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abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
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america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
april arabic
art assonance
aubade august
autumn baby
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baseball basketball
beach beautiful
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best friend betrayal
bible bio
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birthday black african american
blessing blue
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books boxing day
boy boyfriend
break up bridal shower
brother bullying
business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
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cat celebration
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chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child child abuse
childhood children
chocolate christian
christmas cinco de mayo
cinderella city
class clothes
color columbus day
community computer
confidence conflict
confusion cool
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cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
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daughter day
death death of a friend
december dedication
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desire destiny
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divorce dog
dream drink
drug earth
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education emo
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endurance engagement
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eve evil
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farewell farm
fashion father
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fathers day fear
february feelings
film fire
firework first love
fish fishing
flower flying
food football
for children for her
for him for kids
forgiveness freedom
french friend
friendship fruit
fun funeral
funny funny love
future games
garden gender
giggle girl
girlfriend giving
god golf
good friday good morning
good night goodbye
gospel gothic
graduate graduation
grandchild granddaughter
grandfather grandmother
grandparents grandson
grave green
grief growing up
growth guitar
hair halloween
happiness happy
happy birthday hate
health heart
heartbreak heartbroken
heaven hello
hero high school
hilarious hindi
hip hop history
hockey holiday
holocaust home
homework hope
horror horse
house how i feel
howl humanity
humor humorous
hurt husband
hyperbole i am
i love you i miss you
identity image
imagery imagination
immigration independence day
innocence insect
inspiration inspirational
integrity international
internet introspection
ireland irony
islamic january
jealousy jesus
jewish jobs
journey joy
judgement july
june kid
kindergarten kiss
language leadership
leaving life
light little sister
london loneliness
lonely longing
loss lost
lost love love
love hurts lust
lyric magic
malayalam marathi
march marriage
math may
me meaningful
memorial day memory
men mental illness
mentor metaphor
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mother son
mothers day motivation
mountains moving on
mum murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
new years day new york
nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
nursery rhyme obituary
ocean october
old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
parents paris
parody pashto
passion patriotic
peace people
perspective pets
philosophy places
planet poems
poetess poetry
poets political
pollution poverty
power prayer
prejudice preschool
presidents day pride
princess prison
proposal psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember remembrance day
repetition retirement
riddle rights
river romance
romantic rose
roses are red rude
sad sad love
satire scary
school science
science fiction sea
seasons self
senses sensual
september sexy
sick silence
silly silver
simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
slavery sleep
smart smile
snow soccer
social society
softball soldier
solitude sometimes
son song
sorrow sorry
soulmate sound
space spanish
spiritual spoken word
sports spring
star stars
storm strength
stress student
success suicide
summer sun
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surreal sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
teachers day technology
teen teenage
thank you thanks
thanksgiving thanksgiving day
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute true love
trust truth
universe uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
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veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
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water weather
wedding wife
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word play words
work world
world war i world war ii
write writing
yellow youth

Long Jobs Poems

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.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Suki Spangles | Details |

I Broke The Office Paper Shredder The Day Before Yesterday

i broke the office paper shredder the day before yesterday
and needless to say
the cruel word has spread around the office town
i broke the office paper shredder
i arrived to work yesterday
and there was an awkward tea point silence
nothing was said you understand
but there was that definite vibe
similar to one of those who jammed the photocopier vibes
you know the drill
precisely like a more bloody episode of the wire

i opened an email
did you break the office paper shredder
did you inform anyone
it took us nearly thirty five minutes to fix it..so i'm guessing that means it took them up to thirty four minutes
..it took us nearly thirty five minutes to fix it
also you must have folded the paper in half before shredding
why
please respond asap
we never thought you would be capable of doing something so..
 
i responded guilty
i'm guilty and i'm sorry
i didn't know i jammed it
i'm sure the paper went through
and i never folded it either
or if i did it was an oversight
it wasn't on purpose
it's not like i'm some kind of terrorist
oh we'll be the judge of that
will you please step outside..
now as i have a day off today
i shall only find out tomorrow night whether
this case will be escalated
to the hr herbal tea bag jihadis
perhaps i should get the union involved
perhaps i should ask for a priest of my denomination
i'm in trouble
no doubt about it
it's karma isn't it
i will be reincarnated as a jammed sheet of shredded paper
and this poem won't help
it might make things even worse
as if they can get any worse
lord krishna please forgive me
i'll work on opening my third eye from tomorrow
i promise
i'll even work on opening my eyelids

i broke the office paper shredder
it lay broken  for nearly thirty five minutes
i received an email
i could see that all the important management people were also copied in
i'm gonna bleed
i'm wondering now
while on my day off today
who they have also 
forwarded and cc'd and bcc'd
no doubt you too will soon receive that email
loaded with coded comments not so veiled
i must take ownership of my sin
perhaps save myself from being thrown head down
in the man's recycle bin
it's morning but i need a drink

i broke the office paper shredder
it lay broken for nearly thirty five minutes
they knew it was me
because they looked inside the shredder
yes they actually looked inside the shredder
and they recognised that particular brand of coloured paper
that we use only for the committee rooms
and they knew i would have been the one to shred those sheets
there's no point in denying it either
they might have already checked the cctv
it must gone down all csi
they must have taken prints dna ultraviolet
and as i live in the uk
i can't take the fifth or plea bargain
or drive to mexico
or become a guy stripper in vegas

where will it end
is this what i have worked for
is all this dust meant to only turn to
dust
the office gossipers have me in their twerking grips
those smirking smug ninja pixies
their dead eyes swinging from their hips...


on a positive note
although i'm a middle aged man
is this breaking the office paper shredder
that lay broken for nearly thirty five minutes remember
my rock star moment
will the office ladies see me now as that edgy guy
hey look it's that guy the he broke the office paper shredder guy
i just wanna rip my clothes off
i just don't care
a man like that loses control for a reason
he's probably misunderstood
he probably writes really deep poetry
or does something even worse than that
he has that tortured million mile stare and everything
and to think
i always just used to walk right past him
when will i learn
when will i learn..

Copyright © Suki Spangles | Year Posted 2015

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 multicultural 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 self-marketers 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 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

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 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.

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

My Son

I have a son
with more than his share of heart
and mindbody intelligence,
to comprehend vastness of Earth’s evolving history
and future demise,
to comprehend full emptiness of universes within
and without
co-arising nondual universes,
enough intelligence to become haunted
by our deep dualist dark insignificance
as a species,
and far less value even than this de-commodification
of AnthroCentric Futures,
his own autonomous Ego value so inconsequential
he doubts his worthiness of food he eats
of water he drinks
of air he breathes,
much less worthy of employment
or any developing sense of vocation,
purpose
meaning midst his human comedic environment
at its best a good musical comedy cooperative network.

This, he can more or less actually find
on-line,
but not so much within his own family,
much less school.
Well, maybe there were a few exceptions
to the individual student competing against all other students rule,
everyone playing an absurd Win-Lose game,
with loser death the inevitable outcome for each and all.

In the meantime,
should we choose to fiddle while Earth prepares to burn
why not orchestrate WinWin cooperatives
deep learning strategies,
more fun
more opportunity to improve interactive communication
and co-deductive dialectic analysis,
to live empirical-cooperative method
in an active healthy 
open communicative
mutual Win economic and political kind of Taoist way.

But, of course,
Taoism, in his expansive view,
hides in a Pandora box labeled “EXEGENESIS of RELIGION”
which is about a spirituality cat half dead
and unfortunately half alive,
as if spirit is any other than dynamic nature,
as if yin were other than absent reverse inside 
yang’s revolving time;
spirituality implying he walks through a divinely inspired comedy
with few speaking parts and no solos allowed,
which he knows could not be true
unless divine inspiration
is no more or less
than human natural regenerative DNA programming function,
developing form,
informational ergodic prime patterns and rhythms,
synergy,
integrative predestination of speciated form
revolving through Earth’s interdependent spaciated orbits of time.

To what end
could we possibly become
for one who is humanist musical comedy cooperative-preferred,
competition-averse,
with polyculturally inclined interests of rich dense fertile healthy sharing
this hour,
this game,
this day,
but without actively articulating hope for any self support,
thrival nutrients for his body;
not just his mind.

Surprising to me
how my lovely son quickly learned to see
spiritual as natural nonduality,
but has yet to recover his embryonic mind
as body co-arising transparency,
much less divine as humane musical comedic unity.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Dialectic Crisis | Details |

A Few Things to Consider Before Brown-Nosing In My Presence

1) I hate brown-nosers far more than I hate most other nosers 
of virtually any known color!

2) I will make it a point to slap you in front of your superiors,
with a biblical fury, the likes of which, would make Mary Magdalene blush with fits of giggles!
  
3) You will proceed to cry, even though I didn't actually hurt you; because I slap like a girl - In solidarity for all the girls who slap like me, in what I can only imagine is our previously unspoken solidarity for physical comedy; and then you'll get angry when everyone (including the girls) calls you a whiner 

Here comes the ever charming,
never failing, always smiling,
company man:
Sure would like the career opportunity 
to slap away that stupid grin
from the smugly disproportionate face
of the man with a plan 
that doesn't entail fellowship, 
or even good sportsmanship 
to wage earners and their dependents.
He wouldn't throw himself under the buss
to help a desperate family climb out of their rut
- But this doesn't necessarily mean 
he doesn't consider himself a Christian:
It only explains why he isn't a very good one!

He's everyone's favorite scab, 
just waiting to happen
behind the broken backs
of his fellow working-class 
- And the boss, 
he grows overconfident in his role,
because the boss, he knows, 
he can always count on him:
For laboring after a fashion,
to keep on blindly hauling in 
the treasures held within;
where their bloodstained corraborating hands 
have martyrized the honest working man!

To liken him to Judas Iscariot 
would be so embarrassingly easy for me!
Comparing his usefulness to deadwood 
would be like breathing some new life 
directly into his falsehood!
This poster child for infanticide 
is but another lickspittle squire,
graciously content with inane servitude;
craving his coveted knighthood!
Just another fool of his own undoing,
being consumed by his selfish desire!
Not a single ounce of class consciousness 
and even less in terms of self-awareness;
good for absolutely nothing 
- If he's good enough for something 
of such momentousness!

Transmuted by reification 
to be made into a mere thing 
of the poorest possible social habits:
Locked in a perpetual motion,
Spun up on an off-kilter axis,
subscribed to an endless routine 
of massive excess that suits the boss's interests; 
in his own shortsighted eyes,
he is the money making machine of free enterprise
- To the vitality of the workforce 
he is but a cancerous growth, 
needing to be expunged from its host!

Copyright © Dialectic Crisis | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Anthony Guccia | Details |

My Public Service Part One

My occupation is supplying individuals with the substance of their worst desire
Most dealers driving force is the desire to increase their wealth, monetary gain
My driving force the result of my own treacherous case of Heroin addiction.
Sharing the same desires and disease as the individuals that I serve daily.
I have tried other fields of employment, none able to sustain my habit.

Legal jobs only pay two to four times a month, leaving too many cashless days
Cash Jobs often require distant travel, early arrivals, and back breaking work
Any of these three downfalls, enough to bring about a feeling of dope sickness
Boosting involves to many unknowns, and the real possibility of utter failure.
Cooking meth can blow up in your face, both literally and figuratively speaking.

People will always judge others whose choice differs from their own.
Still believing drug dealing inevitably causes massive collateral damage.
my customers are more than willing, consenting adults, I don't serve children
My personal choice affecting only me, what I ingest, won't make anyone else high
Myths created to disgrace peddlers and users of substances they don't condone

Each day I receive dozens of phone calls and text messages, almost non-stop
All requesting the assistance of my Community based Service (in my opinion)
I make numerous trips to different parts of town, from rural to suburbia
Meeting fellow diseased individuals who seek a cure for today's illness.
Without the service I provide, numerous people would be left to suffer
The damage isn't created by my presence, it exists in my absence.
Most customers so grateful they could alleviate a days worth of pain
However, not all transactions are appreciated or simple in nature.

From time to time, I encounter a broke customer, wanting a front
They lack the fee of admittance, but refuse to get out of the line.
Forced to be firm, but still fair, I provide a service, not a charity
Others refuse to follow my simplest of directions, all issued with purpose
Unaware their lack of obedience may jeopardize both of our freedoms
Some lack any patience, constantly calling and/or texting my phone
Unwilling to cease their onslaught until their demands are at least heard
Occasionally, I encounter a person who believes I somehow wronged them
These trouble makers I give an easy two choice question to choose.
The two options being: Grin and bear it, or leave completely empty handed.



Copyright © Anthony Guccia | Year Posted 2016

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.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014

Long Poems