money

This is a personal piece, which I am not going to explain in detail other than to say in strong and trusted friendships you never see money only the soul and sometimes a soul needs to break through the cloud cover and fly.

Three Notes For Atlas

A gold hand oils wheels
lavishes itself in the face of the earth.

Weighted steps pile in green Aztec pyramids
laid to outdo the smiles of Mr and Mrs Jones.

Time again for Lazarus’ annual birth where the
past knits us, reminds us of the muddy field through

night and day.
Indifferent to the weight and Mrs Jones brushed smiles
I play three notes from my pocket
watch Atlas transform to an eagle
to soar
and frolic
in the evening laughter.

The greatest things in life never have a price tag. Often it feels the things we do not want come easily and the things we do, evade us. We succeed but not in the manner we desire try as we might.

The Standing Man

Ten men of Midas stand
roll, turn green on vegetables and
haemorrhage red on being dumped.
They survive
sit in Midas pocket like unwanted guests
come back like boomerangs
into an empty home.

One of life's ironies, how we can sometimes excel in the things we don't want to while we fail miserably in the ones we do wish for.

The Alchemist

Bars stack into a pharaoh’s steps
still the flames flicker burn throughout the night.

The tied brow heaves one more piece of lead
Not for gold nor mint

but the birth of Love.

Mike tried to remain calm. He had been in situations similar before but this time was different. He had got suckered by the lady luck at his table who worked for the casino and persuaded him to spill the secret of his winning streak with a blowjob on the way to her room, which turned out to be a shakedown room of a different type.

There was one last game he had to play.

Trousers around his ankles, Mike placed his bet and watched intently. The gorilla in a suit tossed the coin into the air. Hammer roulette was underway.

I've spent a little work time this lunchtime working on the site but in the usual tradition I have broke away to write something.

Money sprang to mind and memories of childhood. The story is a long one but needless to say my father balanced what little money we had on a daily hand to mouth basis.

Not a good time to remember but a lesson perhaps in value, in more ways than one.

Thought I would doodle another rhyming poem. This comes from a conversation, although not fully explained I had with someone a while back. It is also perhaps a rewrite of a bullet poem I did some years ago.

The Banker

Money stacks,
leaves the right to return in the left.

He hauls the sacks,
Gives his might almost for free.

Yet, they dip their pockets three fold,
shrug off what they are told.

Money stacks,
leaves the right to return in the left.

A table cracks under the weight
there is more than enough to eat

But the stomach heaves,
empty as a midnight street

Longs for a trade, which cannot be made.
Money stacks.