Poetry is the short talk that comes straight from the spirit, speaking truths that otherwise may never be confronted. 

No. 51 From Shards to Light - from Rose Series

From an insight of convenience they drew marks on shards of clay
The goats and sheep and cheeses thus were counted up each day.
And trader's lives were better, as barter was replaced.
With mites of fired pottery that bore each items face.

The marks and shards were money; more fungible to hold
So trade and space were easier; what was owned was sold.
But then a cunning taker thought to make his own
The shards went out of favor, replacing coin wrot gold

Issued first by temple and then anointed King
So fungible the medium it built a wealth in things.

Accumulation beckoned the greedy onto thrones.    
Through money all were shackled, the people could be owned. 

A flow of current holdings, in increments of gold
Created flow of currency, and ever more was sold.

Price now marked in shiny bits they trusted not to lie. 
But men saw ways of stealing from weight the coins would buy.
So England then replaced them, their coins had reeded edge.
Clipping and the shaving, made obvious instead.

Money called and promised, so fluid in its scope.
Kings and those in power wrote promises on notes.

Temptations to debasement, temptations to inflate.
Became the real foundation of the governmental state.

And money still enticed us, and draws in those who steal.
Finessing, redefining, the units once were real.

Now with no foundation in sheep or even cheese
The money is all funny, and only Kings are pleased.

The flow of human commerce, so easy to abuse.
Is still the form adopted, that all of us must use.

We count up paper icons, inscribed with those now gone.
We trust in those who make them, despite the fact their wrong.

We need the fluid functions that money can provide.
While all the self anointed kings count, and so decide.

No. 52 Magic Money

With opinings and definings the presses clack and run

The FED announces numbers that make our minds grow numb.

The complexities of money make thievery a joy

Alan loved the power, Ayn's first money boy.

Its owners, all so nameless, ensure they pump us dry.

By transfers and with interest that makes the widows cry.

And marks on pages tally the figures that expand

As “available for loaning” reaches to the most demand.

From banks and institutions that conspire with the FED

The piles of the dollars shrink and leave us fully bled.

Expanded to a magnitude that boggles those who see

The FED prints funny money, and consumes lives yet to be.

A con game still ongoing, rapacious to consume

Expand supply, disguise the lie, and lead us on to doom.

The flow and flux of money, that eats the truth and land

A set up for a taking we all will understand.

The sound of tiny popping, as price makes its decline

Shrinking all horizons, as interest rates still climb.

A future of our choosing?

A con game finally done?

The final trump infusing

The truth we've been so dumb?

The money game is reaching its final stage of life

Leaving in its passing a people locked in strife.

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