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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.

See also: Famous Long Poems

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,
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,
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

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

Long poem by Peter Duggan | Details |

Be careful what you wish for

Now here is the story of a restless young man
Who dreamed of fighting in South Vietnam.
He’d learned about war in the comics he’d read
And he knew in his heart that for this he’d been bred.
As soon as it came up, the lads eighteenth year
He went off to enlist for an army career.

He saw some old major and he sat for some tests
Then the  shrink and the doctor saw him with the rest
Of those gallant young fellows that wanted to fight
And give to their country the force of their might.
When all this was over it was late in the day
So feeling elated he for home made his way.

About two weeks later a letter arrived
And reading it’s message his spirits raised high.
For he’d been accepted a soldier he’d be
And the feel of the message did fill him with glee.
He had to front up in a couple of days
And then for Kapooka he’d be on his way.

Ten weeks in Kapooka it taught him a lot
He learned to make war and leave bodies to rot.
He was taugh how all commies just murdered and lied
And that he and his country had God on their side.
And that no sacrifice could be too great to make
And it’s an honour to die for a great country’s sake.

His training all over he joined a Platoon
He’d made Infanteer he’d be fighting soon.
It was off to corp training to learn even more
About all of the goodies that go with a war.
He kept seeing his image all tough, mean and strong
For he was a fighter and this was his song.

It was just eight months later that his posting came through
He was off to the jungles, his dream had come true.
Well his plane soon arrived at that sad Nui Dat
Where he first heard the guns as their missiles they spat.
He was fearful at first but he soon became calm
These guns were on his side they’d do him no harm

A month or two later he’s out on patrol
As tail end Charley He’s playing the role
They were deep in the scrub with peace all around
 Then the air came alive with this terrible sound.
He felt himself falling “Lord is this a dream”
He asked as he heard he his God awful scream.

He lay there not hurting but sensing the worst
As he felt all around where his stomach had burst.
Where once it was firm gaped a warn sticky hole
It seemed that again war had taken it’s toll.
It seemed like a nightmare, a terrible dream
As the medic assured him that it weren’t like it seemed.

He sensed the black silence and quickened with fear
For man stands alone when his end it be clear. 
Then something within him gave way to great peace
As his wisdom did whisper that all things must cease.
Then the great mother came, took him gently away
From that place of man’s anger where a body did lay.

A true story of a friend of mine who died in Vietnam written in 1975....Peter

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Long poem by Katie Pukash | Details |


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

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
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
A noir youth
shadowed ,embroiled
and embezzled
So is his life-an
aisle of
Identity crisis
hackneyed into codes
for statistics
they call secularism

His way melds
through smog hogs he
hoggard for heydays
eats grief, drinks
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
Jubilations in
living with his
Andalusian mare in
the city of angels
People who
undermined him once
are now just
mere dissidents of
an earlier
Adamant and
spanglish he
continues his
from cartrels in
Cuba to brothels in
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
though he remained
dormant in all those
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
Rhabarberbarbara is
his broken glass
Women are always
pleasure,sort of
The Interpol
announced him in
Moscow after a trail
of long bellowing
Mistaken and misled 

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

Copyright © Amit Ray

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

Long poem by Rainbow Promise | Details |

Double Careers

You may not "know" you cannot "tell", when one crosses 
over and Mesh!
But backgrounds never really leave, they show up in times 
of need.
Like a soldier on Reserve still knows and may be called in 
sometimes to serve.
But in the current position he may use skills such as electricity.

Much the same, if Basics are:Assess, Observe, Monitor, Teach, 
Evaluate, outcomes, Framework, Curriculum, Plan, Aim, have 
a Goal, Objective, safe environment, a method, be philosophical.
How could you really separate such similarities?

A double career for me is that, one teaches how to learn 
And the other all about what's wrong with you.
They both have a realistic view about moving on in life;
Stretching lifestyle changes, adaptation and adjustments too. 
They both show how to "look" deeper for signs to help
Improve strategies for health and learning too.

They both allow you to size-up a situation from head-to-toe.
In one you would look for things such as signs of discomfort, 
pain, stress, assess the need to learn.
In the other, as your "Charges" work or play assess learning 
needs, observe, make strategic plans.
Because of this, one may not know when he crosses over with 
Backgrounds from the Past, causing a mesh of similar things.

No one could understand why "same" seems different,
How come like Joseph by day or night, when you " touch"  
all looks superb!
So satan cunningly enters in with his sleek criticisms for 
everything that you do.

Thinking only of the task at hand, not knowing you're being 
Men, just as God does, see things that you do or listen to 
comparisons with you.
But when asked about a strategy, straightforward, same genre 
as others yet not entirely so;
For flexibility, imagination too seem to merge and mesh as one.

Volunteering on "off " days in Departments not your own,
So as to share experiences gained and empathize with all who 
needs care.
Observing actual surgery in the OR helps one to be more 
With Orders for "in- between Meds every one to three hours.
Ambulatory care brings out compassion for those anxious over 
for a surgical procedure there are about to have.

Other Departments also give an insight when you volunteer to 
"float" when it's not even your turn.
Others laugh when you do so but you're not thinking about what 
they may say
Only about what you observe in an environment not Your own
for the sake of others!

Copyright © Rainbow Promise

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

Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details |


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
Verlena S. Walker UPDATED SEPTEMBER 15, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker

Long poem by Jerry Troiano | Details |

What Our Eyes Have Seen

With virgin vision, we witnessed the beginnings,
Of what was to be our life within a life.
A landscape of human suffering and crime,
That extended too many a horizon.

However, the optic nerve is just a nerve that we cannot control.
It allows the day-to-day to attack the brain,
Bombarding a once clear view of the world, with the sights, sounds, and emotions of life, That are etched in our memory for all times.

A fatal crash that claims a child,
The same age as the child that waits at home.
Or burns on another child's arms from cigarettes,
The efforts of an abusive father.

The elderly women who watches worriedly, 
As mouth-to-mouth is given, in vain, to her life’s love,
Or the housewife who greets you at the door,
Knowing, without a word being spoken, that your message is of death.

To see a family standing in the snow, robes pulled tight to their necks,
As their home goes up in flames on a Christmas morning.
Or, the look on a homeless man’s face when he notices you,
And he returns the bits of food to the dumpster, lowers his head, and walks away.

The anger and hate of a couple towards each other, which leaves their child crying in a corner, 
As, what remains of love watches from frames on a wall at its own inescapable demise.
Or the old man held for shoplifting a can of dog food, not for a pet, but for himself,
Who you then give twenty dollars, and talk the store owner out of the arrest.

The scope of these visions know no boundaries, The rich, the poor, the good, and the bad, make up this mosaic,
With each episode wearing away at the fiber of your being,
Testing your strength and resolve as few are tested.

You search for ways to relieve the pressure these images induce.
Alcohol numbs the nerve for a while, but it is not the answer, if there is an answer.
But still you search for that something to restore your once clear vision,
Knowing that you can never get it back, that too much has changed.

But, “Were this world and endless pain, 
And by sailing eastward we could forever reach new distances,
And discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades of Island of King Solomon,
Then there were promise in the voyage.”  (Melville 1819 – 1891), Moby Dick

Copyright © Jerry Troiano

Long Poems