Best Jobs Poems | Poetry
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New Jobs Poems
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Odd Jobs, Oh My
by Friel, KDawn
Work and Jobs
by Robinson Jr., Freddie
No Jobs For A Man
by Rhumour, Dave
The Easy Jobs
by Moore, Bob
Boob Jobs And Bomb Jobs
by Neumann, Kai Michael
Gobs of Jobs
by Horn, James
Even Lunatics Need Jobs
by Caliri, Matt
AFTER ADAM JOBS
by Thajudeen, Muhammad Safa
We Thank You Steve Jobs
by Monihan, Rhoda
by Enriquez, Leon
View all new Jobs Poems
The Best Jobs Poems
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
The next day
Writes an outstanding obituary
I sit on display
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2015
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Sponsor Nayda Ivette Negron
1st January 2016
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
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
N-urtured from cradle to
entity with a new world
O-rganizes oneself for the
task ahead,passing thru
hurdles of life unabased
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
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
Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013
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
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
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
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
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.
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
TENDER LOVING TOUCH
Sponsor Judy Konos
Contest Name YOUR FOOTLE POEM
8:41 pm, April 04, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015
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
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
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.
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017
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 “****-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.
****-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 “****-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.
Form: Rhyme Personification
Copyright © Susan Gentry | Year Posted 2016
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
July 06, 2014
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2014
"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
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!
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017
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
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
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
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017
Too many roles within a single role is an actor's life
Copyright © Lydia Chitra Jacob | Year Posted 2016
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
There is omniscient God
And there is the Ultra Sound girl
And there is me with 24 hours
Two of the three
I am not one of them.
The cool blue goo
From my belly and side
And the nice lady
Patted my thigh
With such a sense
Of genuine comfort
That I wondered
If she does that
Pan of patients
On her table
All day long
Or if, perhaps,
We had made
Or, if it was just ultra sound
Hang in there
Of many explanations
“I’m sorry to have to…”
But, anyway, she said to go ahead
And let my breath
And that it was over,
As if I were
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
The rest of the day
One knows the truth.
And the other dares not ask.
Copyright © Robert Trezise Jr. | Year Posted 2016
“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