Verse Work Poems

These Verse Work poems are examples of Verse poems about Work. These are the best examples of Verse Work poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012




Details | Dramatic Verse |

I laugh out loud
every time I hear a politician say,
that the best way to enrich a black person's life,
is to give them a job
Give them some work to do
Labor is the way out of poverty ---
are you kidding me!
They got the nerve,
telling a black person in America
they need to work
Put the shoulder to the grinding wheel,
get to know the sweaty brow feel
Getting employed will solve most of
black people's problems, politicians say
Hard work will bring an honest dollar our way
But I got a problem
with that four-letter word: work
I am bold enough to speak for my people
on this urgent matter
Telling us we need to work some more,
in order for things to get better for us
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, don't you think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
     at keeping our eyes and voices low
We worked hard
     at pretending that we're slow
We worked even harder
     at grinning and gritting our teeth
But we worked the hardest
     at not getting lynched on a tree
Listen to me:
This is the children of slaves reality,
the living in America experience
of feeling the societal lash daily
Of being looked down on,
of being spurned and frowned upon
Politicians say they helped us all they could,
that entitlements didn't do no good
And only work can get us to where we need to be ...
sounds a lot like old-time slavery to me
No! We worked long enough
Four hundred years is a long enough time, I would think
We been working ever since
we got off those slave ships that didn't sink
We worked hard
     at not getting pecked to death by Jim Crow
We worked hard
     at trying to survive under the poverty line below
We worked even harder
     at not telling the oppressor everything we know
But we worked the hardest
     at letting our unchained KKKourage show
Yes! We worked long enough ...
now it's time for us to rest
Will you pay us back for that?

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Laughter drifts through the house, ....it has been such a while
Debate filters in, from the kids in the kitchen
The rafters are rattled with two strong opinions
Girls against boys, with opposing positions
I've watched them shuffle their cards and argue who won,
They seem to be lost, in the light masquerade,
of bittersweet happiness that is dim from the gray

Dipping their chips into onion laced cream
smacking their lips, and drinking their cokes
They are betting a few of the red plastic discs,
that will ante' this round 

...I listen, and smile, it's a beautiful sound, ...
   So long overdue,.......
                     we are embracing the mood... and it is time that we do....

Now a new game ensues.....
Monopoly, perhaps? Or charades, they will play
Whatever it is, ........ let it fill up the day
                                Let it take them away,....away from the gray

I let up the shade
to watch the evening come in,  bringing umber and rust,
as earth swallows dusk, which is fading away

From the living room window, I am hoping to see 
geese flying back to their warm winter homes
All nature seems normal, routine, once again

Winter is coming and a new year begins
How will it be now, this journey, untried,?
As we move on, wearing smiles, wearing grief on our sleeves
Smiles, for awhile, hiding anguish, and pride

Cold days are arriving......and there is talk on the hill 
where tall pine trees are whispering, 
reminding the creek, and the ash trees are shedding
and katydids will not call out condolences in the dark

Soon enough, when the lark sings,  wet grass will need tending
stacks of shutters will need painting,
and snow will yet need to be pushed aside

How will they cope..?
He's not here to do it...but somehow we hope
they will wade their way through it..

But for now , at a kitchen table
for these brief moments, they are able
to laugh, argue, and have fun...
                       Someone shouts out,  "I won!"..

Joy is hard work...but it needs to be done 




_________________________________________________________

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013




Details | Free verse |
small gifts - contributing to other's happiness? # show me a man or woman of simple mind people who we commonly term as slow # point out ====> people  of simple means<==== the poor,  the sick,  the hungry. {direct me to someone of simple needs a person with his ear to the ground.} find me* : a so called loser: with a winning smile! the kind you   -photograph- then   -file- let me find a giving person of "warm heart" a parent who loves their child (ren) bring them forward  ~ the diseased ~ that never complain or cry' gather  the  people  too kind  to ask. [the child]  quietly  lost inside ! round up ! the addicts,  the homeless, the ones who accept their stock in life that never would even think to steal or lie (huddled)  like embryos happy to quietly die. show me.......................families  with................adjoining hearts one for  all and all  for one  in practice not just words. people who give of their time to help the  .......................................................................needy who travel to third world countries  ~~~~~~make the ultimate sacrifice. show me a person kind a person of simple mind show me a person considers their acts no more than a small gift i'll show you a person closer to God then you or i. 05~12~2014 Sponsor: Brian Johnston Contest Name: Small Gifts - Contributing to Other's Happiness

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
Sitting in a cloak of black conservatism:

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

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

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

Darest I mention truth?

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

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

Sigh.

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

Copyright © Michele Nold-Godleske | Year Posted 2006

Details | Free verse |
He was clay potato
in raspberry field
exposed, clumsy
between delicate gossip
     He turned his back
     fingers in fissures 
     abyss separating life
     from living
                       Hand with deep furrows 
                       built huge walls
                       rough rock
                       like he was
                Alone in one dream
                slalom, downhill
                white blindness
                stone
                held high above his head
                                    as a white feather
                                    against evening sky
                                    a bird from his hands
                                    light brightness
                                    A wish, unfulfilled

***

September 21, 2017
Copyright © Darren White

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
a hallway.  offices.  tinted sunlight.  
people who have forgotten my name.  
but i am here.  
and then a room.  and a meeting.  
and i am unprepared.  
“you’re up”  says the leader.  
and my lungs fill with heaviness as they all turn towards me.  
my mind screams.  
my throat locks.  

and then a word fights through the scream.  
and i breathe.  and find a voice.  
and then another word.  
and a thought.  
then relevance.  
i am moving.  
and eyes do not wander.  
but the scream fights on:  
they will find out.  

i was connected at one time.  
so the scream would fade.   
but not now.  
these many years later.  
“we could use you again,”  
he had said.  
and i had relented.  
but why?  boredom?  faith?  
the scream of fear vs. the scream of isolation?  
or a familiar voice dragging me back from madness.  
“what have you been up to?”  
he had asked.  
and i had lied.  
and now my mind all scrambled between work and stupor.   

“what on EARTH are you talking about?!” 
demands the one who should have taken over for me.  
and the throat locks again.  
and the scream rises up.  
and he knows it.  
but sympathy has no place here.  
so i struggle with the scream. 
and find the words to hide the Fraud  
as he shakes his head in disgust.   

and i remember why i left.  
so i wade in the scream until i am done and take my seat.  
and the scream that never dies whispers, “what else is there?”      

Copyright © Sam Toil | Year Posted 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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



*picking tobacco

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |
                                                        Gold Dredging

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

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


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

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

12/27/2014
 

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2014

Details | Verse |
An Angel In Disguise He labors in the field in blazing sun Beneath a sky of blue with clouds of white... His wagon and his farmer tools at hand. With wide brim hat and buttoned shirt undone, From dawn to dusk he works the blessed land… Brings life to fertile soil with brawn and might. His heart is happy in the time he spends To make a good life for his new-found bride, To be together, come the sun or rain, To share in nourishment from crops he tends; To bear the long hot days, sore muscles, pain His work demands in order to provide. And now he has an angel by his side... She stands by him throughout his work-filled days… Her hours are long with chores of farm life too. And in the evening, both at rest abide The coming of the next day to renew Their modest joys in life of simple ways. So often through the day, she is right there At window of the hay-filled barn to see, With loving cat held closely in her arm, Her dear strong man, if he is taking care To work the field without her fear of harm… His angel in disguise…dear wife is she. Sandra M. Haight ~1st Place~ Contest: Angels Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron Judged: 01/01/2016 --------------------------------------- ~1st Place~ Contest: An Angel in Disguise – Painting #7 Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst Judged: 03/20/2015 Rhyme Scheme: a-b-c-a-c-b

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
Driving home in the dark 
telegraph poles like a thousand crucifix's line my road.
Winding lanes leading home, but my life going nowhere.
Just a number on a plc payroll. 
I'm just waiting to find out what will kill me.
There's no escape victim  or violator we all die 
slave to commerce.Can you live without it !.
My two up two down world
My body clock ticking down   
Was I born or manufactured for some company's gain
A florescent light replaces my sun 
and I talk, at the sound of call centre  bleep
I'm no free man, a paid slave 
not even human to the management crew 
just another victim of corporate greed 
to be tossed aside as my child takes my seat 
on this cruel roller coaster ride 
CALLED LIFE 

comp entered 12/09

Copyright © stephen pennell | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
Pulled himself to the very top 
Looked over the world on high 
Felt the warm and stirring breeze 
falling from the sky 
Knowing this was how it felt 
to soar above the land 
To feel so safe away from things 
so free to be alive 
Yet down the pole we all must come 
to touch the very ground 
This is where we laugh and play
gives us what we need 
The loving smile of a young girl's face 
a women's tender care 
For up above the pole to fly 
is nothing but the air 
But on the soil we grow and live 
to reach out, to touch, to give 
So keep your feet upon the ground 
take a good long look around 
and see if flying above the pole 
isn't like living in a hole 
from where you never see  
the reaching hands pulling you down 
pulling you down to be

Copyright © Elinore Carney | Year Posted 2005

Details | Verse |
This poem is a farewell piece of advice to a group of students I have taught over the last four years. I do 
hope they find the metaphor meaningful and believe that they are the "architects of their own future."

Spread before you is a canvas of hope and opportunity Waiting to be painted with strokes of what you are and can be Waiting to be filled with colours that define you and the life you live Waiting to be stamped with the personality that only you can give To the portrait of your life, by itself a work of art A work which, on this day, with vigour you will start Spread before you is a canvas of vision and desire Waiting to be sketched with shades of passion and fire Waiting to be decorated with a story and theme Waiting to be etched with ambition that is now just a dream Of a picture whose tone, texture and style Would have made this work worth all the while Spread before you is a canvas, empty, yet full of space Waiting to be stroked with your wit, charm and grace Waiting to be brushed with strokes daring, vivid and bold Waiting to be painted with a story that can be told Of a life whose essence is one of sublime beauty Of a person who lived his life and did his duty Of a person who lived life the way it should be Of a complete canvas that will reflect many a memory.

Copyright © Alister Renaux | Year Posted 2009

Details | Free verse |

your voice now silent never to see you smile again you left us heartbroken unprepared shocked to silence we remember your laughter and your “I can go on attitude” never complaining just being you even when fighting this battle we'll never know why you had to leave us so soon we'll always wonder we'll always have questions God knew your journey was complete when He selected the perfect rose for His garden today--- IN LOVING MEMORY OF A FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE, MICHELLE SCHULTZ 26092011 We, at BABS miss you already
280920111335

Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
so, i got to thinking
about all those words
planted in my language
where fertility grew them
to leave and stalk and pod

the farmer's words scatter
my fields like seed on clod
watered by thundering flashes
awash, fertilized and germinating

progeny seedlings, my own growth
in some time-lapse photography
writhing their creamy roots
into earthy loam and droning
on through a summer daze

into fruits of sweaty labors 
on humid chlorophylled days
silks sultry green, stalking me
through rows and rows as far
as i can see, if i squint

the farmer, suspended in time
stands with his hands in pocket
or on some implement toed to soil
and surveys life's prospects 
for this season, before the

days bake the green back into 
the humus and the cornucopia 
spills the field and orchard
this verse of the farmer's song
picked and stowed away cool

eyes closed now, ears gently
strain to hear, worldly phrasing
come from where? my larder
or some ancestor gleaning meaning
and dropping it into her apron

to carry home to hungry minds
to feed them something of today
and sustain them through a fallow
solstice and the chilled breeze

any cultivation harvested over
picked clean and harrowed flat
nearly time to plow it under again
while the farmer gazes the horizon
and sips something in his cup

© Goode Guy 2011-08-22

Copyright © Goode Guy | Year Posted 2011

Details | Verse |
Extraordinary, I am 
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding  the gift I shouldn't fought
 
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
My passion
The food of my soul
 
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
 
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
 
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When  my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
 
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart

Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012

Details | Verse |
A coffee bar with orange paint --
   Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
   A neon sign hangs by the door.

I come here sometimes just to write.
   A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
   I do not see it as a taint.

Tonight an artist's work is hung
   Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
   Allows her dreams to have their say.

I like the color in these walls --
   A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
   A coffee bar with orange paint.

Copyright © M. Teresa Blaylock | Year Posted 2006

Details | Blank verse |

The pieces fit together, one by one—
through trial and error curve fits into curve.
Sometimes, a piece is placed that jars the rest, 
so time is spent redoing what was done
to bring it to its former tidy state.

Though out in view to work on each new day,
so many times the challenge seems too great, 
and so, it's often pushed away from sight. 
Still other times, the pieces fall in place 
renewing eager interest in the game.

And slow but sure, the shapes are interlocked, 
revealing, bit by bit, the total scene. 
And all that’s hoped, before the colors fade, 
is vision of my total life—complete— 
the portrait of my finished dream, well done.


Sandra M. Haight

~8th Place~
 any form-theme max of 16 lines. 
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Form: Blank Verse
Judged: 10/26/2016

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016

Details | Verse |
You walk through the metal detector 
You look at me with a deep seated scorn
You loath that I made you remove your stuff
You had to take off your shoes belt and jewelry
You’re thinking “I’m no criminal or terrorist so why me”

I am only doing the job the government requires of me
I am not the reason you are harassed and had to partially strip
I do empathize with you seeing I have to do the same thing too
No one cares that I am a Screening Officer I am searched when I travel
The government says what’s good for the goose is good for the gander

You want to get mad at someone then look in the right direction
The ones who blatantly took the lives of our families and friends
Who took the choice of traveling to most places away forever
Who took the privilege of carrying most things on board away 
The freedom to travel with our liquids and gels peanut butter and jam

Don’t blame me because I am risking my life to keep you safe
Don’t blame me for someone not caring about your fate
Don’t blame me for what Mr. Harper and Mr. Obama says
Or for what the UK says is their Standard Operating Procedures (SOP)
Don’t blame me I am just the messenger that holds many lives in my hand

Copyright © Joy Wellington | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |
A solitary pencil line,
stretched taught 
on distant snow. 
Cleaves blank sky 
from frozen ground.
Gives hope of where to go.

Accidental thought 
creates a tree I toil towards 
its trembling twigs 
find only that I'm lost
and all about me 
unspoiled virgin white
except the fading words 
from where I've been.

Copyright © angela sutherland | Year Posted 2008

Details | Free verse |
World abandonment
vanity infests
greed escalates
charity nullified

Competitive paradise
prices uncontrollable
hunger staggering
debt maximized

Honest  lost
integrity futile
words misconstrued
greed rapid

Equality vanished
pensions minute
labor intensified
 jobs down sized

World absorbed
humans consumed
profits soar
mortgages abandoned

World immobilized
composure lost
hope desperate
destruction eminent.

Copyright © Phyllis Babcock | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
I will not be late to work today

I will get there on time
I will brush my teeth
Without singing songs
Without thinking about birthdays
About gymnasiums
About TAKS 
About sound
About war
Republicans
Democrats
Independents

I will get there on time
I will eat my oatmeal
Without thinking of 
Broken valentines
Strewn against a wooden
Fence 
Like dropped goblets
From a robbers pillowcase

I will be there before the bell rings
My papers will be checked
My hair will be combed
My mind will be alert 
Ready to begin my lesson

I will not wonder why
My oldest son doesn’t have a job
I will not pray too long
For my daughter who is taking the bar today
At 10:30 AM in New Orleans
I will not scar my knees wishing
For some alternate world
Where children are never neglected
Or hurt
Where there is no abandonment

What nonsense to try and order the world
Just get to work on time
Put your things in the car, your projector and 
The white binders that you didn’t look at
All weekend although you were supposed to check the papers and put the 
grades on the computer
I will leave now
Before it is impossible to
Be on time
I will cream my ashy ankles

I will not focus on the white
Cat on the black pillow
With the green eyes
I will not water the plant
I will not watch TV
I will not write poetry
Before work

I will not write poetry
Before work
I will get to work on time
I will be ready
I will not be daydreaming about fog
Wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mother
Or colon cancer like my dad
I won’t be thinking about that stuff
I will be locking the front door and 
Closing the gate and clicking the clicker
And starting the car and leaving

I will not be in my living room
Wondering if there is any reason to love
Because I do not love for reason
I love because He first loved me
It is not incantations or intoxication
Or imagination it is my life and 
The structure will come with the
Clearness of Bajan water
So clear you can see the fish
Fly float across the Atlantic

It is time
This poem must end
I will not be late for work
This morning
Not for nothing
Not for nobody
Not for anything
Not for everything

This poem is over 
the work day begins


Copyright © Rhea Daniel Dear | Year Posted 2008

Details | Free verse |
There was a naughty girl, and the naughty girl was she

She worked a crossword puzzle, while she had her cup of tea 

        Poured another cup, ......she should get up!
                                      for chores and roll her sleeves

She had much work to do, but her good intentions flew
                                                         like feathers in a breeze

Instead of mops and brooms, she would sing a cheery tune...
      while she danced around the room..

Sudsy dish pans full....but Mother Nature pulled
                                           her to the sunshine for a stroll

        Her bed unmade, her bills unpaid,
        But instead she picked a daisy

Beneath a sunny sky
......she heard the lullaby
                    of the birds that sing on high

        She had meals to cook
                but would rather look
                          at the snowtop hills nearby

So much work undone, and the dinner?......NONE!

But she fed her soul instead!



_______________________
For Linda Marie's Contest "I Am Bored With _______
By Carrie Richards

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009

Details | Verse |
Hamilton, Ontario,
Is a steel making town.
You can hardly tell it, 
When the sun goes down.

The slagpiles glow as the big furnace throws,
Another batch of ore.
Big ingots sit on the railway cars,
Behind the big steel doors.

They call this place DeFasco
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.

Something happened one autumn night.
I'd heard the older men tell.
The shift boss heard someone screaming.
It came from the bowels of hell.

A father and son were working,
Breaking slag from a big ladles spout.
The young man couldn't get out of the way.
When the molten metal poured out.

The molten metal mixed with the mud,
To make a sticky muck.
By the time the father turned around.
He saw his son was stuck.

The boys workboots were on fire.
As he was buried to his knees.
Even his asbestos clothing ignited.
He begged to his father,"Please,"

"Put me out of my misery,
I know my days are done."
His father pushed him under the slag.
He killed his only son.

They found the old man later that night,
Running circles in the rain.
They say he never spoke another word.
They say he'd gone insane.

Sometimes during my coffee break,
I'll sit and I'll think a while.
I often find myself wondering.
Just what's under that pile.

They call the place DeFasco.
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.

Note; I worked at the DeFasco Steel mill in the early nineties, and was told this story.


Copyright © Thomas Plue | Year Posted 2009

Details | Free verse |
Reasonings

Too few
Hopefully more

My resentment flairs
My will ebbs
Still looking elsewhere

I won’t just leave
I care too much
My heart is here
Have more to give

Want answers to my whys
Know I’ll never truly know
Doors of opportunity may open
But I still hold hope
Knowing this is my calling

Copyright © Betty Gail Wood-Rush | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
LOTUS FOR SLOPING KNEES
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

the contentment of disheveled twigs
sitting on shoulders of humming trees,
the sunlight wafting shades on meshed nets---
it is before early morning, pale always ever,
pagan and pliant as the swoon 
of winged winds. after all, while village trawlers
tug the day’s haul of buttery clams, 
salmon and weeds,
the river washes its feet unobserved.

even when the hills fondle the peaks
of embossed leaves, there is no time
for human leisure on the streams, not yet. not till
compass’ hours stray too long, tedious, unabated
for folk fishermen to haul the orb ropes
and slug aquatic baits in exile, washed 
from sea wine that cradles trout’s liberty…

many a time, when incandescent beam
envelopes all things gentle and sunlight drifts
on lotus flowing, rowing; as clouds hover odorless
upon sloping male knees: fishermen become
the fishes darting free, finally tranquil…
content as disheveled  twigs lying
on shoulders of humming trees.


,,,,,,,,……………………………………,,,,,,


© all rights reserved




Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
Not 
Long 
I 
Know 
this 
'lady' 
This 
lady 
names 
LINDA 
On 
this 
amiable 
platform
Calls 
POETRYSOUP
Not 
Long 
I 
started 
to 
write
On 
this 
platform
And 
not 
long 
I 
was 
Recognised 
as 
one 
of 
the 
distinguished 
being.

On 
whose 
auspices 
did 
I 
know 
about 
my 
worth?
On 
the 
auspices 
of 
the 
popular
Poet 
Destroyer 
A. 

Though 
I 
didn't 
know 
LINDA 
in 
person
And 
I 
am 
not 
sure 
she 
knows 
me 
either
But 
honestly 
speaking 
She 
is 
one 
brilliant 
POETESS
My 
pen 
owes 
Tribute.

Let 
me 
start 
from 
her 
poetry
The 
one 
I 
have 
found 
so 
amazing...
Full 
of 
art, 
full 
of 
love, 
full 
of 
zeal, 
full 
of 
life,
Full 
of 
victory... 
and 
full 
of 
challenges.
And 
talking 
about 
her 
contest 
Therein 
I 
have 
found 
neutrality.
That 
is 
why 
I 
am 
not 
afraid
When 
my 
pen 
choses 
her.

For 
pen 
about 
her 
commentaries
As 
far 
as 
I 
know 
PD. 
has 
been 
the 
widest 
'commentator'
I 
have 
ever 
known 
On 
this 
dignifying 
arena.

Frankly 
speaking
LINDA 
alias 
Poet 
Destroyer 
A
Worth 
my 
rose 
and 
wine
On 
this 
Drama 
Free 
Zone.

Dedicated 
to: 
LINDA, 
Poet 
Destroyer 
A

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
I am not finished yet, nor am I perfect.
I am a lifetime project.
I am a work in progress.

Each day, I grow a little.
Sometimes bigger … sometimes smaller … 
Always older … often wiser …

My days would seem to be all the same.
Rather sluggish … Frankly boring …
And they are, yes … in the main.

Yet each one has a gift for me.
A thought, perhaps a memory.
Something for me to savour.

Another tiny piece that I can fit 
Into my personal jigsaw. 
The big picture of me …

The picture that I will never see.
The one I will leave for my children.
I hope they’ll like it!

Copyright © Frances King | Year Posted 2009