Best Workers Poems
Its 6 am
And that bloddy alarm goes off again.
Just another half an hour I plead,
But the alarm doesn't listen, the alarm doesn't heed.
Washed and dressed, reluctantly I head for my car,
A 20 minute drive, work is not very far.
The parking gods are good and I get a space
Right by the front door, my favourite place!
A smile on my face I sprint up the stairs,
Today will be good, no worries or cares.
"I want these figures and I want them now!
And these I want yesterday and don't ask me how!"
Do this, do that and for goodness sake hurry,
Am I going to be fired? I'm beggining to worry.
Its 4 pm and I plod down the stairs
My smile long gone but nobody cares
Home at last, I kick at the door
Feet up, hair down, pick up mail form the floor.
Thats my car in that photo, whats this all about?
A speeding ticket "I don't believe it" my husband hears me shout
I wish this dire day would come to an end
Shattered nerves need sleep time to mend
But all too soon
Its 6 am
And that bloody alarm goes off again.
DMoran 2012
t
In heat
the pulse of your streets.
I've heard the crack
of hard political whips
that pinch the air.
Cores of human topography,
your aging neighborhoods.
Your people kick cans
counting gravel like jewels,
while chiselers roast dogs
in the courthouse.
Swine flu kills
the papers.
And already the sky is
feverish.
In your train tunnels
a violinist plays pianissimo.
I've seen
railroad men search for him
along your tracks.*
But you are always
the sweltering sore
of the Atlantic.
A rusty mouth
for dark ships.
A blind brick town
of boarded storefronts
and ***** flicks,
you are buried.
Brown bag your way
to the last alley.
The tenants throw
rocks at your windows.
The rain has stopped
washing your sewers.
*From an old legend of
railroad workers on the east coast of the United States.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
We are the workers of this nation,
making less than it takes to survive.
We are the farmer in the cornfield,
the cowboy out on a cattle drive.
Factory drones at minimum wage,
the waitress that’s making even less.
We are all looking for that ladder,
to help us out of this stinking mess.
We are the colors of the spectrum,
We’re more than just white, black, red, or brown.
We are all that has been tossed aside,
and everyone that has been knocked down.
We’re the fooled, hoodwinked, and bamboozled,
We believe in the American way.
Westill think that we can get ahead,
as long as we work hard and we pray.
We’re one of millions yearning to breathe,
there’s no greater want to be desired.
There is no refuse more wretched than,
we, the poor, homeless, hungry, and tired.
I understand why you are angry,
because I am angry as hell too.
With the information they give me,
it’s hard to tell what’s lies or what’s true.
I look to politicians to help,
they ask me what I’m prepared to pay.
Sorry, but our hands are tied they cry,
at least until next election day.
We are the future of our nation,
that is trying hard to still believe.
If we will work hard and pay the price,
then America will still be free.
Oh If Double You
What can you do?
Your salary is coming
Time to pay the due
You're away from home
In a country not your own
Sacrifices are done
Just to take money home
Your hard earned money
Is a sweet jar of honey
Made kins so happy
Leaving you almost empty
Then they call you a hero
But the help is almost zero
Better go back to your barrio
And plant corn and potato.
Sacrificing loneliness in other country
For family’s welfare
Considered as heroes by Filipinos
(Experimenting a "Haiku")
The sex-worker’s woe
Can be eliminated
If we treat them well
Nine Eleven—a dark day lives of many workers were stolen away
Individuals worked all night; stayed; without seeing the light of day
Nose to the grindstone below floor level they labored productively
Effectively moving papers, stacks, racks, speedily and so selectively
Encouraged basement overtime; more taxes paid; they worked away
Loyal workers; dedicated to the cause; laziness to them—not a gift!
Earnestly they called home to say, “Honey I am working another shift”
Encouraged by those who stayed; coffee and donuts— no need to pay
Encroachment above they never did see as terror stuck during the day
Night’s darkness envelope the light; underground darkness of the night
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
© Joseph Spence, Sr., 8/27/09
© All Rights Reserved
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine;
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.
Well, you went on vacation,
which is legal I suppose!
I guess you felt you needed rest.
From what, God only knows!
I know the other girls are missing you.
I know they really care.
They keep saying "We wish the hell she'd hurry back
so she could do her share"!
The janitors sure miss you too,
they expressed their great elation,
the floor has been free of coffee stains
since you went on vacation!
We toil away, eight hours a day.
Our breaks are very few!
We have to work our butts off,
just because of you!
While you've been basking in the sun
and strolling sandy shores,
We've been working extra hard
to keep our jobs, and yours!
We hope you got the rest you "needed",
but lets make one thing clear.
There's no way, in hell, you could ever beat
the rest you get right here!
Well it doesn't really matter, if you have riches or you’re poor,
When you get that bellyache, you know you’ll be heading for,
That little house way down the back, where the comforts made for you,
So you can sit and read the paper, when there’s a job to do.
It doesn't really matter, if you eat ‘cray’ or caviar,
Or if you’ve downed a pie with chips; they travel just as far.
After your belly has been filled, then you must get rid of it,
And that's when the likes of me and 'Rusty', do our little bit.
You see we are night workers on a truck that pulls a tray,
The job we’re being paid to do, is to take your waste away.
So while you're sleeping soundly, to your 'little house' we go,
Come every week on Friday, to prevent an overflow.
Most roads in our little town are channelled, tarred and curbed,
So the drive is smooth and even and no spillage's occurred.
There was one road though unsealed, it is pot holed, windy, rough,
With two houses at the dead end, where two pans were quite enough.
One rainy morning we decided on, the easy first that day,
That left us two spots yet to fill, that would complete our tray,
And the rain had stopped so ‘Rusty’, before finishing our load,
Hung his coat outside the cabin, prior to the unsealed road.
Leaning here and lurching there, 'Rusty', turned ‘round and looked behind,
Letting out a gasp of horror, so I asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“My coat” he said “It’s in a can, pull up the truck, quick stop it!”
Rusty didn’t care about his coat, but his lunch is in the pocket.
Fire brigadiers
Rescuing those with fire
Burning in bottoms
Strange to think
looking at these lines of ink
that once upon a time
all I wanted was a dime
to buy another drink
so I didn't have to think.
And then, from two men I never met
came a spiritual safety net
into a wasted life
full of pain and strife.
Suddenly, I was a part of A.A.
and there hasn't been a day
in 30 years come this July
that my heart doesn't cry,
Thank you Bob, Thank you Bill
for your lives that did fulfill
a faith that works for sobriety.
Many thanks from my family and me.
for Michael Jordan's "Couplet of Faith" contest
In the dank, dreary domain of leeches
bloodsuckers swim willy-nilly,
hither and thither in the murk.
Aquatic bloodhounds
sniffing the water, they zero in on lunch,
a warm barefoot or a leg will do just fine.
Like vampire bats,
they numb their bite, so it's painless.
Both the stuff of nightmares
and a prayer come true,
you mustn't judge them harshly; they're most beneficial.
Why else would nature
create such a parasitic creature?
No one relishes the task
when I ask for volunteers to catch wild leeches;
they all have feet of lead as I lead them to the pond.
My colleagues refer to them as squirming syringes.
And yet, these lowly critters are miracle workers
once you get past their slimy feel and swamp smell.
It takes but a second
for their minute teeth to cut into bruised flesh
helping to restore blood circulation.
(Free Verse)
Aug. 15, 2018
Oh, you wonderful restaurant workers,
I guess you're glad it's over
Mother's Day the biggest day
The demands at work,
I know you well deserve your pay
Idiot customers,
Insolent, abusive
Think that you're
worth naught
Little realizing
the potential revenge
They may have just bought
Like adulterated food
To repay your stupid mouth,
If you knew what they did,
Your brain would "go south"...
These are people too
So watch out what you do
Because before you know it,
The joke will be on you!
Yes, this is a bad joke
Yes, this is a sad comedy
What an irony
What a parody
Smile and smirk, so you won’t be poked
What a hilarious lie! It is a travesty
Immigrants don’t eat pets
They eat beef, chicken, and pork
Like you and me. All bets
Are off. Let’s be serious and dark
Migrant workers are looking for jobs
What a spoiled brat candidate! Unnecessary stabs
And sound bites, this time, will not work
Migrants are people too
Yes, I’m talking to you
Who believe in fake news, half-truths and lies
All human lives matter in front of God. All lives
Are special. Migrants are the poor children
Of the Almighty. Give them food and haven
If your ultimate goal is to reach Heaven
It’s about time, the system puts the felon
In his place. Nobody wants a convicted liar
A criminal with a deferred sentence at the border
It’s sad to see a grumpy old con artist
On stage. There’s no place for a divider, a racist
In this day and age, in today’s political scene
How strange, unbelievable and obscene
To see a liar tremble before the Truth
God is Great. It’s time to pray and to play the lute
Immigrants do not eat pets. They are like you and I
They eat chicken, meat and pork, and also enjoy apple pie
It’s time for the judge to send the felon
Where the fellow belongs, in jail, in prison.
Copyright © 10 September 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous books of poetry.
Migrant workers and street children
Tarek Hasan
I do not sleep on eyes
Early action is away on leave
I have the luxury of back pain.
I did not question my race today
Abroad my identity?
Most of the walls are stained the conscience of the question
Minded as unwanted, what is the worst?
There is still the heart of the depression fall down.
Logo people tarite torn sail the way,
Common goal pursued by the will-o'-the-wisp
Children in memory of the way up the wall of the picture .
Children born faceless way, why?
Why is he silent, still did not answer
Human cruelty, not their distant
They are hated, god luck on the way out
There's still retired, their running play.
Sometimes the station the station never seen Mohakhali, Jatrabari, Gabtoli intersection,
Look out the rotten dumps to drain the water heater,
Sometimes the traveler exile
Sometimes money Sadarghat two porters.
The way they address their shelterless
There is no guidance on the identity of their birth,
They are sitting next to dumps
The smell of rotten rice spread on the nose,
When fatigue, happiness nest don't find
Do not fall asleep on the way to the park,
I space where foreigners with them.
Hard job labor malicious belly
I went down the road where there Pedestrian
Is next to the trash cans at them,
Nonra afternoon sat down with hand-goody
it does not smell like an owl.
There is no identity of their birth but spent the day
And so what I have received,
What is the way I walked Logo
Lived my life the ultimate curse.
When fatigue overheating on the labor body
Not finding the shadow of the vacation home
Fall asleep by the side of the road, with the head of bricks
And they do not mind, I
And do not be sad whisper, not torn,
I am a migrant worker, my identity
Today, the street children.