Best Working Class Poems
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.
He's stuck with a working class mind
And grooves in the working class grind
And walks down the working class street
Where the mud sticks under his feet.
Always working to pay the rent
Or the interest on the mortgage lent
Living for the football game
So the weekend just grinds the same.
Then Monday comes around too soon
Five more days on the merry go round
Where boredom numbs his joyless mind
And the rhythm of life has no rhyme.
But Friday night is slowly on its way
And Celtic's playing on Pay TV
A few pints will help him freeze his mind
And help sustain his working class grind.
The working Class Hero
From town to town, all across this great land,
You can see the work of a laboring hand.
Not many know their name,
But in my eyes they are heroes just the same.
From driving a nail to driving a stake.
They have pride in what they make.
From construction to demolition.
They are part of the working mans coalition.
You can’t buy a membership to get in.
These are hard working women and men.
They’ve paid their dues, by the sweat of their brows.
From the factory work to pulling up dirt with plows.
These folk get paid cash , by the hour.
Around here its done with man power.
They have calloused hands and tired feet.
They work on through the rain, sun, slow and sleet.
They know there’s no shame in a job well done.
None of these folks have ever worked for fun.
Covered in grease and their knuckles are scarred.
Ain’t a one of them scared to work hard.
They are the kind who work through the pain.
These folks have never rode the gravy train.
They know the job isn’t done until it’s done.
They are the ones who are up and gone before the sun.
These people won’t do it unless they can put their name to it.
They know it is a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
They pour concrete and haul hay.
They know what it means to put in a honest day.
They are the ones who are the backbone,
They are Americas cornerstone.
I am proud to be one of the few,
We could use more like me and you.
A few more hours and I’ll have put my day in,
But don’t you worry I’ll be back tomorrow to do it again.
Even though my paycheck won’t ever have more than a few zeros,
It’s okay because I know I’m one of the working class heroes.
Sarah Comstock
6-15-08
The working Class Woe (nihilism)
If I were a working class boy living today in a big city, with little interest in academic studies,
I would have found little and no opportunities for work. For my grandfather it was more easy,
back then the world needed working class people, my grandfather was a carpenter, no one
needs his skills anymore. I have tried to get a job as a trainee welder, but there is no opening,
all I have been offered is a short time work in a McDonalds’, selling beef burgers.
I walk the streets and I see window displays of all things I could buy if I had work and money.
But we the working class people have been sidelined no one needs us any more, as all
manufacturing businesses have gone abroad mainly to China There are so many of us in inner
cites, we used to man factories But there isn’t any left. I’m young with no future and anger is
swelling up in me and my friends. I hate the police they are the representatives of those who
are keeping us in poverty. I cannot stand it any longer One day I will break windows grab
what I can just so I for one little moment can feel powerful in a world that has rejected us.
My grandfather has finally seen the game the powerful plays and he says we are the pool
of unemployed that keeps the wages of workers down. But there are no factories I tell him
they are all in China. The state gets its income through financial institutions and we have
become an underclass and we have become surplus of requirement, the only thing we can
do now is to use our power of chaos and destructions, you can call insurrection, but we will
not stop until this society shivers in fear of tomorrow.
I. Daybreak
what glint of morning
is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences
cuts the turf of rowhouses
the weeds still talk with the legs
of crickets as the post-dawn moon
fades like a bubble
here the old Norges and RCAs
the transmissions extracted like tongues
make tombstones in the yard
the scattered habits of a mechanic
early chests exhale
crankshafts turn
Chevrolets on storm
are fused to the moment
breaking thunder from the curb
II. Kids
dirt streaked
all our bellies were round
dirt streaked
consulting our nerves with
wide open lungs
dirt streaked
we all ate dirt
dug tunnels
played trucks
dirt streaked
the swing set whistled
rocking hard
in the recesses
of an afternoon
III. Locked
the day lost in some
file of physical laws
was locked like the hands of the typist
locked like beer cans on the porch
where a laborer reads want ads
fixed like the eyes of the
police
it’s why chained dogs
never stop barking
why housewives keep doing
their laundry
IV. Production
nothing to lose
come welders with your brilliant rods
disarm the dark where the cracks of hell
leak out
come secretaries
run with the wolves again*
migrant workers sing
the bosses don’t know the words
for the prints of innocent men
still grip the prison walls
the halls of high schools
still murder the breath
of the original
cab drivers
pocket the secrets of Washington
coal miners
dig loose the words
hiding under Kentucky
the graveyard shift will begin
when the city simmers
the pot of a quiet army
let them tell
no loss but the threat
of collectors
no loss but the sweat of
your palms
* Taken from an old folktale
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982
In the cold
they do their work
The work is of utmost importance
Buildings, churches, synagogues and parks
all exsist due to the sweat and blood of the workers
They must continue to do their work
So the city will be safe and strong
Fantasy has its place
But sometimes we should write
of the stark truth
Even if it ruffles a few feathers
It's all in your head.
It's all in your mind.
One day, you'll be dead.
One day, you'll be hard to find.
We say, "we wish we could fly."
We say, "Give us some time."
They'll work you till you die,
They'll work you till you commit a crime.
Freedom is only in your head.
Freedom is only in your mind
Wrinkles and twinkles and wind colored cheeks
callused old feelings well hidden
Take a ride in Old Vermont across the covered bridges
Wander through the woods of Maine on down east running ridges
Stop and face the hard won life See to feel the work the strife
Recognize to just admire the fortitude of tiny birds to sing their song
through winter long and into spring to hear red squirrels chatter chiding
Sit and wait till its subsiding The sound of partridges awing See them
alight to dance and sing The Maine woods rite the solid thing that holds
to them who live in Maine
It’s not the same along the coast. Though secretly the smile the wink
at richer moneyed men who drink and live in yachts and shiny boats
and houses build so they can boast and say they live in Maine
Like generations on the Vineyard and families born Nantucket’s best
These working men of salty Maine call foreigners these summer guests
and stolidly ensure by words and deeds their characters endure in deed
To know what’s right and stay to do. to stand and fight if driven to
To drop a hat I’ll give y’ that I’ve seen the same on Scottish tors
And Yorkshire men I can recall Who like to these no easy breeze
could move them from their moors
So sit y’ back and sip a dram and think of other men who strode upon
these sands of time and held to what y’ ken
And spill a drop in token toast to those who sail on cloudy coast
and walk in smoky mountains high in flowing glowing sunset sky
They cannot die as long as I and kin can ken of them the
working men of class
Greatest is the servant’s slave to the pope
the good looking still carries a dry throat
such living is washed with a costly soap
to break a jinx right from ancestral coat
value’s attached to every mess and rag
people of this class just live and manage
a rare light may shine but will face the lag
progress so dragged despite all courage
in wealth’s province, they are total outcasts
ride the train of existence with no seat
in another side the world runs so fast
as the weak attend poverty’s retreat
life has distinguished with its shovel
but the low still has something to marvel.
The world is full of working class heroes
Made up of every gender, shape and size.
Inspiring everyone, their strength bestows
They become the backbone of enterprise.
My father was my working-class hero
He passed on his ethics, in his workshop.
Urging each person to learn and to grow
Without them, trade will slow, maybe stop.
Working class heroes all make the world run
Stand side by side, sometimes on bended knee
With pride in their work, as fathers have done
The spine of humanity, you’ll agree.
As they stand tall, waiting, learning their trade
Working class heroes are lovingly made.
Working class zero.
The art of poetry is to write what you are thinking;
The best poetry sometimes, comes without you needing to think.
I write from the soul
And sometimes I use my subconscious mind to do my bidding;
Sometimes I study my target,
To become better at performing my shtick.
I want to be the best; so I try my best.
I stutter when I speak in front of an audience,
Because I have so many words that I need to get out.
I have a million words and already formed sentences inside my head;
I utter meaningless paraphrases, because I live underneath self-doubt.
It keeps me down and leaves me feeling less than confident;
But if I have the poem in front of me,
I can pronounce it with such apparent confidence.
Some people hear me reading my works and view me as being arrogant;
But the truth is I am scared outside my shell
And my words are my only defence.
Poetry is my lover and this is a love that will last.
Some say the best poetry is not written by someone from my class;
But I just say I do not care about that.
Writing is what I do, I am a poet; I will write until I die
And thus I am turned to ash.
I am no angel, no glistening thing of beauty;
But I am not afraid of speaking truthfully.
I am not charming and could never be a suitor;
But I am disarming their fury one mind at a time to seize my future.
If I make you smile,
Then I have brought a little happiness into the world.
If I make you think, maybe I became interesting.
If I inspired you to write better than I can,
Then I have become worthwhile.
If I have affected you at all,
Then I have accomplished meaning.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I am the American worker
coal fired for refined thieves
on the thirty first floor.
My secrets rest
roadside beyond the guardrail
where ditched alleys
lead to rowhouses.
A list of porches
repeating to each other
the economics of wear.
My secrets shuffle
moon-side with motors
in gear.
A scourge of trucks
that drone and stab the night.
My dignified rails drive
mountain passes, but fade
in stories written backwards.
I belong to the wheels
whipping the black spell
of trains.
The scuff strummin' Guthries
and Union Maids,
Debs,
Robeson,
The destination of all trains;
Railroad Bill.
I am the American worker
searching the seasons
for decent belongings,
secret rhythms
last whistles,
Mt tempered
native steel.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
My pen write
My heart speaks
Of how my soul appreciate that one strong man
Full of dust from head to toe
Pushing those heavy wheelbarrow
To earn for a bread
Whose hands are those it is his family that awaits, awaits for him to share the bread
My eyes have seen
Of that wonderful woman
Who’s turning black not only black but black as charcoal
For the sun has no mercy for her beautiful skin
Day and night with the bucket on her head
She also believes a day in her life will be brighter than yesterday
That she will no longer inhabit the wrinkles on her face and the cracked legs in her beautiful body.
He wakes very morning
to trudge through his day
a labor of love
or just bills to pay?
it seems that forever
he's been burdened with debt
and retirement a time to reflect
or regret?
She awakes every morning
to labor all day
kids are in day care
there's really no choice
no other way
the bank accounts empty
and pay day seems so far away
I think that this government
has lost the plot
think of the people
who ain't got a lot.
I walk these many streets
I walk this path of stone
I hunger for a life
That I can call my own
I'm a slave to my job
I'm a slave to this town
I'm a slave to the system
That strives to keep me down
I owe money for my house
I owe money for my car
I owe money to the bank
I'm left with pennies in my jar
If your life's the same as mine
I know just how you feel
We have one thing in common
We're just a cog in this wheel