"untaxed" poems
Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians
(Caesar non supra grammaticos)
I am licensed to drive.
I am licensed to broke.
I am licensed to be birthed.
I am licensed to marry, divorce and someday I will be
coroner-permission"end" to die.
If I so choose, I can be state approved to cut your hair,
have my own business, weld, own a dog, panhandle, play tennis in Central Park, dance in my own cabaret, even commit suicide legally.
These United States were a refuge for my foreign born parents,
Bless you both for privileging me such,
you gifted me a country where my voice, clear and unashamedly,
unguarded can speak here unafraid, for our
Caesar has no authority over the grammarians.
Tho the IRS gonna come after me, and king phony Barack,
Gonna eavesdrop on my privacy,
As long as I can write my poetry free and clear, untaxed,
won't ever mortgage my soul to any government hack
I will carry my U.S. passport in my left pocket over my heart,
Till they take my freedom to speak away.
Then I will get a gun for free speech is worth dying for...
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner
But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Quiet is the morning
Laying lazy and relaxed
A peaceful stillness in the air
Its presence left untaxed
Gentle is the sunlight
Calming me and my locale
No words, no wants, nothing to hear
Everything as it shall
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 5:09 PM UTC
Didn’t I hear you say the lawn I would mow?
Sundays come and Sundays go.
Grasses are taller so are the ****
Season is going where’s the flower seed?
Words aren’t taxed you use them free
Said this Sunday you would clean the chimney.
Wash the toilet scrub clean the commode
Sundays come piles up workload.
Lot of things to mend lots to replace
Why Sundays trudge in leisurely pace?
Why the bed conspires the morn breathes chill
Why must I lie back to get the Sunday feel?
Why Sunday is one day and not a whole week
Comes up the Monday devilish and bleak!
Sundays will come and Sundays will go
As for my work only a poem or two to show!
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:12 AM UTC
The folk they sit around the bar
And listen to my jokes so far.
I entertain the clientele
and pour another beer to sell.
The bills, they fill up my tip jar
as they go blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
I pull some sympathetic faces
And appropriately nod in places.
I listen to their tales of life
Some have three kids; some have a wife
Some have both, which makes it clear
why they spend all their time in here.
They tell me of their life of woe
or how their family’s make it so.
They speak of losing teams and cash
and utes they want to flip and crash.
I tell them that I understand
And place another beer in hand
The better that I feign concern
The more in untaxed tips I earn.
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
There's an old house up on Jennings Street
In a yard so overgrown, you can't see your feet
A vine grows up the side and a shed near the back
With a door that doesn't meet the frame and track.
A hole in the roof, houses a family of Bluejays
Who chirp and play as the world passes by
Babies jumping off that same roof, learning to fly
Untaxed by the society seen in people eyes.
Some say it's haunted, others say just condemned
But inside those cryptic walls is a place few have been
Once you've entered, time stands very still
Every creak tells a story and the air is thinner with a chill.
Musk and dust cover where a family thrived,
Before this technology that made us so unalive.
I wouldn't dare to move a single thing
I bring only what my eyes recall.
This place was not my place, not even my time
In a body I only borrow, who am I to call anything mine?
Others blinded by greed, believe they are owed this history
So as I left this house I locked the door, to save the mystery.
There's an old house on Jennings Street
Leave it be, it's perfect.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
i remember a more tranquil world,
of grassy hummocks and neat tamed lawns,
lazy clouds and flags unfurled,
upright backs 'midst hard-earned yawns
i remember a more tranquil beat
people cared how others fared
there was laughter in the street
there was joy as bread was shared
i remember a world relaxed
uncreased brows, a world untaxed,
tuppence bought a pint of beer
camaraderie and heart-felt cheer
in the bustle at the airports,
in the stations underground,
queuing, handing tickets, passports,
there were humans all around,
somehow feelings were more simple,
****** purer and untouched,
like the soft skin of a dimple
of the smile i miss so much.
yes, i remember a world serene
people cared how others fared,
there were smiles to be seen,
but now that scene has gone and been.
is my memory playing tricks
a child's impression of Lego bricks?
was the world a different place
or was it always a big rat-race?
or perhaps today there's still grace
behind the neons and plastic face,
scratch away the false surface
morals 'n manners will surface.
Nov 13, 2022
Nov 13, 2022 at 3:57 AM UTC