Photo by C. John Edwards his blogs are -http://cjeinexeter.blogspot.com/
http://cjehebrides.blogspot.com/
http://pensbyetal.blogspot.com/
and website -
Suggested prompt...
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W for wealth... write of money today in any creative way you wish.
_________________________
On Not Giving Money to the Homeless
He said, you don’t know what it’s like to be black.
He asked us why we were scared. Why we were
jumpy. We weren’t jumpy. He
was paranoid. All this outside Trinity
Cathedral, where he probably
slept on the front steps if it wasn’t raining.
He was wearing blue scrubs, said he
needed money for coffee.
How many people do you think have already
said to him, “I honestly don’t have any money” ?
I honestly didn’t. What happened to him? Was
he just lazy? Was
he still ashamed to ask for other people’s money?
Or was he numb, mentally
calloused? Am I the cause of his shame?
By looking sideways at him, do I make
his burden worse? We walked away, although
my friend, a little more
innocent than I, looked back,
as if by listening she could save him.
But she didn’t know that we
aren’t supposed to look back, to see that he
cannot be saved.
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5 comments:
Ava Rice lives in a very small, but very nice house on the top of a mountain. Not many people know it, but she owns all the money in the world. She loaned some to her enemies centuries ago and enjoys watching what it does to them.
One day, she's going to ask for all of it back.
I went to the market today. The wind whistled around me and pulled at my skirt like a child. As I left the market with a large paper bag, I saw a lovely car go by. It made me dream about a life I've never had, never could have. A life where things are given to you whenever you needed or even wanted them. A life I could not fathom.
I sighed and looked down at my faded blue dress. The cloth, worn through the years, was a little thinner than I remember it when I had received it. The breeze seemed to blow through it and meet with my skin without cover. It had been for my birthday, years ago. My father had spent his savings on it that year. I remembered him telling me the little pink flowers symbolized all the little pink kisses he'd gotten from me...and all the little pink kisses he expected to come. I hoped I'd given him all of them before he'd gone away. Wherever it was he had gone to.
I looked down at my shoes and noticed they were scuffed too. A little self-conscious now, I looked up to see that the car had slowed and parked to the side of the street a few buildings down. The woman who emerged was about my height. She also shared my hair color, but hers was sleek and pulled to the side in fashionable curls. Her dress was ruffled and lovely. She wore red pointed heels and had a flower in her hair that matched. She was greeted with a kiss on the cheek by a lovely gentlemen in a top hat. He took her arm to escort her. Her smile flashed white teeth, sparkling in the sun before she turned from me. Her confidence in her every step seemed to mock me. I was small.
Yet, I was drawn to the couple somehow. So I followed them unconsciously, carrying my brown paper bag of produce in front of my face a little. How I yearned to be like them. To have what they had. To see what they got to see every day.
They turned into a small outdoor diner with intimate round tables for two and romantic light. He pulled back her seat and as she turned, I saw her face. Her eyes found me and a gasp escaped both our lips at the same instance. All at once I had met with the ground and my body shook uncontrollably in sobs. A hand lifted me from the ground. It was him. My fathers eyes were filled with tears and the woman stood behind him.
Me?
No, she wasn't me. She was far better dressed. Far more lovely. But she had my face.
"Rebecca."
His calm voice was the last sound I heard before everything went black.
On Not Giving Money to the Homeless
He said, you don’t know what it’s like to be black.
He asked us why we were scared. Why we were
jumpy. We weren’t jumpy. He
was paranoid. All this outside Trinity
Cathedral, where he probably
slept on the front steps if it wasn’t raining.
He was wearing blue scrubs, said he
needed money for coffee.
How many people do you think have already
said to him, “I honestly don’t have any money” ?
I honestly didn’t. What happened to him? Was
he just lazy? Was
he still ashamed to ask for other people’s money?
Or was he numb, mentally
calloused? Am I the cause of his shame?
By looking sideways at him, do I make
his burden worse? We walked away, although
my friend, a little more
innocent than I, looked back,
as if by listening she could save him.
But she didn’t know that we
aren’t supposed to look back, to see that he
cannot be saved.
Money today is scarce for some
Other spend it like they have soo much fun
But in reality credit it is
The Big
The Bad
The Bold
Credit card debt is what they hold
Car paid off, another too
What is it that you do?
Lease one for a year, next year a new one or two
Wealth
Those who are wealthy do not show
Those who are wealthy know
Those who live paycheck to paycheck spend
And in the end, the scrimp and scrap
And they wonder what is the date
They count down the days until their next paycheck
Wealth is what they wish they had, wished they possessed
Instead they are in a mess
Wanting for more, not satisfied
Ever seeking treasures to buy
Although life is more than that
Love for money is where it’s at
Talking the talk to feed their desire
Holding no peace, they keep walking the wire
By the way, Scriptor - this is a GREAT photo :o)
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