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Acknowledgment:
The idea for collecting poetry about money is based on an exercise in Dr. Olivia Mellan’s book Overcoming Overspending (Walker and Company, New York). She writes, "Imagine a conversation with Money… discussing how your relationship with him/her/it is going…What kind of personality does Money have?…What does Money think of the way you’ve treated him/her/it?…What is your justification…etc."---As you will see below, Money isn’t talking much, but does it ever walk!
My money WAS mine……….
by Deborah V. Griffin
My money was mine when I started,
so I thought!
And then came reality and all that it bought.
When all this first started, no one said
"You have to give your money for things like milk,
bread and eggs".
I thought this money was mine all mine,
In denominations of all kind.
And as I began to have a family, my kids began to think,
We had a money tree they could shake for anything they wanted
to drive, wear, eat or drink.
But not so for none shook from a single vine,
You see I thought my money was mine all mine.
But certainly NOT is my money by any means mine,
Because I’m looking now for any I can find.
Cruising Dreams
by Irma R. García
Money can’t really buy happiness
but can get us close to it
that’s not what Nancy used to tell me
those rainy nights at the gym.
Rich women might shed less tears
when their husbands break their hearts
at once they hop on a cruise
buying company and solace.
They spend money with their girlfriends
on endless infutile nights
they are happy to throw it away
in vengeance to the ex-guy.
It is not that they don’t suffer
it’s just that money in the bank
can buy speedy recovery
through therapy, cruise, and dance.
Poor beautiful Lolita
was left with a broken heart
no money to pay for nannies
and wishing for a rich dad.
Ramón didn’t leave a penny,
twenty dollars or green card
she cruised on foot from the border
now with children, can’t travel far.
Her friends can loan her two ears
and endless advice on men
she can’t throw away no money
the infamous only left debt.
Her suffering is not greater
it’s just the absence of money
will deprive her of dance, cruise,
and therapy for recovery.
If she seeks government help
her children might be at stake
when officials might conclude
mother unstable, poor mental health.
Money will not buy her happiness
just will help not go insane
while thinking about a cruise
when your reality is dreams and debt.
Talking to my money about shoes
by Denise DeVries
Buying shoes was never about feet, but what
your parents can spare and how
slow feet can grow.
Selling shoes was never worth the day’s
sweat, trying on Italians early, before
my feet started to swell.
Money, if it weren’t for footwear,
where would you spend
Saturdays?
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Cut Twice
by Denise DeVries
I still have the Kindergarten diploma he framed
for me, the faceless clock his death
left unfinished. "Measure twice, cut once,"
my father would say. His obsession with the perfect
slice made my mother afraid
to use their wedding-present knives,
and there was always shouting
over crooked cheese and lopsided
butter, but we ate well on a teacher’s pay;
venison hung from the backyard
swing, game birds plucked in the garage,
trout gutted by a sharp knife.
Talking to my money about our relationship
by Denise DeVries
It’s all my fault that you ran out—
I put my handbag on the floor.
I’ve always known there’s someone else
who loves and deserves you more.
Epiphany at Sears
by Maggie Rosen Briand
Raining days call me
to shoe departments
and mower displays,
maybe a curtain sale.
I notice the trendy apple green
and coral accents above archways
from Jewelry to Eyewear to Sports.
The ear reels as Shania sings, while
India passes Salvador
on the way to Aspen cologne.
I look around for Betty and Shirley
in their sweats and Keds
and realize, slowly,
I am she.
I am the lady
whose country creates the mammoth
and prints the plastic
and sells "welcome" and "assembly required."
I skid my sneakers
as I sprint on the linoleum
out into the wild grey yonder.
German in Splendid One Dollar Words
by Clark Holtzman
There aren't enough poems about money
Why is this
Money is beautiful and often very interesting
Money is thoughtless and wild
Like the most beautiful creatures of earth
Wallace Stevens said one day
As a matter of fact and quite out of the blue
"Poetry is a kind of money . . .
Or is it the other way around?"
Either way, Mrs. Stevens went for a walk
To a place where the past, what was left of it, is less relevant
She met a worker bee with a wad of dough
"Maybe it's time for a stint in the loony bin," she reflected
"Maybe it's time to sniff the new world odor."
Either way, let's have more poems about money
Reno: Wind Blowing Cold for a Desert
by Marcella Wolfe
My cocktail waitress sends luck
with each white blonde, black root, tight skirt smile.
I have come to win, my reason cast among roulette wheels
spinning faster than the luminescent vertigo of midnight.
Forty on black and I buy everyone a round,
my warm-cheeked companions around me
as long as the chips stack; the gin
the only thing clear in our relationship.
Here, aqua-plumed women slide a cat-like samba
over a neon stage. On the floor, the dealer
knows better our undisciplined practice,
than do we, our pastors, or the maverick vamps.
It's not just for the dervish lights that we come
but to cast uncertainty over our habit. Yet, it holds
with constancy greeting us each day
like a sunrise the colors of a bruise;
finds us at strange hours with elders of our tribe,
grandmothers, grandfathers oxygen tanks in tow,
still hitting the slots at five a.m.
God and trust are mentioned on our money.
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