Only People with Money find a Romantic Notion in Poverty

Source. Pexels.

by LJ Frank


poverty is violence to the spirit and flesh

self-respect, dignity, and self-worth

how do you tell the poor they are blest  

while they sit alone in an abandoned building


the emotions and intellect of the impoverished i know

bless your misery is vanity, is love a vacuous illusion

like frolicking in the Medieval haystack of the mind

the straw up the ass is quite uncomfortable 


and to bathe or shower is a Textural Baptism 

crucial to a redemption

i know of few elated voices from poverty’s mouth

save the ambiguity of knowledge 


a meal, a smile, a hug, a kiss are appetizers

though not a place one can call one’s own

yet the parasitical economics of the rich

offer only a prayer for those stranded port side


 pick yourself up by the bootstrap

is premised on false logic and arrogance

no one is equal in mind, body, assets, and means

nor having a family in which to come home to


proverbs, maxims, parables, algorithms,

an assortment of phrases from sacred texts

when does a human become self and other-aware

except on the theater’s stage of experience


before, now and after are of questionable measure

the clock ticks but time itself is not money

we clothe our life with the minute of ritualized effects

but what does the human conscience whisper


is there no graceful exit for the destitute

a chanted requiem composed in honor of a life

for the ignoble, hungry, itinerant soul in want

it is revealed that death is not an angel


how many countless people freely choose poverty

starvation since time’s beginning is numberless 

human exiguity began when sharing ceased

 who remembers those who built the Damascus Gate


what were the parents hopes and dreams

for the child who floundered on Mother Earth’s womb

how does one assuage the sorrow and grief

that replaced the smile on an infant’s face


how many primitive prophets have vanished

skeletons a hundred thousand years in age

bones with markings, their words unrecorded

only bits and pieces of tattered cloth remain


there must be some humor in the saddest of eyes

a thought or idea that causes the lips to grin

how easy is it to say in the mansions of our head

but…for the Grace of God go I.