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Best Work Poems

Below are the all-time best Work poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of work poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Work Shy by Callus, Paul
WORK THRU IT by jimmy boom semtex, nick armbrister
OUR GREAT WORK by Walker, Amy
Lockers Work by Matthews, Jessica
Into Work by Anish, Matthew
Work and Play by Dillenbeck, Gerald
A Day in the Life of My Work by marshall, sonya
Work in the kimgdom by FINDLEY, LEWIS
Work for it by Azim, Mohammed

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The Best Work Poems

Details | Work Poem | |

Hard Times

When hard times come they sit a spell, Like kin folk come to stay A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids That always get ‘n your way. It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought, There ain't much in-between. You work like hell to make ’em good, But still they’re sorta lean. The ranch went under late last year, The drought got mighty tough. The boss held-out a long, long time, But finally said, "enough!" So here I am dispatchin’ cops An’ watchin’ felons sleep, In Junction, at the county jail, A job I’ll prob’ly keep. The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge, Where older people stay, A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors To earn some ‘extra’ pay. Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used, It goes to payin’ rent, An’ after all the bills are paid, We wonder where it went. We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps, An' then our weddin' rings; Then when we couldn't pay the loan, They sold the 'dad-blamed' things. We felt real bad a day or two But then we let it go, Cause it got Christmas for the kids When money got real slow. When hard times come they sit a spell, Don't matter who you are; They'll cost ya things you've set aside, An' clean your cookie jar. You'll loose some sleep an' worry some, Won't pay to moan an' groan; But hang on to your happiness, They'll finally leave ya 'lone.

Copyright © Jim Fish

More great poems below...

Details | Work Poem | |

A Joyless Job

At the window, palms under my chin,
such beauty I see, out the frosted pane,
I was mesmerized, it showed in my grin,
so picture perfect, the snow covered lane.

My daydream was dashed, Mom called from the door,
"time to brave the cold and clear the sidewalk,"
grabbed my winter coat and boots from the floor,
I hate this chore, but knew not to back-talk.

"Don't slip on the ice, watch out for the plow,"
I hear, as orange shovel meets concrete,
shouldn't the county have this done by now?,
this takes all day, with snow piled up in feet.

Why freeze for allowance, I'll never know,
yet, I still find myself shoveling snow.

November 18th, 2014

Sara Kendrick's contest - "Jobs"

Copyright © Kelly Deschler

Details | Work Poem | |

Who Am I

I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend

I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies 
through speaking my thoughts into existence

I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance 
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen

I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery 
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry

I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards

I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels

I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent  of it

I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
Judge that

I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?

Copyright © humble b

Details | Work Poem | |

Faith, Trust and Irony

She's dressed in freshly laundered scrubs,
a floral top and pants pale blue.
There for a moment to hand me a gown,
and tell me what to do.

As I'm getting undressed, she checks on a man,
he's in the room right next to mine.
He's crying in pain and begging for help,
I hear her tell him that he'll be fine.

A few moments later, the crying has stopped,
as she leaves she turns out his light.
Whatever she did, it's done the trick,
he'll be able to sleep tonight.

She's back with me now and with her this time,
she has her tools in tow.
It's 3 in the morning and she must be tired,
but if she is it doesn't show.

Thermometer ready to check my 'temp,
lift my tongue and tuck it under.
As she wraps the black cuff around my arm,
I watch her and I wonder.

Working twelve hour shifts,
three days off then four days on.
Has she a husband or any children,
who miss her when she's gone?

Does she like cooking or singing?
Does she paint or like to read?
The needle, she pricks me, with such precision,
I hardly even bleed.

My IV's in place, my medicine given,
she says goodnight with eyes so kind.
Just as I'm drifting off into sleep,
a thought suddenly enters my mind.

To this woman I leave my health in her hands,
a serious matter, this isn't a game.
It strikes me as crazy just how much I trust her,
when all I know of her is simply her name.

By~Michelle Lacey

Copyright © Michelle Lacey

Details | Work Poem | |

Response of A Harried Housewife To Her Spouse

“The children are always interrupting. You never have time for me,” her husband whined as he dropped his dirty clothes right there on the floor by the bed. Trying not to roll her eyes, she gave this quick response to her disgruntled spouse: “The kids, chores and mishaps have me spinning, and you tell me you feel rejected. To have a blissful home takes two. Consideration is key. I’m also missing you! To be successful in our bed, take time OUT of it. . . for ME!” A Double Etheree written May 27, 2012 for David Williams' The Three H's Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

Details | Work Poem | |

A Collapsing Yippie

It seems like everybody around me has forgotten,
they're stuck on a thought again,
saying alot and whining more.
Preying on their own self-doubts,
they have so much,
yet see so little.
so stubborn.
Can't they see that 64 inch TV,
or feel the beating of the jets in their hot tub ?
They measure their lives too much,
they have fallen into the "Great American Dream Sham"
as my friend "Chad Williams Lowther" would say !
Its a ruse,
an antidote,
so they can make changes in their lives which they normally wouldn't do,
because they lack the strength and insight,
so they get stuck in their minds.
Wheels spin,
tears fall,
marriages crumble
and the damn kids are really suffering,
cause they don't have the latest video gizmo box.
Thoughtless over-reactions of self- abuse,
much like an addict who is never satisfied.
"The Great American Dream Sham" sucked them in,
they forgot,
macroni and cheese,
saturday morning cartoons and matinees.
All replaced by todays goals and desires,
which are masquerading as tired souls trying to find solice,
stuck in "the Great American Dream Sham"
and now saying all there is to say,
Hail, Hail to me 
and all who are free,
all who go their own way
and all who see though it !

Copyright © mark king

Details | Work Poem | |

A Woman's Work Is Never Done

"A Woman's Work Is Never Done",
a phrase that's often heard.
There's a lot of truth that's hidden,
just in those few words.

She has to cook and clean the house
and get her youngsters off to school.
She does the laundry and the shopping
and teaches kids the "Golden Rule".

She drives them to the movies
and attends their school events.
She satisfies her husbands needs,
her life is real intense!

She asks for little in return,
she just does what must be done.
She feels it's all the woman's job,
and sometimes, it's even fun!

So kudos to those women.
Let's stand and give a toast.
They accomplish all these many tasks,
for the folks that they love most.

Next time the phrase is uttered,
"A Woman's Work Is Never Done",
pray that God will bless them all,
each and every one!

Many thanks to all you ladies.
God bless each and everyone of you.

Copyright © RALPH TAYLOR

Details | Work Poem | |

New Dawn

As I roll out of bed tomorrow
I’m gonna say goodbye sorrow
Fare thee well Mr. Cynicism
See you later Mr. Pessimism
Adios to Mr. Skepticism
Exit negativity, enter positivity
No procrastination and inactivity 
An idle mind is the devils workshop
That’s why I’ll exert myself nonstop
No more misery and depression
As exuberance replaces dejection
Success is around the corner
It’s coming now and not later
Victory is surely heading my way
No matter what people may say
I quit banking my future on luck
Time has come to break the duck
A new dawn has shown its face
My home will be a better place
I’m a potential winner, a true born victor
Within me lies a superstar, a megastar
No I’m not building castles in the air, 
I’m not dreaming, I’m not hallucinating
I have to earn my place in history
Put a good ending to my unfinished story
My story is about confidence, not arrogance
I advocate humility, not vanity
Trials and tribulation come and go
Sticky situations are not unique to you
But we all know as well as you do
You need hard work and determination 
For the youth, education is the only solution
You’ve got to make the decision
To extract yourself from destitution 
Leave nothing at all to chance
For fortune favours the brave
No sweet without sweat, no pain, no gain
Each time you fall recollect and try again
A dream doesn’t become reality through magic
Lazy genius is not only sad but also tragic
Stay focused, keep your eyes on the prize
There is no substitute for hard work
There are no secrets to success
Only in the dictionary does success precede work
We are all gifted, skilled and talented 
Unshackle that innate ability 
Let loose that latent capability
I’m gonna prepare, plan and plot
Execute and give it my best shot
Until the day that I hit the jackpot

Copyright © John Pen

Details | Work Poem | |

Keep It Turnin' to the Right

Oklahoma cowboy, tough coal miner’s son
Born in Henryetta, south of Tulsa some
Raised by daddy’s momma, taught him wrong from right
Daddy taught him ropin’, taught him how to fight
Herding made no money, its stock was really down
Mamaw feeling poorly, dad mining at Old Town
December seventeenth, in the year of twenty-nine
Dad was shoring timber, 9th west entry of the mine
The gas ignited close to him, he never smelt its breath
It belched out fire and thunder, and everlasting death
Sixty-one they counted, who wouldn’t see the sun
Twenty-five weren't recognized, they buried them as one
On that fatal Tuesday, the boy became a man
Had to make a living, had to have a plan
Heard about the oil patch, got a chance to try it
Drill the earth for all she’s worth; keep it turnin' to the right

Some they called him weevil, some they called him worm
Some they wouldn't speak to him, figgered he was just short term
They told him "Open up that vee door; go to get the key
It's in the possum belly, in doghouse number three"

Took his turns at floor hand, at first a little green
Became the fastest broke out hand the driller ever seen
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

The driller called him partner; the pusher called him son
The other roughnecks shook his hand, and took him in as one
Got up on the monkeyboard; learned to spin the chain
Pumped that mud and shed his blood, and worked right through the pain

On a bitter frosty evening tour, in a cold December snow
He saw derricks lit like Christmas trees in distance far below
He saw the fairyland of the refinery, shining through the night
He saw Mother Earth and the universe, all turning to the right

The oil patch was a hard life, moving all the time
But he saved a lot of money, didn't waste a dime
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

Sent his kids to college, working through the years
One became a teacher, the others engineers
He hung up his hardhat; he shed his steel-toed shoes
Then one day he passed away; he'd finally paid his dues

Made it to the Pearly Gates; they handed him his wings
Handed 'em right back to them; said "I don't need these things.
I want to do some drilling. That's my heavenly plan."
They said "Go talk to the Devil then, cause he's the company man."

Old Scratch needed hellfire; he always come up short
Too many politicians and others of that sort
When he heard they had a driller, he jumped up with delight
He danced a jig, "You've got your rig. Keep it turnin' to the right."

Now he drills for hellfire; in the derrick he's got Jake
Buck and Sam on the platform; Sonny's on the brake
They all grin like demons; they're all where they belong
Doing what they love to do, they sing their roughneck song

"We all eat caliche and drink the devil's brew
Play dominos with Satan and skunk him at forty-two
Work all day on Sunday and honky-tonk all night
We're oilfield trash and we'll take cash to keep it turnin' to the right

We all love West Texas; it's like the Promised Land
Horny toads and rocky roads, and even dunes of sand
Dust storms every morning, northers every night
We get tans and freeze our cans to keep it turnin' to the right"

The lingo used around the rig you won't hear much in church
It'll curl your hair and make you stare and leave you in the lurch
So close your eyes and realize it's gonna get much worse
Drink your beers and plug your ears; here comes the final verse

"We p*ss longneck Lone Stars; we f*rt Frito pie
Give us ****, and we will spit some Red Man in your eye
Don't **** with us, or we will cuss and bring you to the fight
We're low class, but we kick *** to keep it turning to the right"

Coal mining, oil drilling and Hell - Doesn't get much darker and deeper...

Copyright © Roy Jerden

Details | Work Poem | |

My father is a Soldier

My father is a hero.
He stands so tall and proud.
His hands are firm, But gentle.
He stands out in a crowd.
People stop to Thank him.
For Freedom he does fight.
My father is a Soldier.
But he's my Dad at night!

Copyright © christie mills

Details | Work Poem | |

A Supreme Summer

Out doors a place of freedom where
prying eyes could not restrain the vibrancy. 
School’s out, summer sunshine, crisp morning light,
cuts through the fog of parental restraint.
Blue jeans, tee shirts, Keds and an orange and 
black striped bumble-bee bus of 
prepubescent girls off for their first day
of summer work, farm work.

Bagged and boxed lunches held tight, their
hands taped white to shield them from the
sticky yellow nicotine sap, the itch,
a rash of budding beauty among the 
burgeoning rows of new stalk green.
Tobacco as far as the eye can see
rises on cane-like stalks. The furrowed
fields are uncovered now in the July sun.

Gaggles of girls in candy colors, sweet and sour girls,
tall and short girls, rows of girls among the cane.
Poled lines spanned the rows above the rising canes.
Little twisters walked the gullies tying off each plant,
around the rising stem a hairy-brown twine was laced,
between the fan shaped leaves of dollar green.
Early summer passed, coloring cheeks pink,
and skin to golden brown.

The stalks rose like seeds from Jack. By the first of 
August, they’d topped the girls and the cheesecloth
shades were rolled above. Steamed in the August sun
deflowered-the children were watered and by 
State Law occasionally rested and retrieved if
the temp rose past one-hundred and five below the nets.
Any bit of uncovered skin was burnt or 
tarred black daily by then-harvest time.

Shooed into the darkened sheds Consolidated 
on the dirt floor the stringers stood, sewing 
machines with piles of slats beside them, one girl per machine
two hands, two leaves, in they went between the belted teeth
and the needle lanced. It also lanced tired fingers.
Piecework; I can’t remember the pay scale but
they called it piecework and it was too. [a fine piece of work]
It took bits of you away every day.

But in the dark, high up in the rafters, the darkies
hung the bounty, handsome black Jamaican boys
crews of boys with lilting tongues and they sang,
and we sang “Come See About me.”
We worked, and we sang “Baby Love”
It was a supreme summer. 
On our own, a bloomin’ summer
where all of life was ripe for the pickin’. 

*picking tobacco

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Work Poem | |

Gold Dredging

                                                        Gold Dredging

                                                 Early morning first light
                                 Camped on the rugged, mountainous terrain
                             Out of our warm sleeping bags and tent we crawl
                        To the smells of pine and clean fresh air of the mountain
                              Wood starts a sizzling, spitting, crackling campfire
                             For early morning hot coffee and a warm breakfast
                                         I Dress in tee shirt and swim suit,
                                               Hubby is in his wet suit

                                           We walked down to the creek
                              Pull the dredge into the creek and get it started
                            When he hits bedrock where gold might be hiding
                                    I stand beside the sleuth watching the
                                           Gravel run over the riffles
                                       I make sure the riffles stay clean
                                                So the heavy gold
                                  Will deposit behind them and on the mat
                               I see the flash of color and utter excitement
                                     I yell, “We've hit gold,” impatient
                                       With my tweezers and small jar
                                              For safekeeping and
                                               I keep on cleaning

                  When the day is done, tired, wet, and weary as a drowned rat
                                 We clean the miners mat into a bucket
                   By the campfire we sit and pan our gold from the black sand
                       After the hard day’s work we undertook, it is wonderful
                              To see all the sparkling gold dust in my pan

                                     The same warm excited feeling
                                     I felt when my husband placed
                                 My gold wedding band on my finger

Contest: Periodic Table of Elements
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen

Copyright © Eve Roper

Details | Work Poem | |

New Deal

New Deal

Black Tuesday
     October 1929
     Vanishing wealth; stocks decline

Great Dust Bowl
     Windstorms and drought, top soil gone
     Breadbasket empty; nature’s con

     He’s the man, New Deal imposed
     Opportunities renewed; hopes rose

New Deal Reigns
     Work offered by the CCC
     Saves the lost American dream

Recession Echo
     The winter plunge 2009
     Who will save our dreams this time?

Reality Knocks
     Frustration with Congress, current events
     November elections a time to vent

New Deal Needed
     Americans looking for leadership
     Power from sheep about to be stripped

*For Constance, a Rambling Poet’s “Create your own form, maybe?” contest
By Carolyn Devonshire
I work frequently in this form that I choose to call “Headline Couplets.”  It includes a 
headline followed by rhyming couplets that address the concept, person or event in 
the first line of three-line verses.  Probably inspired by my years as a journalist.

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Work Poem | |

Doctor Ram: The Soup's Golden Voice

our beloved brother from India Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold board his magic carpet woven with wit, intellect and insight soar through sagas steeped in mythology captivating revelations on cultural tradition unique perspectives on historical events clever concepts conveyed with humor psychology, philosophy, behavior observations materialize as “Mehtaisms” stirring the soup adding spice to the broth supporting work of members new and old our international melting pot enriched by the work of a Literary Doctor salute a special sage who graces us with gifts Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold
* Dedicated to Dr. Ram Mehta in honor of Joe Maverick’s “Better than Gold” contest

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Work Poem | |


We are sound.  Of mind and soul. 
We are sound of earth and gold
We are sound.

We are sound, of constant grind 
Fire and coal we are sound.

If GOD BE told, we are sound
Of strife and right  
We are sound, of toil and might 
Of fist  and fight 
We are sound

Of listless days and  raging nights 
We are sound.  

Of blood and mud 
We are sound

Of tattered shares and ragtag flair
We are sound.
Of guts and fury we are sound
Of grave yard fears, we are sound

This is the song of the renowned 
Pound the ground we are sound.


Details | Work Poem | |

An Angel In Disguise

An Angel In Disguise He labors in the field in blazing sun Beneath a sky of blue with clouds of white... His wagon and his farmer tools at hand. With wide brim hat and buttoned shirt undone, From dawn to dusk he works the blessed land… Brings life to fertile soil with brawn and might. His heart is happy in the time he spends To make a good life for his new-found bride, To be together come the sun or rain, To share in nourishment from crops he tends; To bear the long hot days, sore muscles, pain His work demands in order to provide. And now he has an angel by his side... She stands by him throughout his work-filled days… Her hours are long with chores of farm life too. And in the evening both at rest abide The coming of the next day to renew Their modest joys in life of simple ways. So often through the day she is right there At window of the hay-filled barn to see, With loving cat held closely in her arm, Her dear strong man, if he is taking care To work the field without her fear of harm… His angel in disguise…dear wife is she. © Sandra M. Haight 2015 All Rights Reserved ~1st Place~ Contest: An Angel in Disguise – Painting #7 Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst Judged: 03/20/2015 Rhyme Scheme: a-b-c-a-c-b

Copyright © Sandra Haight

Details | Work Poem | |

My Chair of Support

My favourite chair
Said to me one night
Hey! Highlander
What you going to write
Is it going to be a fantasy
A Haiku or a Senyru
What ever comes from your thoughts
It's from the inner you
I have supported and rested 
While you have written your writes
From many an afternoon
Into the early morning light
You never get frustrated
You just sit and ponder
For you know there are words
They are just out yonder
This partnership we have
Will remain as close as ever
Until the end of our days
Will be the time to sever
We will continue to be
One and the same
I to support you
With poetry your aim

My entry into Matt Caliri's contest " Speak chair! Speak! "

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Work Poem | |


Sitting in a cloak of black conservatism:

I feel my hands,
oily on the desk like shortening in
slate gray cookie pans,
the speedway inside forcing the absence of 

And my thoughts,
so flippant to implore
if a man with a chartreuse neck tie
can see the long wet streaks
across the cherry plane.

He speaks,
a sequence of interrogatives
common to the bored walls
of serious conference,
evoking tone inflection
in the pattern of polite.

Darest I mention truth?

I am your whore;
infect me with smug integrity,
smack me with false prophet leadership,
just leave some crisp bills
on the nightstand, sugar.

Yet my voice models his wavelength,
relaying back the catchy tired language
of one hit wonders;
eyes brighten,
hands extend
from the man who owns a chartreuse tie.


awards a loaf of Wonder bread,
and a two bedroom lower.

Copyright © Michele Nold-Godleske

Details | Work Poem | |

the ladder

                                           THE LADDER

everyone wants to climb the ladder
success is at the top
rewards await those who make the climb
Steady progress is all it takes

sacrifices along the way
no time for kids or  friends
working and working with a little luck
and soon you are at the top

the view from there is great to see
with perks and power to spare
then, one day, the climb is over
and the move back down has begun

the downward climb has a different feel
your thoughts are different now
you don't want to go all the way down
the Mercedes might have to go

you look for a place to step off now
where a comfort level lies
one important thing stands out to you
to be happy the rest of your life

you dont need the county clubs
four cars in the garage
just your family around to keep
with no traffic jams or conference calls

a nice warm bed to lay your head
three meals to keep you full
a quiet place to sit and swing
and a dog to pat on the head

the corporate world is now far away
I have all that I need right here
my love's brought me some cold iced tea
I will drink, take a nap and smile

Copyright © john matthews

Details | Work Poem | |

Sweet Purpose

I have come to the point of decision
And I have decided in favour of love

Wisdom is not solely measured by experience
But more by capacity for it
I have glimpsed deep into history
I have sieved through its successes 
...for the soundest advice I could find
Most profound I have received from the greatest achievers in its archives

I am a Student of Life
I am a Wordsmith of Optimism 
And I am a Mason of the Castles of Dreams
This Trinity of Purpose for me goes hand in hand, side by side
Each benefits the other
Issue is, they set me apart from the others

Here I am, young when I should be intoxicated with the fads of modernity
Fortified with skills that are eager to pay the ordinary wages 
But nay, I am not to be beleaguered 
I focus ahead to perceive the greater rewards at the summation of days
For I place most value on the greatest wealth: WISDOM and HAPPINESS

I have come to the point of decision
And I have decided in favour of love

I choose to commit my heart entirely
To the work I love best
For it is this calling that shall liberate the sanctity of my humanity
The world I dwell in fathoms not a shred of my quest
For it views life through the lenses of reality

True as it may be that my work suffices not to endow me 
...with common currency in these economic times
The rationale of my perception discerns far beyond this temporary mist

Let them roar their throats in laughter at my perceived stupidity
But it is their children and their children’s children that shall benefit most 
...From this shelter of thoughts and dreams that for them I build

I expect no immediate remuneration for my onerous undertaking
For I rationalize it as a selfless gift to humanity
Hence I shall tap deep within to give all can give
I am determined to build this Shelter of Thoughts and Dreams
I have the basic skills hence I commit my willingness and ingenuity
The Good Gods shall present the mortar and bricks

The fear of failure has been permanently exiled from boarding my being
As my eyes are fixated on the prize
I am ready to pay the price

Copyright © Wiseton Prins

Details | Work Poem | |

Edgar Allan Poe

I was inspired once a long time ago
By something that I read
I never knew such amazing things
Could fill the inside of my head

I always thought that poetry
Was about love or romance,
I never knew it could be dark
Suddenly I was entranced.

A whole new world had opened up
And I could write about it all;
Anything that crossed my mind,
Anything I could recall.

And it was all because of a poem
I read one day at school;
The poem was entitled “The Raven”
And it was just so incredibly cruel,

I fell in love with the poem
And craved others that were the same;
But there was only one author that captured me 
Edgar Allan Poe was his name.

Every poem or story  that he wrote
Was like a beacon showing the way;
I never knew I could write about death
Without worrying what others would say

And so I took leaf out of his book,
And wrote about what I feel;
I was always afraid to express myself
But now it holds only appeal

Copyright © Tirzah Conway

Details | Work Poem | |

Journey of Dreams

Into art,
Casting myself,
I am focused with no destination.

For Brian's FIVE & TWENTY contest

Copyright © Raul Moreno

Details | Work Poem | |

Early Winter Farm Chores

Early Winter Farm Chores

Shall I muse at midnight on the morning sun
now hiding very far beyond the pale.
Dread farmyard chores needing to be done
as morn sun rises over hill and dale.

Warm in bed, staying would be a disgrace
when winter marches in far too soon.
Tarry late and hot glowing embers embrace
to rise late only in a lazy afternoon!

Or instead jump from this warm , soft bed
racing on out when red rooster crows.
Quickly getting pigs and chickens well fed
all long before the cold winter snows!

Up early before morning's sweet sunlight.
Another farming day, another long fight.

Robert J. Lindley, 10-01-2015

Note-- Edited an older poem from back in the 80's.
Shortened into a sonnet..

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Work Poem | |

Tanka 3

silently I lie awaiting I await thee a wry smirk greets me sighted precision confirms sporadic crimson now speaks

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Work Poem | |

Retail Christmas 2

It's one week till Christmas
And we've had enough
Of grumpy old shoppers
Complaining about stuff.

They hate the line-ups,
They hate the cashiers.
They won't be happy 
Till they have us in tears.

The things they are after
Are long gone from the store.
They find it incredulous
We won't be getting more.

Last minute shoppers 
Are a pain in the rump.
Each night by closing
This place looks like a dump.

One more week to go,
I sure hope we make it
But in the meantime
We'll just smile and fake it.

Copyright © Francine Roberts