Best Secretaries Poems
These Hands, These Hands
I have seen hands like this before
In every size and color
Hands that are parched and withered
Strong hands, tired hands
Hands that can bear any load
Hurting hands that are calloused
And bent, yet these hands can be
Gentle as a kitten’s paw
Ready and able to hold and heal.
I have seen hands like this before
In upscale bistros and small-town cafes
Stashing meager tips
for the American dream.
I have watched as these hands
Hawk “The Herald”
For pennies on the dollar
Shovel coal into buckets
And black death into their lungs.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands of everyday heroes
Carrying bodies from burning towers
Pulling girder after girder
From twisted wreckage,
Hands that wipe away dirt and ash
To salute a tattered flag with pride
Determined to stand tall
In the face of terror.
I have seen hands like this before
Caring hands that teach and guide
Encourage and praise,
Motherly hands nurturing, holding
Rocking, gently disciplining
without ever harming,
Hands always willing to reach out
And help their fellow man
Always ready to volunteer.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands that create masterpieces
Deliver hope and build nations
Hands that with hard work
And determination grow stronger
Each time they reach out to others
To protect, pardon or applaud
Hands of the working man
Hands of the mother and father
Hands of teachers, doctors, nurses
Laborers, soldiers and farmers
Hands of waitresses, secretaries
Firemen and police
Hands that give comfort and aid
Hands that heal our pain
And join together in prayer
Hands that touch our lives
In simple but profound ways.
These hands, these hands
These loving, generous hands
Never resign, always giving
These hands are your hands and mine.
In the lobby of the courthouse
People’s demeanor
Are such a telltale
Casual and comfortable
The secretaries
Determined and debonair
The lawyers
Focused and unperturbed
The judges
And then the others
With scowls on their faces
Nervousness and concern
The weight of accusation
The slow ominous pace
Of being led directly
To the slaughterhouse
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
What could have been more expected
from a system created on greed
Where the donors all make legislation
via Congress they constantly feed
When a country is poisoned by money
it no longer looks out for the small
It is owned and controlled by the richest
who’ve decided that they want it all
Our history, bloody and violent
was a preview of what we would be
Just because we can’t see all the bodies
doesn’t mean that their spirits are free
The obsession with money and power
are the perfect dictatorship blend
Void of love for the land or the people
who are merely a means to an end
They all file in the chamber like robots
and their leader looks on as he gloats
The decisions made by all their donors
turn into the Congressional votes
They say capitalism is wonderful
but who is it wonderful for
It is not for the factory worker
nor the people who mop up the floor
It is not for the ones who build buildings
or the secretaries or the clerks
It is not for the drivers of buses
or the ones who toil in public works
Capitalism is poisoned
it is not for the poor or the old
It is not for the cooks or the teachers
or the soldiers, as they have been told
The system is for corporate donors
who get rich on the taxes we pay
We all work to provide them the money
which they triple on stock market play
Sweet September, see how splendidly she shines!
Subtlety submitting seasonal splendour, she
swamps summer’s splendiferous sights,
by stealthily shrouding splendid scenery,
with suffused sensuous, sybaritic, scenarios!
Sublimely serene, she spatters and splashes
slivers of saffron, sepia and sienna shades,
slapdash over the sedentary summer scene, sending
sightseers silly! Soon, spooky spectres sporting skittish
shadows, surprise and startle singularly sensitive givens,
seeking soothing solitude someplace. Suspicious solo
sentient stalkers, suspecting solo sailors sometimes, shiftily seen
spying on sequestered sibylline, spectator savants, stay silent.
Such suppressed servile sophisticates, spotting smart
Seedy Senators, sitting sloppily slumped - some silently
supine - send sensual suggestive signs to sexy secretaries, as
subdued sartorial suitors stand speechless. Some, sober and staid,
state spasmodic spates of salacious, and sometimes sanctimonious, statements.
Seemingly superfluous, scores of servicemen and seniors suggest
specific superficial senile support services, should shut shortly!
Studious spokesmen suggest scads of spurious suggestions in September,
send scrambled signals, since severely symbolic sentence structure,
should seek speedy severance from sedulous speculative stricture, and
stimulating scattered sophomore senses and sensibility is senseless!
Since scathingly scanning this alliteration, it seems successful!
Hopefully a fun filled frolicking folio with ‘fin-esse?’
Rhymer. September 6th, 2016.
He waited
Under fluorescent lighting
The kind that highlighted
His salt and pepper hair
It was almost 5:30
Quitting time
But he didn’t have to worry about that anymore
Today was his last day
The people in the office took him out to lunch
Had a round of drinks
Opened a few cards
Hugged one of the secretaries
Felt pretty good about himself
But what next?
Adjusting his glasses he looked straight ahead
The tools on his workbench
Grimy
Cold metal
After twenty years still usable and dependable
Pliers, screwdrivers
Lined up in front just the way he organized them
Some lost
Some borrowed but eventually all returned
He wondered if he would miss holding the hefty hammer
The one with the smooth maple handle?
There was nothing more to do
Would he bring his tools home?
Or come back for them later?
Rubbing his hands
To keep his fingers moving
He lingered at his bench
Until it was time to leave
A day’s pay for a day’s work
That what his father told him
Back when.
Put off the final decision
To retire as long as he could
When he signed the papers
It felt like somebody lifted him up
And put him in another life
Careful with money
Saved all these years
With Social Security
He and his wife hoped it would be enough
To see them through.
Enough thinking
It was time to leave
Waving to a few co-workers
He walked out
The shop door closing behind him
Brick building
Casting its large shadow behind him
Outside it was the usual scene
Busy streets
Crowded coffee shop
Sounds of buses and traffic
In a hurry to get somewhere.
This time it was different
A cold chill of exhilaration
Gripped him in a vise of uncertainty
He couldn’t believe he
Was walking away
From decades of
What was once familiar
And part of him.
LAMB AMONG THE LITERARY LIONS
Housewives, secretaries, the odd pro willing to stoop,
All came, delinquents, child prodigies, derelict old men
“All welcome” – the Chair of the Writers’ Group
To those looking for support, with a love of the pen;
They were decent people bonding, scorning the pub
The roll call a hedge school of ancient fame
They read poems and stories like a literary club
And enjoyed playing the great writing game.
Anthology reviewed, the twelve year old took accolade
From the shyest to the most arrogant, all were shook
He was savaged by the grande dame in an envious raid
She was terrified someone so young would produce a book!
Even the chair demurred, and went to The Times
Requesting deletion of “all welcome “– young souls are stilled by such crimes.
Average high school
Namesake
A mediocre
President
Imposing square box
Towering over small frame homes
Where Mothers wait behind closed doors
And Fathers return at dusk
Newspapers tucked under
In different signs and languages
Sport side up
In blue collar tradition.
French teacher listens
Eyes shifting from side to side
As we read
In our best French accent
Copied from movies
And old TV shows.
The Staff whisper
Lips hidden
Behind pieces of paper
To keep us from knowing
Secrets
But we know
The score
Girls to be Secretaries
Boys to be workingmen
And babies at eighteen.
School's out
A fight's on
Huge crowd
Forms a circle
To cheer their side
Smaller kid
Is a fighter
Crowd whistles in respect.
Police arrive
Clubs in hand
Go home they order
One by one
We drift away
Scattered by an ill wind
Searching for a place to call home.
Years go by
We learn to bend
We survived
And never spoke French.
My confusion comes from too much doing. During the news
eating cheese and crackers, drinking wine, thinking the world
needs me.
Or the falling leaves, the days shorter but so much brighter.
How the cloud cover of the canopy has lifted to reveal
maybe God.
The longest continuous democracy may end in another theocracy.
A bunch of voodooists with their hocus pocus blessings
and understandings.
Bombs and poison. Grief. Chiseled, tearless face.
Chants gregorian. Her sad, clear, soulful missives from
the city.
Unbelievable acorn crop this year! Skate on them
like marbles. Last year was a maple year. The ash crop
significant, too.
But not the cherries. Or a single pear. Blackberries
held back too. Sure the towers were a violation, but they came to
hold community.
One stands not apart or alone but an individual within
his or her platoon. Committed to the mission and survival of
the platoon.
Fedex leaves a package. There is or is no anthrax
in it. It is our disappointment as Americans that the world cannot
be trusted.
Yes, New York is the enemy and brother of Kabul. How
does one reconcile those differing communities and be a non-
violent human?
With words. Wendell Berry's words. And service such as
the secretaries of state give, leaving when one's time and work
is done.
Staying in the diatonic. Agreeing first on rules of engagement.
Then engaging. Not stopping the fight or thought or song until the fight
is done.
I want to go to Dismaland!
I'll thcweem until I'm thick!
I have blisters on my fingers
From the endless futile click
There'll be secretaries on it
Pulling non-existent strings
There'll be rumours of a con
On social media and things
I want to go to Dismaland
And see the horrid stuff!
How come I can't buy tickets
And my money's not enough?
In the shadows Banksy chuckles
He's got the Art World in his hand
He has turned pretention on itself
As planned
by Gail
Monotonous keyboards clicking
Redundant clocks ticking
Phones ringing, elevator doors swinging
Coffee pots brewing, vending machines spewing
Insouciant workers, carefree shirkers loitering
Clerks, secretaries previewing, managers reviewing
Visitors on stairs, in lobby chairs, lines queuing
Fate's dissonant chords o'er content hordes teeming
From Crescent's waning moon, spell of doom flinging
Across availing sky, a wailing strain is stringing
A portentous raven o'er torrentous swells winging
To his charted course, a venal force with guile clinging
Feral beast an imminent peril to prey quickly bringing
On the ethereal cusp perching, for crown jewel searching
Swooping down with force, beams from foundation divorce
Death's shadow in dust o'er screaming remnants streaming
Night's, palling darkness Day's ordained glint stalling
Currying Favor With the Boss
By Elton Camp
The CEO stood at the shredder, a puzzled look on his face
He called out, “If I can’t make this work it’ll be a disgrace.”
One of the younger secretaries happened to be passing by
And rushed over when she heard the boss’ anguished cry
“An agent from the FBI is coming to see me right away
Miss Prunella, my secretary, has already left for the day.
“If I don’t get this done there will much trouble, my dear.
For to my private office this investigator is drawing near.”
Seeing her chance, she said, “I’ll be glad to do it for you.”
Sue inserted the document and then she pressed Start too
Just as the stack disappeared into the shredder’s inside,
“Only one copy is all I will need,” the big boss then cried
“I have worked day & night on this report for nearly a year
For this to remain the only copy causes me so much fear.”
It’s an honor and a privilege
And a lot of fun to be
A Team Member
Of the SSP
In 1956
Back in history
The Secretaries Club was born
At UTMB
To orient, teach
And meet socially
With seminars, programs
And luncheon meetings monthly
With groups
Of developed committees,
Fundraisers and contributions
Support the university
It’s now much more
Than a club of secretaries,
It’s the Support Staff Professionals
Called the SSP!
Florence McMillian (Flo)
The Boiler Room
In the Boiler Room, phones ringing,
monitors tele-typing, secretaries screaming,
everyone's moving, moving, moving way too fast!
The pressure is intense, I'm starting to sweat!
I suddenly collapse!!!
Waking up to horns honking and sirens blaring!
Strapped to a gurney in the back of a medic van,
I.V. in my hand, EMT's moving, moving, moving too fast!
The pressure is intense, it won't relent,
I feel trapped!!!
The van doors open... I am wheeled out...
And that's the last thing I remember until now...
March 14th 1997, that was then, April 4th 2016, this is now!
Damn it's been almost 20 years...
I AM saved!!!
04/04/2016
We were jaunty children of God
not concerned for material possessions
for Spirits in Holy Trinity
were our Gods.
The Colonists were true savages without souls.
They disowned their own souls for gold
from which we made our large ornaments
for the glory of Great Spirit.
I Art have seen the Highest Priest,
The Resurrected One.
The Popes are his secretaries,
the apostles of mercy and love.
The Resurrected One calls his forgotten children,
each one by their true name of baptism.
Many were baptized by water
and many were baptized by The Holy Spirit.
Come to me, you tired and exhausted,
you grieved by other man.
I’ll give you new life as God the Father gave it to me.
You will repose in justice and love.
You will be my spotless lambs
forever and ever.
I am your shepherd the Lamb of God –
The Resurrected Christ.
Eight authors were killed today,
some of them, somewhat prominent,
and an unknown number were injured,
when a very large crowd of words
came rushing toward them, and
crushed them under the throng
Hundreds of onlooking readers were aghast
at the sight of surprised writers,
running from the tens of thousands
of words, phrases, and stanzas shouting
loud rhyming, some carrying sharpened prose
A bloody mass of heaping humanity
was cast over the civil edge into
a brownish-reddish swaled blog beside as
poets, slammers, and lyricists fled
Many widows and orphans sat beside the ruck,
weeping softly near the edges of their pages,
stunned, stupefied, even utterly dumbfounded
as multi-syllabic words flashed their anger,
and chased the writers to a gruesome end
Diphthongs and anagrams on the scene said
that they'd never seen such a riot of language
or a plethora of grammatical constituents
rise up against their mortal masters
The literary community is expressing
their deepened sorrow and angst with
a spontaneous outpouring of pens, pencils
steno pads, and small digital tablets
left at the scene of the rampage
Editors, secretaries, and linguists unified
to say that the guilty will be found, caught,
and expunged from the lexicography of
modern civil discourse and authorship
"Words cannot express our feelings" they said
© Goode Guy 2013-02-12