These Work Life poems are examples of Life poems about Work. These are the best examples of Work Life poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
I wake up to my TV blasting episodes of Woody Woodpecker.
I wipe my encrusted eyes, which had a field day in that dream I had
Involving two Swedish women, a Latin princess
With curvaceous hips that could save me if I ever fell from mountain climbing,
A Sony boom box made in 1984 playing Duran Duran,
And empty boxes of Junior Mints, M&M Peanuts, & Cool Whip.
I walk to my front door to discover hundreds of blood lettered Post-It notes
Slid under by my friendly Mafia neighbors,
“Turn that crap down or say ‘HOLA’ to my little friend! Woody sucks! ”
So, instead of apologizing, I grabbed my power drill
Which I bought off this Mexican guy named Bob
Standing in front of my local Home Depot,
I thanked each of my neighbors by drilling Wal-Mart smiley faces
Smoking Cuban cigars & holding Shotguns
Into their doors
At this point, I popped in some Belgian waffles & French Toast sticks
Into my Cookie Monster toaster oven and turned on the news.
What was I thinking?!
News reports on Sugar Daddies being harassed by stalking gold-diggers,
Another asinine Final Destination movie,
More teacher-student scandals,
Celebrity break-ups & pregnancies
Oh, how the sheep live vicariously through them
Where’s that damn noose I bought off Bob?!
To remove my early morning frustrations,
I turned on my Xbox 360 and popped in Guitar Hero
In which I jammed out to Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious
While performing Riverdance on my hardwood floor
The neighbors below me added a nice, rhythmic sound with their broomsticks.
After my Pilates workout, I decided to strip off my clothes
So I can feel FREE like a Tree-hugging barn swallow
And fill my bathtub with a bottle of Tickle Me Elmo Bubble Bath liquid,
Which I also bought off Bob
Shortly after, I yelled “THIS IS SPARTA!” and performed a belly flop into the tub…
After waking up from my concussion, I laughed maniacally
With my face underwater
My laughs were heard through the popping bubbles rising to water’s surface
I passed out again with a drumming thud against my porcelain dreams.
Second attempt at recovery, SUCCESS!
I gathered all my utility bills
A filled, plastic gas tank, another purchase from Bob
And a Jerry Garcia branded lighter
As inferno warmed my screaming loins,
Blasting John Lennon’s “Imagine” on my 8-Track,
The local Fire department sliced my front door
With titanium axe and an inscription: “Here’s Johnny”
As hundreds of angry firemen & neighbors stampede into my child-like day
3pm, Day Unknown:
I awaken with lines imprinted on my Latin cheeks
From wooden office desk
Strange stares from coworkers
With “I’m all out of Love” playing on the faded, company radio
And a post-it note, “Come see me in my office”,
©Drake J. Eszes
There exists a world where the traffic lights don’t work….
Welcome to the Slums
We the slum dwellers…
The ones condemned at birth by virtue of our parents biting poverty
The ones with no prospects, no options, no apologies
This is our story….
Morning light ushers in a crude awakening to realities
better left in nightmares.
The dash to the community bathroom - for those brave enough to risk
tainting by the oozing, bubbling faeces (provided of course that
they have the cash to pay for the toilet)
The rest of us make use of polythene flying toilets –woe unto
anyone passing nearby.
Forget about breakfast – meals are a luxury
Next stop: Trek to the industrial area
Goal: To find any work needing muscle and employees too poor to
care about meager wages and industrial law.
Sweat, sweat, and more sweat. Work overtime, without protective gear, without lunch break, without job security. And for what – peanuts.
Hand-to-mouth: Live for the day.
The wheel of poverty rotates at superhuman speed. Alighting
equals death – death in the form of the way out -
Boy child: Criminal gang
Girl child: Sea of prostitution
The only reprise comes from the misfortune of others.
Siphoning fuel from a tanker, death is death is death, be it from petrol burns or starvation.
Tapping electricity from faulty lines – it’s not as if the council will
willingly connect us with the commodity.
Being used as mercenaries by greedy businessmen and powerful politicians – work is work, right?
Free primary education –don’t make me laugh.
Rapes, murders, theft –just another day gone by.
In a world where people are a rule to themselves, only one rule remains:
Do what you have to do to survive another day.
We are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
Except Monday mornings and Sunday nights.
What are they on about, at this place that I seek
That is supposed open 24/7 days a week.
The pub is open we have an unlimited license,
Let’s have a drink before we go to bed!
I’m sorry we are closed the doors shut at eleven
That’s what the snooty landlord then said.
The helpline is here no matter when
Give us a call and we can help you then.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, the phone rings on
A tape recording says, “Sorry everyone has gone.”
My car has broken down the man came to fix it
“It doesn’t work” he said sratching his head.
“There a computer on board and I will need to record
All the things that are broken down” he said.
But I need my car; I looked at him hard,
And he gave me a wizened up frown.
He plugged himself in, then said with a grin.
The computer says it’s fine, the engine is strong.
But the car doesn’t work you toothless little jerk,
The computer plugged in must be wrong.
“How can it be wrong it says the engine is strong?” he gave me a shifty look
“To be honest missus if it ain’t on the pute, perhaps the answers in a book."
He could find nothing wrong, the onboard computer gave a bong,
But it still said all was okay.
The tow-truck they called out with its ramp and its chains
Now they have taken my poor car away.
Modern life is so frustrating; we have everything at our fingertips
There is 24/7 that does not mean that, and fury does exit my lips.
If its 24/7 and help lines constantly, a car that is run by computer.
Why doesn’t anything work, I feel like the jerk, can somebody lend me a shooter.
I want to blast and to break all technology of late
It’s driving me to drink and distraction
The open all hours pubs are now closed,
And my car is still out of action.
The bank is closed, the computers just died,
The telephones gone on the blink
The TV HD, it is fuzzy like me;
I think I’m going to put my head in the sink.
The oven would be better, but its electric not gas
So I don’t think it would work as well
I want to end it all, not practice for the day,
The Grim-Reaper points at me, and sends me to hell.
Therefore, I’ll fill up the sink and put my head in the drink,
Oh, blast, who is that at the door?
It’s the water board here, we are just making it clear,your water is off for a week.
Typical, I have no car and it is too far
To walk out and jump in the creek.
To the seedlings sprouting in the 8 corners of the world:
An open communique can lead towards
a perilous precipice overlooking jagged rocks
being pounded by the relentless waves
of a cold, apathetic ocean --
in such a circumstance,
it doesn't take much to slip,
to be pushed, to be sent over the edge,
shattering upon the rocks below,
sucked down by an undertow
erasing all evidence of your prior existence.
We have come to an impasse,
the windows of opportunity
in the jet-streams of change,
are passing by at astounding speeds.
A true Anarchist
is not a Terrorist;
leave such decrepit despondency
to ultra-fanatic zealots and the New Gestapo.
A true Anarchist
should not fight for lawlessness,
should not wish for chaotic, wanton destruction -
such myths are propagated by automatons
and the controllers themselves.
A true Anarchist
should not raise placards in protest,
should not spray-paint graffiti
upon the walls of gaudy Bauhaus replications,
nor lob Molotov cocktails
at an establishment so entrenched,
four heads grow back
to replace every head, decapitated.
A true Anarchist
dons a masque of mirages,
reflecting nationalism, consumerism and Swastikas
back into the eyes of the pushers.
A true Anarchist does so
by donning the uniforms of business districts,
of the worker,
of the paint-splattered, ink-stained artisan.
When a true Anarchist
gains the confidence and trust
of Drones left in charge
of oiling the cogs,
a true Anarchist enters the control-room
not to smash instruments,
turns dials, flicks switches, presses buttons,
re-writes programs and codes,
in order to help alter the directional course
of the very Beast itself.
Another fresh year is here,
I would love to banish from my life, worry doubt & fear.
I would like to be joyous, true and live life each moment with zest,
and give the people around me nothing but the best.
I would love to talk, communicate and break mental barriers that are creations,
and work hard towards mending broken relations.
I would love to tell my wife to give me all her tears and fear,
and take from me all my love the loving words she likes from me to hear.
I would love to make an effort to be a good friend,
to my elder daughter and put all petty misunderstandings to an end.
I would love to stop to the people in contact ,the shoving,
and spend more time in loving.
I would love to stop being disadvantageous and outrageous,
and speak only the truth and for that be courageous.
I would love to fight my emotions all unfriendly,
and cover them all with feelings that are friendly.
I would love to learn to be sensitive,
and towards others be open and receptive.
I would love to practice not to crib about all the things life has not given me,
and be greatful for the great things around me I have an opportunity to feel and see.
I would love to learn to be content about all I have received,
and focus now on giving and helping those, whom life has deceived.
I would love to pray for world peace and plant more trees,
and work to help out for carbon emission decrease.
I would love to learn to be unforgiving,
and be more tolerant and caring.
I would love to right some of my wrongs,
and be true to myself and hum joyous songs.
Finally, I would love to learn to be humble and full of gratitude,
and to do so spend some precious moments of my day reflecting in solitude.
Down in the dark
where we live and we breathe.
in a place where most,
could never believe.
Through the smoke and the dust
by our blood and the rust.
Hear the clanging of steel
and in your chest you can feel.
the rumbling of the ground
with it's menacing sound
for where no one has been
is where our treasures be found.
We truck and we toil
we muck and we moil.
May our luck it be royal
and not leave us
stuck in the soil.
For the path that we walk
which leaves us unseen
tucked far away
down in some machine.
Isolated from all
and free at our most
but not free at all
for the shadow
is always close.
Stalking and waiting
for mistakes you'll be making.
It's grip near your neck
reaching for a wreck
But you must be better
and play your cards right.
If you're gonna forever
live where it's night
and on the top of your head
is your one light
and your only chance,
to win this fight
So when the blast sounds off
and you can't chase that cough
when it's strange to see no dirt under your nails
and you no longer care,
for telling tales
Get yourself some sleep,
you'll be up with the sun.
There's much more work to be done.
Many years ago, when we were all young,
We really thought life, would be so much fun.
While playing dress-up, trying on mom’s stuff,
Putting on make-up, we found to be tough.
Then came our schooling, and boy things would change,
“Those aren’t our parents”, when they acted strange.
Sometimes they were hip, but old-fashioned too,
That’s something I swore, I would never do.
Wishing you were older, adults had it made,
They would do nothing, yet still would be paid.
That is how little, we all had known,
We surely found out, once we were grown.
Loving the twenties, we’d go out with friends,
When we went shopping, we followed the trends.
Doing what we wanted, and staying out late,
It didn’t matter, what time we all ate.
Then came the thirties, and most of us wed,
Watch what you wish for, my parents had said.
We had to work hard, many bills to pay,
I guess they were right, what more can I say?
Raising your children, was hardest of all,
Needing some advice, your parent’s you’d call.
It seemed so easy, they needed no rest,
So now it’s your turn, you learned from the best.
The forties arrived, that was a shocker,
We’d spend lots of time, just at the doctor.
Back aches and headaches, so tired you’d be,
Trying not to cough, or else you would pee.
The fifties would come, and your grandkids too,
Where were your glasses? You hadn’t a clue.
You searched here and there, and under the bed,
“Hey grandma” they laughed, “They’re right on your head”.
Here come the sixties, now let’s have some fun,
You are retired; your work is all done.
To dinner with friends, you dressed and you wait,
They never show up, you have the wrong date.
Now the seventies, with friends playing games,
If only you could, remember their names.
You try hard to hide, those under-eye bags,
Gravity happens, and everything sags.
Enjoy every day, and have a good laugh,
All the steps you took, led down a new path.
Live life as it comes, each year a new page,
One thing is for sure, everyone will age.
This poem is a farewell piece of advice to a group of students I have taught over the last four years. I do
hope they find the metaphor meaningful and believe that they are the "architects of their own future."
Spread before you is a canvas of hope and opportunity
Waiting to be painted with strokes of what you are and can be
Waiting to be filled with colours that define you and the life you live
Waiting to be stamped with the personality that only you can give
To the portrait of your life, by itself a work of art
A work which, on this day, with vigour you will start
Spread before you is a canvas of vision and desire
Waiting to be sketched with shades of passion and fire
Waiting to be decorated with a story and theme
Waiting to be etched with ambition that is now just a dream
Of a picture whose tone, texture and style
Would have made this work worth all the while
Spread before you is a canvas, empty, yet full of space
Waiting to be stroked with your wit, charm and grace
Waiting to be brushed with strokes daring, vivid and bold
Waiting to be painted with a story that can be told
Of a life whose essence is one of sublime beauty
Of a person who lived his life and did his duty
Of a person who lived life the way it should be
Of a complete canvas that will reflect many a memory.
An old man's crumbles........
I am an old man and no matter I say or do.
But still I am living with my stubbornness heart
I have complications with health history
and hospitals always welcome me
Sometime, my heart beats so hard and my veins are twisting me mad
But still I manage to do my work on my own
My walking stick is great support for me
If not, I would not able to stand on the road
Sleep brings me nightmares with forecast scenarios
but when I wake up in the morning I feel nothing but freezing body and feet
My memory is failing and my soul is falling
My head is turning and my life is shortening
How do I spent my youthful life all these days?
Well, nothing much to tell about it because I am not married either.
I really love to recollect my good old days
but my memory of tears kept them away
Youth become major and old become gold. So they say
But sometimes I wonder where do I find my way around
Before I go to bed, I keep my ears in the drawer,
my teeth in a glass of water and my both eyes on the side table
When my sleep overtakes me, I don't hear anything,
my teeth don't feel cold and I don't see anything either
I get up each morning and reset my bones from my sleepy body
Later I pick up the news paper to read world news and sad news these days
If my name is missing in the obituary column, thanks God I am not dead
So I continue to do my work as usual till the day ends.
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
Copyright @Sept,2010 Ravi Sathasivam
My resentment flairs
My will ebbs
Still looking elsewhere
I won’t just leave
I care too much
My heart is here
Have more to give
Want answers to my whys
Know I’ll never truly know
Doors of opportunity may open
But I still hold hope
Knowing this is my calling