by Rachel Hoyt
image by Salvatore Vuono via freedigitalphotos.net
Comfortable, yet not happy,
is hard to tolerate -
filled with dreams of a plush fate
that would yield greater glee.
Miserable, in poverty,
one rides the waves that come -
filled with dreams that some someone
could see what one could be.
When spring rain falls on the land
and blossoms rare treasures,
Comfortable foresees quicksand
and bumps to dodge ahead,
Miserable just bows his head
and prays for simple pleasures.
Every time it rains, a choice
falls into hands that could
hand out the gifts as they should,
listen to their inner voice,
or believe that none will rejoice
no matter where the fruits fall
and seek to distract one and all
with shows that mold every soul's voice.
Copyright © 2014 Rachel Hoyt. All rights reserved.
This poem responds to news that Hollywood subidies
are growing while the poor receive no remedies.