"paupers" poems
I was thirteen when I broke my wrist for the first time,
Miming Cinderella Man's fists as they jabbed faster than jets through the sky.
He was blue collar, blue jeans, blue bruises and blue eyes;
Waiting for his chance, and then taking it by the blind-side,
He taught me the meaning of a left hook to life and coming back from behind.
I was raised on Cinderella.
She was thirteen when daddy read her the tale that first time,
and she grew up wishing to be Cinderella, miming her words and her stride,
She wore blue dresses, smoked blue crystals, cried blue tears with blue eyes;
Waiting to be saved by a prince with blood bluer than money could buy,
Cinderella taught her to sit back and wait for her princely perfect guy,
She was raised on Cinderella.
We were raised on Cinderella,
We were twenty and change when we locked blue and green eyes,
Mine had darkened to green by that eye-locking time,
Life tends to darken things; It's just how it goes, and when mine
took that hue, things were no longer so blue.
Because even though we were both raised on Cinderella,
Princesses and Paupers don't find love; When they do it isn't "true"
Because no blue crystal smoked could cloak the pain and disguise;
No fairytale magic can hold back real tears from real eyes.
My Cinderella was a prize fighter;
Her Cinderella was the prize,
but the stories are different, and in the end, both are lies.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
When snarling winter packs hunt down the old;
Push them away and shun them from your door
Feed hungry souls with sermons and rapport,
Old shepherds, keep your flocks unto the fold;
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When heaven's snow attests to hallowed floor
And beggars plead for mercy from the cold,
Push them away and shun them from your door
When hungry children cry 'a little more'
And clamour forth with rusted tins they hold,
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When brothers, plague and famine, reach the shore,
The weak and dying seek to be consoled;
Push them away and shun them from your door
When paupers come with frosted feet to thaw,
And fill the hall to hear kind words unfold:
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
Push them away and shun them from your door
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Metal bones dropped over another
clashing sounds across the night of smoky denials
in a city of thieves, paupers and scholars.
Worn down and without memory, someone's father
brushes off the dust of a young person's tombstone.
The oblivious student bends over information
into another alarm bell of insatiable chases.
Huddled in a street corner
like sprites of another dark jungle,
workers in uniform and hard hats share
stories and spare time as if nothing else matters
but this fading incomplete point in time.
Overhead looms the impending bright dangers
and dim warnings being built
From metals and soil into another giant promise
trying to excuse itself as it rips through
the city lungs, calmly abiding
and seeming always ready to die or live through.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC
I'll play thief
To the home
Of a rich man
And steal
Malt for my
Bitterness and ale
For the happiness
That was kept
In the mug
Of paupers.
These ingredients
Are a lot cheaper
On sidewalks
But mansions store
The most flavorful:
Bitterness
From the source
That stings
On the plate
Of paupers.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 11:38 PM UTC
Poverty,
a dagger of thousands years,
shedding endlessly,the blood of beggars...
Striving,
suffering,
crying,
begging,
Indeed,ready they,who you call Paupers,are to do anything,
only to earn a living...
On the edge of knives,
poor ones lives their daily lives...
The children,all set to walk towards education,
but hunger hinders their concentration...
Still they are ready to do anything,
only to earn a living...
Starvation and Malnutrition are mere words,
compared to what they are really enduring...
Like us, they have wishes,
simple desires,
wants to have:
Proper water to drink,
Proper food to eat,
proper place to live...
God we are not,but their small desires,we can satisfy..
Their fate,we can change,
as their happiness,is still within range..
Together let's save the poor ones,
because a simple act of caring can create an endless ripple...
-Sharvish
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
*where presidents die in power
the opposition die trying
Musicians die on stage
police in the line of duty
nocturnals due to *****
Soccer players on pitch
teachers while they teach
soldiers die fighting
refugees and paupers die crying
drivers die on the wheel
painters die with a quill
thieves while they steal
addicts die of smoke and pills
nobody wants to retire
even at Robert Mugabe's age
they all cling to talent and power
so tempting and inviting
won't we poets too die reciting?*
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
/ conversation over a bbq dinner
being given the information
over a new M.I. movie..
i really think tom cruise
should have won an oscar for -
born on the 4th of july...
without bias,
but given the oscar award for
the grunting and heaving,
and minimal dialogue / monologue
of leonardo's the revenant?
the world is a cul de sac...
and what remains of it...
is a shitshow worth, of a congested street
with nothing but, paupers /
window-shoppers to be lined up;
mannequins coming alive
and taking to disco dancing
the hell out of having donned
a boney m afro;
drunk, squinty eyed...
looking around, surmising my
thought with... huh?!
it's a good thing i'm this good at
drinking, never having dropped acid.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
Eventually Rising
Like all the Rest
I'm tired
Alone with everyone else
Although this misery
is like water on my Soul umbrella
I can hear the sound of victory
careening beyond oppression like Ella
There is something more
there is a force
ebbing and waxing the hour
of the instant and within it
a porous
Avenue for Advancement for
All, and One!
The buzzards may circle
pecking order, and peace
Only the rancor resource the feast
Why does conservation fail,
nature of the beast
or shale we sell
Gears without the grease
Landlopers versus Land Merchants
and
Machines versus human beings
and
Change versus Stay the Same
and
Monopoly
and
Monotony
and
Unipolarity
and
Is ... IS
it
All worth bile?
Did you learn Private Pyle!?
Yes Sir, General Science!
Sure!
Can't breathe a heartbeat
can't take a stand from a seat
and when the end is near
I promise you has no fear
Glass Rock and Stone!
Sure!
may hold money but not a home
Mother and Father Earth is our biome
billionaires and paupers rot together
yet alone!
Break
Who beholds the opulent eye?
Tell me who makes it out alive?
Believers in death will die
Those who weary tarry on
All the rest
eventually rise
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
Snuggled in the corner
of his crystal castle
warding off wind’s whip,
head pillowed on phonebook pages,
warmly wrapped in dreams.
Street light serves as lunar glow,
While courtyard is landscaped with
cigarette butts and a broken bottle.
He’s Prince of the Paupers.
King of this urban domain.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 11:03 AM UTC
Taking two words to describe yourself
You just smiled "Annie Hall"
I had only seen Manhatten but somehow
Knew, knew how hard i'd fall
As for my turn
Well you just placed a finger on my lips
And then so softly whispered
Sentimental boy
That was then, as for now
Maybe the final credits have rolled
Our picturehouse now in ruins
No more screenings nor stories to be told
Like that derelict Ballroom of Romance
We visited at the edge of town
Summer nights, flagons of cider and your
Sentimental boy
Recreating it's history
By it's broken down and boarded up wall
Slow dancing in the moonlight
Stopping only to swear we'd heard a call
Rising from the paupers graveyard
Dancing silhouetted in the stars
Ghosts of dead lovers to an old fashioned tune
Sentimental boy
This town now has changed so much
But none so more than we
Yet so often on a warm summers night
By that paupers graveyard you'd still meet me
Humming some half remembered melody
Whilst wishing on the brightest star
Please oh please, won't you just let me be....
your
sentimental boy
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
Would that life was like the Twilight Zone
Twists and turns of fate
Where paupers become princes
And Emperors lie in state
Where neglected little children
Receive their every need
And appropriate masks are given
For vanity and greed
Where old folks Kick the Can
And become boys and girls
Is there such poetic irony
In the real world?
Yes! "The Donald" lives and breathes!
Hate surely his mission
He gives me the dry heaves
He's touted by "The Christian"!
Does faith espouse malevolence?
If so, tell me when?
And would such a hater
*Be truly Born Again?*
Of the people he attacks
There's surely no great lack
But his pointed finger
Has three more pointed back!
No, I am not for Hillary
I'm not lured by siren call
I really hate to say this
But I may not vote at all!
The poetic irony
Was right there from the start
"Trump" is a "Brittishism"
It is defined as ****
SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/14/2016
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
I see new growth emerging from an old tree's heart.
A new sapling sapping strength from what would enrich generic soil,
contributes something unknown to an unassigned
Future
Instead this exacting branch emerges to claim the universe for itself.
No longer can this unnoticed, rotting stump contribute to the greater good
but feed instead, a unique life so it may one day
die and have the chance to fill the old soul’s soles.
The unlabeled, non enumerated vagaries of our world
cowardly whinge in the background
while the assertive actions of the flowers
and falcons shout out loud for their own preservation.
Food chains serve as feeding trays for those cells
who have bound together with that joie de vivre
necessary to drive the generic engine of nature
in their direction. This predilection
to protect the potent and powerful
among us is not simple chance
but a predetermined proclamation
from our divine protectorate pushing
the proper paupers forward until they find
themselves ensconced in the holy foliage of nature's glory.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
*Fairy Godmother:
Oh, now, now, now, now, now, just a minute.
You must understand, my dear:
On the stroke of twelve, the spell will be broken,
and everything will be as it was before.*
Royal *****
With all the fluff
Pretty dressed girl twirling and laughing
Strapping young men Promising them the world
The masks are on.
Girls with their heads in the clouds
dancing in their glass slippers
Slippers that hold all their hopes and dreams
believing the words falling off men's lips.
whispering in their ears
all the things they want to hear
not seeing through their carefully crafted masks
Midnight descends and all bets are off.
Carriages turning back to pumpkins
rich men turning back to paupers
taking away their hard earned money
sleeping in their beds.
Leaving them in the dust
leaving nothing behind
but those awful glass slippers
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Everyday I walk the gauntlet
down the street full of despair
No one looking up at me
But, they know that I am there
"Mister, can you spare some change"
"I need a coffee and a meal"
They all just sit there begging
I can't know how they feel
Cardboard signs expressing life
Shadows and wratihs along the walk
I try to block out what they say
I don't want to hear them talk
Some are dressed in paupers rags
While others in name brands
Each day I walk the gauntlet
Past their pleas and outstretched hands
"Mister, can you spare some cash?"
"A coffee would be nice"
I donot make eye contact
I choose not to roll the dice
I can't look down and notice them
I can not help them all
I can only walk and wonder
Just how far did they fall?
"Mister, can you help me out?"
""I'm only two bucks short"
Some sit here from five to nine
Then they choose a different port
Last week a voice reached out to me
From a shadow no one cast
I recognized the voice, it was
A person from my past
"Mister, can you spare a bit?"
"I'm just down on my luck"
I stopped and stood and waited as
My very breath was ******
I knew this voice, it's owner was
A man I worked with once
Many, many years ago
Back at old A.F.T. Hunts
I turned and looked upon him
This old man on the side
His eyes looked clear on through me
He wouldn't know me if he tried
He said "I'm only waiting for"
"something else to come along"
"I don't feel right, sitting, begging"
"In a few days I will be gone"
I reached inside and pulled a bill
five dollars I would give
I knew when he had everything
Now, this is how he lives
I thought before I gave it him
This could easily be me
I knew exactly who'd he'd been
But, he still did not seem to see
I told him to take care and then
I moved on down the street
Not knowing where'd he go to next
If he'd go somewhere warm to eat
I only knew it wasn't far
to reach the gauntlet of despair
But I think from then, I'd never act
As though they were not there.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 7:05 PM UTC
The Immigration Act
of 1917,
barred
"all idiots & imbeciles,
feeble-minded persons,
epileptics,
insane persons,
... persons with chronic alcoholism;
paupers,
& professional beggars,
and those with tuberculosis"
It barred ...
"felons,
polygamists,
prostitutes
& their traffickers."
Trump & Bannon's
Immigration Act of 2017
bars Muslims,
able-bodied Muslims,
needy Muslims,
starving Muslims,
fleeing Muslims.
Muslims in refugee camps,
student doctor Muslims,
short-sighted Muslims,
limping Muslims,
school-teacher Muslims,
ordinary Muslims,
in a word,
Muslims.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
The eyes of God regard man, waiting, watching,
And the eyes of man search for God, praying,
Our souls are lost, they cry.
Torrents of lies pour from the mouths of children yet unborn,
And whips of racism render the skin of our souls blistered and torn,
This world is broken and lies in shambles, war drums litter the streets,
This world is rabid, and with it come the rabid men, dancing to the beat
Of mad men and demons. The paupers pawn the poor,
And the poor pawn the paupers.
In this world I danced for tepid water, and sang for stale bread,
I crawled through streets with cobblestones littered with lead,
I saw the dying children, their eyes pleading with a God, any God,
They begged for redemption, and they pleaded for rest,
In this world I saw the hearts of priests and nobles impaled on rods,
And I watched the virtuous have their robes stripped off their *******
In this world of mine, men and demons are now one and the same,
And together they shall all rot and burn in unyielding flame,
Nothing remains constant, except the eyes of God, watching, waiting,
Nothing remains constant, except the hands of God, waiting, unmoving.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
Walking in circles
You were all i wanted
Just trap us in a snowglobe
Your the only comfort i need
So paupers all line the streets
There destitution is how i feel
As i watch you stranded between them
And you're out of my reach
Pick up our world and shake it up
Snowflakes from up above
I stumbled, you caught me
Are you a blessing or a curse
Two smiling faces
I recognise those people
You were my tornado came and broke me down
Inside this snowglobe
With little room to move
There's no escape from you
And that's alright with me
Look how your eyes glow
Red lipstick so beautiful
When i hold you close in my arms i know
A passion for you i can't let go
So trap us in this snowglobe
Minature people with endless love
We might be trapped forever
I can only hope
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 5:39 AM UTC
Her fingertips loosed the glass
bottle, which had
of late
gathered rain like the
hands of paupers.
Glitter in a heartbeat.
to be collected by old battered shoes
or car tyres
and streetwise magpies.
it joins a city evensong
this oceanic roar of nothing
fusing chords of cars and smoke
and lonely dogs
with hacks
and throngs
of perambulating suits
and suitors
trampling athwart broads of concrete
As swifts in summer.
We swim in it
through open atriums
and barren rooms of
magnolia and magnolia and magnolia.
All the while if you look harder
you see through chinks a sepulchre
in each greying tower
ranging higher and higher still.
Machines and machinations
stacking life upon life to
build pyramids
to gaudy kings
in pinstripe or herringbone.
Flumes of fumes ***** like floods
Into and out of train stops
and bus stands.
Circling lungs like hungry crows.
Crows which haunt
Bombed out chapels made new
resuscitated with waxen ivy
and ivory lilies.
And the leaves of saintly oak trees
chatter in shrinking crevices of green
story telling
Of how people and things grow old.
And you can walk these streets
And dive too like cormorants into
The platitudes of city living.
Soaked to the skin in sound
to tell your story
like the shards
of a broken bottle.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Kings and Paupers share the same fate
buried in the same fields
together standing at heavens gate.
Praise all the kings who stashed away
drowning all the poor men
dying with debt to pay.
One will cross to the other side
royalty bellowing in the flame
nowhere else you can hide
there's only you and shame.
So take this bit of good levity
treating all people the same
extra money goes to charity
your the only one to blame.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
The snow lay crisply on the sill
And gripped the windowpane.
A coach and horses scurried by
Slowly, slithering down the lane.
Beneath the gas light in the gloom
A group of choirboys sang.
‘Ding **** merrily on high’,
And all the church bells rang.
Whilst in his bedroom, up above,
A little schoolboy lay.
He’d hung his stockings on the posts
And he dreamed of Christmas day.
And on his bed an old greatcoat
Around his neck held tight,
And on his feet a rag knot rug
To warm him through the night.
His water bottle at his chest
Had now become quite cold.
But in his mind the warm thoughts raced
Of many stories told.
His Mom and Dad below him sat
Less warmly by a candle,
And worried how to pay the rent
Thus to avoid a scandal.
‘But one things sure’, his old mom said.
‘This year may be our last,
So we’ll do all that we can do
To make it better than the last.
‘Remember to be quiet’, she said.
‘Don’t wake my baby boy’.
Here’s an orange, apple and monkey nuts
And a little wooden toy’.
His Father crept into his room
And by his stockings knelt.
He slowly placed inside the gifts
Then in his waistcoat felt.
A tiny farthing in his hand
And in his eye a tear.
He gently pushed it with the rest,
Then to his boy drew near.
‘If only I could give you more,
Then Son I surely would.
For if it were the only thing to give
Then I would give my blood.
His Son lay there without a care,
A smile upon his face.
He kissed him gently on the cheek
And left without a trace.
Then slowly creeping across the hills
And softly clipping trees.
An orange globe of Christmas cheer
Began the frost to tease.
Wiping sleep out of his bleary eyes
And awakening to the cold.
Quickly rummaging into the socks
Clutched a farthing as if gold.
A little boy whose Christmas dreams
So simply had been blessed.
Sang a little Christmas song
And rapidly got dressed.
Each breath he breathed froze in the air.
His tiny hands and feet were frozen.
His mind already at the shop
Espied the sweets he chosen.
Liquorice wood and kali dabs
Pink sugar candied mice.
The little journey down the lane
And sliding on the ice.
His mom and Dad they saw his glee,
Forgot their sorry states.
At least upon this Holy day
They’d have food upon their plates
Dec 6, 2009
Dec 6, 2009 at 7:49 AM UTC
I know why God is there
When nights blow cool wind
Onto the stringy hair of paupers
And on streetlights along purple roads.
When eyes are dimly lit
By the moonlight’s grace
Under a sky full of magnetic tears,
There is God, and he’s there
To deal out soap bars
And washcloths
To ***** cheeks
So that, for once, dust can go
Back to dust
Without leaving behind bodies
For wolves to feed on.
I know why God is there
When the hungry lie down to die,
When the restless beg for sleep,
When murderers beg for forgiveness,
When beggars dip their hands
Into pools of holy water
On sidewalks of sleepless cities.
I know why God is there,
And the reason is at the end of a long rope
Hidden somewhere deep underground,
Dangling above the fountains of prayers.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
Pauper prophet stands amid nobility's raucious crowd.
Beckoned forth, mocked for faith, punishingly proud.
Beams are set, noose is hung, gallant dress is donned.
The noble man, on pedestal, is smugly looking on.
Trumpets hasten allotted time; judgement,error-free.
Noble man; mortal witness, of the paupers' eternity.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
Pawns of a game, a guessing game, a game
Where chance rules supreme.
Dice roll with stardust, driven by cosmic winds,
with whim at the bow and wheel is its own entity.
Everyone seeking cheap tricks, but to no avail, only
To walk a common road, traversed by paupers and kings.
How to win the game? Well, winners and losers are
Indistinguishable, like grains of sand to the naked eye.
Deceiving shadows loom about the playground.
What can be a rabid monster shredding flesh
Might as well be a mouse nibbling on stray kernels.
There are no rules, despite the libraries of doctrine
And laws of man which change with the season,
Reflecting the customs of various regions.
Players argue at the round table as to what the
Objective may be.
Perhaps survival of the fittest?
To harbor joy while making a pittance?
To love wholeheartedly, for good riddance?
One thing’s for certain.
The game will end, some way or another.
Let’s have the thrill of our lives, while it lasts.
Let’s entertain the impossible before we pass.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Desert and mountains merge into brown haze
in my recollection of those days.
The smell of gunpowder or paupers' fires
could ignite a conflagration of memories
if I would not extinguish them
which I do.
But one burns ever clear, even in the fickle fog of memory
—the mongrel and her pups
scrounging for scraps around our camp
and the Afghan village below.
We watched them in their scavenging and their play
until one crystal blue and frigid day
when Randy captured the runt of the bunch
and fed her some of his meager lunch,
and placed her inside his jacket
where she slipped into rabbit chasing sleep
and did not make a peep
until I heard her whimper
as the bullet that sliced through her gut
lodged itself in Randy’s young heart.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:22 PM UTC