Easy new habits—gain weight, lose money.
Mamma said, Don’t wed for love. Choose money.
Life is suffering, Buddha taught. He’s right.
Which brings more comfort—a hug? Booze? Money?
Midnight. Lipstick on glasses, smoky air.
A blade shines. Someone sings the blues. Money
changes hands. A morning hike raises her
mood—so much beauty to peruse! Money
irrelevant. The landscape louder than
her thoughts. Today’s dose of bad news—money
denied to the Puerto Rican poor. Slick,
bloated corporate lawyers ooze money.
Grandpa’s waxy face stitched into a smile.
“Grieving” relatives argue—whose money?
The comedian struggles, wipes his brow.
When quips about sex don’t amuse, money
gets a wry chuckle. So does aging. Sticks
and stones is bullshit. Words can bruise. Money,
or lack of it, can cause death. Exhausted
from too-little fun, he hits snooze. Money’s
an abstraction, bills just ink on paper,
really. The YouTuber gets views, money.
Birds sing morning songs. The neighbors argue
or make loud love. My kitten mews. Money
talks, but what does it say? I open doors
to joy? Get to work? We accuse money
of our own vices. Top lip bitten in
concentration, my daughter glues money
to cardboard—one hundred pennies for school’s
hundredth day. I hope she learns—fuse money
and craft, abandon the myth of starving
creatives. A smart artist woos money.
Poet, if an altar and incense won’t
draw Her, why not offer your muse money?
by Alison Stone
—from Rattle #84, Summer 2024
Tribute to the Ghazal
Alison Stone: “I was introduced to the form decades ago and fell in love with it. I’m neurodivergent, so I loved the structure and the syllable counting. I also love the freedom to jump around, knowing that the rhyme and refrain offer connection. Also, as a working mother, I love being able to write poems ‘in pieces’—I can work on one or two couplets, then go to work, then come back to it. I’ve written over 100 ghazals and even have an entire book of ghazals.” (web)
