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Best Jobs Poems | Poetry

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The Best Jobs Poems

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Secret of the Mortician

The Secret of the Mortician

Dead, but I got eyes
Prepares my body at the morgue
Opens the chest
Drains the blood from its nudity
Admires my body before it decays

After The process of embalming
His hands run all over
I'm still dead
He's satisfied

The next day 
Writes an outstanding obituary 
I sit on display


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2015

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Internal Interview

Living amid the blurred lines of my reflections
Stark cold fears snow me blanket my resolve
Nestled my leafless core begging for rebirth

Patches of life clumped to the reality of what is what was
Soul penetrating every doubt of self worth 
Raw exposure of glory days forgone

Dreams engulf the rapture of greener pastures
Revealed in roots embedded firmly in my foundation 
Seeds flourish branches extend and trunks stand firm

Copyright © Carol B. | Year Posted 2016

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A Joyless Job

At the window, palms under my chin,
such beauty I see, out the frosted pane,
I was mesmerized, it showed in my grin,
so picture perfect, the snow covered lane.

My daydream was dashed, Mom called from the door,
"time to brave the cold and clear the sidewalk,"
grabbed my winter coat and boots from the floor,
I hate this chore, but knew not to back-talk.

"Don't slip on the ice, watch out for the plow,"
I hear, as orange shovel meets concrete,
shouldn't the county have this done by now?,
this takes all day, with snow piled up in feet.

Why freeze for allowance, I'll never know,
yet, I still find myself shoveling snow.

November 18th, 2014

Sara Kendrick's contest - "Jobs"

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

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I once dated a pilot … We both had our head in the clouds Our relationship lead to a lot of turbulence - I guess it never really got off the ground! I once dated a glazier… He thought I would be putty in his hands But I could see right through him… He was constantly smashed I once dated an undertaker… He knew he had stiff competition I couldn’t cope - he was always ‘coffin’ when he picked me up in his hearse He had no sense of humour in fact he was dead boring I once dated an angler The thought he was a real catch… But the scales soon fell from my eyes As he was obsessed with his flies I once dated a footballer He thought he could score with me Told me he had great tackle… But it was just a load of balls I once dated a fishmonger… He thought he was cod’s gift to women He invited me back to his plaice… Where I found out he was really a cold fish Submitted to 101 poems in a row Sponsored by PD Linda:-) 15th April 2016

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

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The Color Missing

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

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Gina the toilet cleaner

They call her big Gina
You'd know if you seen her
She is a toilet cleaner
She wears a white smock
Armed with bucket and a mop
She likes to keep things clean
And is a real scrubber
If you know what I mean
She whistles as she goes
With disinfectant wafting under her nose
She replaces toilet rolls
And cleans the toilet bowls
She really loves her job
She has a cat called Doris
And a husband called Bob
Her job is dirty and often smelly
She has a tattoo of a toilet on her belly
At the end of the day
She puts her mop and bucket away
Goes home and has a shower
Then cleans the house within half an hour
Her husband makes her mad
Leaving the toilet seat up
She puts toilet water in his cup
Of tea to sup
She has a daughter called Pru
She dreams of being a toilet cleaner too
She doesn't care about the smell of poo
Just her dream comes true
We should all appreciate toilet cleaners
Just like big Gina.

''Warning! Toilet water in tea. please do not try at home.
 could be dangerous and doesn't taste nice''.

Peter Dome.copyright.2014. Aug.

Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2014

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for Jobs contest: Strawberry Fields Forever - - NOT

There aren’t too many jobs that kids can do
when they are in their pre-teen years, but we
knew of a place to work where berries grew.
To pick them was a job of misery.

In June, my siblings and I went each day;
into a field with hats and pails we’d go!
On hands and knees, through dirt we’d crawl our way
while picking berries up and down each row.

I still recall the rock ‘n roll we played -
our only pleasure as we all perspired
in Iowa’s damp heat, away from shade.
When we were through at last, we felt so tired.

No smaller pay have I since ever got.
But how I loved the treats that money bought!

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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At patients bedside tending the sick and dying
Nurses are absolutely amazing people
Giving tender care
Each and every day
Life is so so precious
Such a wonderful job they all do

Contest: Angels
Sponsor Nayda Ivette Negron
1st January 2016

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

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Seed Of Friendship-A dedication

L-iving in a world of vast 
souls formed from 
another voided world,
E-ntering thru portals 
from their world to earth.
O-ozing spetacular smell 
and wail when the chips 
are down.
N-urtured from cradle to 
entity with a new world 
to face.
O-rganizes oneself for the 
task ahead,passing thru 
hurdles of life unabased 
and unabashed.
R-eaps the fruit of labor 
with joy or heavy heart.
A-ge sets in,mission 
accomplished or not will 
dawn on the entity.

I-n retrospect,he thinks 
about his childhood and 
how life was to him.

L-iving in confidence or 
shame,he bows his head 
in victory or defeat.
O-nly the taste of time 
will tell the durability of 
his achievements.
V-oid of preference the 
aim result bears the 
foundation for his lineage.
E-njoyment or lack lies 
with the works of the 
man,for there is no food 
for the slothful.

Y-oung ones,a stitch in 
time saves nine,make 
haste while the sun 
O-iling your lamb always 
like the ten virgins is the 
key to success.
U-rging you to shun peer 
pressure and focus on 
the course marked out 
for you by fate,so a 
fulfilled life you shall live.

An acrostic for you 
Leonora Galinita.

Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013

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BC Had Greatness

B.C. has been the acronym applied 
for all events before out dear Lord’s birth.
Who knew another god would change the tide
and wield a power of great global worth?

To what do I refer? Or have you guessed
the god to which we each now bow our head?
No matter our religion, all are blessed
with this thing vital as our daily bread.

It took away the jobs of common men
and gave new jobs to geeks. You now must know
this god of our new world, who loves all sin
as well as good, has nothing it won’t show!

I think “Before Computers” seems a way
to say A.D.  became a new B.C.
Now things have changed so much that I would say
that my own past is ancient history!

Before Computers, life was not so fast,
and even in the 90’s I could keep
abreast of news and make my free time last.
High-tech today both makes me thrill and weep!

More time for family, a slowed down pace,
more time for God; I weep for things we’ve lost.
yet thrilled am I to see the human race
now bonding. But we do it at what cost?

Our children growing lazy, rude, and fat
and less connected, addicts to a phone!
To play outside. . . . Do you remember that?
B.C. meant doing more things on your own.

With jobs, our kids and all our lives at stake,
we now embrace our new computer age,.
Omitting our true God is the mistake
that might well do us in; we must be sage!

Recall the values getting left behind
as into this computer age we cruise.
Look back to decades past and you will find
B.C. had greatness that we must not lose.

For Deb's Contest (B.C. = Before Computers)

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011

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The Great Puppeteer

The Great Puppeteer

The CEO wore a six hundred dollar wool-silk blended suit
and he stroked his tie as he counted his loot
10 million for me
10 million for my stockholders if you please
and that leaves
7 dollars for my employees

leaning back in his leather chair
he muses
thinking of the people he uses
we’ve got to stop raising minimum wage
if we’re to go on living in this golden age

the great puppeteer
he knows he’s got a good thing going here

so with a little hocus pocus
he gets his employees to focus
on poor people who live in despair
he gets them complaining about people on welfare

it’s called divide and conquer said he
you see
the poor are so naive
they’ll never see the card I have up my sleeve
I’ll get them fighting over the scraps I leave
and they won’t even notice
I’m having a feast no one would believe!

Copyright © Wally Flint | Year Posted 2015

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The Fraud

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

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TENDER LOVING TOUCH don't fear she's dear tight clutch soft touch wears white polite too sick she's quick your ache she breaks your ill she feels one pill you still preserve your nerve correct inject your shock she blocks you scared she cares through sleeps she peeps recharged discharge "thank you" she coos ___________________________ Sponsor Judy Konos Contest Name YOUR FOOTLE POEM ---Placed1st--- O.E. Guillermo 8:41 pm, April 04, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015

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Sung to the melody of when I’m 64 by The Beatles Gotta keep working an extra few years (Not like years ago) Governments are screwing us for every dime I can’t afford a bottle of wine Hip's been replaced Yes I’m getting old I’m too old to twerk But I’m so needy and my pension won’t feed me But I’m ninety four! Written after being inspired by ‘Stupid People’ poem by SillyBilly theKidster 05~16~17 Now That I'm 64 by SillyBilly the Kidster I gotta keep working an extra few years, not like years before. Government is screwing me for every dime, I can’t afford a bottle of wine. Hip's been replaced, yes I’m getting old. I Can't Work Any More, but I'm still needy, social security won't feed me, now that I'm 64. 05~17~17

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017

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       Still the Worst Job Ever

How do I hold thee, let me count the ways.
I hold thee trembling, beneath kitchen sinks
crouched in the darkness of the brightest days
guiding thy beam as his patience shrinks.

I hold thee dulled by lightning’s fearsome flash
shakily awaiting  unseen anger
tortured by the inevitable crash
intrigued by the neediness of danger.

I hold thee wide eyed in dirt-floored cellar 
your flame slow flickering on edge of sight
dimming through the range of yellowed color
draining the darkness from a darkened night.

I hold thee, for my brothers all have fled
I hold thee, not knowing what they dread.

Submitted for - Sara Kendrick -  Jobs – Poetry Contest

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014

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Rooster Fred

Welcome to our barnyard, you can call me Fred.
My job is to get everyone out of bed.
Cheerful by nature, I’m proud to “cock-a-doodle-do.”
A beautiful crow to hear - they act like I shout, “Boo!”
A morning person would think this is the best job ever.
At dawn, I’m sad to say, few appreciate me being clever.
Yes, I know the names they call me... I try to shrug it off.
Cock-of-the-walk really gripes me, who are they to scoff?
Some are jealous of my red cone, it is so beautiful.
Lifting my neck to properly crow is being dutiful.
Believe me, I’ve tried and tried not to strut my stuff.
To be a rooster and not be cocky is really quite tough.
Throughout the day I continue to “cock-a-doodle-do.”
Yes, it does sound like revenge, but wouldn’t you?
Of course if danger arises everyone needs to hear me.
I like them calling me brave and crowding to be near me.

Without me this barnyard would never be on time.
Deep down they all know it, I just wish they would be kind.

Written 2-19-2016

Form: Rhyme Personification

Copyright © Susan Gentry | Year Posted 2016

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NIGHTINGALE'S SOUL LIGHTS Plain spotless uniform so pure and white Modest neat gear rendering tender loving fight Day, night 'till wee hours, eyes a must wide awake Extending a hand, shaking off all aches Tiptoeing like a sly in and out of rooms Dim ~ quiet same as white garden tombs Grace under pressure upon first newborn's cry Wiping tears from a gentle old man's dying eye Evenings so dark and mornings so bright Everyday a nurse sees life kaleidoscope lights Despite some voice rudeness to foul remarks Kindness,her soul's sweet perfume, larks A nurse appears unfeeling firm when mankind bleeds Within her are hidden soft golden beauty deeds (c) 11:47pm July 06, 2014

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2014

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Please God, Use Me Today

"Please, God, use me today."
Is a prayer many Christian's pray.
"Take my gifts and talents, too,
let them be used in service for you."

God hears our prayers,
but, for the most part, He knows,
good intentions are forgotten
as the day quickly goes.

Because to get people's attention,
is a losing game,
when time after time,
He calls out our names.

Our ears are closed.
Our antenna's not up,
to His signs and signals
from heaven's higher up.

So He whispers in another's ear,
and get's a response,
"Yes, God, I'm here!"

But the helping hands
that are always there,
and the eyes that see
and the hearts that care,
are God's many helper's
who don't have to say,
"What can I do, God, for you today?"

Copyright © Darlene Gifford | Year Posted 2015

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Ted was a professional farter and at his windy recitals he’d boast that could even toot Moonlight Sonata If his wife fed him baked beans on toast! There was an annual farting competition Held in downtown Chicago, (the ‘Windy City’) Ted had pre-loaded his guts for the mission To lose his title would be such a pity Ted knew that the competition was stiff His groaning guts how they gurgled away He farted an exceptional guitar riff hoping he’d be winning the trophy that day Ted raised his left leg and let rip But disaster was about to strike His todger got caught in his zip The searing agony Ted did dislike Limping off the stage in great pain Bitter tears fell from his blue eyes He re-adjusted his trousers again Could he retain that coveted prize? Now Ted returned to his farting position With the microphone close to his tush And with determination and good nutrition He farted all of ‘Mystic Rhythms’ by Rush The audience gave Ted a standing ovation (Lucky for them they weren’t too near the stage) And much to Ted’s delight and jubilation The judges thought his farting was all the rage Ted was eventually declared the winner And he returned home to his lovely wife She’d prepared chicken curry for his dinner To safeguard his job for the rest of his life! 06-30-17

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017

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Zeke the Bus Driver

Public transpo buses are a poor man's taxicab,
but you can't hail a ride when you need one
You must sit and wait on a wooden street slab
Buses are municipal elephants
that move on asphalt trails
If one arrives on schedule, then all is well
Drop the money into the pay slot,
and get taken to that menial job you got
But marginal income don't motivate you a lot
Yet, be glad you're one of the fortunate few
that has a cool bus driver who loves to skirt the rules
He will tell you to call him Zeke
Not mister, not sir
Just Zeke
Thirty years, he says he's been
on the urban safari beat
Says he's seen it all
on the jungle concrete streets
Zeke loves to laugh a lot,
he loves to give out friendly hellos
And Zeke really loves helping
the disabled and old widows
Next time you're in his city,
take a chance and ride poor
If you meet Zeke, you'll be richer for sure

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

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A chambermaid whose name is Marlia Had the most terrible diarrhoea Whilst scrubbing a loo She needed to pooh Poop flowed freely from her posterior It splattered on the newly scrubbed door Gloopy poop was all over the floor There was a huge mess It covered her dress Her poor tummy was ever so sore WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON Marlia was filled with sorrow A clean dress she had to borrow flies were attracted The mess compacted clean up required a harrow! WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS If only she'd have taken a Tums No mess would be left on her bums she's still in despair a stench in the air To the scent of poop she succumbs WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH Marlia was dumb, thinking it was just gas But it was much more that she had to pass The day was torrid Her stench was horrid Now everyone knows Marlia has no class WRITTEN BY LIN LANE Marlia tried hard to sneak out the trail of her poop left no doubt Lysol was sprayed, Her funk still stayed cause her poop kept running out WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER Poor, poor Marlia stunk up the room Her hubby left and she has no groom He ran for the hills No more night thrills, Now she's alone and her life is doom WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y 21-07-17

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017

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Please Hold

“Thank you for calling….”
Is what’s trained to be said
But when they get irate and lewd
I feel like hanging up instead.

This person’s always right, that person’s never wrong.
Mr boss sir, your breath is oh so strong!
they’re mean and crass, just downright rude 
 I might just be naughty and get the big boss sued.

I give picture perfect smiles,
the really artificial Kind
Welcome and please come again,
you just died ten times in my mind

Just got off the last call and I don’t mean to be crude 
But goodbye till tomorrow, the next  complaint I’ll elude

A Collaboration With Stephanie Allen/Niketa McKenzie/Sean Solomon

Copyright © SEAN SOLOMON | Year Posted 2017

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Too many roles within a single role is an actor's life

Copyright © Lydia Chitra Jacob | Year Posted 2016

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What They Do

Carpet layers have to be on the floor
Deep sea divers love to go down
Computer gamers can't seem to stop
Taxi drivers are all over town

A dentist will do it till it hurts
A sailor sure likes a big swell 
A hunter will do it with a bang
While a gymnast will dismount well

Lawyers reach into their briefs
A trash man holds on to his nose
Painters always use longer strokes
A ballerina stands on her toes

Salesmen have learned to use their mouth
While students try to use their head
The police will go on a big bust
And a maid always cleans the bed

Copyright © PAT Adams | Year Posted 2017

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Ultra Sound


There is omniscient God
And there is the Ultra Sound girl
And there is me with 24 hours

Left ahead
To wander

Two of the three
Of us
My fate.

I am not one of them.

The cool blue goo
Was swiped
From my belly and side
And the nice lady
Patted my thigh
So intimately,
So compassionately,
With such a sense
Of genuine comfort

That I wondered
If she does that
With all
Of her
Pan of patients
On her table
All day long
Like dough
Beneath her

Or if, perhaps,
We had made
A connection

Or, if it was just ultra sound
Good luck
Hang in there

Was it
The first

Of many explanations
Beginning with,

“I’m sorry to have to…”

But, anyway, she said to go ahead
And let my breath

And that it was over,
For today.

As if I were
Her husband
In front of her
In our morning bedroom,

I fastened my buttons
And tucked in my shirt
Then zipped up my pants,
Re-tied my tie
And pulled on the arms
Of my suit jacket

While we chatted
Small talk

About anything
But for
What was
In front

It was
The rest of the day



One knows the truth.

And the other dares not ask.

Copyright © Robert Trezise Jr. | Year Posted 2016