517 Social commentaries poems

I need help with long term hope I need help with the dawn of war and achieving my new year's resolutions This praise song and the problem of pornography structures this praise song as speaking placement I need help moving my chickens I need help with girl problem my dog, like, keeps marking the wrong areas? and my breasts this most pressing issue like choosing between best friends a distance problem involving constant acceleration and tethering glitches The party's all "descendant selectors, please!" and me I'm in my handspring visor and my bird plucking problem I need help with a bat script for parsing I need help with pricing with naming this praise song I said I seriously need help with the whole set up ASAP! so it's 40.08 /100.09 (grams of molecular mass of calcium carbonate) = moles of calcium then (moles of Calcium x .1973ml (convert grams to ml)) / 0.05 I got 1.580 ml is that right?

His father carved umbrella handles, but when umbrella handles were made by machinery, there was only one man for whom his father could work. The pay was small, though it had once been a good trade. They lived in the poorest part of the ghetto, near the lots where people dump ashes. His father was anxious that his son should stay at school and get out of the mess he himself was in. “Learning is the best merchandise,” he would say. His father died; there was his mother to be taken care of. He taught in a school in the ghetto. Some pupils came at nine and stayed until three; others came after public school and stayed until evening; most of the pupils came in the evening. The courses were crammed, lasting a few months, pupils and teachers anxious to be rid of the matter as soon as possible. So he worked day and night, week-days and Sunday. His mother was dead. It was cold in the street and windy. A dry snow had fallen and the feet of the walkers were turning it into brown sand. He was forty. Now he was free. To do what? He knew no one whom he cared to marry. And who would go into his poverty? If he were to give up this work he knew so well, to what else could he turn? He would just keep on. He had lost this world and knew there was no other.

Is this a holy thing to see, In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reducd to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine. And their fields are bleak & bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns. It is eternal winter there. For where-e'er the sun does shine, And where-e'er the rain does fall: Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.

I Eventually we must combine nightmares an angel smoking a cigarette on the steps of the last national bank, said to me. I put her out with my thumb. I don’t need that cheap talk I’ve got my own problems. It was sad, exciting, and horrible. It was exciting, horrible, and sad. It was horrible, sad, and exciting. It was inviting, mad, and deplorable. It was adorable, glad, and enticing. Eventually we must smoke a thumb cheap talk I’ve got my own angel on the steps of the problems the bank said to me I don’t need that. I will take this one window with its sooty maps and scratches so that my dreams will remember one another and so that my eyes will not become blinded by the new world. II The flames don’t dance or slither. They have painted the room green. Beautiful and naked, the wives are sleeping before the fire. Now it is out. The men have returned to the shacks, slaved creatures from the forest floor across their white stationwagons. That just about does it, says the other, dumping her bucket over her head. Well, I guess we got everything, says one, feeling around in the mud, as if for a child. Now they remember they want that mud, who can’t remember what they got up for. They parcel it out: when they are drunk enough they go into town with a bucket of mud, saying we can slice it up into windmills like a bloated cow.

This is the house of the very rich. You can tell because it’s taken all The colors and left only the spaces Between colors where the absence Of rage and hunger survives. If you could Get close you could touch the embers Of red, the tiny beaks of yellow,

The first line is a row of girls, twenty-five of them, almost a painting, shoulders overlapping, angled slightly toward you. One says:I’m myself here. The others shudder and laugh through the ribbon core that strings them. They make a tone tighter by drumming on their thighs and opening their mouths. The girls are cells. The girls are a fence, a fibrous network. One by one they describe their grievances. Large hot malfunctioning machines lie obediently at their sides. Their shirts are various shades of ease in the surrounding air, which is littered with small cuts. One will choose you, press you into the ground. You may never recover. The second-to-last line has a fold in it. The last line is the steady pour of their names.

Upon a bank, easeless with knobs of gold, Beneath a canopy of noonday smoke, I saw a measureless Beast, morose and bold, With eyes like one from filthy dreams awoke, Who stares upon the daylight in despair For very terror of the nothing there. This beast in one flat hand clutched vulture-wise A glittering image of itself in jet, And with the other groped about its eyes To drive away the dreams that pestered it; And never ceased its coils to toss and beat The mire encumbering its feeble feet. Sharp was its hunger, though continually It seemed a cud of stones to ruminate, And often like a dog let glittering lie This meatless fare, its foolish gaze to sate; Once more convulsively to stoop its jaw, Or seize the morsel with an envious paw. Indeed, it seemed a hidden enemy Must lurk within the clouds above that bank, It strained so wildly its pale, stubborn eye, To pierce its own foul vapours dim and dank; Till, wearied out, it raved in wrath and foam, Daring that Nought Invisible to come. Ay, and it seemed some strange delight to find In this unmeaning din, till, suddenly, As if it heard a rumour on the wind, Or far away its freer children cry, Lifting its face made-quiet, there it stayed, Till died the echo its own rage had made. That place alone was barren where it lay; Flowers bloomed beyond, utterly sweet and fair; And even its own dull heart might think to stay In livelong thirst of a clear river there, Flowing from unseen hills to unheard seas, Through a still vale of yew and almond trees. And then I spied in the lush green below Its tortured belly, One, like silver, pale, With fingers closed upon a rope of straw, That bound the Beast, squat neck to hoary tail; Lonely in all that verdure faint and deep, He watched the monster as a shepherd sheep. I marvelled at the power, strength, and rage Of this poor creature in such slavery bound; Fettered with worms of fear; forlorn with age; Its blue wing-stumps stretched helpless on the ground; While twilight faded into darkness deep, And he who watched it piped its pangs asleep.

"How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits If any man obtain that which he merits Or any merit that which he obtains." REPLY TO THE ABOVE For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain! What would'st thou have a good great man obtain? Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain? Or throne of corses which his sword had slain? Greatness and goodness are not means , but ends ! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT, And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath: And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!

When some people talk about money They speak as if it were a mysterious lover Who went out to buy milk and never Came back, and it makes me nostalgic For the years I lived on coffee and bread, Hungry all the time, walking to work on payday Like a woman journeying for water From a village without a well, then living One or two nights like everyone else On roast chicken and red wine.

Genial poets, pink-faced earnest wits— you have given the world some choice morsels, gobbets of language presented as one presents T-bone steak and Cherries Jubilee. Goodbye, goodbye, I don’t care if I never taste your fine food again, neutral fellows, seers of every side. Tolerance, what crimes are committed in your name. And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread, blood donors. Your crumbs choke me, I would not want a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never falter: irresponsive to nightmare reality. It is my brothers, my sisters, whose blood spurts out and stops forever because you choose to believe it is not your business. Goodbye, goodbye, your poems shut their little mouths, your loaves grow moldy, a gulf has split the ground between us, and you won’t wave, you’re looking another way. We shan’t meet again— unless you leap it, leaving behind you the cherished worms of your dispassion, your pallid ironies, your jovial, murderous, wry-humored balanced judgment, leap over, un- balanced? ... then how our fanatic tears would flow and mingle for joy ...