"wages" poems
Insecurity is wool blanket drenched in water
laying across my nose and mouth,
every breath i take in is a wicked reminder of everything i am not.
its sharp needle points prodding my pores
ripping apart the skin of my throat with every word i'm unable to speak.
Insecurity is facing a firing squad,
every bullet comes from the mouth, every tongue a trigger, every tooth ammunition
Your feet are nailed to the ground, an iron staple of your own making lacing through your toes.
The worst thing about it is that your hands are bulletproof shields,
and if you had the strength to raise your thousand pound arms,
you could use them to block your bruised up brain.
But you can't.
So you don't.
its being uncomfortable in your own skin, a bone shattering, helpless feeling that you
cannot change this.
no amount of compliments or beautiful words whispered in the darkness can fix it
insecurity is the building blocks of my personality,
I'm constantly tailoring everyone in my life to fit it, like a worn dress
I can't walk down the hallway, down the street, through a store
without the feeling of a thousand weighty words cutting into my skin
In every war my mind wages against my body
i stand there like marble, letting the bullets eat me alive.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
She's like a drama queen,
Plays the 'blame game' like a loser,
Fair minded as a bigot,
Wages war like drones,
As free as surveillance,
As open as privatized prisons,
As equal as feudalism,
As rich as the beggar masses,
Bankrupt as homeowners,
Socialist as the military,
Truthful, trustful as "NEWS," as propaganda,
Pagan as the manufactured Goddess 'Columbia,'
Christian as the stingy,
Pious as a sinner,
Wicked as securities, exchanges on 'Wall Street,'
Insecure as an empire,
Greedy as a fast food glutton,
As brave as a fool,
Warmongering as a chicken hawk politician,
Machevellian as a coward,
As rigged as the free market,
As selfish as Capitalism,
As tolerant as Islam,
Beautiful as a clear cut forest,
Charming as a strip mall,
Forward thinking as chaos,
Lawless as congress,
United as a belligerent crowd,
Compassionate as a swat team,
Green as any petrochemical company,
Organic as pollution,
Deep as a strip mine . . .
. . .
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, grey city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.
The smoke ascends
In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.
So be my passing!
My task accomplished and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death.
10.1k
Thousands of us were displaced
Started careers late
Not lucky enough to have had great jobs
So we work hard
Put ourselves through night school
While taking care of family
Finally ...
Yes, yeah, whoopee
Did it !
Once again completed school
Another certificate added to the growing list of achievements.
More bills owed to uncle Sam
Going on numerous job interviews
No one's responding
Instead ...
All this knowledge stored in your head
Current jobs pays minimum wages
Those colleges attended; mounting
When you try to get ahead -
They hold on to their employments
As if,
It's Rocket science
Looking for younger, greener admits
Once AARP comes a knocking on
Your door
You know they don't want your
Expertise anymore
What's one to do
Still strong, healthy, seasoned
Educated, no strings to boot
Hopelessly stuck in a world of
"We will call you "
So at the tender age of fifty
Thoughts of starting your own business floats in your head
Right
Now, back to school
For another certificate
A chance to use that knowledge
Put bread on the table
Feel useful
Quality of life renewed.
JRap /2016
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Aimless devotion to discontent deities*
sacrificial offerings crucial for good juju
Altar boys and pages kissing feet for wages
Praying to relics
punishing heretics
Burning,knifing,shooting
Oh for the love of god!
Don't believe
Do believe
Maybe just for acceptance
Penance repentance
Breed a way of thinking
and get many precious berries
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 3:00 AM UTC
I'm underpaid.
If it takes me an hour's pay
To buy my lunch
I have a hunch
I'm underpaid.
Because I'm paid the
Minimum wage.
Why this isn't a cause of rage
Among politicians that their citizens
Are underpaid
On minimum wage
I'm afraid I can't say.
I can't rent my own place,
A problem I can easily trace
Back to my low pay
On the minimum wage.
I hope this is a stage
Because I honearly can't say
How I'd survive if I stay
Underpaid
On minimum wage.
While I can't pay my bills
Billionaires fly around country for thrills
Tax breaks, relax mate,
It's better than giving them to
The underpaid
On minimum wage.
To be able to pay the price
Of things I need would be nice,
But there's no room to play
Living day by day
Underpaid
On minimum wage.
My wages are a joke,
No way I can't be broke
Living this way.
I'd just like higher pay
For minimum wage.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya
State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers
Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations
While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia
To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring
For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born,
Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever
As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism;
So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya;
The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord
Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear
Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger
Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk
Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion,
Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows
Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys
Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture,
Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father
ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also
Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing
fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress,
M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers
They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd.
This consumerism and **** consumerism,
It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor
It is the avaricious tube which siphons back
The hard earned money from pockets of the poor
Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
Freedom, sweet freedom,
I wish for thy.
My masters are cruel and mean and sly.
Freedom, sweet freedom,
Oh how I wish to be my own “man”.
I wish for wages and clothes, instead of doing my master’s evil plan.
Freedom, sweet freedom,
I can almost taste it when I am with him.
Not suppose to help him, I am not, but if I don’t his future is grim.
Freedom, sweet freedom,
I found in a form of a sock.
Master was tricked, it was quite a shock.
Freedom, sweet freedom,
though life is great now, it still is not fine.
No one wants a house elf that has demands like mine.
Freedom, sweet freedom,
An old man was so kind.
He gave me a job and pay and time off to unwind.
Freedom, sweet freedom,
the dark lord is back.
I will do all I can to help my young wizard friends counterattack.
Freedom, sweet freedom,
I think my time here has to come to an end.
Glad I am to leave in the arms of my friend.
(Rest in Peace Dobby)
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
I pledge allegiance to the flag of a country that’s done nothing for me.
I pledge allegiance to a ticking corporate time bomb, counting down the number of people left outside of its marketing cage.
Corporate fat cats full of rage, a million dollars isn’t enough,
Give me ten.
Corporate law superseding human rights, tying us tight to the system justifying injustice done to us.
I pledge allegiance to “by the people for the people”, turned “by the people, for the money”, the fuel of the freedom we value so highly as to put a price tag on it as if that is an acceptable measure of its worth,
How can we get much worse than now when there are thousands of people wondering how they are going to survive this month?
I pledge allegiance to impossibility highlighted on HD screens, the clarity not giving us a clear view of reality, our beauty is not,
Should not,
Will not be measured by the numbers on a scale.
The girls in the magazines don’t even look like the girls in the magazines, so why don’t we focus on something that can be reached?
I pledge allegiance to the flag of a country where being smart enough to expose rapists can have greater consequences than ****** somebody,
Where violating firewalls and proxies is worse than violating human bodies.
I pledge allegiance to
“She was asking for it”,
“Boys will be boys”, and
“What was she wearing?”
When a robbery is committed in a home, the police do not ask if your door was unlocked, or if your laptop was in plain view,
So when a robbery is committed on a body, why is that exactly what they do?
I pledge allegiance to a country where love is still illegal in 33 states.
We are the country of change, so long as nothing changes, I mean
Women still get paid lower wages.
I pledge allegiance to a place where who you are does not mean you get to be yourself,
Where masculinity is blue and being feminine is pink.
If you have ever been stared at for wanting to be a rainbow, I will stand by you and stare right back.
And I will no longer pledge allegiance to a country consumed by consumerism, Nationalism,
Commercialism,
Racism,
Sexism,
Fear.
Instead, I will pledge allegiance to the memory of one nation under God,
Indivisible,
With liberty and justice for all.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
At Bookshop Santa Cruz
I look at a book about the East Bay then and now
One picture strikes me: 1969 Sproul Plaza
Govener Ronald Reagan has the National Guard spray
tear gas on protesters on the steps of this Berkeley Administration Building
People run in black and white
they look like my parents
The helicopter is so close to the ground, like the Vietnam War
I was three
In the backseat of our VW Bug
My mother was driving me to Strawberry Canyon
for a swim
Then she got scared--something on the radio
We turned around
I didn't understand
She had to protect us from tear gas
We lived in a war zone
Everyone was very upset
We were attacked by our own government
Even children were fair game
An innocent frog is placed in water
If the water temperature is raised gradually
the frog will sit there until it dies
In 1980 Ronald Reagan became our President
Much to our dismay
"70% of pollution comes from trees" he had announced
as Governer, he was obviously a man of science
The vice grip clenched, the water temperature raised
as we felt around us the world becoming more
difficult as a middle class
we were supposed to wait for crumbs to fall
from the table of the rich folks
fighting over the bits like starving animals
Budgets were cut
Prices rose, wages fell or disappeared completely
We were at war
1985: I took a class in Economics in college, a UC
I learned that Supply Side Economics was
a silly idea written on a napkin at a fancy restaurant
where the fat ones eat
and the crumbs are thrown away
It was all a sham
An excuse
The vice grip tightened, the world became
more difficult
not the American Dream my parents grew up in
To be middle class was to struggle and struggle and still
not have anything
The frog began to die
Somehow we saw that
Reagan drifted away, but his ghost
remained, a respite in the 90's
Then we were at war again
Not just tear gas, but carpet bombing
Guerilla warfare in the streets of a hot arid country
Oil companies, already saturating our ground and our air with their products
Cashed in
The frog is near death
We struggle, and nothing gets better
Only a respite
At a fancy restaurant
on a napkin someone wrote
a new theory of Economics
that became like Scientology
Outgrew it's ridiculous inception
And became real
Ronald Reagan dropped tear gas
from helicopters on Sproul Plaza
and it drifted to Strawberry Canyon
where children learned to swim
But that is child's play now
the frog is about to die
I want to pull it out.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
Forever neglected
Forever dismayed
Forever deafened
By the cacophony of the trade
The antiquated digger stands by
A sentient guard of the worker
It watches as the tree slowly dissipates
Its life slowly crumbling
As the voracious chipper
Devours the tree whole
The worker stands by
The digger stands by
The chipper chips away
The taciturn worker remains
Ruminating the existence of the world.
Why was he put here?
For what reason must he stay with these hallowed construction tools?
Do they feel any remorse for the change that they've enacted
On the world around them?
Are they aware that they transgress the laws of nature?
The bellicose chipper
Wages war with nature
As the people watch so distantly.
Its sound makes the neighbors quite belligerent
Yet the zealots watch attentively.
The pure ignorance
The pure neglect
The blatant apathy
Is something to be seen.
Whatever could possess you
To follow in the footsteps of the worker
To feel his pain as the trimmer
Chips away at the trees' centuries
The sound of shattered glass
Punctuates the air.
Perhaps there has been an accident.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
Migrants on highways-- hunger and need
In their eyes,
No argument, no system,
Need
Men fought for wage
Work for thirty--
Twenty-five--
Twenty
I’m hungry for work--
The kids see
They can’t run aroun’
They bloated up
--I’ll work--
for a little piece of good wages
Prices up
Great owners
Glad they bring more people in
Wages went down
We’ll have serfs again
--Blackout Poem Chapter Twenty-One--
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
The men, mostly wrapped in grey,
With knitted necks have nothing to say.
But sway out of the way of the others, passing.
Over there, on six, a man is checking
No one is asking, but he’s still looking.
His finger’s pointing.
Beside me, a beautiful lady, is waiting
Speaking softly to her lover:
“Not long now” – she whispers’, lower.
With late night morning upon our faces
We wonder why, we are here at all
Collecting colds, old age, and wages:
Before middle, old, and then the fall.
And then the sun appears:
It lights the seats where no one sits
I feel my heart beat miss a bit.
I see myself years ago.
Waiting for a train to go.
To take our family away, for free
For fish, chips, salt and sea.
All of us all, sitting there:
Our fathers 1950’s hair,
Our sixties mother thin lipped stare,
my sisters, bothers, and me, just sat there.
Frozen cold, with tears sticking in my eyes.
And for a moment I want back that time.
To start again, at another me:
No more trains - but more sea.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
From whence we tip to toast the Cocktail new
Too pricey for a Sip, if you ask me
Still, those Pubbers demand your Freshest Brew
Either for Show or Truest Cheers that be
Now who composed the Price which I complain
May rob my Wages on half-month's budget?
You have Defense, though: Is that my Domain
To liver that Sign out of my Pocket?
I suppose either way Purchased or not
Those Senses concerned will take no Notice
With Baskets fare, Bread and Butter forgot
Mix the Lager still Best Friends acquiesce.
The Currant still topped, which to Celebrate
Ignore the Side-Bugs; Light the Good Debate.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
I feel the walls of my mentality breaking down. The defense mechanism has failed. My weakness has been found.
Bombs bombard my frontal lobes. How much time do I have left? That's a question nobody knows.
But the army of stress wages through. Setting fire and killing cells,
torturing them as the army continues to move.
My head throbs with pain, my legs join my arms in what feels like an earthquake; Heart pounds with tremendous force, my body is on a crash course.
The room becomes an amusement park ride. While different moods pass me by. Day after day the symptoms increase. Today may be the day when I accept defeat.
Socializing has become a thing of the past, all I have is panic attacks. Happiness has finally been lost. Without a map, and at what cost?
Control center has been compromised. Here I am, I have met my demise.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
The Slow-Bullet
by rgpage
In the early days of Viet Nam
the American draft was going strong.
Young men in their prime of life,
were forced and herded into world strife.
A generation of America’s best, were
then brought home and laid to rest.
Wall Street smiled, the money flowed
the “fat Cats” called it money owed.
In towns and cities big and small,
families waited, worried, and cried.
Groups appeared, dissention grew.
"Mothers grab your son’s and hide."
There were those who felt their duty strong,
to take the leap toward blood and strife
with McNamara herding them along.
Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.”
The madness grew to a global scale
with those that were for and those against.
In bombing, selective targets became the norm
keeping the rest of the world from harm.
With those who didn’t feel their duty strong,
a path to the north they took.
They packed what they could, burned their cards
and paused for one last look.
With this some parents felt relief,
while others felt the disgrace. Of seeing
the grief so many went through after
having their futures erased.
The war took over 58,000 American lives;
men and women both, (before we flew away).
Wall Street got their wages for blood, with
broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay.
With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home.
Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming
perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved
in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away…
Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
I. St. Luke The Painter
Give honour unto Luke Evangelist;
For he it was (the aged legends say)
Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray.
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist
Of devious symbols: but soon having wist
How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day
Are symbols also in some deeper way,
She looked through these to God and was God’s priest.
And if, past noon, her toil began to irk,
And she sought talismans, and turned in vain
To soulless self-reflections of man’s skill,
Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again,
Ere the night cometh and she may not work.
II. Not As These
‘I am not as these are,’ the poet saith
In youth’s pride, and the painter, among men
At bay, where never pencil comes nor pen,
And shut about with his own frozen breath.
To others, for whom only rhyme wins faith
As poets,—only paint as painters,—then
He turns in the cold silence; and again
Shrinking, ‘I am not as these are,’ he saith.
And say that this is so, what follows it?
For were thine eyes set backwards in thine head,
Such words were well; but they see on, and far.
Unto the lights of the great Past, new-lit
Fair for the Future’s track, look thou instead,—
Say thou instead ‘I am not as these are.’
III. The Husbandmen
Though God, as one that is an householder,
Called these to labour in his vine-yard first,
Before the husk of darkness was well burst
Bidding them ***** their way out and bestir,
(Who, questioned of their wages, answered, ‘Sir,
Unto each man a penny:’) though the worst
Burthen of heat was theirs and the dry thirst:
Though God hath since found none such as these were
To do their work like them:—Because of this
Stand not ye idle in the market-place.
Which of ye knoweth he is not that last
Who may be first by faith and will?—yea, his
The hand which after the appointed days
And hours shall give a Future to their Past?
3.9k
How will we progress today?
Will we risk life attending Mosque,
Or have an affair with our spouse's boss?
Will we take the dog out for a walk,
Step on a landmine, use plastic straws?
Perhaps we'll play with our kids today,
Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray?
Will we defy authority with a righteous tone,
Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone?
Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu,
Or show a distention as millions today do?
Will we drive around town for cheaper gas,
Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash?
Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages,
Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage?
Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class,
Or sit solitary watching the hourglass?
Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore,
Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore?
Will we question the teacher at our kid's school,
Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool?
Did you set a reminder on your AI phone
For chicken delivery to your suburban home?
Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites,
Proclaiming your station in life gives you right?
Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book,
Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook?
Will you take out your family,
Are you last on your list,
Will you reciprocate a handshake
Or raise a gloved fist?
Our words can't bind all our wounds,
Few are born with silver spoons,
We're not wrapped in silk cocoons.
A metamorphosis is coming
To this world of gloom,
A rousing group flight,
And it can't come too soon.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
Deeds not words!
They cried in their protest
Marching on Parliament
Intent on their quest
To the corrupt politicians
Who recorded their struggle
But denied them the vote
And left them to juggle
Their lives that equaled
Less than their brothers
Where they had no rights
Not even as mothers
As wives they were thwarted
Their wages their spouses
They worked long hard hours
And still kept their houses
Tea on the table
Washing hung out
The children looked after
To their husbands - devout
They stood up for their choices
The injustice they faced
Were imprisoned & tortured
And fired in disgrace
Children were taken
Away from their mothers
Who were labelled as mad
Their opinions were smothered
Yet still they continued
To rally & fight
Secure in the knowledge
That they deserved rights
That equaled the men
That ruled their world
So they took up arms
And fists were curled
When one was killed
That brave young girl
Who in front of a horse
Her body she hurled
Votes for Women
Her banner announced
So simple & honest
The message pronounced
To hundreds of people
Who just stood & stared
As her breath left her body
The women prepared
To fight their fight
Be true to their cause
Take down the men
And change the laws
So thank you to those
Brave women of old
Who did what they did
Without being told
We now have the right
As women, to fight
Without risk to our freedom
And stand up for our rights!!
(C) Pixievic 2016
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
as we stand there
and remember his presence
that is no longer near
his smile fades gently
into a higher place
as your name is called
silent tears
of ours weaped
and you don't answer
the last roll call
as we remember
what we have lost
a friend
a brother in arms
in the wages of war
of this were certain
you'll be avenged
your voice in our heads
your last command
we'll drive us to the end
as we stand here
a final salute
a final goodbye
a final prayer
in the last roll call
Jan 21, 2010
Jan 21, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
befriended by the builders
a building site next door
they gave her little jobs to do
although she's only four
when friday came,they even gave
her wages for the week
foreman smiled at sophie's joy
and tweaked her rosie cheek
off she went, to spend her pay
there was no way of stopping
a working girl with hard earned cash
so mummy took her shopping
hello mr sweetshop man
i've got cash to spend
been grafting with my muckers
an real job,....not pretend
are you working monday?
he passed her pick and mix
aye! if those wankers from jewson
bring the ******* bricks
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:05 PM UTC
*Time to hand the deck back
Before Alice in Wonderland
Becomes Malice in Blunderland
The looking glass cracks
And there's no passage back.*
Sat at Life's table
Night after Night goes aRound
And you're Unable to leave.
Coulda drawn the Ace
But got sidetracked by the Joker
With your Inability
to pass up possibility
And it Leaves you looking in the mirror
At this fool that you see
The fool that you are
As you fall so easily
For this game
Who's only aim
Is to breed
losers to please
Those who have already won
With ease
Been Established for centuries
And now you're indebted
to this Society.
It Leaves you
Staring At the innocent face
You strive to disgrace
Even though it hurts you
And The sincerity
aids in your
Despair at he
That puts Gold before Good
Though it makes sense
Alphabetically
He who wages happiness
On the back of money
Will eventually sight
Looking glass Or not
That the price is not right.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
Shot? so quick, so clean an ending?
Oh that was right, lad, that was brave:
Yours was not an ill for mending,
'Twas best to take it to the grave.
Oh you had forethought, you could reason,
And saw your road and where it led,
And early wise and brave in season
Put the pistol to your head.
Oh soon, and better so than later
After long disgrace and scorn,
You shot dead the household traitor,
The soul that should not have been born.
Right you guessed the rising morrow
And scorned to tread the mire you must:
Dust's your wages, son of sorrow,
But men may come to worse than dust.
Souls undone, undoing others,--
Long time since the tale began.
You would not live to wrong your brothers:
Oh lad, you died as fits a man.
Now to your grave shall friend and stranger
With ruth and some with envy come:
Undishonoured, clear of danger,
Clean of guilt, pass hence and home.
Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking;
And here, man, here's the wreath I've made:
'Tis not a gift that's worth the taking,
But wear it and it will not fade.
3.4k
peeress: a woman holding the rank of a peer in her own right.
what tools fo you require?
a microscope, binoculars, perhaps an observatory telescope...
you ask to peer into my soul,
the heart of the matter,
and I object
not,
asking only for a workman's wages,
of honest preparation,
have you the tools to see me properly,
and when you love what you see,
will you have them by your side
to see the future close by,
and so far ahead?
do you possess within thy
secret places,
an archeological brush
to wipe gently away my ancient earths,
or a toy red shovel to remove fossilized
10,000 year old grains of old hearts,
or fresh, damp from this morning,
of words and sand from my inner
beach, even then, the tonnage may
require an industrial excavator
to clear, hold and perhaps contain
all that poetry, all that love that it contains,
so I ask, you, myself:
*Do you have the proper tools,
the necessaries and the necessities,
to find to store to relish and to delight
in what you may find?*
be an explorer,
and write of all your discoveries,
hurry, for the word
time
means in soul terms & the heart's specialized verbiage,
never enough
so girl scout/ mademoiselle peeress
you s t i l l
have much to assay/essay/uncover
re the meanings of love...
for there is as much to learn from the
quietus of love,
as there is, from the vibrant tumbling of
climbing to new heights
peer carefully...
5:44am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 9:28 AM UTC