Best Quotas Poems
Ronald was a tough old ram, the biggest of his breed
Daniel was a clipperman, renowned of shearing deed
Many sheep were sheared that day and woolless they had fled
Before those two met in affray and battled in the shed!
Ronald, he had seen old Wallace wrestled to the floor,
Mugged of his dignity and fleece, and knew that it was war
And seeing that his turn was nigh, his hooves he dug in deep
He'd fight and though perhaps he'd die, at least he'd die a sheep.
Daniel had no time to waste, he'd quotas set to keep
And unprepared, he reached in haste to take the waiting sheep
But Ronald steeled himself as Daniel took him by the horn
And, rearing, pulled himself away before he could be shorn.
Off-balance, Daniel stumbled, to Ronald's great delight
Onto his knees he tumbled as the shears flew out of sight
And Ronald now unhanded felt his victory increase
Protecting his sheep dignity and, likewise, his sheep fleece.
But Daniel was not beaten yet, he knew that he'd faced worse
His mind was still determined set, he rose up with a curse
But still he was unsteady and Ronald was a ram
His head was lowered ready and he charged the clipperman
Ronald's head met Daniel's side and toppled him again
This time headfirst and to collide his head against the grain.
Leaving, stunned, the clipperman upon the wooden floor
In final victory, the ram strolled out the open door.
But, alas, 'tis not the way that sheep triumph at last
And Daniel would not see the day that any sheep got past
Despite Ram Ronald's victor's pride, the shearer would not yield
So followed a less dignified pursuit around the field.
Ronald, he was fast and he had four legs matched to two
So Daniel was outclassed, if that was all that he could do,
But he also had a sheepdog and so Ronald was defeated
He would have had the victory, if Daniel hadn't cheated.
(Read later stanzas for more of the humour part ; parody of politics)
I Can't think well of a democracy
if nepotism and false promises
are part and parcel of its idiosyncrasy
A system of governance can't appeal to me
if it forever stinks of the 'stinking' rich plutocracy.
The media the ravening wolves many times their puppets,
together they howl for our divided attention
With wily words to win the masses of marionnettes
The nation's welfare merely their scheme in pretension.
Wonder why political power has to be the monopoly
of ambitious, vainglorious affluent power moguls.
Why can't they simply choose leaders
from any sincere poor yet wise and humble individuals?
The promises of a better world by 'em' politicians
are simply the oratory tricks of slick tacticians.
Demagogues come in all shapes and sizes
They come in 'perfect' future leader disguises
Pulling you and me to polling booths, luring us the dumbstruck voters
To amass as much power and wealth as possible in their limited quotas.
No wonder poor presidents are turned or burned
in the form of their rude and crude effigy cartoons
Comic sarcastic politics I say, since a caricature
it purposely lampoons!
Then the demonstrations, remonstrations
but they only invite riots and tear bomb gas
So if yah can keep your rallies peaceful
maybe you won't be such an ass.
And if yah do go ahead ranting, panting, slogun chanting
No seeds of discord nor weeds of hate be sowing, planting
for a showdown with fleshy arms, no metal arms can still be prancing, advancing
With sloguns not shotguns be ye protesting and demanding.
Thus I really wonder if politicos politicking
really do make the world tick.
Or do they simply in many places cause
timebombs to parallel the clock's tick?
(ok cast d ballot n vote 4 me as funny presidential candidate
of no-man's land ;
I followed milky and mouldy scents,
down cobbled and narrow paths,
only to see it riddled with rats,
feasting on Feta and Camembert,
whilst the wine sipping Uppers prepared to
clash against the cider swigging downers!
The Fromage Frenzy and Curd Craze deli.
across from the Dizzy Duck and the Boastful Bard taverns
had been ransacked with only cracker crumbs on the floor.
All the cheesemongers were hiding in their basements.
All the landlords locked away in their cellars!
Bar stools dripping with Chardonnay and Merlot,
carpets soaked in 'Scrumpy Jack' and 'Strongbow.'
It was utter chaos as the 'cheese shed' raged on...
The goats and the cows watched,
as the town folk gathered on either side.
Anger in their eyes, yelling insults like;
'Cheap cheddar gobblers' and 'stinky Stilton munchers.'
This was not cultural tensions,
nor issues with tariffs, quotas or labelling practises-
this was a war of the social classes!
They were not fighting with fists or weapons,
oh no, no no..
The Downers started squirting stinky cheese sauce,
drenching the Uppers with its reeking stench.
However, when the Uppers started hurling
Storico and Caciocavallo Podolico,
back at the Downers, they simply,
started consuming it with their cider!
Both fractions kept pelting and sprinkling,
until little Joey from the farm,
reminded them the football had started,
so off they plodded to watch the game,
singing and laughing together,
arm in arm, munching on cheese
they had salvaged from their skirmish.
The rational subject
Dances in duality
Stripped of earnings, personhood urging
Marked by contract, on paper
Life transforms into property
Belligerent because of tooth enamel-
That unexpected biological decay
Proves that mind stands still
We've built up a hoary artifice
Exclaiming our particular version of truth
Covering the ground with gridwork and lines
Mining jewels to keep the helium high
While filling quotas to make the ceiling rise
I hear the great man/ nature divide
Residing in our pattern of life
Speaking out a vast anguish
Birthing pains of a new era
We will make it through the womb
Our power lies in our pleasure
As mankind always traverses
An uneven terrain
She was only three years old
When she was sold, forced to
Enter a world of slavery,
Amongst other children laboring,
To glue on buttons or “flair,” to
Sew pockets on shirts she’ll never wear, or
Hats she’ll never own, a clothing drone - for them,
Orders of greedy Americans, who
Pay pennies for her hands.
Sumei liked to feel the cloth move
Under her fingers, the smooth
Material against her face, to
Envision a world of beauty in lace,
Instead of her dirty working space.
Dreams of another life, of somehow
Escaping slowly trickled away, cowed by
Angry men, for quotas she couldn’t meet. So beat
Dead, age thirteen.
1/20/12
Received 1st place in "Something Worth Fighting For" contest
From joining the Union in 2004,
no longer Crowns, but thorns in the Euro Zone.
Dues through Asylum’s open door
Quotas from Italy or Greece,
over casings and from caters,
to step on hope and find peace.
Refugees search for compassion’s border.
Not the miles or cold nights that draw cry,
but new states of natural order
of those with new fence and wire.
Young questions, maybe one more night
with hunger and a shared fire.
not in the heart again
for chrissakes it's like Swiss cheese
decoffinated please I'm a yet ambulatory zombie
off his medication as usual
alternatives to logic 101 with Prof. Spike
far too much work for a dead end
saw his only ally the embalmers needle
left his innards spilled in the sand
history in its entirety mocked his comprehension
had the nation in tears and then nausea
several dueling scars graced his genitals
if our perceptions already lie
why shouldn't we
I had to laugh
it was all I could do to keep from smiling
even after a thousand years of AI research
the electronic government was helpless
my Microsoft forehead radiator
absolutely charmingly couldn't get any focus
but the Royal Society of Blind Philosophers
helped me with my little problem
a miracle of recipe repair
because our endorphin soup is a bit thin
the quicksilver cooks ate first and fell asleep
having thrown away their brains long before
in the field kitchen of the gods
after the air raid sirens of postmodernity
can there be too much truth
for an army of blood diamond merchants
now a bit more about para electrics
if only I were at liberty to discuss it
yes imprecision can carry signal
but the place is crawling with dilettantes
wearing their secret butt plugs
it's a guessing game as you can see
petitioning for a visually diagrammatic idiom
although it's a devilish seesaw but let us restart
The Oblivion Ride was the big theme park attraction
my extended family was in the sideshow
justifiably taken for a pack of fools
then the sun went down and never came up again
and we stepped into the stone circle
chanting evidence is preferable
to the moonlit tombstone
good luck with that in your airwaves
broadcast on radio Sarajevo
signal drifting drifting drifting
with minds great and small
and smaller and smaller
the Internet is the yearned for Messiah
there it's done and out and not to be unseen
you wrestle with it while I proceed
dashing among startled commuters
mesmerizing the fact finding committee
their dictatorship of x-ray leeches
tossed him out of several monasteries
apparently the production quotas were relaxed
in a kaleidoscope of normalcy
the style crazed mannerist martinets
howdy do nail in my shoe
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Oh, shudder at the tales they tell
of making bricks or weed;
they're made to work without reward.
their childhood's gone to seed.
They're selling drugs and stolen goods
from car to street to door;
and trading guns for merchandise
with quotas to get more.
Where is their hope devoid of God?
and who will share His name?
The law is broke; then who will stand
to rescue them from shame?
Young girls are made to turn a trick
and boys must live with sleaze
for food and shelter, clothes to wear -
just bare necessities.
Some run-aways, some throw-aways
they're humans dealt as slaves.
They need defense from threat of harm
to shield them from their graves.
Where is their hope devoid of God?
and who will share His name?
The law is broke; then who will stand
to rescue them from shame?
The beating of the Mill,
we hear it down the hill.
It is the town's heartbeat.
No children on the street
already in the shop
to labor till they drop.
Sold to the upper class;
the mother needs the brass.
The father on the beer;
not working since last year.
The bosses own their soul,
their houses, so they toll;
boy, sister, young as four
stay bailiff from the door.
They; hardly off the teat,
meet quotas, or get beat.
Most dying all too young
from ailment of the lung
or bodies ripped apart.
No healthcare; caring heart
so poorer lose their health
while richer gain more wealth
on broken bodies, pain.
The workers take the strain.
Not distant, in the past
but present, and to last.
You think that things have changed,
you all must be deranged;
The Beating of the Mill
is calling us all still!
The Sweat Shop Poetry Contest placed 5th
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Date wrote: 15th February 2022
As it protects every living child of Ireland
male and female until death visits them
Europe needs to remove our shield
the one that surrounds us as armour
We are being fed to the vultures
first our seas followed by quotas
then they need to remove our faith
this is in order to have a strong voice
in policing our land into their double standards
overturning the true values of our nation
replacing it under foreign rule and dominance
They have brainwashed so many
making it into an abortion deal
like the last one was dressed as peace
thank God I voted no
I am not a yes man who jumps into the fire
with the rest of these sorry states
that have lost their soul direction
be on the lookout
for those who are curious about your personal affairs
at the workplace
be on the lookout for those who are always hanging around you &
other workers, asking questions about things that they can hardly relate to
be on the lookout
for those that leave the warehouse floor often
only to come strolling back with an authority figure ready to dish out punishment &
pink slips
be on the lookout
for those that laugh at the man’s jokes &
who are the first to tell them about their weekend in vivid detail when asked
be on the lookout
for those that are always concerned about the quotas to the point that they themselves hint at what needs to be done to their other coworkers
be on the lookout
for those that come early/stay late, take on extra responsibilities that were not mentioned in the initial interview & who are wearing headphones while working but always seem to be able to chime into any conversation around them whenever they see fit
be on the lookout
for those who get dealt with differently when disciplined, making their reprimand seem ever-so-soft in comparison to the way others are dealt with for the same infractions
be on the lookout
for the narc who roams your own workplace,
slithering in the grass & waiting to sell you down the river,
putting notches in their Dudley Do-Right belt,
stopping at nothing in order to climb up that ladder.
...And in that lies the irony
of this whole ‘social justice’ phrase,
it exists to excuse racism,
to put a nice name on mere hate.
You want to hate pale people or
attack any one that succeeds,
just claim that it’s ‘social justice,’
then you can go and make them bleed.
You want to say bigoted things
and not have to take flak for it?
Just claim that it’s ‘social justice,’
and that your group ‘cannot be racist.’
You want to put quotas in place,
and get jobs that you have no earned?
Then just cry out ‘social justice,’
and watched those wrong-colored folk burn.
You want to smash and loot your town,
but now have to do time in jail?
Just say that it’s ‘social justice,’
and they let you go without fail.
We really shouldn’t be surprised,
the left always divides by race,
from slavery down to Jim Crow…
of course they’d cheerlead this disgrace.
But there’s no need to buy into
a concept that’s so disgusting,
justice can never be social,
it’s an individual thing.
Always.
Marginalized middle finger people
moving upwardly mobile
on a quality-of-life escalator going always down
Mall pallbearers for the palladium pocketeers,
(them who bring forth weekly pocket tears)
Three-piece suit gator claws with Wall Street wolf ears
Kiss-the-ring finger people
trying to climb up the societal brass rung
Getting pyramid food chain hung —
Pink slip of the tongue
will make the money grubbers
perennial bottom feeders
Green thumb people
got phased out when the New Deal got farmed out signed
Sent dumpster diving by the bottom line
Escort pallbearers for the corporate pocketeers,
(them who poverty package job security fears)
Downsize pirana jaws with Vegas loan shark ears
Bent index finger people
are always on the hook for the acquisition debt
Bowing and scraping for the quotas to be met
Rube cubicle teacher’s pet love to fetch,
wag the tail ... lick the boot
Being management sandwiched in the middle
Little finger caste people
are stuck in the human resource revolving door
The homeless room always begging for more
Schoolyard sweat factories in need of a Silicon Valley upgrade
got the crypto-chip chimps to put pension skin in the paper mill game
Middle class is dismissed when the ceremonial cut-ribbon fade
MY
PLACE IN THE SUN
a life without
giving is a life not
worth living in
truth my mother was
right,
but a life in a home
unsafe and alone was
all that was in my
sight.
upon considerable
reflection their
abuse and rejection
made absolutely no
sense,
but being a kid I
took it I did I was
too young to take
much offense.
alone in my room I
did contemplate doom
in the laboring
silence of night,
and hanged my head
with thoughts of
dread with no
glimmer no inkling
of light.
but I made my way
out although filled
with self-doubt I
was unable to face
the truth,
that I had been
changed by the onset
of shame and my
suffering for years
is my proof.
grown up in the dark
with no sense of my
heart lusting for
bells and whistles
galore,
with shoulds and
must haves and
quotas to mark life
left me empty and
longing for more.
in search for truth
throughout my youth
I found money and
power and fame,
I was distracted by
the lie of glitter
passing by all for
the sake of my name.
now I find myself
thinking on days of
my drinking and
years of chasing a
lie,
the cheating, the
fighting and
constant denying of
a self so consumed
by false pride.
I want to emerge
from the dark where
my hope ignites
spark and my mind is
no longer obtuse,
where the veil has
been lifted with
heart freed to love
and with mercy I
embrace my truth.
where speaking in
verses and walking
with purpose I could
shine brighter than
bobbles I hold,
under shadows of
trees with the earth
beneath my knees
where there’s
treasures for me to
behold.
I’d have no fear of
new faces and could
be in embraces
instead of the whirl
in my head,
and humbly ask
questions and wait
for the answers and
be free from the
pain that I shed.
with a new found
confidence from the
hand of providence I
could feel like I’d
finally won, a life
that is lived from
the inside out if I
could just find my
place in the sun.
The Islamists claim that their views
are the very words of God,
and when they try to make it real,
it just ends up in death and rot.
They can’t stop folks from drinking,
or bringing music to their ears,
can’t stone all the ‘adulteresses’
if they had one thousand years.
Yet they try and all that it brings
is widespread misery and death,
though they live in war, they haven’t learned
to embrace the chaos yet.
The Socialist thinks they are good
for the poor across the world,
but every time they live their thoughts
only genocide is unfurled.
The collectives miss their quotas,
basic supplies soon run short.
They solution? Need more power!
Always more and more and more…
To control human economies
is a foolish, unwise bet,
they seek control and haven’t learned
to embrace the chaos yet.
The Utopian wants to build
a world where it’s all worked out,
problems solved so none suffers,
no hate, no fear, and no doubts.
But what’s ideal for a single mind,
assuming it can even exist,
is anathema to most others,
who soon stand up and resist.
Do they abandon the great dream,
or do they turn to anger red?
Usually that later, they haven’t
embraced the sweet chaos yet.
The truth of it is that ideals
play a similar role to faith,
when one alone does rule the roost,
society slides into hate.
But when no one can rule it all,
when they must always compete,
they you have a state in which
men and women can live free.
Our Founders knew this long ago,
when they structured our county,
low-level chaos is no ill,
it’s a damn necessity!
CONCLUDES IN PART II.