.
the universe cosmic pandering to me, kind totally,
creating never a God,a cast,creed or a religion sole
but all and everything to survive as a man whole.
why then did I fragment,divide and multiply false?
and How! the mind shut first and then did heart too
geniuses both, discriminating unholy, inventing evils
dividing colors,crazed gods,cruel prophets,races divine
religions irrational unmeant for me but claiming us all
in a class uncaring obscene,a kid now just dead hungry!
what purpose is then of us,the grand senates and fiscals,
our temples,mosques and churches shining,vaults monied.
claiming then minds,hearts,honor, integrity and the self
stating grandly, survive you shall as you are the meek!
and so shall you be starved.raped,killed,burnt! Hell I am,
meek no longer! survive I shall as a king, a queen free!
I reclaim all now,taken from me in false names dastardly
show just my finger mid,for where I was led unwilling
the whole creed sole human,the religion only just humanity.
my will is what i make of my consciousness eternal revealed,
slowly peeling off layers and burdens yolked,reemerging now.
to freedoms anew today, and soon to that day of Armageddon.
I just wanted to count and write a small poem on the numerous natural blessings of Universe and time,but then realized all these are taken for granted and turned to horrible human made curses...now this is neither a prosy poem nor poetic prose. a state of mind?..so here I am..with what ever it is..
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 7:13 AM UTC
the fringe dwellers
those forgotten people
those who society
cares little for
the slums of the city
the shanty towns
the suburban blocks
are where they are found
no jobs
no money
no future prospects
this is their way of life
and ever will it be so...
the rich denying them a piece of the wealth pie
the fringe dwellers have not a good cast of the dice
they'll be kept in disadvantage by the monied few
a sparsity of cash yet they make do
our society isn't even of hand
a divide in social class seems to stand
twill there be a bridge of the inequity
which so blatantly pervades our society
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
Cherylyn...In hose and high -heeled shoes...waits lipsticked on the threshold of womanhood...Awaiting the emergence of her hour.She is a bud that will burst to bloom . Somewhere inside a pulse is stirring of dreams yet to come of monied times love and laughter Home and family of coming days of nspringtime warmth with drowsy-buzzing bees...at picnic time drifting on currents of summer air All viewed in womanly promise.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
I walk in from the dark and wet
The glass door sprung to slow me.
Find a chair.
Collapse.
Am I exhausted or
Not?
I don't know.
A friend of long ago and now is dying
The shadow of his place with gulls and shops
I leave on Albert Road.
Broken arm across his short betraying breaths
With that inevitability grin
I know so well from school and later,
As little bitter fortunes
Unfurled their flags.
I walked in through his easy door
Words floundering till whisky hits
Then:
Of course we will! Sure we will!
- We fill the months and weeks with plans
Travel to the sights he wants for him.
Boats and Locos, Houses, Friends.
The evening slews in amber liquid,
Fades in fervent words.
Morning grey.
For me the stunned drive back to work
And England's ridges higher - home to home.
Finally Southbank - monied words.
Their voices to the ceiling reach:
A gentle civilised hubub of the saved
Bathed in culture, purpose and the careful light.
And you are back there, purposing a
Fractured night
That counts each clock chime you restored.
Oh now, by all the alleys, faces, roads
And domes of London,
Would it were not so
Not so
Not so
Not so.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
Platinum framed mirroring you writing your song prose
Getting what’s mind, decreeing like in a new age western frontier
In this town with its millions of light lookin’ like star clusters
Fate says, my road’s lamps need reinventing, they don’t understand
But dareling with precise gold mine ears, please hear this call
Add more made-up brightness, enthralled, enthrall
Tell me I’ve the music to match a torch soul
Sunset sound, saying dream, stay up a little longer
Send me to your madly sought paradise
Flareling monied with cinemascope electricity, send me
Embarking as an ember fueled by nearing iconic fires
Not very long now til there’s light enough to read my prayer, this emblem
It goes, American paradise, novel sunshine
This is what I think of driving towards the brightest sky
Volume louder, like the progress through this score
Chose the teaching, try for the best reel, all play, dreams beget reality
Tropicana, records, street signs, finally shameless of my persistence
Fantastic, still on this road of escape thru golden seasons to noon Sunday
Looking up, thought it all strange but brilliant, even shooting stars have an end
So I don’t care
Sitting by the fountain, hearing it say one thing, it went live oh live
Stealing from the poet laurete’s treasured inspiration, and I don’t feel bad.
Wondering at the azure ripples, song verses shimmer like ‘em,
Long hair gleams, statuesque eyes, mysterious surprising only way to live
They said beware through tears, I say, it’s alright to be scared
Rather ask for paradise and rush there before the answer
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
The pandemic, that **** inimical plague enveloping our world. So it all started in China, or so they say, yet in what seems to me in a very short time, it has circled Earth. Really, that fast, and everywhere, even Okinawa? Moreover, does it not seem a tad morally "grostesque" that so many look to "profit" from the scourge? This is not the way I want our world to work. "Gee!' many will say. "The more corpses, the more money!" Life, any life, should never be predicated on monied worth. Life is sacred. It is not meant to be financially profitable. The indigenous peoples of Earth for the most part knew intuitively that human lives were not meant to be spent on the 103rd floor of some skyscrapper. They realized that all forms of life on Earth were inextricably intertwined, inter-connected. They realized profoundly that all are one. The way we have sectionalized politically our Earth into arbitary nations (over 200 now) is both ludicrous, as well as illusory. The wind, the waters--even the pandemic--do not recognize borders. The divisions of mankind have resulted, over millennia, in aggrandizement, which has inexorably lead to wars on top of wars on top of even more war. And what happens during wars? Millions and millions and millions of human beings have been murdered, a military pandemic of untold proportions. And what if we wanted to love instead of **** You can't hug someone who is 6-to-10 feet away from you. You can't kiss the one you love with a mask over your face. But phamaceutical giants are all furiously trying to become the first to create a viable vaccine and thus make billions and billions. But that is not love--just the opposite. And what of all the poor human beings on Earth, so many of whom already have contracted the virus, or eventually will--how are they going to be able to pay for the vaccine? The coronavirus is not the only plague circling Earth. Uncaring has been doing the same it seems forever.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Jul 15, 2020
Jul 15, 2020 at 1:07 PM UTC