To beg of the miser is to dig a trench in the sea.
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The Old Miser and his 3rd Wife
1
The Old Miser
my husband is dying
and he makes me promise
I must put all his money in his coffin
when he dies
“O my legal third wife
the only one surviving -
you must put all my money
secretly in my coffin”
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you want to bring away all the money
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
2
Now, he’s dead
and I’ve arranged for his funeral
and while everyone’s busy
with all these preparations
I dutifully take all his money
from the hiding place
which he whispered to me
with his last breath
and he bit my ear and he snarled:
“Put all my money
in my coffin”
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you want to bring all the money away
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
3
So I take all his money
and bring it to the bank
and deposit it in my name
and make a cheque out for 10 million
and put the cheque below his head
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you can take all the money away
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
poem by Raj Arumugam
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For Years/ A Miser Of Every Minute
FOR YEARS/ A MISER OF EVERY MINUTE
For years
A miser of every minute
For my work.
And now near old age
I understand
All that time given to works
Never to be read,
And so
A seeming tranquility.
If all my time wasted
Why be a miser
Any longer?
And yet,
What have I done?
Can I somehow still
Do something?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Trench
It was once assumed
We stood at the same spot
By and by
The earth caved in
Surreptitiously
And there emerged
A widening trench
We now stand
A trench apart
The trench patiently gathers
All the emotions slipped into it
In the nights it sings
To wake me up
The open space echoes
With the ballads sung
To bring a smile or two
On my damp cheeks…
Wipes away my cheek
As it goes on singing
All that it gathers
From the passers-by
I smile
But somehow
There’s some difference!
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Oh, I wish I were a miser; being a miser must be so occupying.
quote by Gertrude Stein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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These Men
Men moving in a trench, in the clear noon,
Whetting their steel within the crumbling earth;
Men, moving in a trench ‘neath a new moon
That smiles with a slit mouth and has no mirth;
Men moving in a trench in the grey morn,
Lifting bodies on their clotted frames:
Men with narrow mouths thin-carved in scorn
That twist and fumble strangely at dead names.
These men know life – know death a little more.
These men see paths and ends, and see
Beyond some swinging open door
Into eternity.
poem by Leon Gellert
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0272 Somme Day
Looks like being a fine day; how red
the poppies in the sunlight.
The whistles blow.
From the now almost home of the slit trench
Over the Top, boys! This is it!
Soon back. The slit trench
is blessedly quieter now
in its six feet.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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While the miser is merely a capitalist gone mad, the capitalist is a rational miser.
The miser does not own the gold, it is the gold that owns the miser.
The Crying From Misery
The miser has concussion when sick,
It is unholy and right if you end;
It contains blessings, the world,
When holiness has defeated;
We are holy, and they are so unholy,
The miser has concussion when sick
Too sick he is that it matters.
The misery of babies is like angelic crying,
You have divine nature when child
And lose when miserable more,
Like an angel it is, then adults shall change,
When babies were also them, also them.
The misery of babies is like angelic crying.
The miser has concussion when sick,
The misery of babies is like angelic crying.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Ha Ha Ha Happy Family
See see Papa Trench Bottom
dig in the mines happily, laugh ha ha happily
and drink at night and hear him
snore before the day
happy happy Papa Trench Bottom
he he he he he ha ha happy happy
at home and at work
See see Mama Big Bottom
she she she he he ha ha happy
Dance happily Cook with joy
toss with levity
and puts dishes aplenty on the table
for all in the family to eat and be merry
See see Teenage Tough Dude
he he he happily walks in the streets
Cool at school
Very Pop with the babes
and eating lots at home, with gravity
very serious in look, sparse in his words
but loves his mom, dad and sis
deep deep within, ha ha happily happily
Happy Happy Teenage Cool Dude
And see Sister Barbie Doll Pretty
Curls and dimples and cute smiles all
Happy hours in the ha ha bathroom
many more hours texting and chatting
and lots and lots of FaceTime
Happy happy walking sexy
all the way to work
and chirping all day like a Paradise Bird
at work at the Rainbow Fast Food Outlet
happy happy talking talking all workday
Ah See Happy happy he he he
she she she happy happy Family
Trench Bottom family he he he
and she she she all day and night
Happy happy Trench Bottoms
Happy happy he he ha ha Happy Family always
poem by Raj Arumugam
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The Love
Lust for power and more power
Is your mask with a power monger
You may think then to annihilate
The weak for the conquest ultimate
Of your devotee- the power monger.
Money and miser in this pair
Of greed you become embodiment
You are a quantity for a miser
Of money and it's aggrandizement
For which he crosses all extents.
Lover and beloved in this pair
You mask adroitly carnel desires
Infatuation & longing on separation.
A mastery you show in presentation
In celestial form human relations.
poem by Ratnakar Mandlik
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Aaron Stark
Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, --
Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.
A miser was he, with a miser's nose,
And eyes like little dollars in the dark.
His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;
And when he spoke there came like sullen blows
Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,
As if a cur were chary of its bark.
Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,
Year after year he shambled through the town, --
A loveless exile moving with a staff;
And oftentimes there crept into his ears
A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, --
And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Sonnet
The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold
A kind of heaven in his authorities;
The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,
Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise;
The epicure that eats and drinks all day,
Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs;
And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day,
Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.
But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power,
No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss,
Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour,
And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss:
No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be
In my Love's service, but to live to thee.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Trench charge
Firing from his hip he was running,
with the light machinegun kicking
dressed in a brown army uniform
running towards a trench
while bullets whistled, swished past him
with some kicking up dust around him
and like a machine functioning
at perfect speed and timing
he lobbed a grenade
somewhat like a cricket ball
but with a deadly sting
into the trench
before dropping behind a small stone wall
waiting for the explosive cracking sound
giving instructions with hand signs
to the troops that followed him
and when it came
he let of a few bursts
with the light machinegun
on its folded out stand
before half-terrified, filled with adrenaline
he started running again
with his troops following him,
shooting from the hip
and at the enemy trench
jumps straight in
spraying soldiers dressed in olive green
with flaming hot bullets,
smelling the fumes of cordite,
mixed with sand and death
with every breath burning
in his chest and throat
without time to really think,
just to comprehend
and to react, noting dust flying
from the wall next to his head
were passing enemy bullets were slamming.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Escapade
In our lovely city of Chennai,
A big trench was deeply dug, nigh
To the neat pedestrian platform,
For laying pipes of forms and so on.
There came a corpulent buffalo,
And on the muddy trench low,
Espied its calf struggling in woe;
With celerity, it sprang down to tow.
The passers-by, saw the two-some,
Bracketed in the trench—so awesome—
Some passed by, speaking with pity;
The playful brats in glee, sang a ditty.
Some passed by engrossed in their own care,
Some flew past with no time to spare for the pair;
Something must be done to retrieve—some thought—
‘ Nothing by us could be done'—so some fought.
Some youth got down to the trench,
And got badly hurt in the wrench,
Ah! They lifted the calf with gay success,
But the big buffalo they couldn't harness.!
Meanwhile there formed a crowd around,
And some pronounced 'Let's the police sound.'
The police force spurned with disdain,
'To extricate a buffalo is not in our domain.'
Some inclined the ‘Blue Cross' to call,
And some ushered in the Fire Engine to haul,
Each according to their own fine thought,
Acted to bring the struggling buffalo caught.
The ‘Blue Cross' van hastened to the spot,
The men tossed strong ropes looped in a knot;
The animal ran hither and thither in fear,
They couldn't capture it though sincere.
From a far away place landed the fire-engine,
Even their efforts couldn't the buffalo pin!
Next day to arrive with improved elements,
The exhausted men left with wry laments.
Then the twilight gave place to dark night,
And the crowd dispersed from the location right.
The poor calf borne to the platform stood lonely,
And the buffalo was inside the trench standing impatiently.
Now the buffalo with maternal love was alone,
It's eyes with brightness, sparkling shone,
It saw it's calf, waiting with filial love anxiously,
And in a jiffy, the buffalo jumped up triumphantly!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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The miser is as much in want of what he has as of what he has not.
quote by Publilius Syrus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life And Feeling
like a soldier im in war
my enamy is life and feeling
the hole i dug next to my trench
is where i shall lye my feelings
and lye myself in the end of the battle
i took shots at life and feeling
my whole exsistance
the battle i am loseing
crouched in my trench
as rain, tears and pain are falling
heavily drenching me
my scars lay up my arms
showing where my blades have slit
life and feelin take another effective shot at me
hitting me in the hearts
i am bleeding bad but i wont give up the war
till the enamys are difeated
the wounds are bleeding as so much pain fills me up inside
i am fearless of the battle and fait i may suffer i am alone
with only myself fighting with all my might
i hate to tell myself i am loseing
but i dont know if i can win im dying to quick
poem by Sandy Vanity
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Compulsive Obsession
The miser sits and counts his gold
well wrapped in rags against the cold.
He has no fire he lacks the sense
He cannot bear to spend his pence.
He dines upon stale bread and cheese
sometimes porridge made from peas
to satisfy his appetite.
His bags of coin his one delight.
He has no friends he trusts no man
for they will rob him if they can.
He lives in abject poverty
to spend a coin is misery.
I do not envy him his gold
a bitter man who’s heart is cold.
I share what little comes my way
I cannot make my few pence stay.
But count my self a wealthy man
The miser save all that he can
and lives alone in misery.
I think that he should envy me.
8-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poetic piers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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