Best On The Dole Poems
Idle and aimless, living on the dole
Going in circles like fish in a bowl.
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23rd November 2015
Contest: Epigram couplet
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 2nd
A Chinese lad was at table dawdling with his pork and rice.
This upset his mama-san who reprimanded him in a trice!
"Clean your plate! Children in America are starving, son!"
And she continued to berate him - her tirade had only begun!
"Your papa-san has a great job while dads in America are on the dole.
Our economy is booming while that of America is lagging, on the whole!
Papa makes good money to provide Americans with the things they need.
You should be very thankful for the jobs they send here, yes indeed!"
"Kids in America can't get a job even with a college education,
But, son, America will provide you with a job in any old vocation!
This is the land of opportunity, my boy, thanks to American capitalists!
You must appreciate all they have done for us Chinese communists!"
"Not so long ago your father and I didn't have a yuan to our name.
Now we have a house and brand new car - life will never be the same!
So I don't want to hear any of your sass or fiddling with your food.
Thanks to the generous Americans, they have lifted our nation's mood!"
"I want you to clean your plate and grow strong to follow in your dad's shoes.
Uncle Sam needs you to make TVs and shirts or anything else they choose.
No more lip! Clean your plate! I want to see those chopsticks flying!
Think about the kids in America who'll got to bed tonight hungry and crying!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
There are many birds that gather
In my yard all through the year.
However, there is one I favor.
I wait for her to reappear.
You'll not find her at the feeder,
Like the others on the dole.
I think her mama taught her
Self sufficiency is the goal.
She and her faithful hubby
(Oh how that guy is trained)
Have come back to their love nest,
On my porch where it remained.
She showed him how to mend it
And he worked hard at his task.
Aything at all she wanted,
All she need to do was ask.
Their nest abuts the ceiling,
I bump my head before I see
If the little ones have hatched yet,
But if not they soon will be.
Once here, their mouths will open
And will never close again
Until they're big as their own parents,
But they're never offered grain.
No, it's bugs and bugs and more bugs.
They keep Mom and Daddy hopping.
She tells him they have mouths to feed.
There is no time for stopping.
While he is gathering the food,
She's shoving it into them
And passes him when he returns
From committing insect mayhem.
Now Daddy gets the job of feeding
While Mama's on the hunt.
In this nest of well fed children
You will never find a runt.
She grabs all of the mosquitos
That her little beak can hold.
Her mate is going out for more,
She doesn't have to scold.
You will not find better parents,
Human ones or otherwise,
Than these precious little swallows,
With a love that's supersize.
You would think they would be happy
When these youngsters leave the nest,
But they start another family
Busy swallows never rest.
Any villainous mosquito
Won't have a chance to do me harm
While these persisting swallows
Have a nest on my old farm
By: Joyce Johnson 6/17/03
Empowering the indolent,
the fox is now inside
The vermin on the loose,
the truth now plagued by lies
The takers stalk the givers,
those on the dole now scream
“We want what you have worked for,
—the fruit without the tree”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2017)
Living my life on the Dole*,
Because my Mum told me so,
Interview at ‘McDonalds’, but that Tyrant told me "No!",
See, we're a family with pride,
Don't sell fries at super-size,
But where's the pride,
If I can't provide,
For my own style of life,
Spent my money from the *Brew,
On Irn-Bru**, I swear that’s true,
Dreary, damp & cold, This black hole, I call home,
Only 'joy' I get in life’s the 'stick' I use for X-BOX,
And I aint got a tumble dryer so I step with wet socks,
Work-shy, but money-hungry,
Flats cramp-sized & pretty ugly,
Arrogant guy,
Until I woke up and realised that no-one loves me.
Brain melts to slush, in this non-testing occasion,
‘Gain Work’ is a must, for a teenage Caucasian,
Nothing separating me,
From drug-addled Dads of three,
No payday,
Just giro day,
No jobs… great,
Keep trying mate,
No end in sight as unemployment rises,
Government gives you cash like they were handing out prizes,
Where’s my reason to go out & work? My motivation,
Its pleasing no-one now, this escalated situation,
Experience is something that you earn, not that you’re born with,
Inexperienced forever, if I don’t get employed quick,
I don't enjoy sitting on my broken couch for hours,
I'm your Friend with Benefits, can only wash with cold showers.
(*Common British phrases for Jobcentre or Jobseekers Allowance Benefit)
(**Famous Scottish soft drink mass produced around Britain)
Dreamed that you loved me again
I saw it in your eyes
Filled with love and happiness
The words we wrote despised
The tears were writ upon the clouds
Your heart was not the prize
The words we spoke can't be unsaid
Our love has been capsized
The birds sang out ,"its all for naught."
My love is not for sale
I prayed for you upon my knees
Was hid behind the veil
The hope I felt moved inside my dream
The picture had been taken
I wanted you to wait for me
Must have been mistaken
Woke to tears I see it clear
Gathered memories within my soul
Armies fought to cleanse the mess
Precious love was on the dole
The birds sang out ,"its all for naught."
My love is not for sale
I prayed for you upon my knees
You hid behind the veil
The birds sing with morning glory
Love carried in a pail
My prayer's were never heard those nights
My ship put out to sail
I visit when asleep at night
We're walking hand and hand
Hope those wicked birds sleep in
As we walk along the sand
Those birds are my alarm clock
As your vision slowly fades
Only see you as I dig the hole
It's best to use a spade
Beggars of California
With their tattoos and their piercings, I don’t give money to beggars in California. Up on the Haight with his honey, not really in need, this beggar of California.
At least in New York you get some song and dance, perhaps the tickle of a tenor sax ?and they’re out in the rain, not just when it’s sunny, like those beggars in California.
Near my apartment in Pacific Heights, know them by name. It’s funny; frown when they see me: two brothers, one on either side of the street, these yuppie beggars of California.
I offered to pay the pawn on Runny Nose’s instruments out of hock, but his sign was a true ploy. Another’s sign: “Sailor needs a ship”; it’s war time!? Beggar of California!
I offered one a berth and a meal of tunny. I still see him, but he begs no more.
I think he’s on the dole with a cot. His words were foggy, this beggar of California.
I begged Jackie Paper, since the eighth grade: run for California, head west young man.Education was free. Was I cunning or just another beggar in California?
Santa Claus has been unemployed all year
On the dole watching TV drinking beer
Ms. Claus was going berserk
Its Christmas time you fat jerk
Get off your duff and saddle up them deer
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Francine Roberts "Christmas" Contest - December 2010
Recently I spoke to a young man.
Let’s say his name was John.
He told me all about his life,
And the things that he had done.
Coming from a broken home
and abused by someone close
he said he fell behind in reading and sums
receiving lower grades than most.
He left school aged just sixteen
Joined the army, felt there was nothing else.
He was taught how to march, to obey,
and how to kill. In self defence
He was told when to sleep.
When to wake, when to eat.
He was feeling content,
felt his life was complete.
He then was sent to the Afgan war,
returned with anxiety and stress.
The army he loved he had to leave,
His nerves were in a mess.
He moved into a bedsitter flat,
with the remains of his army pay.
Soon fell behind with the rent,
Was told ‘Get out right-away!’
Not knowing where to go,
he walked the streets by day.
At night sleeping on cardboard.
In a secluded shop doorway.
Passer-by’s ignored his begging pleas,
muttering ‘He is on the dole,
will spend money on drink and drugs.’
His medal proudly worn, some said he stole.
Then one night someone did stop,
helped him to his feet.
Took him to a sheltered home,
gave him something to eat.
He was taught how to read,
enrolled on an IT course.
He was shown where to seek help,
and said he was able to find some work.
Now he is a leader at the home,
helps others change their lives.
For those like he once was,
I asked if he had advice.
He said, ‘My friend, believe in yourself,
never have self doubt,
say to yourself each and every day,
I may be down, but not out.’
Limerick: Once a Woman-Cleanser in Malawi
for Seodi White
Once (a) Widow-Cleanser* in Malawi
Insisted (on) being paid double fee
The dead man made certain
Left gift (on) this side (of) curtain
Now Cleanser on (the) dole with H.I.V.
• The “Widow-Cleanser” is a Malawian professional
“intermediate husband” of widows imposed on women
who cannot – under the laws of Malawi - own anything
legally, EVEN their bodies. The Woman-Cleanser sleeps
with widows for a fee ($50/-) in order to prevent widows
and future husbands – from being polluted by the dead
husband.
This limerick dramatises facts divulged in a CNN interview with
valorous women-rights lawyer: Seodi WHITE on March 17, 2013.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
An ol’ cowboy once told me,
“Son, keep yor’ Saddle straight—
cinched up tight ‘n squared away,
an’ don’t depend on fate.
For if yor’ a straight shooter,
yor’ life will be real tame.
A handshake will be good ‘nough
ta trust yor’ family name.”
Now, I went along believin’
the whole world thought like that,
but fifty years have come ‘n gone
with politicians gettin’ fat!
They get upon that barren stump,
an’ swear to make things right,
but what I know ‘bout them folks,
makes me lose sleep at night.
Empty promises an’ shoutin’
‘bout things they’re gonna CHANGE—
folks aren’t really thinkin’
how their life—they’ll rearrange.
It’s all about the poor folks,
minorities ‘n such—
money from the rich guy,
an’ taxes that ain’t much.
But when I get ta figurin’
what will happen later on,
like when factories an’ plants close,
an’ rich guys are all gone—
Who’s gonna pay the wages
to feed my kids and ma?
I ain’t forgot DEPRESSION times,
an’ anguish that I saw.
An’ derned if I can figure out
why some folks are on the DOLE—
Could it be a case a LAZY,
an’ a life without no goal?
If no one in DC’s lyin’,
an’ the old ways never was,
I guess I’d give ‘em latitude
in their promises an’ buzz.
But I been ‘round just long enough
to know what’s right ‘n wrong—
an’ I ain’t taken in so much,
nor followin’ the throng.
There’s one more thing I gotta say
‘bout EVIL in this world,
“Ya don’t kill a grizzly with sweet talk,
an’ screamin’ like a girl.”
Men fought an’ died to keep us safe,
an’ let our FREEDOM ring—
that there’s the tune I’m followin’—
the anthem that I'll sing!
Tamara Hillman
©2008
Born into poverty
Instead of heraldry
Disappointment struck me glum
Square peg in a round hole
Ends up on the dole*
Got no money and I want some
My nights of abandon
Were strictly rationed
Contraception isn't cheap
Then into these drab nights
No warmth and no lights
Fed up of counting sheep
You came and you stained
the sheets and the bed frame
Your self indulgence left me sore
You left me white
and a terrible sight
But still I craved for more
But if I had money
You'd stick with me honey
You wouldn't leave me in this mess
But I'm just a pauper
Can't support a daughter
(Finances) stretch to a budgie at best
Well she cut her hair
and dated a millionaire
Splashing cash has such allure
But, he beats her senseless
Then buys her a new dress
She's not happy, but she's 'secure'
He has and I have not
I want what he's got
The irony is - I had it once
He went to Cambridge and Eton
He's got me down and beaten
He's left me feeling such a dunce
The moral then sonny
Is those who have money
Will always get the best of both worlds
So if your not rich
Then life's a b***h
So go find yourself a rich girl
*old fashioned term for social security payments in the UK.
[This is actually a song rather than a poem, which I wrote almost 30 years ago - when I was full of angst and acne! Can't find or remember the music I wrote for it though - shame]
There are many birds that gather
in my yard throughout the year,
however there is one that I favor.
You'll not find her at the feeder
like the others on the dole.
I think her mama taught her
the value of self-sufficiency.
She and her faithful hubby
(Oh how that guy is trained)
have come back to their love nest
on my front porch, knowing they
are welcome.
She taught him how to fix it up
and he worked hard at the job
so it looks like new.
Anything at all she wanted,
he was more than willing to tackle.
Their nest abuts the ceiling, so
I bump my head before I can see
if the shells have broken and the little
ones have put in an appearance.
Once here, their mouths will open
and will never close again
until they are as big as their parents.
Its gnats and gnats and more gnats
that keep their parents slaving.
She tells him they have mouths to feed,
and there is not time for stopping.
While he is gathering their food,
she is shoveling it into their wide open beaks
and then passes him when he returns.
The feeding job is his to continue.
Mama is now on the hunt. They are both
proud of their well fed offspring.
She grabs all of the mosquitos that
her little beak can hold and now
her faithful mate is going out for more.
You will not find better parents,
human or other wise,
than these precious little swallows.
You would think they would be happy
when their youngsters leave their nest,
but they turn around and start another family.
Any villainous mosquito,won't have a chance
to do me harm,with these vigilantes on the job.
I will miss them when they leave this fall
but they will be back again in March or April
of the coming spring.
We heard her before we saw her not because she was loud but because she was close,
she anchored herself making her presence felt; we paid the cashier and were about to leave
with our easy day shopping. She asks the man behind the counter if there was a vacancy at
this convenience supermarket (how modest are these retailers compared with their uber
shop assistants) that elsewhere 'let her and others go', as though a treat like a parent
telling a teen, 'OK you can go to the gig'. We turned. We knew her. She was short in
stature but long in confidence. The counter man boss countered in politely, pleasantly, that
he would if he could, when we intervened saying that we would recommend her
employment - thinking that as customers, as shareholders - that employers give a toss!
Ah the necklace! That's the difference, a sign of confidence, of individuality too; or what the
hell until I'm employed again, 'I'm free!' of the clock, under the bosses under pressure,
mates who are not so matey after all, of the tedium of the job classified by the uber
class 'unskilled'. Have you ever come across a job without any skill?!
The necklace, a symbol of her and ours encirclement by the cash nexus by whichever
system of obtaining our daily bread in today's world the least worst that has been devised-
yet - so fulfilling in so many ways: going home well satisfied with bringing the goodies
home to our families, to be well satisfied with the day's work or to moan because it has
been a damned dog day like yesterday as tomorrow will be, but keeping poverty at bay.
In these isles never have so many been in work (even if in a part -time, poorly paid, non
unionised world should shock Walesa) but to anyone on the Dole willing and able to work,
unemployment is a 100%.
May her necklace beads bode well for work for this hard working woman!
May her necklace beads bode well for this hard working woman moan
"I had said, that some of our crew left their country on account of having been ruined by law; that I had already explained the meaning of the word; but he was at a loss how it should come to pass, that the lawwhich was intended for man's preservation, should be any man's ruin."
Jonathan Swift (1667 - 1745) was a cousin of the poet Dryden
Rondelet: On the payroll
On the payroll
The law causes more misery
On the payroll
Than what puts people on the dole
All judges accept salary
Are lawyers born divinity
On the payroll
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2012