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Quatrain Work Poems | Quatrain Poems About Work

These Quatrain Work poems are examples of Quatrain poems about Work. These are the best examples of Quatrain Work poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Ready and Willing to Work

The job search continues, though unemployment has run out
For me, accepting a government handout set a precedent
If only the largest corporations are to qualify for bailouts
Then I’d like to shake up Washington and run for president

Not of the United States, no, I don’t want Obama’s job
But I’d like to take the reins of a business with some courage
To refuse taxpayer money like Ford, not GM on the rob
Like the public, I’d heal corporate wounds with my own bandage

Now I fill my hours volunteering for various causes
Senior centers and children’s groups show appreciation
Operating in the red, they are used to accepting losses
And in my heart I receive a different type of compensation


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The Pirate's Life for Me

I starts me life as pirate, 
A grommet before age twelve,
Not an ordinary bandit,
High sea adventures me delve.

With a Letter of Marque in me han’
And the Commodore for me pa!
I spends dogwatch near the helmsman,
Nerey missin’ me bonny ma.

Old salts tell their gory tales,
Aye, dogs hanging from the gallows.
Punishments for a man who fails
Floggings or keelhaul; blood bath follows.

Scrimshaw hangin’ ‘round me neck.
A privateer by trade,
Flaunting booty on the deck
We’s the scallywags brigade.

Pirateering is me heartthrob.
I dreams schemes in the crows nest.
‘bout takin’ swag from an unfortunate swab.
I sits watchin’ pa from the crest.

Long nines aimed and ready,
Jolly Roger on the mainmast,
Headway fast and steady,
The enemy’s fate forecast.

One for all and all for one!
Drinkin’ grog an’ eatin’ grub.
Werkin’ on the “Morning Sun”
Me father at the hub.

Davy Jone’s locker, me final plight! 
Death drifting in me beloved sea –
Straightway from the dark of night
The pirate’s life for me!

© July 15, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen


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THE AUTHORITY

Why can't she learn to do that right?
You'd think that she'd know better.
Someone should tell her what to do,
To hone her each endeaver.

What is he doing over there?
He should be over here.
He should be told where he belongs,
And make it very clear.

She never does as she is told,
Although I've tried and tried;
What she should do and how and when,
I took it all in stride.

I spoke to her, I spoke to them,
To bring her back in line;
But she is stubborn, wants her way,
But she will learn in time,

That I am right and she is wrong,
I'll teach her that I know,
Much more about her work than she,
I'll tell her where to go.

It seems my help and good advice,
Is just ignored and spurned.
I only want the best for all,
The best for all concerned.

I guess my help's unwanted,
But if 'twere put to test,
They all would see that I am right,
And my way is the best.



No matter where you go or what you do you're going to find some people in the world who think they know more about eveything than anyone else and they will do their best to force their opinion on everyone they come in contact with. Th ebest way to handle someone like this is to give them a wide berth. Stay aloof but friendly in a distant sort of way. However, don't hesitate to let them know you cannot and will not be bulllied because this type of person capitalizes on your weakness. Whenever they start something with you it's important to make sure everyone knows exactly what was said and done when it happens so you don't end up looking the fool instead of them. When they find out that instead of keeping quiet you will fight back using their own methods against them they will back off and leave you alone.


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Mama's Cleaning

That was the day we played all day outside
And ride imaginary stick horses around 
Shooting and shouting as if our lungs was rawhide
It was in imagination that the fun abound
That was the day the house seemed in disrepair
Furniture and boxes all out of place
Chaos reigned while mama cleaned everywhere
Leaving germ and dirt without a trace.

I thought of mama today as I watched you clean
Remembered how we would wipe our foot
On the little mat, but mostly could not dare go in
As if we were the grime or the cause of soot
Food would only come when mama took a break
But not before dark and howling belly turned
Play into night, and after the yard was swept and raked
Something about you in mama I'd discerned.

What was all that cleaning just to be clean, I ask
Or was it a search for something missing here
What deeper motive had the highly honored task
What coin, or sheep, or son hid behind the tear
What golden fleece or grail to you both have been lost
I know mama cleaning searched for meaning here
As if sin was something we could see like life's dross
As if to seek was the magic bullet for man's despair.

O something about you remind me of mama, my dear
And childhood comes rushing back in floods
Two sparse rooms and five pieces of furniture there
While we chased butterflies from dying buds
You are different though, for you have allowed us in
Watching our eyes to tell you of missing spots
But we just laugh and tell long tales while you clean
Life is too short to search or go connecting dots.


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The Rose of Poetry

I see your work budding, like a flower each new day. Slowly blooming more and more, bringing color to a time that’s gray. Your colorful petals are amazing, the way you reflect the sun. And your beauty still remains, after the beauty of the day is done. For your work radiates, here on Poetry Soup. We are all poetic flowers; part of a big garden group. I am writing this poem, to the poetic flower you are. You glisten each new day, from way, way, afar. If life was a big garden, a flower you would be. With flourished poetic petals, named the Rose of Poetry. ______________________ For Belinda Parish a fellow souper for her supportive comments.


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Women

You women
Know how to make 
The best of what you've got in you
You do it everyday in your life


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It's Elementary

The work I did was playing with the angels
We read and painted, dressed up for Halloween as rangers
The Universe so close from dry, paper mache
With older kids we even wrote an Etheree 

The work I did was traveling to Europe
With twenty of my students and an antelope
We colored windows facing the lights of Paris
and even opened a brasserie  "Gateau de Bliss"

So, Carolyn, you made me smile opening this album
When asking "Where the Wild Things Are? " Ka-boom!
Again it's "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs"
...but empty are long gone  Elementary School halls...


www.scripca.com


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Sitting in my Office

Sitting in my office
Papers scattered everywhere
Mid-term tests to type up
I've lost the heart to care

Sitting in my office
Reading some sweet rhyme
Wanting to write my own
But I'm so pressed for time

Sitting in my office
Typing fervently
No set theme in my mind
Just sharing part of me

Sitting in my office
Wish I could amaze
My words are all so...dead
Because I'm in a daze

Sitting in my office
Hoping my muse will bring
A dreamy gift of words
That makes hearts dance and sing

Sitting in my office
I let out a heavy sigh
Time to pack up and go
For now this is goodbye

Eileen Manassian

I know....Sometimes you just want to do anything but what you are supposed to do. You just want to give in your obsession to write....to taste and experience and live and breathe and live and live and live...and you're stuck in your office with deadlines looming over your head...wishing you were writing poetry tucked up cozy in your bed! :(

I'm in a crazy mood. See you all in a few hours when I'm rested. It's been a long day. Tomorrow is every longer.


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Compassion Abounds

Compassion does abound in this modern world we live
Where animal and man return ones love to give
An element we all do fear could have taken all their lives
But this was not the day, that fate could contrive

To enter a burning building where their lives take second best
Training and their bravery, a heroes form of zest
Within these darkened realms, aflame and spewing of smoke
Any life that's spared, we deprive the smoking choke

For outside this smouldering building lies a bundle of stirring rags
Blackened canine features, their lives in deadening flag
Whilst alone on the sidewalk a hero sits in thought
Despair hits his heart in helpless strained distraught

His head in his hands now lifted, stirred by whining sounds
Towards him walks the mother, he turns in total astound
Leaning down to pet her, compassion fills his eyes
She licks his face to thank him, all saved and so alive


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Wheels Rollin'

1 o'clock in the morning the alarm is loudly screamin'
I go wake up my brother who probably is still dreamin'
We jump in the car and the wheels start rollin'
Can't wait to pick up the papers and start strollin'

A smile planted on our face! The day is finally starting
The headlights shine bright! The animals are darting
Ah! Windows down breathing all the fresh air
My brother gathering papers with all of his care

Wheels steadily rollin down the road
Nothing is in sight, not even a toad!
Newspapers start soaring through the air!
Do I want this to end? No! I wouldn't dare

Starting to run out of papers as the sun is rising
Listening to the birds chirping is quite energizing!
I look over towards my brother to see if he is still awake 
Bless his heart! He has fallen to sleep, he really needed a break!

I throw the last paper and I began to yawn
The paper lands perfectly on that last lawn
Wheels rollin' as we head back to the beginning
Should this much fun be considered sinning?


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THE AMERICAN WESTWARD EXPANSION

The Quakers, being religiously persecuted, set sail from expatriated England;
they were the first settlers to reach the shore of New England: a free land!
Later the Puritans came and settled in other eastern, bustling colonies
seeking the same religious freedom, but their urge was stronger than dreams.


Many moved westward on foot, on horseback and on overloaded wagons...
exploring the American wilderness plundered by indigenous Indians;
they searched for grassland everywhere, to let their cattle roam and graze;
first they built wooden shacks on vast, lush prairies full of Queen Ann's Lace. 


And out of this American westward expansion, came the fearless pioneers,
who sought gold mines...despite the wild cowboys causing troubles
with heavy drinking and desire for unscrupulous women, seeking money and pleasure, 
who served them more whisky and lured them to a room with a demeaning measure.


Beyond the Rocky Mountains' and the Appalachians Mountains' skies,
these diligent pioneers obtained wealth with sweat and sacrifices...
changing and shaping the wild landscapes of arable land,
avoiding the drudgery of getting stuck in mud and sand.


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Musicianship

Musicianship 
(3 May 2014;  For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)

Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?

Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.

What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,

And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.

And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.

Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian, 
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)

Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.

It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.

All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.

But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.

To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.


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Weaver's Gate

Not till the loom was silent
And the shuttle ceased to fly
When history unrolled the scroll
And reveals the reason why.
The darkest thread as needful
In the weavers skilful hand
As the cloth of gold and silver
Of an industrious ruin greed had planned.
No amount of corporate education
Could quell our simple brain
No grammar association
Yet unravelled the master’s pain.
They took away our ambition
Off shore was their devious plan
Tried so hard to pick our pockets
Yet our skill could clothe a man.
His call was for cheap labour
Some call it slavery
Now we buy at a thousand per cent
The product of knavery!

© Harry J Horsman 2015


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Fire And Ice

The Devil sits there playing, he’s as happy as he can be
He has a new game to play, he rubs his fiery hands in glee
Down in the bowels of the earth, the deepest hottest spot
Where white magma burns, he collects it, in his devilish crock.

He keeps all the tortured souls he has collected through the years
Especially the greedy ones, he know how to play on their worst fears
Crucibles of white hot lava, he makes them pound all day
Until their muscles burn and burst, then the devils imps do flay.

The skin they flay from their backs, but still the pounding goes on
And little by little a diamond is formed, each one the bestest one
A pile of diamonds the devil has them make, but still the lava pours
The pounding must continue, piles of diamonds grow on the floor.

The clarity, the excellence, this perfection in clear carats
The devil tells them he wants more, the imps take skin from their backs
More and more diamonds they are looking as cool as ice
He taunts the greedy souls down there he says “Now don’t they look nice.”

When he has a mountain of them, he lets the pounding halt
The lava stops pouring for a while, and then there is a jolt
The poor tired souls are staring at this mountain of ice-like gems
When the Devil pulls a lever the pounding starts again.

This time a floodgate is open and he says they can take their fill
They can cool themselves on the diamonds; they can try it if they will
The clearest of all the diamonds, send shivers down their spines
They try to pocket a few but the devil says …“They’re mine.”

Another gate is open, lava flows through hot, the crucibles refilled
The Devil says now get to work I don’t want to see a single drop spilled
When they can work no more, he lets them have a rest 
Then opening up another door he says “I bet you all have guessed.”

“Now you have made more wealth, than the world can ever use
These cool pieces of pounded lava, this ice mountain you are going to lose
Just watch my merry greedy souls, just watch my new display
As a running river of lava washes the ice clear diamonds away… 

Now I will show you what we will do with all of them 
Just watch how they melt down, so we can start all over again
So pound away my merry soul’s, pound and pound them well
This is what you loved before; you found the love of money was Hell

Competition Entry: Fire and Ice. Sponsored By Carol Sunshine Brown 
 
© Mandy Tams~GG~ 21/11/2012


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The Idle Drudge Among The Living

The idle drudge among the living 
But count among the dead
Youthful labor - Stolen, stilled
A universal dread

In stasis, they rot away the years 
In shock, we view their pain
Hostility - A witness to 
Their efforts worthless, vain


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For I Had Lied

Dada was everything to our youth
Our wide faculty was his help
Our recognition was his sooth
Nobody does it than his rep

Many youth he carried up there
Without seeking any penny
Many services he rendered
For free. All of which we did see 

He was not a king or a prince
Perhaps he was just a God sent
To his community, king and prince...
He begot not but was begot

Mindful of his predicament
But dare not showed it on earth
Till that Friday night he drove out
Of town and took to a scar oath

The next hour we heard he had died
And left us belated letter
"Don't cry for me, for I had lied.
...I'll die now before later"


*cry for...: Mourn

28/05/2013


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THE RHETORIC LANGUAGE OF WHAT LIFE SEEMS

And you all thought
that after reaching home,
I would jump in the shower so fast
and off to bed...I'd snooze to end my boredom?

On my lunch hour I take a light nap,
it's beneficial to your health the doctor confidently says;
and should I ever see a scary, black cat
running across my windshield...a nightmare surely begins.


Working hard in a warehouse
with people and forklifts in full swing,
I must be more alert than a mouse
being chased by a bunch of hungry cats drooling.


To sit at my desk and write a poem for a new contest:
is a challenging and rewarding experience for an obscure poet;
and while others sleep and their spirits float in mysterious dreams,
I reflect over the rhetoric language of what life seems. 


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A Reliever's Dilemma

Right now, I have an uneasy feeling in my gut. I want to hold on to my job no matter what. I blew the save, and we eventually lost the game. To lose a good lead for any team is a shame. I have a feeling the management wants to let me go. They are disenchanted with me. It certainly does show. The team counts on me to come on in relief. The hits and runs I give up causes everybody grief. So what will I do if they want me to go away? Will I have to try and make up a resume? I can’t sleep with these worries in my head. Sorry dear if I am keeping you awake in bed.


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Morning Welcome

Did you ever rise upon a frosty morning
To wend your way to the machinery shed,
To lean upon an unresponding tractor..
Without wishing you were in your cozy bed?
The farmer with a nice, warm barn to enter
With Big Babe and Foxy Lady waiting there,
Looks forward to the welcome they will give him,
This big and gentle, loving, living pair.


"For my daddy, who loved farming and his faithful horses and for whom  machines were an aggravation."

By Joyce Johnson for contest "Short Poem, Please"


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The Beat Goes On

Grandma was German raised to value beauty,
her art found in nature the flowers and the trees. 
Grandpa, a Wentworth, from an English family
whose Great Grand sailed the Mayflower, across the sea.

In the time of William Morris, when craft was art,
Great Granddad was a shipwright that's how we got our start.
So, we valued craft and beauty and adventure charted. 
Through tough times, poverty, still wisdom was imparted. 

Born in a place of splendor miles from the bay, 
Mom was raised on the poetry of Edna Millay.
I was born there to and in the woods I played
amongst maidenhair ferns and violets unafraid. 

In art born, with brush and pen, often did I write,
raised on Lord Tennyson to great my delight.
And, I adored the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright
how he blended craftsmanship into each homesite.

Schooled in modern art Warhol and Mies Van De Rhoe,
my mind opened blooming to many new tableaus.
All my contemporaries were part of art neuvau.
Each masterly artisan's work helped me to grow


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Traffic Stop

 
Driving down the road, 
I bring my unit to a stop. 
A speeding violation, 
A typical day as a cop.
 
As I exit my unit, 
Random shots pierce the night. 
I take cover behind my car, 
And put him in my sights.
 
Two shots leave my weapon, 
Striking him in his chest. 
I looked down at my body, 
And took one in my vest.
 
There’s no such thing as routine, 
In the life of a cop. 
‘Cause one can lose his life, 
In any random stop.
 


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Son to Father

When I was just a kid, 
I’d watch you dress in blue. 
Knowing that someday, 
I’d be just like you.
 
When you’d leave my eyes brimmed, 
And quickly started to stream. 
I idolized you in everyway, 
And wanted to live your dream.
 
Now that I am older, 
I realize I’m like you. 
Polishing my badge, 
And walking in your shoes. 

I think about your words, 
While filling in my blotter. 
I’m pleased to be like you; 
The pride of son to father. 



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What effects has covetousness or Greed in our souls

Covetousness or Greed begets 
In our souls unkindness
Dishonesty, deceit
And want of Charity or Love


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Slag Dump

Poem about Sudbury, Ontario, Canada


A skyline for a slag line.
A glowing melting rock.
An acid burning slag dump.
The miners on the clock!

The sunset meets the hill.
A seam of orange and fire.
Black smoke ascending from it.
The thickest form of mire.

A cauldron tipped and flowing.
A soup's heat puddle still.
The river red thin ribbons
and our love a slag dump spill.


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The Career of Me

I used to be in the Royal Navy Until I realised it was not for me So I headed back up north To the country where I love to be I joined an automotive parts company Moving to trucks and trailers alone Then suddenly we were made redundant At a young age into the unknown But seek and ye shall find It was in January 1981 When I joined a local tools company Unemployment I had on the run I have been with my present company Golly! it's now over eighteen years From Engineering to Aquaculture An enjoyable move in my working career http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/me-2.php


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From The Dust

I've knelt on mats of reeds to idols,
that we revered with pious trust.
They fell to near obscurity,
and now they mingle with the dust.

I've of chiseled and scraped from the tablets
my deep deliberate curving ruts,
to weather out times ruthless passage,
carving out my eternal cuts.

Indelible, and yet delicate
and considerably few,
consider all of what you see,
for they purely belong you. 


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S.W.A.T.

The call comes in to meet
To rendezvous at a secret place
I quickly get suited up
And take my rifle from its case

As we drive down the road
All huddled up in a van
Checking our equipment
Preparing to execute the plan

As we approach the house
Not knowing what lies ahead
With a halligan in hand
they lie asleep in bed

The battering ram strikes
as break and rake hooks crash
Confusion fills the air
with broken shards of glass 

Securing hands in zip-cuffs
The METH-lab’s still hot
Just another night
In the life of S.W.A.T.


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Loving Duty Reveals Beauty

If your working is not systematic
You may find life damn difficult
As negative will be the result
Great success, you can't pick

Please attend to work judiciously
And take efforts to attain victory
Regard loss as a guiding injury
Never do your duty suspiciously

Plan your duty and finely execute
Learn the trade with great interest
All your skills, you wisely invest
Prove to all that you are very cute

Take up a job and well-perform it
Use maximum prudence wisely
Discharge your duty very nicely
Develop a hard-working habit

Learn the intricacies of your trade
And become an expert in work
Your duty, never at all shirk
Try to register greatly A-grade

Those tasks that are damn tough
May confuse your mind severely
But, you can master them surely
Just sheer hard-work is enough

A shrewd person never is worried
As he is sure of his toiling truly
He regards doing duty as holy
He never waits for luck's need

He will work showing real enthusiasm
His heart will have a positive outlook
All opportunities, he will wisely book
By exhibiting maximum dynamism

With grit, he will chase to at last win
His motto is to try and use the chance
He will enthusiastically start the dawns
With optimism, he will hopefully begin

He will make his level best attempt
And lose not heart in case of defeat
He is honest, tidy, brainy and neat
His mind, worries can never tempt.

mvvenkataraman












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THE SAME BLUE COLLAR GUY

The work I do is not the most prestigious one,
from four to twelve thirty I drive...until my shift is done;
a forklift driver rarely takes a coffee-break, 
and being courteous and helpful to customers means a lot.


My long-life dream was to be a songwriter like Andrew Lloyd Webber, but my songs
didn't click...they never made the Top Ten on the Billboard Charts;
and although they didn't sell well to make it my profession, I still hold my thumb up...
that if a famous recording artist performed them, I'd have a huge hit!


My free time is devoted to creating lyrics that I will set to music in late hours;
and I would never be a Mozart, Verdi, or Beethoven if didn't knock on doors
and expose my works to those who would be willing to listen without reluctance...
could one be old and succeed as the young ones with fresher, brighter ideas?


For now, I remain the same blue collar guy coloring more illusive dreams;
many approach me and say," Don't give up...you have plenty of chances!".
I do want to believe that and wear the deserved crown and be lauded as others...  
'till my lucky day comes, I must make a living and have the faith of the achievers.


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Stereotype Enforced by a Storm

While I appreciate the vacation
it would have been better if it were paid.
Funds lessened by nature’s aggravation,
lends credence to the starved artist charade.