Best Fired Poems
She had one job, just one job.
No bugs in the house, ditto with mouse.
But there it goes across the floor,
eight legs scrambling towards the door.
The cat is snoring, obviously tired.
She had one job, so now she's fired.
Damn spider is hiding, who knows where.
Cat is sleeping, she don't care.
Spiders I hate with a passion.
Maybe her cat food I should ration.
Stupid spider, stupid cat.
I wonder if it went under the mat.
There 'll be no sleep tonight with it running free.
Good thing there's lots to watch on T.V.
She had one job, only the one,
now I'm warning that spider I've got a gun.
SHOW TIME - Mr. MUELLER, YOU'RE FIRED
Come life and death of it you blessed rhapsody
you've played for long enough and now it's time to go
there's not a better time than now to let it be
insanity's its own and best reward you know
deep in the night while there's no certain thing
but passion for the grief that lingers on and on
as damp and cold as fog as hot as summers sting
come life and death of it before this act is gone
there must be question to the ends uncertainty
that's led us guessing, why was this thing said
and is the act onstage or what the actors see
beyond the blinding light among the walking dead
who come to be amused right through our greatest fear
of no applause; or laughter where there should be none
and we must speak each word for everyone to hear
exactly as they plan so that the show goes on.
and yes they knew the end before the curtain call
but made production's costs a thing to bear
and every star that's in the sky could surely fall
from how it shines tonnight unless the fire is there
they cannot see the moving of the props around
sometimes in pandemonium, at best in haste
nor setting of the stage--this is our holy ground
the tinting of each face the tightening of waist
there no one dares to tread except for those who see
the detail of it all must blend into the play
as carefully as we make this, our tragedy,
the making up must be complete in every way
we must not let the ending go beyond the end
or all is lost and all we'll hear is mumbelings
and lack of press where there has never been a friend
so life and death of it come down though pain it brings
let not the curtain to ascend the play is done
and weary are the actors they've performed quite well
as real as life so now the show must not go on
past curtain fall there's nothing more we have to tell.
NO Collusion.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet aka Ron Wilson
When a department wants to get rid of a worker,
The processes used can be slow,
Transferring to a place where they will be moot,
Ignoring everything that they know,
Where they exist, day by day, in an office of work,
Where their job is not even defined,
In an office, where they sit every day of their life,
Until they decide to resign,
Because they’re never included, never valued,
Their case is never assessed,
They are simply bound to watching a screen,
Pushed to becoming depressed,
And as they sit watching their life pass them by,
They see their career has been robbed,
Of all of the skill, fun and scholar they were,
Of the good they once were at their job.
ME, MY MUSE AND ME!
ME
What I am about to say and do,
Would be inconceivable by more
Than a few,
How could I dare,
Its isn’t fair,
For it is Christmas season,
Do I have a valid reason
I hear you say,
Please hear me out I pray!
My muse has been cheating,
Spying on me and meeting,
With another website,
At first I cried,
Then got angry, would put this right!
Called my muse in to chat,
Boutique clothes, expensive red hat,
A Rolls Royce parked outside
Ostentatiously no intention
Of wanting to hide,
Jewellery and attitude,
Don’t get me wrong
Have always felt much gratitude,
But this was never anticipated
And by me sorely regretted,
And totally unexpected,
So with no emotion,
Said,you are fired!
MY MUSE
What said my muse,
Is it that time of the month,
Have you any excuse!
You must be mad,
And clearly, your
Husband won’t be glad,
For he will be roped in,
Where will you both begin,
You’ll be wiped off soup,
And lose this poetry group,
Don’t make this mistake,
Are you calling me fake,
I will not be fired
Nearly 2 years since you hired
Me, tread carefully,
I will take you to task,
For I wear many a mask!
ME
Are you threatning me,
You disreputable chump
Behind my back,
You dishonourable punk,
You did all this,
For a moonlight kiss,
Someone phoned me and
Warned me that you do
These rounds and cheated
On many a poet,
Don’t deny it, I have proof
I know it,
Be gone you miserable thief,
Your stay here should
Have been briefer
With a huff and a pout,
My muse walked out,
And disappeared
Without a trace!
Goodness me,
No sense of decency,
I now have a vacancy!
God never existed don't you
know?
Only fools think it so!
We who write on parchment really
think...
We, are the gods and goddesses
who created it all, with polls of
glistening ebony, primordial ink!
Oh,how we weep over man's idiotic
actions.
We squirm like a paramecium
and have visceral reactions.
Some gods we are, aye!
Refuseniks who give a finger
to the Creator in the sky.
I know poets here who know
far better.
Their poetry reflects God's love
in their poems in each letter.
We can play God all we choose.
And if we do?
We are unmitigated fools.
Drunk and lying in self-adoration,
hellish pools.
October 7, 2019
IN THE FIRED FURNACE OF CALI
(APROPOS THE ANNUAL RUNNING OF FIRE AND MUD)
Roaring radiant raging waves of heat,
the charging beast, glowing red hot with anger,
devours all within its path; left over sable statutes
send streams of spiraling smoke sketching
grayish designs upon the hazy blue canvas above.
Weary eyes reflect the yellow-orange-red glow
that only the rage of a Dante-like hell could bring.
The wretched earth once again lay hopelessly
on the remnant of her charred bed: awaiting
her steaming tears to wash away the ashes.
In the meanwhile mourners collect scorched
memories: telltale recollections of sacrifices
nature left upon her Vulcan altar.
You're a person who we shouldn't have hired.
You were the mail lady but now you're fired!
You are a moron, you don't have a lick of sense.
You've been reading people's mail, that's a federal offense.
You read a married man's letter to his lover who is pregnant with his child.
You told his wife and now he's going to sue us, because of you he's riled.
Two days ago you stole a child's money when his uncle mailed him cash.
When I decided to hire you, I had no idea that I was hiring a piece of trash.
I'm so pissed off that I'm starting to pace the floor and shout.
Leave now and please let the door hit your ass on your way out.
(This is a fictional poem)
No disrespect to my American friends,
Trump is your president, that’s totally whack.
But ‘Leader of the Free World’ that madness ends.
Such arrogance puts a target on your back.
Democracy’s nose like news media bends
North Korea’s a fraud, Gepetto’s a hack.
Bombastic tweets, is this the new politics?
Turn off the ego tones down rhetoric.
If you read this, love it or hate it, please leave a comment. You don't have to agree with me, it's just my take on a delicate subject. This is a platform for dialogue and free speech; tell me what you think.
Gun Shots
Call Cops
Few More
Hit Floor
Lights Off
Dry Cough
Dark Fears
Soft Tears
Phone Fails
Bite Nails
Some thing
Drove Me
Open
Curtain
Soft Cries
Inside
Broke Down
On Ground
Draw Near
Over Here
Father Please
Help Me
Late Night
Such Fright
Can't Sleep
Anxiety
gunshots, gunshots, gunshots
shots fired anonymously into the night
Why are so many shots fired in vain anonymously in the night
governed by unknown purposes on behalf of opposing ideals
engaged in conflict from behind a mask of camouflouged intents
through the eyes of unforgivable hate by innocent hands forced
to injustly react.
This man held a prestigious position in our nation.
He was director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
A sudden decision caused him some grief.
He had been relieved of duties by our Commander-In-Chief.
The man was someone the President could do without.
With the director's ability, there was some doubt.
So where does this separation go from here?
Just stay tuned and keep a sharp ear.
from a news story found on aol.com
Fired Up
Suddenly slow, then frozen up…My heart began to pound.
My computer means so much to me. It’s my touch to the outside world.
Then my knight came in the door… determined my dragon to slay.
And let me tell you… as dragons go… he can slay anything.
Dragon fire can be hot, but this one was immensely worse.
Nothing at all seemed to work. This dragon was really strong.
Shield after shield fell from my knights’ grip…
But thank God… he never, ever gave up.
Night after night he fought with might and studied his foe with thought.
Each night he scanned every road… for where a lair could be stowed.
His sword swung with might nightly… erasing him from the land.
But still the dragon was able to come back breathing fire upon all at hand.
He knew how to open every back door. He was cleverer than any I had seen.
But steady as a rock my knight and prince… continued to protect my way of life.
Finally, one day, with four new shields and with Excalibur by his side…
The dragon's spawn was slayed one last time, then a miraculous silence remained…
My knight had sacrificed so much time and sleep… that I truly cried.
This dragon was from a far away land where more dragons are made with pride.
But my dear knight is willing to wait by my side… His shield and sword nearby.
Thank you I say with hugs and kisses… For my knight in shining armor, my life…
I didn’t even know what type of bird it was - when I had to shoot to kill.
I left the comfort of my bed
on an early Saturday Fall morning
to enter the unknown - a nearby forest
so that I could hunt with my father.
The canopy of trees further reduced the light from the overcast sky.
It was chilly, with a scent of damp moss present in the air
the ground wet from the morning mist.
I remember mostly silence
except for my breathing
and the sounds of my footsteps
and those of my father - crushing twigs, branches, dead leaves, plant life, and living insects
clearing the road
for my rite of passage
my childhood disappearing
with every footstep.
The bird
spotted by my father
a distance away
on a branch
of a colorful, majestic tree.
He handed me his gun
and gave me a quick refresher on how to hold, how to shoot, and what to expect.
The gun heavy
my arms starting to ache
my hands cold
and trembling.
And then I was told that I was ready
And so I aimed
pulled the trigger
and fired.
The bird remained motionless
and very much alive.
I fired once more.
Again
the bird, still there
unaffected
and at that moment I asked myself, if I would have to shoot again.
My father reloaded the rifle
and as I reluctantly took it from his hands, he looked into my eyes
and I wondered if he knew.
I fired again.
Again - I missed.
Then a fourth, and final time.
I returned the riffle to my father.
Nothing was said.
Nothing else was done.
I asked myself if one day I would be a hunter.
Before leaving the area
so that my father’s hunt could once again continue
I looked - for the last time - at the branch of the tree that once supported the bird.
It was gone - and I smiled.
Just your passing look,
a flashing smile;
My life isn't the same,
no, not once.
You're lovely, my Love--
disarming;
Cuddling me, fresh rose
in its bloom;
Carrying me through storm
under sail.
Your love, summer sun,
glows like flame;
Setting me ablaze
for winter.
Make me a kindling,
not smoldering,
To thaw frozen hearts
numbed by hate.
© 2015
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
Santa got fired for drinking some booze
On his ten minute break he took a snooze
He curled on couch for a nap.
But time went by in a snap
Awoke to the booze soaking his caboose
Note: Written for Carolyn's "Commercialized Humor" Contest