gold

by

harken merry merchants…

harken merry merchants

fifteen dreams
on
a dead man’s chest
sold for gold
so there’s profit
for some
mothers cry
for
the dead man’s chest
sold for gold
yet
there’s profit
for some
children die
since
they were
the dreams
sold for gold
now
there’s profit for some
devils dance
for
the peace is done
sold for gold
but
there’s profit
for
some

by

con artist…

con artist

it
was gold
but
he told you
it wasn’t
and you
like
every time before
believed in others
more than
yourself
so you
thought
it was worthless
like
the life
you’ve lived
and so you
gave up
on
both

by

daily routine…

multi-colored hearses
transport
bodies
mummified
in corporate mortuaries
along
well-worn paths
to fool’s gold
moving
the breathing corpses
from one
dimly lit
platform
to
another
while
tearless mourners
gather
along
the funeral’s
procession route
a route
to
unremarkable
graves
in the suburbs

by

franklin…

he was
a part-time
philosopher
and full-time drunk
dispensing
sage advice
prophecies
and
profanity
with the same
propensity
asking
me
on more than
one occasion
while
carefully
balancing
his
brown paper bag
if it’s
true
that museums
have to return
stolen antiquities
to
indigenous peoples
how come
the
gold
ain’t returned
by the
church

by

old papers…

scattered
here
and there
like the memories
of the year
are scraps of paper
my
recorded history
stored
for no good reason
in boxes
and drawers
throughout the house
boxes that no one
will ever pullout
to sort or read
to be
carried in mass
to the dump
or shredded
by some distant family member
who seeks their fortune
in what is left behind
in closets
and jewelry boxes
leaving behind
the true wealth
of my life
for they
have long
forgotten
“all that glisters
is not
gold”

The popular form of the expression is a corruption of a line in William Shakespeare‘s play, The Merchant of Venice, which uses the 17th century synonym “glisters”. The line comes from the secondary plot, the puzzle of Portia‘s boxes: (Act II – Scene VII – Prince of Morocco)

by

conquistadors…

in the harbor
a black ship
sails toward shore
the new land
the americas
below the decks
crimson warriors
satan’s own
wearing crosses of white
we see them come ashore
so many men
with strange dress
metal arms and heads
weapons that flash
like thunder
killing without a single
blow of the axe
elders tell us to flee
but we the young eagles
say we shall fight
for our sacred ground
for freedom
for all that the gods
have given us
but
rocks burst open
the blood of our nation
pours from each stone
of the village
flames consume
the living
and the dead
waves of fear
cover all who stand
before these beasts
our gods
have forsaken us
our gold
our freedom
our land
raped
by
messengers
of a
foreign
god
who
came
to
save
our
souls

This poem represents my fourth response to  the third challenge series between Jade and I.  This challenge is somewhat different in that the prompt is now an audio prompt.  Each poet provides the other with five instrumental songs (so that the song’s words do not interefere with the poet’s) from which the poet is to write a poem.  Jade has written her first response which can be found here.