POETRY PAGES

The Dollar Mine

Written 2009 © 2010 by T. Hubbard

I’ve been a paperboy, busboy, dishwasher, cook,

I’ve built houses, songs, poems and a book.

I’ve been security, driver, mechanic, technician

Plumber, carpenter, and electrician,

But one thing I’ll never be,

Is a slave in your dollar mine.

I’ve seen the forests, rivers, and hills,

And the highways, roads, and lumber mills.

I’ve seen the cities, towns and states,

The manmade canyons and concrete straits.

I’ve been all over this country,

and some other parts of the world,

But the one place that I’ll never be

Is slaving in your dollar mine.

I learned to play the music,

In a magic way,

I learned to know when, and what to say,

I found the secret to the universal knowing

Hidden in plain sight and showing,

I learned the meaning of the truth,

But one thing I’ll never know,

Is the despair of the slave in your dollar mine.

I’ve been a sailor, a tailor, a night watch man,

A gas jockey, tech junkie, and in a blues swingin’ rock ‘n roll band.

I punched some cows, farmed some land, irrigated some fields,

Grew potatoes, pot and corn, with just enough of a yield

To get us through the winter.

I was a mason, a freemason, and fidelitos,

A lover, a singer, and finder of the lost,

I healed in secret, but now you know,

I’ve held high converse with the Indigo children,

And we are on the go,

But one place we will never go

Is to slave in your dollar mine.

You play your money

For a few dollars more,

Your mind is keen,

Your soul is rotten to the core.

If one could but find some humanity,

In the greed and destruction

Of your daily life,

We’d heal your sickness

And end our strife.

But you believe in your corruption,

As if it were a gift from Heaven,

As if you were kings and princes,

And your instituted power the leaven,

That makes the bread of sorrow

You force us all to eat.

The corridor of sameness,

The road of capitulated defeat.

Incorporated emperors,

Teach children how to lie,

How to beat their fellows,

How to ignore the painful cry

Of the children who are abandoned

In the dusty schoolyard stye,

To be raised by pigs that will never learn to fly.

And in all the walks, the work, and the play,

There are those who will still refuse to pay,

The fees of tyrants, and the tax of the line,

Who will not slave in your dollar mine.

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