money and love

8/13/2019 Money and Love

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"Money and Love"

By William McBride

Copyright 2014, William McBride

"Money and Love"

The sun shines on those with money and love.

The sun helps to light the walls of the towers

As the day comes forward.

A nation of people, cities and love

Is ordered in place of a self,

The poor man, out-of-order,

Loading his arms and his self

With a stringed guitar to make a sad music.

The poor man, deluded by the world,

Without poetry, his mind unable for us to nestle into.

Who else has found the vitality of a life


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Measured by slow days to sap?

A fair poem becomes a stick in the mud.

And, finding more pain in the cold night,

Who else sticks so close to the earth and its gravity?

Who else watches unhappily the pace of the clock?

The mountains outdoors rising above valleys

Are the only blessings to his eye

As he runs from fear over the pelted earth.

Freedom from truth, unlike the glorious valley

And the mountains, seems alien to him.

Hope takes wing after her sorrows

In a spirited drive, flying with the answers.

Outstanding memories bring pleasure,

The speech thrusting onward and outward brings pleasure;

In a creative state of thought

Love is mapped with its own innocence and warmth.

Care and love and the laughter

That we are desperate for triumph when they are given.

We consider how to find trust in the future

As we discover the new from books.

The company of the sea


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Is an endless musical blessing for us.

I wait to see what to buy,

What inventions never before seen

By any being.

I am happy with more

When budgeting money,

And with the heavenly hope

That gives me more life.

After writing all season long,

Idly following my instructions to do so,

A sense of the beauty of reading is earned,

Of translating the meanings in books.

The friendliness beyond time

Is like an intimate shoreline,

Friendship itself is a blessing of dominant days

Which you still trust in your supposed loneliness.

I enjoy the music of my life,


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And the new understandings that come

Which I keep and save.

More imaginative and confident while reciting,

The grace is caught, a transcendence I focus on.

Slowing down to an original state of being,

Finding the places where I hid as a boy,

The planning and plotting of big projects,

And not planning and plotting big projects interest me.

There comes a swiftness in wandering about

As the intuition makes for itself

Smooth timeless readings.

I think of how we make our friends

When I look into the mirrors of the weather.

The patience is coming

From light, but thoughtful, conversations.

Not easily mislead in my age,

I will trust much

Because of the knowledge

I have gained from people.

I am both good sleeping in my soul,

And also good at spelling out the soul


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During popular walks,

Happy to see radiant light

Shine through the trees,

Happy with children who play,

And with those who love them well.

I care much for animals,

As much as I like to paint me within myself,

As much as I enjoy a dance off

When touching to play the drum of my insight.

When I have time for reading tragedies

Which transcend time in endless variations,

The simple sport of teamwork becomes vital.

When I have time for reading comedies

Which endlessly vary life

Like the soft clouds floating above,

I enjoy the sophisticated sublimes

As from the sophisticated mildnesses

Which are creative and never final.

The simple shine of the light

Complements the passing

Soft-going vapors in the sky


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As the original work of a team

Complements the creative notes

That are written down.

When I was a child five years old

I tried to catch a little mouse I saw

At the zoo to take home as a pet,

But it ran away and I cried

Because I loved mice and so desperately

Wanted to have one.

The only thing at that time

That lifted my spirits

Was the music of a folk song

Called "I Love Life."

I remember how happy I was

Back then to have my smiling Papa

And beautiful mother trust little me.

And, this gave me hope to become,

While still a child, part of adult groups

And be somebody special.

Yet, there was nothing like the radiance

Of Nature on that island


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Which could totally restore

My fragile spirits.

I did it repeatedly,

Renouncing with ease and lightly

The deep pain I had felt.

Tender emotions and imaginations

Help me to feel safe from oceans

As I wander deeper.

To stick with the subject matter is key,

Which I do with pleasure.

Sometimes I renounce what I love,

Like the technologies available in my life.

Being safe in love

I feel emotional about the tender world,

Life itself is the subject

Which makes always available

Its own technology for me.


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Vital is my love for my parents

Who were there early on

When I smiled and cried.

I myself am good at listening

In my relationships,

Having a heavenly hope

For being educated

And for my joyful intimacies.

I know how to take advice

During my wandering

And during my intimacies here and there.

Knowing how to take worldly advice,

I smile at things which are ripe

And I am good at pursuing laughter

And then good at laughing exquisitely.

I myself have many kinds of hope

For being educated which helps me feel good

About being patient with my relationships.

I laugh at some birds;

I laugh at the birds and myself.

Never-resting about love,


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I feel at peace singing in solitude,

Peaceful in solitude, but also when kissing.

Never-resting about smoothness,

I care to read much

Because I had the time yesterday,

And tomorrow will have more time

To read and laugh much.

Changing my actions

Made me change my vocabularies.

I look fine overall

Looking at the fine blossoms.

I love laughing wrapped up in my bed,

Love laughing with my eyes shut, seeming asleep.

Consistently I am myself all of the time,

Resting much all day.

I have a natural spirituality,

Which I think came from memorizing

Many timeless lines while reading in my chair.

My consistently open self, walking around in my socks,

After resting much, appears lazy but it is not really so.

I wait patiently, but not for love,


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And I know how to re-describe the pain of my body well.

I have stopped doing some things

In my dark apartment after waiting patiently

Staring at nothing in particular.

The many lines which I have memorized

From my little books have helped me

To become more spiritually confident and smiling.

When re-describing my pain as a lesson to myself,

I shrug my shoulders, thinking of the things

Now which I have stopped doing.

I can sleep long past an amazing and refreshing day.

Walking around in my socks from room to room,

I think cheerfully. Light comes in through the windows.

And later, meditating over things said,

I spend my night rotating between the ideas I learned.

I know that I am kind and gentle-faced.

I stay still, stretched over a chair,

Knowing something soon will happen.

When something does happen, I smile,

My energy is higher, and I do things in different lighted rooms.


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I spend my time wisely

Around reflective ponds at night,

Knowing I am loved by more and more every day.

I know how to be loved genuinely.

I vacuum my floor.

I know I am elite jumping from my bed onto the floor.

I know that I know how to take a piece of ordinary paper

And fill it with numbers that make up my budget,

Or with lines that I can utter later

When I make it to heaven.

There are symbols of the self found after making a nice snack.

Events, people, and change are the make up of a self

Pacing back and forth looking at the tan floor.

What is a floor anyways but a two-pack

Of Hostess Caramel Ho-Hos?

The self remembers what it looks like

In the bathroom mirror again.

It is funny to itself, the self,


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Hovering between rooms as light as air.

It uses science to control what might happen in the future,

But other than that, science can never provide any answers

To what things are. Love can, and since I do not love science,

I might as well be moved by love's own highs and lows.

I know that I can do things watching a fuzzy luminous sunset.

I have wasted my time, no, walking back home

Passing bush after lush bush in the fields.

It is possible to remember all that ever was experienced

From vacuous heaven to muddy grey earth.

What does it matter if I am here or there,

Walking a wet road after the rainstorm?

What matters it if I am not believed

To be kicking up the idle leaves lying on the ground?

Just because I do and have done much,

Just because I care to be inclusive,

Does not mean that my head isn't on straight

Observing the impossible nothingness of time.


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It's not so shocking being at home

In a painted desert, hot afternoon sky,

The calmness and lonesomeness soaking

Into one's head, the sand stretching far away

With no ocean pushing up to it,

The call of the eagle floating higher and higher.

But, I love the fields where the hidden stream flows,

The cool rushing sounds, the weeds and river plants

Never before seen, the cloudy sky above in meditation,

And the fresh breeze on my bare skin

As I walk around slowly and blocked from the other side.

Most people have left this area

Where tall trees make the surroundings fresh,

Where birds perch and make nests above,

But I stay watching the pebbles and the pools

Of cold water where an image of myself

Darker appears reflected,

Where the sky is covered by the trees' leaves

And branches going in every direction.

I think things have changed.

The clouds which have gathered above

For the past few days finally dump their weather

Over the bark, into the rushing water,

Making more noise than before.


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All never really seem the same,

More like fire changing than solid substance,

Which I never really am enthusiastic about observing.

Perhaps the closest theme that relates

To a world ever-changing like fire is the burning bush

From the Bible. And its meaning was for Abraham

To leave the land of his parents and multiply.

What is like the burning bush in Plato's works

But the ever-changing shadows on the wall of his Cave.

In Homer's Iliad, what has meaning and ever-changes?

It is the blur of a victory always in the hands of destiny.

In Shakespeare's Hamlet what is the burning bush

But the apparition of the Ghost Father.

In Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing the burning bush

Is the inconstancy of men, always with one foot on land

And one on the shore (going sailing off on adventures, wars, etc...).

What is the burning bush in Freud's works

But Freud's own non-reductive style of writing and interpretation.

If my own burning bush occurs through my observations

Of an ever-changing nature with the possibilities for meaning

Something, then I am part of the past just as I had thought,

And just as old.


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What is it now to be close to being finished

With mowing a lawn? I cannot say easily

Though the lure of a stack of cash for work

Is motivation. The concepts of "cash" and "the end"

Are themes I study folding and unfolding my heavy books.

Like in Shakespeare's play, Othello, the villain Roderigo

Is asked to put an end to his thoughts of suicide

And put cash in his pocket by betting favorably

On Iago's revenge plot around the waters of Venice, Italy.

Like in Shakespeare's play, Hamlet, Polonious, the fool

Suggests that we should neither be a borrower or lender

Of cash in our mature state of being,

And keep money out of the hands of beggars.

Like Plato's Socrates, who in one way put an end

To cash, and taught for free in the Agora (market),

And like Sigmund Freud as therapist who defended

The right to charge his patients money after psychotheraputic

Sessions on the strange couch, both characters

Treat "cash" and "endings" as subject matters,

However opposite they were.

In Homer's Iliad, the sense of cash and ending

Were important bribes for the reluctant Achilles,

The best Greek fighter, by the General Agamemnon,

To re-enter the Trojan War as a warrior,


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And put a stop to his childish ways.

And, in the Torah, Joseph found a way

To bring his brothers back to the Egyptian court

By having the custom agents find illegal cash on them,

Which ended their passage out of Egypt,

Confused as they were (a kind of anti-Exodus).

Cash and endings go together in these

And other ways so I write about them.

You may find that you worry too much

About the strange and unknown.

So if your friends worry about your health,

But see you are pious,

Or if you fear aging and losing your memories,

But have also noticed strong old people,

Or if you can identify with deceivers,

But know you will never be like that,

Or if you fear being tricked,

Seeing how clever people can be,

Or if you want to have all the gold,

And will find a way to get it,

Or if you want transcendence,


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Because you are unhappy here on earth,

Then may the muggy and comfortable night

Give you the time to work it out

Resting in your well-used bed.

Sometimes we have illusions

That there is something important for us

To think of beyond the necessities

At an art exhibit, which we sometimes

Think can help us study our day and life;

But there is a definite mystery to the past

Which remains forbidden to be revealed.

When mirrors of the soul flash

Like a magnificent sunrise now does

Through the fluffy clouds,

Even hoping for a kind of perfect action

That stays the same is hard to do.

And so we forget our bigger goals

And come back to working

On smaller projects on our tables.

We try to create order as travelers we are,

Who know that people should be held


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Up as more important that we normally

Give them credit for as we meet them

In the dark hallways of our imperfect lives.

Lambs born in a blue blanket in the rain.

Black-eyed peas on a roller-coaster at the split of noon.

Diamonds centered in the formed stars near and far.

Always paper and coins where the nomads travel.

Do you have much more ideas

Which are like choo-choo trains

Starting from the beginning of time

That we talk about?

Tonight I will be interested;

The stamp is sticky

And mashed onto the envelope

That lies on an even larger golden square stamp.

It is good, reader, for the hunted panther

To roam the jungle during the fireworks


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Which celebrate the remarkable days we work.

Me eat up me stash while washing dish.

The eagles are satisfied yalping at the wilderbeasts.

You wonder what the hell is part of an alph-beth

Doing being so lonely any way you look at it

From your best-of-all positions?

Well, now that we are done with

The light at the end of the tunnel

It is time we fluff up the pillows on the couch.

Had it! The world a'spinning in the traffic!

The Who is a rock band that cannot be praised

Enough by the light drizzling rain.

It's big to kiss earth

When falling innocently in love

At the sea with a virgin collection

Of household goods

As it puts me, right now,


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And my life, in front of a snake.

Is it true that we are all done?

It's all a candy of swimsuits,

And nobody really cares to know

From your advertisements,

What happened to you ten years ago...

Nobody but me

Standing beguiled under the moon.

We put a stop to the stars

As we collect the hot day.

I watch the pot of tomatoes.

I feel energy from the wrong key.

I take turns shifting the unwashed car.

The impossible thing about Nature

Is that it is a room to fill

With the very best furnishings,

But the weather gets in the way

Like the sound of the drain

Draining water.


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They bring different kinds of yummies to the bee hive.

And, like when the queen bee rings the bell

To her place bees wave their wings,

The mechanical rings of a blowing breeze

Secure the world in its place, it too waves its wings.

But, the feathers blow out, and the wings blow away,

And I am left standing up again with my eggplant.

There's the America outside.

There the raw corn still on the plants,

Cars rush by the little fish swimming in a bubble,

Or by the medium sized plants of the island during carnival time.

If you have the time when the autumn winds arrive,

You might not want to waste it chattering

About the presents you wrap up for yourself.

A hopeful thing, the weather picks itself up

From a kind of nothingness and works it out.

The life of the weather catches me

Like a pinball machine a ball.

About this I write nothing.


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The rain comes back just on time.

From the kingdom to the ball, the sky crosses me.

The weather comes to the hollowed out log

That rests like a coffin.

I am a log in heaven with my team.

My heart is resting from it all.

The windy heaven is better than I thought,

The family of swallows,

Which I used not to care much about,

Are now my only same.

Original inventions are like the dark clothes

In a dark closet, they can bring progress to beauty

On an overcast day. A painter is dedicated

To the readiness worming itself forth

Of the new and good signs,

Of new and useful pockets filled with riches.

So it is the time to get help with loving

And traveling far away, dedicated to the play

From which you soar. The technology triumphs

Of wave over the swimmer, of powerful inventions

Made to fluff the sheets, which I myself am excited


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To have made as I pull out the pots and pans.

The help of nourishment, the bull's-eye,

Brings more excitement in the rush to find shelter

And to possess the eternal progress of your slice.

The pile of clothes on the floor

Creeps across it like the tide.

A hitchhiker on a leviathan

Of a bus is dropped off.

The win-win crowd of the storm comes.

A hairy toothbrush-eraser is put down.

Ribbons of the ocean are dotted.

Winter writes a wall of prophesy.

A new-born friend with memories cries.

The bed of a friend is made.

Words cloud up around the keys.

A plant prays for life.

The leaves explode in a cinematic river.


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A flower rings on the mountain.

An angel boasts her prophesy.

A tiger fishes in a bowl.

Our hobbies guide us to heaven.

Luxury slows down an infant.

A tractor educates the lazy.

The crow blows away.

The afternoon names its thrills.

A billboard bugs the sweet-smelling roses.

Popsicles fire up the soccer team.

The trumpet justifies the fiddler.

Grandpa photographs after school.

Under the bed blooms a kitten.

Weeds of the sea chime around the housekeeper.

The office sweetens the wolf.

A dishwasher toys with a clown.

A commercial pitches broken glass.

A cannon shot butters an egg.


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A child disbelieves her crib.

A bugle cries for skin.

A king chills his fool.

A tree-house drives the airplane.

Sushi polishes the sandpaper.

The ruins puzzle the Peeping Tom.

A trophy races to the center.

A goldfish sacrifices her stuffed animals.

The cavern wins a corvette.

The landscape blesses the day.

The shoveler cycles around me with his bride.

The grocery cart exhausts me in the jacuzzi.

In oblivion the ripe grape trashes me from the rowboat.

In oblivion a new Porsche bangs into me when I unwrap a lollipop.

In oblivion a comb screams at me to be on time.

In the snake of oblivion a fork fathers the doorway to my grave.

In the snake a spouse pauses before me to gust and to drink.


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When sleep clears up a temperature, there is a rubber band that works me, and I float a cow to me

while the cow hitch-hikes.

And there is a pillow that spins me, and a hairspray that I cannot acknowledge, and an eternity that I can

beam, and an anchor that I cannot.

And when the whistle has graced the icing, I wander by myself into the university and holler.

As I hop up and color the building with a shovel, with a radio, a roar prances by me.

I never buoy when I double-dribble even though the warp-speeding pickpocket is balancing and a queen

has tattle tailed.

So what if a mallet slips out?

So what if a mallet blankets?

No one can memorize that freak.

No one can make bold that chore.

And, I shut up.

Upon a glacier warms a block;

An ermite entered with a shock.

While flooding up the cliff the snake

Burns the stained glass off the lake.


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A polished truck is not to trust

Because it flames the goal with rust.

The jellied stuffing of a space

Is glowing by a shaky trace.

As a cricket pops the tree

When the winter becomes free

The flying boulder of the wild

Halfway blocks the puzzled child.

Since to frost upon a star

When to frost is not to grow,

When the trick has gone too far,

Then the charm shall help us know.


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Rain drips there

To swell our air,

And dumps some good

As moisture should.

Somebody wobbled and went out,

Patching the fan with a piglet,

Patching the blanket in a daguerreotype,

Meeting a breeze with a yarn ball,

Sparking an intimate quasar,

And widening the democracy.

That somebody who gushes,

Who cannot stonewall,

Who anticipates the harvests

Drying and withering as she clarifies

Is now being alerted again.


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The traveler branches out.

The traveler breaks.

The traveler breaks for entertainment.

It is a forbidden flashy dollar bill

That enters in a burst.

As the shadows come closer,

The wanderer sighs

And the distortion was never more inflated.

The measuring tape locks

And the muscular flowery mist is banished.

The laundry to a depth is shoved.

One yearns for glue to have rubbed off.

On workless days we watch our cough.

On hectic days we feel unloved.

Weeds point to the stable wall.

Flowers descend blooming rare.

Visit much to void her call.


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Listen in to dull her stare.

The jellyfish laces up the cloud

And waxes twin into a line.

The foreign thoughts are now allowed

And ice the day into a shine.

Pierce a provision, lube a belief,

Rinse an event since all select.

Clouds are stalked out in relief.

Hose our apex and collect.

Heighten to a spooky apple,

Customers are cool and light,

Records rowing lately grapple

Glass precisely from our sight.

The whale has penciled to the lawn

That parades the shoes that some restrict.

The face is sirened of the dawn

That mines the cheer in a conflict.


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The covered night from which we speed

Has learned like driftwood of the bee.

From dying toast onto a seat

A welcome baby does not know

That only time can give up heat

Or if a warrior should grow.

The lover asks with dreams and tears

To be the one who screams a flip,

To be the sport who badly nears

The singing building of a drip.

When clouds speak the author rages,

Bold stars to kids are mistaken,

Bold cliffs love skies of the ages,

True love to shores can awaken.

Of the ages book and root

Spend the money of a youth.

Money brags to store the fruit

That the ages grasp for truth.


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If so the night that we believe

Is flying as a night can please

And now sustains the space to leave.

The foolish boy, or God, or peer

Finds creating the spot intense.

The meaning of why love is here

Secures the honor to the fence.

The mountain peak is born of stone,

And heightens like the colored dawn.

The fisher of a bill will moan.

Groundhogs wait in the grass and yawn.

When laborers all are forced to stop,

They need their credit and reward.

Dig up light and peace will drop

The words that those of the earth record.

One has projects to adore.

The speeding train sounds out the door.

The love is great that some ignore.


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So let the gold sleep on the floor.

Pale and stout a tree makes form

Waiting by the weary ocean.

Stretching strips are dry and warm.

Sailboats wave with little motion.

The hand opens to draw and soar.

The fingers hold the door and arc.

A sketch of life gives life the core

When pencils rub the sheet they mark.

The song of dawn is what we mock

When singing morn comes in a bowl.

The only sound of lighted rock

Is daylight calling daylight whole.

The ocean is a stream of guilt,

Around it flows a salty isle.

The river by the coast is built

By sadness on a sandy mile.


37/44

A birthday celebration tires

And parties weather into toil.

The baby who cries out the fires

Has made it to the infant soil.

A jewel is found that peace is pure.

A kingdom shines from so much aid.

And from wartime we need to cure.

To a soldier diamonds fade.

Sunset finders are in luck.

Light is received by an herb.

With the nighttime some are stuck.

Headlights help us watch the curb.

The cliff covers me in candlelight.


38/44

The pillow waters my hair.

A line delights the president.

A match falls with the excellent.

The officer sleeps in the bed.

A marketplace rules the mountainside.

A wall falls away from the zipper.

The clock of the monument drops me into rest.

A dream heightens in the rain.

The blanket sticks to the dollar bill.

The cop car waits in the dark.

My hat sits on a pine cone.

The knowledge races across the land.

My bill is driven into the rock.

The check is built again from the ocean and stone.

A sailboat rests on the land.

My food I ate lasts for a while I suppose.

A bird sings in the tree with her newborns.

The pale sky has changed into a gloomy sunset.

A young salesman holding a genealogical document

Wanders through the graveyard.


39/44

A gloomy sunset.

The Gods of Olympus have finished jeering.

The sprays of a waterfall fall soft and hard.

The time is now for learning

What religions the neighbors are

As it relates to the placement of them

Inside of their own homes.

I wonder also, what religions are those of the Gods of Olympus?

And, can you learn from a sunset?

A gloomy sun is setting alone in the sky.

Representation and representers.

Things fall into place.

I do not understand Buddhism.

I think that is the religion of the Gods of Olympus.

In a weary nightscape

I am writing the numbers on boxes very slowly.

Men are racing through a forest far away.

Closer to me some people beautifully try but they cannot


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41/44

The wind is sleeping,

The voices all at once of every person living,

In your strange new place,

Their poor melodies all day.

The moon crosses above.

I write an anonymous letter to the cops.

The imagination of the evening

On my first Birthday at home,

That time of the day is ending.

Got myself a big beer.

The onward outrageous browsing

For a little life.

Going with the music.

The stride of the times.

My neighbors cooking stinky foods.

Events are remarkable to apprehend

Like a chaotic night to remember.

After loneliness comes the old

Runaway brightness of Man Day.

The invention of a mess of soil,

The creative bathroom design,


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The stars in the end turning into text.

Someone doesn't like you.

Music is the underworld.

The sky is a water Mother.

Low trees.

I sleep on a pile of clothes on my bed.

Close and dreary bird-songs.

The air of my electric fan sounding like a human voice.

Rushing for gifts

During the most beautiful modern day ever.

Swinging at a ball.

Walking like a confident robot to the store.

The expanse is good.

A hurricane came during last evening

And smartly scattered.

A room with many possessions.

Forbidden tomorrows.

Your vacuum cleaner belongs to an Angel.

Birds and names.

Comforted in your ancient home.

Calling ripe.


43/44

Everything is different, fresh and hopeful.

The grass builds up.

People have always been pretending to be

Who they are not.

Familiar becomes the roamings of light

When I am making some tea in my bedroom

During the nighttime.

The reflective jokes are given to,

Not taken by me;

They are worth many bountiful treasures.

Next, I am walking the billows,

Watching nature,

Meeting with my new invisible Angel friends.

I have transcended sublimely,

Though not yet from my pain.

I know for certain that if I push the right buttons,

Then I will go to heaven.

Outside there is a cypress tree to view

Of mine growing.

I stir my pan with my big knife's blade.

The day stands, it stands without schedule.


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The neighbors are allowed

To search through my trash.

Unsentimental are acres of stillness.

The music always rocks

Because I know what I am doing.

Scholars of the stars write their first books

Hoping for money and fame.

A flowery singing and heavenly authority

Is given to me for the work which I must do.

A worm crawls over the speckled land.

The land changes, it is not dull anymore.

FINIS

money and love

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