poetry about money – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some poems arrive carrying trauma, existential questions, complicated metaphors, and enough symbolism to fill a cathedral.

This one showed up carrying a fucking pun.

Hedge Funds (Not My Fun) is deliberately stupid. I wanted to play with sound, names, word associations, and the increasingly questionable logic of a joke that refuses to die. Sometimes the page doesn’t need another emotional excavation—it just needs to have a little fun.

So yes, this is a poem about hedge funds.

No, I don’t actually have any.

And apparently, neither does my fun.

— Rowan Evans

A mischievous poet stands beside a giant hedge shaped like a financial graph with stacks of money hidden behind it. — *The hedge has funds. The funds aren’t mine. Therefore, the fun remains tragically unfunded.*

Hedge Funds (Not My Fun)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I think I’m so fucking funny—
I’ll make a Big Pun,
while lookin’ like a Pimp
C—but you can’t see me,
like my name is John
and my time is now—

or at least, I hope it is.
Because I’m trying to get my funds up,
yeah, I want to get my fun up—
so I stack my funds
as high as my hedges—

get it?

Hedge Fund.

That means the money isn’t mine—

so I’m stacking some funds high,
they’re just not my funds, and—
because they’re not my funds,
they do not fund my fun, man.

Journey into the Hexverse

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

Author’s Note

This piece isn’t about greed or excess.
It’s about intention.

About money as a tool instead of a god,
and the difference between hoarding wealth
and redistributing it with purpose.

“Dead presidents” aren’t worshipped here —
they’re repurposed.
Laid to rest, then put back into circulation.

This poem lives in that tension:
wanting enough power to make a difference,
without letting that power define who you are.

— Rowan Evans

Paper money arranged like funeral flowers in candlelight, symbolizing wealth, death, and redistribution — *Turning the bank into a wake—*
*not to mourn wealth,*
*but to redistribute it.*

Graveyard Pockets
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I don’t need money
to come to me.
I don’t need wealth
to be happy.
I just…

I want to turn my
pockets into graveyards,
fill ’em with dead presidents.
Then I’ll spread the wealth,
like I’m robbing the grave.

Turn the bank,
to a wake—
cash laid out like lilies,
big withdraw on
a day of remembrance.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: poetry about money

Hedge Funds (Not My Fun) | A Funny Pun-Filled Poem by Rowan Evans

Graveyard Pockets | A Poem About Money, Power, and Redistribution