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absence abuse
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house how i feel
howl humanity
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hyperbole i love you
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inspiration inspirational
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yellow youth

Long Jobs Poems | Long Jobs Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

The Canopy and Economy

Sun and traffic - day economy.
Six a.m. drive to plywood mill. Too tired
to be angry. Each day a step
toward death. What is being accomplished? The
small satisfactions
within each day. Book consciously read.
And frustrations. Package dropped, honey jar broke.

One of 175 soil types. With the fifty
tree species
comprising the canopy under which Eric and Lisa clean their baby's face.

Sun in winter, old apples.

Inside the school
a brilliant but rebellious history teacher
is suspended by the school board.
200 students
wearing armbands and painted teardrops
protest. Another 400
are silent.

Within each structure
human dramas and routines.
Nancy will not love
any man who cannot do as many push-ups as she.

Trees grow,
porcupine scat in snow.

No job,
no niche,
no existence.
How you earn money is who you are. You are
what you do to get food to eat
and shelter from the winter, summer heat.

Each morning I seek God
by holding still
waiting for the smoke to be black or white
coins heads or tails
wind dark or bright.

Flock of evening grosbeaks
nipping maple buds:
the sign I need.

                    *                          *                          *

Less need =
more wealth.
2/23/89. So much equipment just to sleep.
More than a bare floor.
Plumbing vs.
wash at stream, find a log in woods.
Implements of human existence
unlike the deer or bear who
nip buds, forage berries.
I cannot eat the gum out of balsam fir
or bark from a popple.

I am not Wendell Berry
with a wife, a farm, philosophy.
I like the accuracy
of counting pear thrips in maple buds.
8/bud = complete defoliation.
This insect has four wings fringed with hairs
and is minute, 2.5 millimeters.
Two species within the genus:
one with tubular abdominal segment,
the other with conical abdominal segment.
Sugar maple their preferred food.

All I need
are names.
Names and habitats.
Elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses.
Marriage, copulation, regeneration, education.
Machinery, accounting, hand tools, laboratory.
I need your names
and histories.
Sexual histories, books read, imaginings, unrequited loves, significant
      landscapes, broken bones, periods of boredom, favorite shows.

                    *                          *                          *

Immediately means
without mediation, intermediate moments
time in the middle.

Time in the middle
time in the middle.
I'm bummed I never saw a dinosaur, an ice age, a cave man, even missed
      the last world war.
Thanks to paleontology, geology, archaeology, history
mind equipped to take
time out of the middle.
It's in our DNA!

Why should she love me, her tenant?
Because I pay the rent on time.

                    *                          *                          *

Excellent. The white sun rose
and lit the frost.
Early February, late March, or in between.
Birds begin
discussing family. Sap starts to flow.
Where the borer spirals in, it comes out wet.
Birch or maple.

I watched from the window. Beautiful
but no desire to go out and touch
swelling buds of elderberry.
Is this shrub crazy? It knows what it knows
with elderberry knowledge.

Come Spring, so much to identify and name.
Insects, diseases and new flowers.
Lepidoptera, root rot, the pinks.
I think I might get married too
and watch the moons pass through the mists.

                    *                          *                          *

March rain.

Some snow remains
roads dangerous
but truck deliveries must be made.
                                                The light
pushing back the dark.
Bark
getting softer, slippery
at the cambium. Sap
simmering. Summer
and spring are here and there
although only winter birds are in the air.
Some buds
break swell
want
to turn inside out
but wait
knowing better.

I too will not break or run
early
hold hope bound by ropes of discipline, experience
time the magic moments to come
take the last sleet and pain
slap in the face
glad for predictable seasons.
                                        We anticipate however
drought, maple defoliation, increased gypsy moth infestations
which some attribute to our existence.
That may be true.
Or it may be that the universe
has reversed its decision on us
and there's nothing we can do.
But we will do
what we can
and some things we shouldn't
because that is human.

Continuing
into the space inside me
unconnected to the light switch, plumbing
fairly independent of materials beyond
food and sound.
Where I pray
like an oak
that the light will enter me
unbroken, forever
and I will live the meanings in the wind.
                                                       Basic
necessities, wood
wine
and friends. And
the names
of everything
by which we know our way.






Long poem by Eve Roper | Details |

Cotton Field


                               Each summer my parents would take us to
                               my grandfather’s ranch in Southern Texas
                                 to help with different  jobs. It might be
                             branding cattle,  digging fence post holes, or
                                picking cotton! My parents had told us
                                   stories about the cotton fields as I
                                  grew up. I wasn't old enough yet to
                                      partake in this miserable job.

                              One fine morning my brothers and I were
                            awakened before daylight dressed, fed, and
                               taken a mile down to the cotton fields!

                               We were handed heavy cotton ducking
                               sacks, they were over twice as long as I
                                       was. We all started diligently
                                        filling our sacks with cotton.
                            Under the hot summer day sun, which was
                                beating down. The field was elegantly
                 plowed with neat rows, lined with brown dried plants, with
                                beautiful fluffy white soft cotton and
                               seeds in bolls. A protective vessel that
                         does its job with sharp burrs that make picking
                              cotton by hand quite painful, and bloody.

                               I walked up and down the cotton rows
                              dragging my heavy sack. With blistering
                                   sun overheating my body, I had
                              began to ache, getting weaker, the sack
                                 got heavier every minute My hands
                            had swollen up with cuts that were bleeding
                                 from removing the cotton out of the
                                  bolls. After a while I started feeling
                                faint,running a fever, heaving, then I
                            collapsing to the soft plowed black soil. My
                                   family  run over wondering what
                          had gone wrong. I had developed Heat Stroke!

                               Never again was I brought back to the
                             cotton fields to perform that dreaded and
                                                   hated job!

                                  I just can’t imagine anyone  that
                               would want to put up with the misery
                            and suffering of doing that for a life time

©By: Eve Roper 12/8/2014


Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details |

Leap of Faith

As the man on the roof, took two steps towards the edge, he was unexpectedly stopped by the sound of a bright and familiar voice, down below.
     "I thought you were at work dad, watcha doing up there?", asked Daisy with a serious look on her face. He was hoping she wouldn't have to witness this, and was desperately thinking of ways around it, to explain his actions.
     "I came home early, honey and well-- things will be a little bit different from now on, sweet pea... please, just go back inside"
     She hugged herself tight as the autumn wind attacked her bare arms. It was freezing out here. And although she longed for her cocoa and wool blanket inside, daddy just wasn't making any sense.
     "I'm scared... you always said that the roof was dangerous and--"
     Her slightly panicked plea was cutoff by yet another familiar voice, though with an unusually angry tone to it, like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard... but not quite.
     "Charles! What on earth are you doing up there?", roared from what only could be Daisy's mother. The man on the ledge, sighed. Two problems arising in the span of a few minutes. There's just no way around this, if I'm gonna do this at all I gotta do it now! He thought to himself.
     He took a couple steps back, inhaled a quick breath, and lifted his leg as if it sprint. While gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes closed he leaped off the edge into the blustery cold day. And in mid-air he hugged his legs tightly with his arms, creating an impressive cannonball shape.
     A great whoosh sound happened, as the girls immediately raised their arms in defense of the coming splash.
     "You just ruined your best suit!", said the woman, as the man lifted his head up from the icy chlorinated water, with a mad grin on his face.
     "Well it looks like I won't be needing it anymore."
     "You mean, you-- Oh Charles, what are we gonna-- Oh Charles," she incoherently blabbered on.
     "It's alright dear, something will come up. There's a whole world of possibilities now," he gestured with his arms at the general area of their front lawn. "I'll do something else, something better even. A detective, an archaeologist, an astronaut--"
     "Or maybe an Olympic diver!", shouted Daisy contentedly.
     "Anything's possible," he chuckled. And on that note, they left their front lawn, while half a dozen anthills fended against the unexpected flooding. And as they walked through the front door of the house, they were uncertain to keep, they all held hands, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing board games.
     Late at night when everyone else was asleep, he walked in his pyjamas and gazed through the window. The pool was mirror-flat, filled with silver moonlight, and autumn leaves were casually floating on its surface.
     A good day, Charles thought. Today was a good day.


Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

Clueless Job Applicant

You’ll never guess whom the cat drug in; have a day where you just couldn’t win?
He came strutting in, smacking his gum loud, dressed to the nines Goth Punk style.
Tats trailed down his left arm, with my notice, he said, saving up for the other arm.
When ask about drugs, his answer to me was: “Yes, I’ll share” most invitingly…

Metal adornments on ears, nose, and lips, didn’t want to know, the all of it, at this.
As I noticed, he smiled most cattily, asking: ‘Want to see where else they might be?’ 
Hair a Mohawk with a trail down his back, colors of the rainbow, left nothing to lack.
Steel studs on a black leather butt, said, ‘Bite Me!’ with each and every staged strut.

What are you kidding?… Do my eyes me deceive, or did he just make a pass, at ME?
No Way! I’d rather drop kick him from my office fast, didn't he have any real class?
The application, a Sales Manager Job. Who would try to send me over the deep end?
Bet it had been a practical joke, beginning to end, so I simply held on, my friend.

He must've read my face, forhe smirked, I continued to ask for his list of experience.
His experience was none, but he said he managed his I-tune collection, very well.
Of course, he was the Leader of his ‘Chat Room’. I wondered, ‘Who could tell?’ GEE!
Also an impressive set up on his Facebook page, for his innumerable video games.

I ask how he was qualified for ANY job? Said, Dad ‘THE CEO’ wanted him employed.
I verified this with a call, was told not to be too Harsh, he had Potential, after all...
Ask what job he wanted to give his son? ‘Let him chose himself’, came the real clue!
Ask him, what job he really wanted to do, ‘VP in charge of Recreation’ was imbued.

Said he'd check out all the great places, in his Dad’s fancy Porche. Honestly True!
I kid you not! And he wanted his girlfriend, made into his secretary, Yah! No Doubt!
Believe it or not, he got all he thought he was due. All approved by the CEO’s! True!
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better… I began to really reconsider…

Really, who had been clueless… It hadn’t been him!… Which left me in a dither…
Knowing I just couldn’t win!  I’d be glad when this day was finally, truly, done… 
The kid had probably thought this a great joke on me from beginning to the end!
My perfect job, had just come undone! Apparently, being in HR isn’t always fun! 

My college degree, that took so much sacrifice, no longer sparkled, so much to me.
Boy did I now WISH, I was a CEO’s SON! As I simply got all the paper work done. 
Later, I saw the family portrait on the CEO’s desk. Lucky me! One down!… 
Only eight more to go!

Carol Eastman and Hubby


Long poem by Robert Lindley | Details |

Sawing Firewood For My Dad, Again

Sawing Firewood For My Dad, Again

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Boys, don't gripe, somebody got to do it
 so hurry up and get right on to it
Winter is coming on and lickety-split
 we need that firewoood before it hits

Early morning hours before going to school
 sawing damn firewood, sure wasn't cool
Getting tired and sweaty wasn't any fun
 stacking newly cut firewood by the ton!

A boy of fourteen truly does not care
 to pull a damn crosscut saw anywhere
If his washing dishes wasn't bad enough
 now this job, it was sho' nuff tough

Working two hours before school was bad
 four more after school made one really mad
Curse this damn wood and this damn life
 hickory ain't butter, this saw aint a knife!

Someday, I'll get a real fine job then
 get myself rich like so many other men
Fancy myself with riches and a beautiful wife
 curse this damn wood and this damn life

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Stop yelling, we sawing to beat the band
 want any better, get another slaving hand
We cut and stack this crap all the time
 pay is lousy, not even one thin dime

Big bro' pulling on the saw's other end
 laughing at me , with that damn silly grin
"Little bro', stop bitching you're wasting spit
 nothing to change so lets get on with it."

Another one, urging me to be a working fool
 when grown man I'll be nobody's damn tool
Gonna get me that money and a life of ease
 lay about, do just as I damn well please!

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Early morning hours before going to school
 sawing damn firewood, sure wasn't cool
Getting tired and sweaty wasn't any fun
 stacking newly cut firewood by the ton!

Robert J. Lindley, 11-09-2014

note: Special thanks to my friend Sara Kendrick for this concept
 and inspiration. Inspired by her new contest theme.... 
Written about my young life and some of its hardships.
Usually writing a sonnet comes so easily to me but when starting 
this write this blew right on out of me. Definitely not
 a sonnet as was her contest requirement , so its not an entry in 
that competition.


Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

The Dumb Boaters

Some people got off the Dumb Boat, and came to work one day. Honestly!
Birds were quietly sitting in a tree! Someone couldn't help himself, you see!
Shouting ‘Run they’re terror birds of prey!’ The boaters’ got up and ran away!
Throwing others aside, they ran in the entrance door, screaming all the way!
He was joking, but couldn't believe! As there was more, I swear, you guys!
Groan! And I’m not talking about my work! No! Not at all! Honestly!

With no phones allowed inside, some dumb boaters hid them in their bras.
They were rather heavy set, and had on tight tank tops, He swears, you guys!
And what did they do, with those phones… set them on vibrate! Kid you not!
They went off! Hard to believe! He laughed till he cried, as they dug them out!
The only thing better, to EVER see, would be, one other tucked appropriately.
But honestly! And I’m not talking about my work! No! Not at all!

The dumb boaters went further, as one-showed exercises to the one on her left. 
Slipping into the isle, she did squats to the floor, in heels, only 6-inches high. 
His eyes bugged out! Tho, he gave her a 10 for her artistic, Olympic appeal. 
Things got, even better, as the days went on… Yes! This was for really, for real!
As one, spent days working hard to find, and press the illustrious, ‘ANY KEY!
But I’m not talking about My place of work! Oh! No! I swear! You see!

The bosses walked by, and eating is forbidden on the floor, each and every day.
One man had thrown chicken bones on the floor, and had sticky keys galore.
He licked his fingers, as he got up to fight! He’s NOT eating! Yeah! R.I.G.H.T!
Security tried to take him out, but with slippery fingers, he quickly, got away.
A broken chair graveyard was now to be found, a Sargasso Sea, of the bent and lost.
Apparently, the chairs don’t fit perfectly, and the levers don’t seem to EVER work!

The dumb boaters, try to fix them, by jumping, on the chairs, up and down.
Would be better, if they’d listened to what He said: TURN the LEVER! OK!
Once when the power went out: They started screaming ‘We’re lost! We’ll die!’ 
‘Someone help us! Get us out!’, Crying and yelling at the top of their lungs…
It all stopped, when the lights, came on. The back up generator saved the day!
Now, I’m not talking about My place of work, he said, as he laughed until he cried! 

And he can’t believe ANY of this! No! Not at all! NO WAY!

Collaboration of Carol and Hubby


Long poem by Peter Kautsky | Details |

Rowing a Boat on Top of the World

The bay was smooth as glass
The sky was a crisp blue
The snow covered peaks stood
stark, gigantic, bold
and true.

My job was to row a boat,
to a raft of logs and tie one on,
and tow it to the pile driver
and dock crew while as yet the ships
were gone.

The oar was dipped into the dark sea,
and pulled with eddies slowly unfurled,
the log was moving with the steady strokes
of flashing oars in Alaska on top
of the world.

What a joy it was to be paid
to stretch my body at this glorious job,
mastering a row boat in the time of fax
and smart phones grasped somewhere
by a mob. 

A rush of wind riffles wavelets upon the bay
the heavy log strains the rope then yields
the unhurried course is plowed to Kenny
on the pile driver, eighty-five years old,
smoking Chesterfields.

Just in time the cable comes down
I loosen the half hitches and Kenny shouts,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!” 
I snub the cable to the creosote log,
as daylight pouts.

I sit back to the oars for another trip,
but Kenny yells, “oh, it's almost coffee time,
get outta that boat!”  The workers drop
PV's , 3X12's, chain saws to stretch 
on the company's dime. 

We saunter to the chow hall for mug up
in the hush of the bay and its wavelets
nothing but the breeze, peaks and foxes
and us, the poets of Paradise headed
for crumpets.

The cook, a union member of the Merchant Marine,
fixed an abundant spread,
fruit juice, milk, hot chocolate, coffee,
cake and pastries baked fresh to
raise the dead. 


After forty-five minutes we struggled up
to get back to the tools of our trade,
I climbed back in my row boat,
settled to oars ready to pull
green from jade.

It was a race to finish the dock
for the ships to come and unload
cargoes of salt, food, building supplies,
for the wretched cannery, days went by and
I rowed.

Kenny called us to mug up 
and we dropped our tools and swirled
sugar in coffee and wolfed down pastries
slathered with butter in Alaska
on top of the world. 

It was late about dinner time
I rowed the last log to cable,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!”
that the Sea Provider cleared Priest Rock
as if in a fable.

She came up the channel blasting her horn
as the pile driver gave a final hiss
the last plank was laid as she came along side
and threw bow line, stern line, spring line  to collective
bliss.




 


Long poem by Elton Camp | Details |

The Immigrants

The Immigrants

By

Elton Camp

Mexican man, father of three
Feed, clothe them, would he.
But a job is not to be found.
Not in his own hometown.

To the north he will go
Jobs to get, he’s heard so.
Come here you cannot do
We will welcome but few

Far beyond the Rio Grande
Lies a virtual promised land
But he must ignore the rule
And give his life unto a mule

Pay to him his very last peso
Trust in the mule’s say so.
Into a van a crowd to pack
Enough food & water lack

Across the miles of barren dirt
Perhaps to be killed, surely hurt.
If he is lucky and isn’t caught,
He may find the work he sought.

If any income tax he dares to pay
The INS will soon come his way
Their demand on him is very hard
Must show us now your green card

We find your morals low & weak
Because English you cannot speak
To hear you jabber in that Spanish
We deem to be so much outlandish

We hate the darkness of your skin
Never can you be an equal friend
Explain to us why you ‘re so short
And for all your faults, we will deport

You may not get a house on our street
Likes of you we aren’t willing to greet
We fear you might keep a filthy house
One running over with lice and mouse

But if to hard, manual work you’re able
We will agree to pay you under the table
Expect that your wages will be quite low
Take what’s offered, or out the door you go

Hola, Pedro, you will hear our mocking taunt
And take the low-level jobs we don’t want
And remember your own subservient place
Or we will return you to Mexico in disgrace

You illegal alien, nasty, ugly and full of sin
Though you cooperate, no way you’ll win
When menial jobs for you finally run out,
We’ll send you packing without a doubt

You’re a parasite, so work here no more
We have firmly shut and locked the door
The country’s border is closed to you tight
So that it can’t be crossed without a fight

Arizona has shown the rest of us the way
To keep such riff-raff as you so far at bay
The very same should be true in every state
Illegal immigrants real Americans so hate.  

(Please realize this is a poem of satire and
is designed to show the feelings of many
in my hometown which has a large,  recent
influx of immigrants.  It doesn’t necessarily  
represent my own views.)

      


Long poem by Jerry Troiano | Details |

Judged By Twelve or Carried By Six

The baby was up all night with a fever, when the nursery received dawn’s first ray,
A quick shave and shower, and a kiss on his forehead, and it is off to face the day.
At headquarters you arrive for a day on patrol, still holding your coffee in hand,
Another journey into the world, that we know as no-man’s land.

Now briefed as to last night’s happenings, while the nursery floor you did pace,
With briefcase in hand, and a last swig of coffee, you’re off to face the RAT RACE.
Not a bad morning, and things are slow, which helps in your tired state,
However, you know, it will not last, and plenty of action awaits. 

With the school bus detail covered, and two emergency calls in the past,
You can run some radar, write some tickets, and get the sergeant off your ass.
A stop at the diner, for a quick call home, and for a bite to eat,
Which you do not finish, because dispatch calls, you are needed back on the street.

A reluctant 10-4, and you head for the call, remembering what your wife said,
“On your way home, stop at the pharmacy, and don’t forget milk and bread.
Now the call is not special, and one you have handled a hundred times,
But your backup is not available; he is tied up on another crime.

No big deal, you have done it before, gone on calls like this alone,
A suspicious person seen prowling, around somebody’s home.
You speak to a homeowner, who provides few facts,
Only that the suspect ran around back, and by the way, was dressed all in black.

To the rear of the house you move with vigilance,
Remembering procedure to avoid being careless.
When from out through a bush you are rushed by a man,
Who is holding what looks like a gun in his hand.

He does not flee, or make a move to retreat,
Instead closes the distance to within ten feet.
You turn on your heels, draw and fire,
Down goes the suspect, who will later expire.

It was a piece of pipe, not a gun that he held, that he had used to force his way in,
Now all that remains for you to do is to notify next of kin.
Your actions will be dissected, especially by some talking head,
But you will go home to loved ones tonight, and tuck your son into bed.


Long poem by Jerry T Curtis | Details |

Good Old Clean X-Rated Fun

FYI
bastard file
noun
1.
a file of the commercial grade of coarseness between coarse and second-cut.


Mary O'Connor
The church going kind
Needed to find a new job
But without some experience 
In most kinds of work
She just stood on the sidewalk and sobbed

Then along came McVey
In his usual way
Heading to open his store
When he saw our poor Mary
Crying away,
As he saw her there crying before

But this time he spoke
And asked "What's the trouble"
Her reply was "I need a position"
He invited her in, and gave he a job
But it came with one firm condition 

Dear Mary you know
About how things go
In a hardware store of this kind
The men are real tough
And live kind of rough
Their speech is not very refined

Oh, Mister McVey, 
I'll be OK
Just give me a chance to show
So, with one eye, he winked
And gave her a nod
Then said "We'll just see how things go"

Well, Her first day went find
When McGee stood in line
Saying he needed a file
As he looked in the case
She asked without haste 
Can I help you, while donning a smile

So he made his request
Now, here came the test
As he stated he needed a Bastard
Her face became red 
As her hands held her head
Embarrassment, something she mastered


She gave him what for
And showed him the door
Then ran to McVey
In the back
McVey asked what's wrong
Then she sung him a song
About how she was under attack

When she, had finished 
Her crying, diminished
McVey place his hand on her arm
Then simply explained
"That's just what It's named"
McGee didn't mean any harm

Oh, How I feel silly
I'm such a dumb filly
I'll get back to work if I may
But McVey gave permission
for a brief intermission
Until she was feeling OK

She went back on the Floor
When Finn
waltzed through the door
And saying he needed a file
In a most pleasant way
She proceeded to say
We have Bastards, Right here in this isle 

Finn closed one eye
As he looked 'round and spied
His lips now formed a small pucker
He took from the bin
As he said with a grin
I tink I'll just take this wee F***er


Sorry Carol---This may explain why I get so many N/A's


Long Poems