Best Supervisors Poems
Here's to my family
Here's to my friends
Here's to my acquaintances
On whose help I depend
Here's to my mom
Here's to my dad
Here's to my relatives
Whom I met as a lad
Here's to my sisters
Here's to my brothers
Here's to my nanny
Who cared for me like no other
Here's to my daughters
Here's to my sons
Here's to their patience
With their dad when he's wrong
Here's to my mentors
Here's to my teachers
Here's to my coachers
Who gave inspirational speeches
Here's to my doctors
Here's to my nurses
Here's to their treatments
Which insurance reimburses
Here's to my supervisors
Here's to my bosses
Here's to my colleagues
Whom I never bore crosses
Here's to my wife
Here's to my spouse
Here's to my life's partner
Who's the Queen of our House
Here's to One Truth
A Truth e'er to keep, pal
In this crazy world
People need People
Amazingly, Alice assaulted an antelope
Because Bobby’s beavers became bold,
Considering cantilevered canines
Deliberately devastating donor’s doled.
Evelyn entirely excited electric eels
Failing forlornly from forward fencing,
Gaining ground gathering genuine gold
Her happiness heralded high financing.
I indicated initially incapable innocents
Justifying joyous juxtaposition jousting
Keeping kind Kenneth’s kindreds knit
Losing language like legally lost lusting.
Maybe minding manners means more
Neither newness nor novel necessary,
Occasionally opening old occlusions
Promises perfectly positioned pituitary.
Quite questionable quicky quirks
Rage rampantly removing regulations,
Summarily startling some supervisors
Touching their tempermental trepidations.
Until unusual undertakings understood
Veritable vigilantes visited volunteers,
Wildly waiting where we wandered
X-citedly X-iting X-istential X-ospheres
Yonder youthful yaks yielded...yikes!
Zebras zigzagged zestfully ziggurat-likes.
His hand reached out to mine, open,
Holding it, I smiled, our eyes danced with understanding,
Form and blush outlined his expectations,
But I could see that there may be fear inside.
Mary restated their predicament,
That the child was born out with the marriage bond,
And that people were swaying to the opposite side,
And course dialogue, laughter and spitting were norm.
So I asked the two for their thoughts and predictions,
About the child, if he perhaps could be like, special?
And they specified that he would cure, heal and exorcise,
And also promised that they’d talk to him about the poor.
Could this baby be the messiah?
I pondered and hoped in their certainty;
Was this the predicted son of god?
He would be free from aggressive victimisation,
If we could just name him as god's son.
So I suggested to his parents,
That if the wise men came with a quest,
To accept the name Jesus Christ,
And certify the census, no less.
Freedom for some is in lying,
When there’s no possible alternatives,
But I believe Joseph never lied,
In the population census of Bethlehem,
That just so happened to pass by.
The child would have been suppressed by all,
Assumed to be dirty and unclean,
Not for chat or dialogue,
And certainly not for work in a trade of his call,
Or for work in any trade for that matter.
Nothing would ever have been done,
The poor would never have been healed,
Or not so quickly for sure in history;
The government would not have been rifled,
And Christ would not have come.
Treating the poor for health problems,
Would have come through government legislation,
A long time after Christ,
In an austere, aloof manner.
People to people relationships,
Would not have been respected,
If care had been awarded top-down,
By bureaucrats and officials:
As supervisors of the protected.
Society at that time was narrow minded,
Stuck in traditional religion;
There were outcasts, sinners, infectious people,
And assumptions were remedial and red:
There were no special people,
No exceptions to the rule,
Only one place for the messiah confided.
One baby matters to me,
A life should be saved at any cost and risk,
Because the abilities you show when young,
Shouldn’t be muffled or labeled regressive,
But nurtured in acceptance and love.
Only girls in the pink nursery...
(A boy was seen once in a blue corridor.)
This is a small girl's place.
Toys are not unisex, but pink here,
and the supervisors make sure.
At nine, there's a flurry of little girls.
They arrive on the morning train
without their brothers.
I've never asked where the boys go.
A boy was seen in a blue corridor.
His image was on video,
running away from the pink nursery.
"No Boys Here", says our entry point.
If you look at the video,
you see him look quite sad.
9/3/2015
Why was my whole special school life,
An interpretation of nature and school?
A philosophical contemplation and analysis,
A freeway inquiry into the education tool.
Because the god concept was lain out,
On the household table, delicately spread,
I was sharp at social phenomenon,
Even as a primary child was not off my head.
When I journeyed down the corridors,
Slowly, because of my disability,
I was more often than not on my own,
‘Cos the others would show off their mobility.
So I thought about the politics,
Of the special school and our integration right,
Our need of ramps and disabled toilets,
The importance of everybody’s mindset height.
I classed the whole organisational structure as wrong,
For using the carers as playtime supervisors,
‘Cos in my old nursery school the teachers contravened,
In any tit-for-tat playground misdemeanours.
The teachers knew us in the classroom,
So adjudicated fairly and with respect,
Were able to administer justice,
Wherever there was a point of regret.
The carers were just not on my level,
And you had to do what they said,
Which overshadowed my whole experience,
Which made me much see red.
It was believed that the carers had a light on,
Because they scribed for us in maths,
But your profession level sets your reception,
Of high-flyers’ stares and laughs.
I mean, I didn’t ever laugh at them,
For their low rank and position,
But that just meant they never put me with,
My parents speech and religion.
But I considered myself determined philosophically,
Not in the free-will line of thought camp,
And just needed a man, board or committee,
To rejuvenate myself and amp.
So I often spoke with the school doctor,
The boss of the cliques and staff,
But the other pupils resented it,
Laughing at my physical prospects, chaff.
When your life does not go right,
Insist, if you can, on calling the shots,
Make appointments with the gods,
And beam with importance watts.
She supervisors the Salon with aplomb
Looking after her own clients with skill
Yet keeping a watchful eye on all
Trainees are dispatched to various duties
Computers crash but she handles all
Her skills as a hairdresser are renown
Yet her greatest skill is in managing her staff
With authority and yet with a lot of heart
Yes TV Guru Tabatha she would be so very proud
This lady does not need hauling over the coals
Eager to teach, to discipline, even command
Yet able to gain respect with any request
Hair swiftly swept off floor, clients seated
Clients constantly buzzing in and out as the day passes
Always a quick chat, and praising word to staff
Hiding her hidden frustration as much as she can
This is a skill she learnt through time and necessity
Coffee quickly dispatched, staff rushing back and forth
Without her enthusiasm no Awards would be ever won
This is her empire to the highest bidder she will not be sold
Yes, she is a Manager simply worth her weight in gold
Many songs and poems have been written
about blue Mondays which have bitten
those who work for a living
and have jobs that are unforgiving.
Mondays are hard to face
for those who live a fast pace
on weekends filled with outdoor fun
camping, hiking, biking and fishing in the sun.
Working for eight hours in a cubicle sucks,
employees feel like sitting ducks
at a carnival shooting gallery,
waiting to be targets for a salary.
Routine is their middle name,
tasks which were a challenge have become lame,
supervisors are scratching their heads and
wondering if blue Mondays should be banned.
If that was the case then Monday would be on Tuesday
and feeling blue would be postponed in such a way
that songs and poems would have to be rewritten
as employees enjoy three-day weekends feeling truly smitten.
Lions in Sheep skins
Is all that is left in the World
No more brotherhood and kins
The world before only need to be told.
From family members to friends,
Supervisors to managers,
Officials to Religious leaders,
Neighbourhood and abroad,
The pure heart is still below the ladders.
Lions in a sheep skin,
They come like sheeps,
Covered in the light of goodness and hope,
As white as snow, as gentle as a dove,
With promises of wonders of Gold.
Their surroundings amongst us are powerful,
We need them now and then,
They know us better, so do they retaliate,
Until we realise we have different interests,
Life is full of amusements, and entertainment.
We like toy soldiers in some cases,
Where ever we go,
in most situations we find ourselves,
From relationship to marriages,
Most of them we find recently......
Are Lions in sheep skins.
Everyone of us is born with a different perception,
One man alone cannot stand,
Yet we need to figure out and investigate,
In order to strike with the right people,
In the right moment of our lives.... Watch out!
Kandjimi Nelson H
Cave men were brilliant once upon a time
Women not so much as history tells us
Not good for hunting in the past
Here's why
The hunting of berries is a specialized science
Not just a simple sport
Females are too gentle to the touch
They use an index finger and thumb together
Pluck one berry at a time while at their task
With a measure of indifference
They refuse to use an ax
Cave men hunt the berries down in packs
Follow every leaf and vein they find
Are serious about the bush attacks
Masculine members of the tribe and supervisors
Make sure the fruit stays in their place
Don't lose their flavor
Or escape into the night before the catch
Men use large rocks and clubs behind their backs
Make the berries scream for mercy
Sneak up slowly to squish them dead
Spear them when they least expect it
Before they bring them back
Men and women were hunters gatherers way back when
Fruits and berries ruled the world
Umm Gawa! Berries very good
Poisoned ones
Not very friendly
Maybe cave men and women misunderstood
We rarely get to see our friends
When they are off at work.
We hear about their colleagues
Or their boss who is a jerk.
But picturing their office
Or wherever they’re employed
Isn’t something we spend time on –
(Not unless you’re Dr. Freud.)
So tonight was most intriguing.
I’d occasion to attend
A memorial to Marilyn,
My dear departed friend.
It was organized by workmates,
Many whom she’d known for years.
Though I recognized their names,
We’d had quite different careers.
I heard supervisors’ stories
And from buyers in her field,
Nodding knowingly as all her traits
Were laughingly revealed.
They supplied some missing pieces
Of the life of hers I’d known,
For we each have an impression
Of our friends that’s ours alone.
Though the puzzle’s not completed –
That’s impossible to do –
I increased my understanding
Of the Marilyn I knew.
A king is also a man with single mind,
People in the kingdom with many minds,
The pool of minds of people,stronger than the king's sometimes,
"Your strength to compensate my weaknesses,
Your wisdom to help to minimize my mistakes",
To the hearts of his people President Jimmy Carter once spoke,
Kings have wiser,advisors,
People are the supervisors,
If the king ignores the verses of both,
The king is walking along the disastrous path!
Our mayor and city council know what to do
The county supervisors and talk show hosts too
Budget measure HHH we Angelinos passed
Costing billions, homelessness would end at last
There were 57,000 unhoused in L.A. last year
Now it’s 68,000, growing with elections near
The garment district downtown and all of skid row
Are squalid tent camps where filth and despair flow
From the Valley, to Hollywood, out to the beach
Huddled in parks, under bridges, hills out of reach
Some scream and curse, drugged or drunken
Others silent and still, bodies broken, spirits sunken
They’re bad for business, they spread disease!
Will our elected officials do something? Please!
Neglected, abused, mentally ill
There’s really no urgent civic will
Some may receive disability pay
Enough for liquid comfort, but a room? No way
A lifelong Angelino, I feel enraged and defeated
For I see my town by how our worst off are treated
5/31/22
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved.
Great lines, something to think about (Edward Thomas)
Woke up to the rain and the wind beating on my windowpane,
Yet I thought of getting dressed and going there.
A subway system, so far not yet up to standards,
A job like mine, no one need to rush too
A mindset like mine, meant for me to lay low
during the northeaster...rain and wind
Poor yet full of pride, I am the servant Queen,
Yesterday, I struggled to maintain my sanity
Due to working conditions: at the workplace
I have been feuding for years. Nothing changes
not even an added penny, before its death,
More work, more stress, no respect
Night supervisors, penciling
or rather maneuvering into the darkness
at six am. A street crowded with overturn bins,
Flooded streets, with mudded running water
Mother of Nature, another dangerous disaster?
You are meaner than corvid and Alaska,
I am the servant Queen, poor, yet full of pride:
I am fed up with others trying to take me for a ride
Sometimes, you just need a break from a bad situation
Never, berate yourself for giving expression to your emotions.
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;(Edward Thomas) line
I planned to stick to my believes, nothing will change,
I will always be the servant Queen, as long as them reign:
I will not say it’s not you, it’s me.
I could not insult you like this.
I want you to know however….
I am not going to be able to write a reference letter.
It’s not that I do not like you, for I certainly do.
I have never supervised you.
You need to ask a supervisor.
Not using a supervisor might indicate that
you do not get along well with your supervisors.
Also, I only worked with you about six days.
That is also not impressive on a reference letter.
If they ask me if you are reliable, dependable, punctual,
or trustworthy, I would have to say I have no idea.
I enjoy your friendship, but you need to do yourself a favor
and ask a supervisor to write you a reference letter.
Not a single one of them would out of seven?
I am sorry, but I have no advice, only appreciation that you asked me.
To do you the best favor, however, I have to say no.
A moment in the island of activity and solitude
Where you have no choice but to stay a time
And then go back home and back again
Now worsened by the labourers strife
That bred the supervisors inactivity
And souls bored to tears
Suddenly a moment beside the gentle presence of loveliness
Probably feeling the same as me
A presence that has lasted for just only awhile
With delight and joy in its trail
A moment of respite that leaves us in grief