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Long Career Poems | Long Career Poetry

Long Career Poems. Below are the most popular long Career by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Career poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Primal Questions

Do I want to only look at new ones,
never been used,
or is that a too restrictive market,
too competitively priced
for virginity of place and relationship on Earth?
And, is such redemptively-intended virginity
an asset or a deficit,
in which ways?

Could I rather shop in a wider market,
someplace more gently used
and well-maintained,
someplace with smooth natural wood and stone,
rich in character
and not the smell of fresh acrylic paint,
when I could have wisteria and roses
lavender and mint
wafting through those big brown
or blue
or grey
or hazel door and window frames.

If this prospective relationship
does not bring sanity and health and pleasure and beauty
then is that not a contract violation
and time to be thinking about separation
so Self and Others can get back into our confluent market
for a better fit with this Time;
not a decade ago?

Have my needs
and wants
and preferences changed,
while my life partner's and vocation's may feel
boxed in,
no more room for additions,
lack of flexible floor plan,
too big or too small?

It happens.

Have I changed my definition of paradise
"beloved community"
is not who I am still investing in.
My fellow pilgrims, and places, and their path,
seem entrenched in incompatibility.
They have grown older,
more cracks in the plaster,
wear in the not-so-natural rugs,
missing some shingles on the roof.
Does the view from outside
look more like a weedpatch,
than my intended investment in paradise?

While shopping used expands your permacultural potential,
it also brings its baggage.
All that good and/or bad karma
yours for a down payment
but not always part of what you bargain for.
Did I ask if anyone had ever been murdered here,
or how many toxic fantasies cast their shadows?
Is this place/person service/product/plant
swimming in carcinogens,
tumorous habits growing mold under the roof?
What is prior experience with abuse,
neglect,
deferred maintenance?

Do I have a right to know, to be informed? Could I ask prior co-habitors and contractors with a prospective position/vocation/place/person:

Why are the two of you going your separate ways?
Was this your decision or did it feel more like
your house/spouse/employer gave you no choice?
If it was your choice,
if you have moved on
to something more to your liking,
rather than merely running away
from a smelly situation,
then what does your current relationship
offer you
by way of contentment,
and peace,
with justice and beauty and health,
that is lacking in my prospective investment?

Perhaps there were reasons unrelated to your vocational satisfaction.
Maybe you couldn't afford to stay any more?
Is this place/person high maintenance, do you think?
Too heavily taxing,
bleeding you through inflated costs of living,
working,
divesting,
dispossession of responsibility
and/or authority,
too much Win-Lose gaming?

Are there problems in the neighborhood/extended family
that I should know about?

Does the plumbing still work?

Are the lights on but nobody's home?

Would you recommend your house/spouse/job
to your best in-the-market friend?
Why or why not?
What interior and exterior landscape and design issues
did you have?
What did you find were your interior and exterior relational strengths
for future development?
Knowing what you have learned
through your own investment experience,
who do you think would be the ideal partner
for this former place now in my face?

Too much information, or appropriate responsibility to be informed
of which economic and political incarnations we embrace?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Corpus

          Corpus

                     in words 
designs 
             coloured structures   
  tones                                   movements
       all the multifarious ways of being savvy      earnest
                                                       of show-looking  in earnest
                                                              of believing in earnestness
                         of wanting to be thought of in earnest
            by being read thumbed 
     scrutinised       listened to in silence
                              
                    who shores up whose image

« when the feeling comes, I feel the need to go » … 
                                                                            Sekoto said
      looking into the guest with devouring Picasso eyes
       
   and yet his image bothered him
              his need to be felt useful        needed  
                                                      to be thought of as in the know
        no background to lay the usual foundation
    Ecole des Beaux Arts  
		Atelier in the Rue des Augustins
            no one to lean on to
     only the self-peddled jazz piano   a lolling pittance
        and the loud lingering death at the Maison des Artistes
     canvasses    stached away at some brocanteur’s junkyard
     

it matters to leave behind a corpus
     a bibliography firsthand original    right from the tréfonds
         long before  death 
   the diurnal deaths   
                      felled by dizzy spells
   
 some ex-librarian’s list of secondary source pieces
                         articles talks opening-day speeches conferences radio-interviews
                             tv declarations chapters-in-books edited revised --editions reviews biblios
             tertiary lists of critiques 
       unsigned TLS reviews        communications 
                what the editor said in memoirs of his peers

      not to have said enough is not enough

there will be those who will attribute what others have said to us

we have made provision for that
       we told so and so what the others have taken from us
                                             with a word carefully placed in the leeward of the ear
              while sitting in the din of the rear seat    words garbled gobbled by the exhaust beat

to have left behind a load 
    heavy with prizes pounds royalties titles
                                                    by the dozens  even scores
  definitive recapitulative editions in velours 
                                                                                             
       computerised translations         transvesti(t)es 
     
        through years of solitude sans sexe sans joie sans care may the publisher be
        
      forever loading to jettison 
the heavier the corpus the longer/longslower 
                                                                           the worm rot in the      
            mud   catacombs of staring accusing 
skulls  



From the privately-pub. coll. (rev. 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems), Paris : 1999, 115p.

© T.Wignesan - Paris
Fresnes, November 6, 1994 

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

The Job Interview

The HR person called me in… I was turning gray… Was he even twenty-one?
I wondered if the interview would go well, as he did fung shui the chairs around.
Offered a caramel expresso mocha late decaf, I told him I took my coffee black.
Alas my friend, it got progressively worse, this: our proverbial generational gap.

He asked me to explain, how I’d be the best personnel fit, for this illustrious job.
Ah! Experience I had in abounds, as I pulled out a 100-page resume, neatly bound.
That question, had me off and running, but I knew, I was in some trouble when…
I saw his eyes glaze over, and he ask me, ‘Have we made it into space yet?’

He smirked, when he ask, about ‘Recent’ applicable education, in the last 5 years.
I condensed my course certifications till he nearly fell off, his crazy chair, my dear!
He ask the projects worked on, unfortunately, all were government secret classified. 
So I added some of the numerous skills, that had been applied, till he almost cried.

I started with the job descriptions, but he didn’t like… that the names were so long.
And the abbreviations normally used, in this line of work, almost blew his mind.
Though I also got the feeling, he may have thought that I’d finally, lost mine, since…
My accomplishments had scads of stuff he’d never, ever, be able to comprehend...

You know, ‘things’ about the job, HR doesn’t care about or bother to be clued in.
Luckily all was saved, before the interviewers’ jaw, hit the floor around his chair.
Using a power point presentation, illustrations appeared, giving him a better clue.
I even gave him a burned DVD, set to the music of  ‘Live Free or Die Hard’, too.

He ask about items, he’d never heard of, you know, from way before he was born.
But got the feeling he’d be more attentive, talking about a computer game going on.
I didn’t lie about a thing, it’s not my fault some Companies are now closed down!
But I felt things were somewhat a success, as security finally came to lead me out…

Unfortunately, in the end, they hired a young one, and I couldn’t understand why.
He was a quiet, little, studious kid, who didn’t say a thing, but had stars in his eyes.
He didn’t understand any of the work involved, but his pay would be next to none.
But that's whom they got: until that company closed for work that couldn’t be done.

All because the HR Department didn't help them get the workers they did need.
I became self-employed, developing computer games, all the rage! Oh So Sweet!
Yes, I became a millionaire, with my own company, without HR, anywhere seen!
Now, we develop rockets to go into space, where I felt, that HR person should be.

Dedicated to all those Middle aged people stressed out after looking for a job.
Wife and Hubby Collaboration

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by Katie Pukash | Details |

SuperHero

They call me hairdresser, hairstylist, barber,
but really I am just a therapist with shears in my hands and the ability to cut memories out of peoples orbits.

Donna says she has twenty seven great-grandchildren,
twelve grandchildren,
and six kids.
She tells me that her late husband died,
and that if I cut her hair too short she will wring my neck. 
She calls me superhero.

Dustie tells me about her child passing,
that the autopsy couldn’t tell why,
just a selfish god wanted her precious to be with him instead of her.  
I don’t cry. 
I try not to fill the shampoo suds with salt tears.
I try not to use the tape in my pocket to keep me together,
but sometimes I need it when I bite the bitter from my fingernails.
The cut hair sticks to my leggings-
their stories itching away at me. 


I try not to cradle their shortcomings in my cereal spoon,
try not to feel guilty if my advice doesn’t take,
try not to kill the blue jays,
or miss the sunrise.
I try not to forget their names,
or their fingers,
but I will never forget their stories. 

Cut me like an a-line
because I am asymmetrical to their words.
Listening but forgetting.
Sweeping up the hair and moving on,
always snip, sweep, snip, sweep,
dust off my shoulders and I’m back up again.

Glass house salon chair,
I hold their hair at a ninety degree angle.
They sink in the seat
always looking back at me.
180 degree angle, modified ninety,
texture with razor but don’t cut off the length of their stories.
Remember their fingers.
Remember their formulas for changing.
Remember their eye color and the size of their pupils,
the way they look when they talk to you.
Remember to take notes like Marilee’s hair is resistant and takes a longer time to process.
Remember the process,
the hilite weave,
the caramels, golds, coppers, blondes. 
Remember their voices,
the stable and shaky and cracked and firm.
Remember to snip, sweep, snip, sweep,
dust off your shoulders and get back up again.

I’ve got to sit up straight,
grip the watermelons,
eat the pepper seeds,
tame the lions.
I have to crawl when the soles of my feet are covered in sorrows
And my knees harbor hopes for holding me up,
joining my joints together,
connecting me from floor to foot, to stomach, to lung, to heart, to heart, to dust off your shoulders and get back up again.

Donna comes in again, for a perm this time. 
She walks slowly to the salon chair.
My stomach is hollow.
I weep into my lungs.
As I begin to put on my suit she looks up at me
and smiles
and says, “Hello, Superhero.”





Copyright © Katie Pukash | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Amit Ray | Details |

A Mulatto


Otto`s life is not
their British
sickular motto
Grue is his banner
left by his
blue-eyed Brit mom
left long by one of
those hated South
African Paki
His guilty pleasures
in Green Street have
no recognition like
many such Aussies in
mulberry bushes
Yet he shovels the
stake of hatred and
grows
As if sheer pain as
tears digged large
holes in

A pineapple in
search of an apple
lurking in the dark
reality of snark and
disembark
A noir youth
shadowed ,embroiled
and embezzled
So is his life-an
aisle of
resiscitation
Identity crisis
hackneyed into codes
for statistics
they call secularism

His way melds
through smog hogs he
hoggard for heydays
eats grief, drinks
sorrow
Flowers though bloom
on his washed soil
Seasonal affluenza
and again bailiffs
and treasons
Anacronym to London
Bailey courts
No star and no moon
and no jack in the
trade that allured
From marijuana to
cocaine he manscaped
to Spain

Years unheard he
found at last his
identity
Jubilations in
star-spangled
banners
living with his
Andalusian mare in
the city of angels
People who
undermined him once
are now just
emoticons,
mere dissidents of
an earlier
impropriety
Adamant and
spanglish he
continues his
inspiration
from cartrels in
Cuba to brothels in
Colombia,
to escorts in
Dominican his blood
strengthened in the
verizon of Panama

Enter the new duel
from drugs to
bodacious babes
Gringa melones
versus latina
buttocks
though he remained
dormant in all those
fracas
Gasohol stealing
expensive Davidsons
and long drive for
prime contacts
his frarority
Though warned and
caught and
handcuffed and
jailed and derailed
a few times from Sao
Paolo to San Antonio
Unfazed a prophetic
man for some
eveready treasures
he found new breasts
to grab somebody -a
kosher barbarian
-cut-glass
Rhabarberbarbara is
his broken glass
fortune
Women are always
pleasure,sort of
beautility
The Interpol
announced him in
Moscow after a trail
of long bellowing
Mistaken and misled 

Beyond every
speculations and
delishful
explorations he
continues
Chillax mood in
Russian vodka and
Austrian redbull and
background Swedish
mafia beats
A highwayman is he
now way away his
breath from their
breathalyzers
In New York he bonks
in those  trader`s
stocks
Brunch with Japan
and now a doting
father of two
Beyond every hatred
what started a
movement in
Christianity in
Europe
He celebrates
Thanksgivukkah and a
regular blogger in
diplonomics

Copyright © Amit Ray | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Rhoda Monihan | Details |

A Visit From a Social Worker

His hand reached out to mine, open, 
Holding it, I smiled, our eyes danced with understanding, 
Form and blush outlined his expectations, 
But I could see that there may be fear inside. 

Mary restated their predicament, 
That the child was born out with the marriage bond, 
And that people were swaying to the opposite side, 
And course dialogue, laughter and spitting were norm. 

So I asked the two for their thoughts and predictions, 
About the child, if he perhaps could be like, special?
And they specified that he would cure, heal and exorcise, 
And also promised that they’d talk to him about the poor. 

Could this baby be the messiah?
I pondered and hoped in their certainty; 
Was this the predicted son of god? 

He would be free from aggressive victimisation, 
If we could just name him as god's son.

So I suggested to his parents, 
That if the wise men came with a quest, 
To accept the name Jesus Christ, 
And certify the census, no less. 

Freedom for some is in lying, 
When there’s no possible alternatives, 
But I believe Joseph never lied, 
In the population census of Bethlehem,
That just so happened to pass by. 

The baby hadn’t been named, 
Only the parents last name was changed, 
Made credible for interaction, 
For currency and ware to be exchanged. 

The child would have been suppressed by all, 
Assumed to be dirty and unclean, 
Not for chat or dialogue, 
And certainly not for work in a trade of his call, 
Or for work in any trade for that matter. 

Nothing would ever have been done, 
The poor would never have been healed, 
Or not so quickly for sure in history;
The government would not have been rifled, 
And Christ would not have come. 

Treating the poor for health problems,
Would have come through government legislation,
A long time after Christ,
In an austere, aloof manner.

People to people relationships,
Would not have been respected,
If care had been awarded top-down,
By bureaucrats and officials: 
As supervisors of the protected.

Society at that time was narrow minded,
Stuck in traditional religion;
There were outcasts, sinners, infectious people,
And assumptions were remedial and red:
There were no special people,
No exceptions to the rule,
Only one place for the messiah confided.

One baby matters to me, 
A life should be saved at any cost and risk, 
Because the abilities you show when young, 
Shouldn’t be muffled or labeled regressive, 
But nurtured in acceptance and love.

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Sheri Fresonke Harper | Details |

Mastering My Life

The day was short and I was tall,
oops, got that backwards after my fall,
for I was mixed up and worried,  befuddled I say
on this brand new morning in the month of May.
I set out like a flash and look what I saw
not much as you may point and guffaw
as without my glasses I followed my assets
like a dog with a tail but with far less facets--
my nose may quiver but I sniff far less
the reason I’m off as you might obsess
is the cleanliness rule is so often boohoo
so boring and dreary, I’m afraid someone may sue
me for the dust in the corners or tiny feet
who confront me and scurry as fleet as may skeet.
Ah, there they are, hanging around my neck!
Glasses sure make the world look like heck.
You see it and flee it as bold as one may
for look, it’s quite beautiful and sunny this day.
So I quaff one diet coke and with nerves prepared
I step out to take battle on the weeds I shared
for weeks on end with the neighborhood slough.
One must give back with fulsome ado dues.
Don’t you agree? I always agree it saves need to flee!
Why do you nod and sneeze like a bee?
Ah, the weeds, yes, let me clamber down there
And pull out tufts and Beware! The dirt I must share!
How does one deal with a face full of dirt,
why wipe it and the sweat on my new clean shirt.
Why not? It shows you’re living to the limit of full
and one certainly can quit when the cull is at lull.
Yes, a bucket is enough to start this week
because groan, my knees feel done in and weak.
So I shall water the flower beds sometime
after I watch the clouds float and unwind...
Did I pay the bills? Oh, yes indeed, I think yes.
Help me out, dear, don’t let me guess.
Okay, okay, here’s the hoe, I go check...
Yawn, wow, I did too much, I must hit the deck
rest in my easy chair and button my games
turning my head I fall asleep without blame.
Until I wake with a sputter and the phone cranky
making noise so much it must be hanky panky
And so after I groan, moan, and drink another diet coke
I set down to work on whatever I remember of the bloke
who once taught me about the drinking arcade
with buzzers and blowers and hints of life with no aid
and tell his tale with not much ado or PU
because keyboard tapping is easier than the loo,
or the weeds or the awake or the find of glasses.
Yes, I suggest, give me honor of many masses
to help with my head now lonesome for pills--
I will be finishing up by making a new will.

Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Mike Shoemaker | Details |

Billy Pugh

Twas the night before sunrise
and all through the warehouse,
not a creature was stirring
except Elmer, the field mouse.

It was 1962
And times were hard on mice.
Elmer had eaten this month
only twice.

Away to the bin
he scurried like a flash.
He squeezed under the door,
and irritated his little rash

He bobbed his head up,
and twitched his little nose.
“I think I’ve hit the jackpot!
They’ve got Lays and Fritos!”

He scratched and he clawed
He bit and he chewed
“Gee,” he wondered
“What am I going to do with all this food?”

“I guess I’ll take some home,
then come back and get more.
But just as he was thinking that,
there was a sound at the front door.

Elmer scurried away fast.
He had enough warning.
“But who could it be?” he thought.
“It’s 3:30 in the morning!”

Elmer’s eyes stuck to the entrance
like glue.
The door swung wide,
and in walked Billy Pugh.

He was a good-looking man,
but check out those bushy eyebrows!
To Elmer, they looked bigger
than what the law allows!

He guessed they were to cover those puffy eyes.
They looked like vanilla wafers!
He looked like he spent the night
at Heartbreakers!

Billy said not a word,
but went straight to his work.
He started to load his truck,
then turned with a jerk.

Now Billy wasn’t a temperate man,
but his blood pressure was up a bit.
“Someone’s made a mess in here!
And what’s this?  Mouse shit?”

Billy shook his head,
and with his arm gave a wave.
“I’ll clean it up later,
after a haircut and a shave.”

Billy’s pockets jingled when he walked.
He was a man of great wealth.
It wasn’t just his bankroll.
It was his pride, his happiness, and his health.

Elmer’s eyes widened as Billy
crouched near him on the floor.
“Eat all you want, mouse.
I’m sure we’ll make more.”

It was then that Elmer knew
That this man would go far.
He’d do some good things.
He’s shine brighter than the brightest star.

The years have gone by now,
And Billy shares the simple times of the past.
As long as his mind holds out,
the memories will last and last.

Elmer has looked in on Billy
from time to time.
He’s seen the new technologies.
He’s seen the Pepsi stock climb.

He saw him that last day,
just before he walked out the door.
Billy said “I’m old and I’m slow
and I can’t do 32 more.”

“No more of this.
Let the computers do the math.
I’m ready to find
my own golden path.”

Copyright © Mike Shoemaker | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Terrance Upham | Details |

Elegant Thoughts

The elegant thoughts of a precious mind the computational formula of a wicked demise. 
Conceptual seires of theories a conspiracy to seduce persuasive succulent poetry.  
Wicked mistress of promiscuous thoughts succulent dreams aromas of fresh gratuities a blurring of mixtures to blended abstracts.

 Funnels draining the gravity of intellectual force to persuade a complete set of cycling ways to convey. The Amoure of flashing movies pictured all in the thought whispering speeds of domesticating breeds many ways a heart bleeds. Bundles of delightful Joys the taste of blissful, many ways eye's see to conceive the thought. 

The almonds of joy roasted to enjoy conceptual way of a thinking blinking fast ways of thoughts.  Orchestra's of notes orchestrated instruments of Beethoven's musical symphonies.  Genie in a bottle unleashing the mysterious, unveiling imaginative ways of cultivating the seeded flower to bloom. 
Enduring the elegants of an elite Romance rhythm of a Romans aroma's to inhale changing the taste of eloquence. 

The artist works mending fears transducing hours to love live love with the sweat of fears8. 
 Rome's architectural wonder the protects precise sculpture of a wordsmiths glamour.  Struts the catwalk with a book 2 premiere, lives on set, broadcasting his heart to revere. 
Prince's of prancnig dressing rooms, Broadway St of dramatic dramas,  elterically shocking emotions paints new moon phases, mixture of Picasso's colors a dramatization of pain seats the audience. 

Photographer of a pictured humanity,  colors rainbows of negativity with brilliant prisms.  
A King to lion's spiritual pride brilliance of a star, rearrange the theater's of studed premieres, lives with sentiments of love's lifetime unconditionally the greatest of philosophy. 

Unique elegance of sun setting romance blinding the artist of a premiering wedding, preaching the marriage of universal energy. 
Rays of hope displaying poetry of  wholehearted hearted beauty. 
The statue of persuasive values premiering spiritually harmonies the elegance of mankind.. Energies of unleashed imaginations dreaming of pots of gold, loving the insecurities of the worlds diversity walks the testimony of £ove. 

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Pen's Broadcasting Brilliance 
     21st century's Poet
#WickedRomancer
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Copyright © Terrance Upham | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details |

A BLOCKBUSTER A POETRY DIVA

A BLOCKBUSTER A POETRY DIVA!
Introduction please:
:
Through the eyes of a Spiritual Healer, sees Oblivion Dark Sunshine. Visionary to her purpose, her life dances. She is in search of the ultimate right; nom de plume is her name. Her favorite flower is daffodil that blows in the wind. Effortlessly she speaks without a written cue. She is a poet and philosopher of the truth. When prompted, she leaves in confidence that she can provide you with the needed assistance you requested. Never a task will she take that she cannot complete. She is integrity and your virtual reality. In the mind of her people, she is heard. Candor is her way of administration. Her outspokenness is loved by all that know her. However, her honesty can hurt. Therefore, she guards her words to be more professional. Oblivion Dark Sunshine is a versifier, rhymester, bard, well written and there is more not said. Her wordsmith is published and this is all known well. We enjoy her through social media. Her books should be all shelves. A Life Poet and Philosopher A BLOCKBUSTER Her Psalmist thumb is a gift from God. She shares this with the world through a poetic verse. She liberates herself from any form of poverty. She delineates a world that is free. Naturally, she writes about anything. Oblivion is the sunshine to those that life vents darkness. Strenuously, are her themes; insofar, topics with universal meanings. She provides dogma, philosophy of meaning and truths, to communities and neighborhoods . With candor, she speaks outspokenly to withstand negativity. Prolific to the cause, her name will be recognized systemically. She thrives on esteem, truth, and self-worth. Copiously, she strives to be heard. Social media is her teeming vehicle. Oblivion Dark Sunshine is a versifier, rhymester, bard, well written and there is more not said. Her wordsmith is published and this is all known well. We enjoy her through public mediums. Her books are poetic instruments. Blockbuster Life Poet and Philosopher Oblivion Dark Sunshine Poetry Diva
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Verlena S. Walker UPDATED SEPTEMBER 15, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014


Long Poems