Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Wealth

"Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants"--Epictetus

Child Plutus, Greek god of Wealth)

"To be wealthy and honored in an unjust society is a disgrace"--Confucius

"Resolve not to be poor: whatever you have, spend less. Poverty is a great enemy to human happiness; it certainly destroys liberty, and it makes some virtues impracticable, and others extremely difficult."--Samuel Johnson


"I would like to live as a poor man with lots of money."--Pablo Picasso


"You may have tangible wealth untold; caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be, I had a mother who read to me."--Strickland Gillian


                                     Midweek Motif ~ Wealth

Many people, the sensitive ones particularly, poets for example, have faith in this quote: If you want to feel rich, just count all the things you have that money can’t buy.

Yes it’s wonderful to have treasures that do not cost anything.

The word Wealth has a broad spectrum and varied meanings.

F.A.Walker specifies, "Wealth comprises all articles of value and nothing else", while The American heritage of Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition defines wealth as "the state of being rich and affluent; having a plentiful supply of material goods and money".

The subject of Wealth is today's topic: whatever wealth means to us.

Wealth

By Langston Hughes

From Christ to Ghandi

Appears this truth-St. Francis of AssisiProves it, too:Goodness becomes grandeurSurpassing might of kings.Halos of kindnessBrighter shineThan crowns of gold,And brighterThan rich diamondsSparkles The simple dewOf love

The Moment

By Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round. 

Weekend Glory

By Maya Angelou

Some clichty folks

don't know the facts,

posin' and preenin'

and puttin' on acts,

stretchin' their backs.

They move into condos

up over the ranks,

pawn their souls

to the local banks.

Buying big cars

they can't afford,

ridin' around town

actin' bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right

they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant

ain't the biggest bet,

but I pay my bills

and stay out of debt.

I get my hair done

for my own self's sake,

so I don't have to pick

and I don't have to rake.

Take the church money out

and head cross town

to my friend girl's house

where we plan our round.

We meet our men and go to a joint

where the music is blue

and to the point.

Folks write about me.

They just can't see

how I work all week

at the factory.

Then get spruced up

and laugh and dance

And turn away from worry

with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin'

from day to day,

but who are they kiddin'?

So are they.

My life ain't heaven

but it sure ain't hell.

I'm not on top

but I call it swell

if I'm able to work

and get paid right

and have the luck to be Black

on a Saturday night.

Blood Money

By Syl Cheney-Coker

Along the route of this river,

with a little luck, we shall chance upon

our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile

reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra

growing fiery mornings from our discontent

Wealth was always fashionable, telluric,

not honor pristine and profound.

In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips

those cups filled with ethnic offerings

that saps the blood of all human good.

Having no other country to call my own

except for this one full of pine needles

on which we nail our children's lives,

I have put off examining this skull,

savage harvest, the swollen earth,

until that day when, all God's children,

we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot.

And remorse not being theirs to feel,

I offer an inventory of abuse by these men,

with this wretched earth on my palms,

so as to remind them of our stilted growth

the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer

the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.

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                                       (Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be ~ Conversation )