Defenestrationism.net

Lengthy Poem Contest

My Amish Grandfather Never Understood
the Purpose of Money

by Martin Willitts, Jr.

Why did he need money, an invention of the rich
to control the poor, when he could simply trade
for whatever he needed? Grandmother explained,
since grandfather hoarded words, believing
language was wasted on people who refused to listen.
Any more than two words was one too many.
Those that did listen, listened half-heartedly,
impatient to respond, and filled the air with anger.
He did not understand money, an invention of the rich
to control the poor, that he needed to pay a mortgage,
and the bank took everything when he died.

What is the purpose of forgiveness if a bank forecloses?
Grandmother tried to forgive the bank,
still dying of a broken heart when she lost everything.
He could simply trade for whatever he needed.
All he needed: rich soil and the willingness to plant;
the rest would be provided by a generous God,
or taken by a vengeful God. He never suspected the bank.
He believed a haul of vegetables was enough.
With his unwillingness to talk, he never questioned
why the bank said food was not cash. Grandmother said,
you can’t eat money. No wonder he felt no one listens.

Land has value. Large, fertile area, pregnant with corn,
potatoes as large as fists grabbing money, tomatoes
as sweet as kisses, wheat tickling the sky when breeze
paint-brushed the sky. Grazing fields for spring-lambs,
cow wandering the same blazed trail, horses racing
faster than their breath. A forest stocked with deer.
A pond for wood ducks. A river taking yesterday away.
Land has value. The bank counted on every penny of it.

And, of course, people had no value, no exchange of value.
You can’t add hard work worth on a ledger.
Money, an invention of the rich to control the poor.
In Amish territory, money had no value;
but trust in neighbors did. The bank let interest rates
double over time, timely payments all they understood.
Land with compounded interest, they did.
Shylock insisting in his “pound of flesh,” they did.
Grandparents understood Jesus chasing money changers
out of the temple, when grandfather could simply trade
for whatever he needed. Forgiveness, did.

Interest compounded daily equals forever indebted.
The bank never sent warnings, expecting failure
to pay equaled failure of crops.

Polonius, a counselor to the King, Claudius, in Hamlet,
warns, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be”.

Grandfather did not trust money either. I don’t know why
he took out a loan, or forgot pay it back. Maybe, Amish
stubborn determination to work hard and finding reward
in hard work. Maybe, he believed bringing crops,
setting them in front of bank teller was enough.

But there it was: a pile of debt even Midas could not pay.

The bank descended like a swarm of vultures.

Grandmother looked hopelessly. Faith was saving her.
Neighbors also did not the bank, believing in trust
and salvation was within reach. All you had to do
was open your hands and your reward would fall
like mana from heaven. They forgot, heavenly reward
was not on this earth, but in the afterlife, after
the great reaping of souls, after judgement,

after the greedy could not thread through a needle,
after the fields they would plow would be clouds
to let sun shine through. A cleansing rain
like in Noah’s time was required to remove greed.
However, none of that cleansing rain was godly,
not forgiveness, not redemption. A cleansing rain
was more about punishment, anger, not Amish way.

But, sometimes, o sometimes, a heart gets tempted
to curse wickedness, and the hand that feeds wickedness.
Righteousness does not seem necessary.
A plague of frogs does.

I buried my anger. I buried my grandparents
in the everlasting fields of forget-me-nots.
I mean, I buried them if fields of forever forgiveness.
No, I mean I buried them in their fields
before the banks foreclosed on their fertile fields,
each inch, I knew by working there every summer.
No, I mean, working was to help them as they grew older.
No, working was worship, hands touching creation.
No, none is exactly the right words. No wonder
grandfather trusted too many words
that never said what they meant. No wonder
words are meaningless, and sometimes words are mean.
I buried them. No, that’s still one too many words.
Bury love. Bury loss. Bury frustration. Bury debt.

The bank swarmed as destructive insects devouring the farm.

10.

The soil was as hard as my grandfather’s resolve.
I had to dig deep. I almost broke the spade
before I broke ground. Back-breaking work.
I had dug up heavy lodestones many times.
Lodestones reverse magnetism.
Magnets designed to show the way home.
I could not count this land as home anymore.
I had painted a hex sign on the barn. A large wheel
representing good luck, a prosperous future.
So much for that. So much for faith. I was almost broken,
by this purpose, digging a grave for my grandparents,
burying them on this sacred land repossessed by the bank.
I buried their bodies where greed or the banks
(they are both the same), can’t find them. Buried them
where love is ever-lasting. I keep their burial locations
secret. A secret I will die with. I doubt I could find
their location anyway. Too much has changed over time.
I am counting on forgetfulness. Something, banks can’t take.

Why did he need money, an invention of the rich
to control the poor, when he could simply trade
for whatever he needed?

Back to the 2026 Lengthy Poem Contest