Best Workme Poems
I like to exercise my mind, but how I hate to work.
Whatever needs exertion is the action that I shirk.
Labor with the brain is fine. I do it all the time.
How I love to sit and read or think of words that rhyme.
But send me to the bathroom with a brush so that I'll scrub,
and I'll barely rub the ring off. Then I'll lie there in the tub.
Peek inside; you'll find me, a novel in one hand,
resting as I'm soaking in my own little Bubble Land.
Clean the oven? What a joke. The most that I can stand
is loading up the wash machine (a task that's merely bland).
Maybe run the vacuum once a week across the floor,
and quickly dab where dust is bad; most stuff I ignore.
As my jobs all pile up, housework's even more a chore.
Why must work that's physical be such a dreadful bore?
My well-ingrained aversion to utilizing muscle
does have one exception: at the gym I like to hustle.
To kick box is so fun although it makes me sweaty.
Step and dance are choreographed. For those I'm always ready.
But I wish that just as quickly as from running on a tread
I could burn up calories doing workouts in my head!
I’m excited, I got a job
I now work for Bob Bob’s Gob Shop
They asked me to stand outside and sell
These white packets, of what I cannot tell
But I was shifting the goods a hundred an hour
I felt alive excited and empowered
Mothers and fathers were buying off me
And giving their kids, who named the stuff LSD
I didn’t hear it clearly at first,
Until I was arrested and that’s when I feared the worst
The police took me to their van
God only knows I tried to run and then… Man,
I got the tasered,
And did a twenty-five second bad imitation of Bob Marley crossed with Jo Fraser
They called me a dope peddler
An addict enforcing meddler
The cops tasered me again and beat me up
Then left me laying in a pile, yelping like a helpless pup
Then took me to a room with a table that had a pile of white powder,
And three inch black sticks they called hash, my mouth went sour.
They questioned me further demanding who was my supplier
As they kept me dancing at the end of the taser wire
I screamed Bob and Bob of the Gob Shop
They stopped and said this must be their under cover job
Just then the chief of police walked in
He looked at me with that we gotcha grin
He took a bit of the white powder and put it on the tip of his tongue
Then with s surprised look as if he got stung
The chief of police quickly picked me up dusted me off and apologised
He said “Don’t worry sir, I’ll punish these guys”
One policemen said “But sir his a drug dealler, selling LSD?”
“How could you be willing to set him free”
The Chief shouted “YES THIS IS LSD, NOW READ MY LIPS”
“LIQUORICE SHERBET DIPS”
Well as a consolation, I got a house and a car out of them,
Never went back to that job again.
I don't care anymore. You are the most wonderful thing I've ever seen in my life.
Everytime you look at me I want to explode. You're doing some sort of yoga move in front
of me which you claim not to be yoga with your 15-year-old autistic client, rubbing your feet
into his hand, bending over him between a giant cushy yellow soft-leathered cylinder, your
hair dangling over him, now up in a pony-tail as you resituate your thighs, steadied and
jeaned in that young and smart physique, a show of craving futures for my sitting nature,
not more than two feet away.
I will love you from afar with light beams if I must. We'll be left to devour each other with
our eyes. In hot-quick glances.
She came to me with hooded eyes,
her frank suspicion undisguised,
pushed to the brink, I surmised,
come to hear me prophesize.
Candles flickered in the room,
shadows darting through the gloom,
she smelled of musty, cheap perfume,
I recognized the scent of doom.
My hands caressed the crystal ball,
gazing in, I saw it all,
I tried to make my face a wall,
to shield her from the pain I saw.
What I told, I chose with care,
yet, stunned, she sat back in her chair,
people seem so unprepared,
but why'd they ask, if they're so scared?
She glared at me with baleful ire,
spat at me, called me a liar,
fled as if her hair was on fire,
the psychic life is God's satire.
©Danielle White
NO!
Not now
Damn alarm
Feel like crying
Another Monday
I have to go to work
And still feeling so confused
Look at all those freaking stop lights
Touch me, tell me I am not dreaming
Will one of you damn lights turn green today
It's rush hour? How come we are not moving
Touch me again. With a baseball bat
Take me away from this nightmare
A tropical island please
I’ll touch that alarm clock
With a large hammer
No more Mondays
Feel better?
Feel good?
YES!
Vince Suzadail Jr
For Nette Onclaud's Touch me count -up and down contest
One day not so long ago
I sat in a prison cell
Contemplating my life and what I had made of it
I was nothing
Another junkie in prison
I decided it was time for me to change my employer
After a lifetime of working for the Devil
I turned in my resignation
And accepted the most important job I could ever have
I work for Jesus Christ
I help who he compels me to help
I write what he compels me to write
I walk down whatever path he chooses for me to follow
Wherever that path leads is where I’ll end up
I hope somewhere along the way
Someone looks at my life
And says, “I want what he has”
Because I do have
The most wonderful job in the world
And guess what
My boss has a job waiting just for you
The starting wage is eternal life
The bonuses are too many to count
Blessings come every day
All you have to do is ask
So it is written so shall it be done
I am but a servant who follows the Son
You know, I thought changing one’s job would be easy,
To start a new vocation would be breezy.
I got me local newspaper, looking for a job as a sparky, (electrician)
But I said “what the F-ck, these ads were written by a sarky.”
The first job was an “Almond Knocker,”
Now this sounds as sleazy as sniffing used jockstraps in a locker.
Who wants to look for an almond the shape of a woman’s top half of her anatomy,
But, looking at women’s breast to find one that looks like an almond, appeals to me.
The second job was a “Blind Hooker,”
Now what can I say, that’s a woman’s job and boy she’ll have to be a looker.
She would be the cheapest thrill you’d ever have
You can imagine the police chasing her as she is lead by her all eye seeing sat nav.
Nope not for me…
Uuhh! Here’s one for me, “Bosom Presser”
Squeeeezing them breasts from the largest to the lesser.
I gave them a call straight away
Only to find out the job was not really that way
Dam!
The next one was, what the f-ck? a “Dike Stoneman”
Well I don’t think any man can
This must be a woman bouncer for a happy club ( I hope this is more politically
correct than saying “Gay”)
The one you greet say “Hey Bud”
Well later I googled the titles and yes you right, I was wrong,
I suppose me old job will be lifelong
Overworked, under paid
Oversexed under laid
Here are a few more jobs I came across, an “Egg Smeller, Chicken Sexer, Pillow Girl
:-) , Butt maker, , Fire Drier (never heard of wet fire) and for all you animal lovers out
there, Frog Shaker, Monkey Tail Puller and those who don’t change their underwear,
a Skid Marker
Spirits riding time,
in swirling clouds, mist and fog,
off the bluff they rolled.
Special thanks to James Marshall Goff for taking the time to explain haiku to me in a manner
that helped me to appreciate its imagery and rigid format.
"Visitors" is a spin-off from another poem "Heritage", which I wrote a few years ago and
posted on PS only a few minutes ago. If the imagery and emotions I attempted to evoke fell
short of your expectations, read "Heritage" and you'll tell more about what I was attempting
to communicate. This is my first attempt at haiku, so do be too mean. ;-) ~<
To be brutally honest it feels great to be employed
But it wears off quick and I start to feel annoyed
Manager abuses authority
Women work there as a majority
In fact it feels like a sorority
The cycles
The emotion
Cure the curse
Brew the potion
Can't a day at work be smooth as lotion
The guys would think it's great
No not at all
Workin with women make me exhausted to the point I just wanna fall
On the floor
Move no more
I want another job
I don't fit in this clothing store
Hours of moving boxes
Eyes red like foxes
Picking up hanger after hanger
Up up goes my anger
Fingers getting poked from sensoring clothes
I smell laziness under my nose
Back-and-forth I carry lay-a-ways
I shouldn't complain I get paid anyways
Watching the fitting room
Boring full of gloom
Vacuum the carpet last
Only an hour has pass
I can remember everything that just passed
I glare at the co-manager as I strode past
It's days I don't even get a break
I'm so mad my body is like a blender the way I shake
In a four hour shift how much did I make
Four multiplied by 8.25 an hour
I used to make more than that from mama when I cleaned the shower
This is the price I pay for an "honest hustle"
But the whole time, no girl moves a muscle
I haven't eaten in hours my stomach hurts as if I'm in labor
This job is killing me like slave labor
But it's minus the whips
This chump change will never get me the luxurious "whips"
This time the master is African American
Can she, yes she, make the girls work
Yes she can
But privately refuses
The overworking confuses
She's invading my work ethic
So intrusive
I can't get away from this slave ship
So not elusive
No benefits
No pay on holidays
I need a job but also my dignity
I'm leaving anyways
I've gained experience and it's plenty money out there
Never has so much sweat dripped from my hair
Never worked a morning
Man this job is boring
If I lay my head
I swear I'm snoring
I'm glad to be in college
Gaining knowledge
When I get my own business I'll do people a favor
By ridding the world of slave labor
The alarm clock signals a brand new day,
So I dress, and head for my job,to earn my pay.
It's a very pleasant morning, as I arrive at WOORRKK!
(Even the sound of that word makes me react with a jerk.)
I show up every day; whether it's in sun,or snow or rain.
OOPS! It's 7:35! Guess I show up late again!
Punch on the clock,and it's time to face the BOSS!
Reluctantly,I reach down,and pick up my daily cross.
Case and pull. Pull and case, while others around me whine!
The only question on my mind:"How long till quitting time?"
I ask the BOSS if she's"selling five" hours of annual leave;
Only to realize, I've no leave left(which causes me to grieve.)
So I face my case, and resume my work, with my head sadly bowed.
Must that guy working next to me , really be so loud?
OUCH! Another elastic broke--and I think that I know why!
But the response I get is,"Not my fault man, blame the other guy!"
Time to pull down and see that all my dear customers get served:
(Though sometimes they yell and complain--which really strikes a nerve!)
At last my truck is loaded, and I'm set to go.
"See ya later, slugs" I shout; then I'm on the road.
Scan my MSPs, and record the mileage and such;
If you ask me, I think this is too much!
I'm in and out of businesses, and running my route all through the day.
Scan barcodes; do parcels,and accountables--oh, and some letters along the way!
I've learned a lot of acronyms, that no civilian would ever guess:
Like NSN;UAA; FOE: and DPS!
But I'll soon retire, and be away from here.
My wife will call "JIMMMMY", to which I'll meekly say "Yes Dear".
I'll be running here and doing that, and fixing everything in sight!
Surely, she'll keep me hopping-- morning, noon, and night!
There'll be no more time for naps;
In fact I may have to work at a second job, so our insurance doesn't lapse!
And when I get old--eh, older--and am in my rocking chair,
I'll think about this job, and the good times I had there.
Reflecting on my career; yes even recalling working with this ungainly mob;
I'll awake one day and realize---I really DID love my job!
Charlie Pelota
1. Dimple under left eye, apply air brush.
2. Extend her legs, more voluptuous. Add 4 inches from ankle to knee cap.
3. You know...I'm just not feeling the dress. Do we have one of her in that green strapless?
Men like strapless right?
4. Holy hell! Can we do something about those teeth? Yuck!
5. She needs a glow around her head. Yeah like that, like an angel. Fantastic!
6. Rosy hue around cheek bones needs touch up. She needs to blush harder, like she's
embarrassed about something...something shameful.
7. Final edit, her smile is too big, women that happy don't read magazines...what? Don't look
at me like that!
Et Voila! Our hyper-stylized over-edited fictitious standard of beauty is realized.
Ok society!
Get ready...
Set...
Conform!
(Conformity ensues)
Bonus points! We got a celebrity to do the cover shoot.
(Hey, you can only sell your soul once and chances are she already did it...Christ, stop
looking at me like that!!!)
When she takes home her free promotional copy,
She can hold up our ideal of her side by side with the mirror and think:
"Wow...these images are so different and yet...I sense a strange and *vogue familiarity...
Almost as though...just maybe...they were of the same person...
Huh...I wonder which one represents me?"
*Typo alert! Should be 'vague'...silly me
As i awake with the sound of my alarm clock signal for another day. I get myself ready for
my overworked job in which i don't get enough pay.
Its not long before i pull myself together and get in to my car, and set off for a few mile's
down the road, it isn't very far.
I have arrived now, I'll just park at the other side of the gate, and begin my hard day
grafting in this place that i hate.
Firstly I'll gather up all my gear which i use to clean. Why is my boss giving me so many
orders, sometimes she can be so mean.
But I'll take the orders as i'm in no position to talk back. If i did it would probably result in
me getting the sack.
So i take her demands and i go and fetch the brush, if only i had a job that wasn't all rush,
rush, rush.
I have everything done now, all i have left to do is the floor. How i long to see that clock hit
half past four.
I left school at the wrong time if only i had stayed. As it has brought me to this kind of job,
so overworked and underpaid.
When one is looking for work or employment to feed their family,
Try all routes possible and get as creative as you can be,
Make a list of all talents you have no matter how big or small,
You would be surprised where this might take you after all.
I know how to do mommy blogs and reviews with some flair,
So I thought to use that talent, it might take me somewhere,
I posted up ads throughout the internet city of this gift,
Hoping God up above sends me a "help me with a blog" drift.
you tell me one thing then you say another
I do all the work, why do i bother?
I know deep down you really don't care
even though I try you are just not fair
It drives me crazy I am losing my mind
I am not falling its you pushing me behind
you are quick to point out what my work lacks
But I don't even care because I am fighting back
I am sick of all the depression that lays in me
I blame the college for the world to see
It wasn't a waste though I gained lots
From Emma's innocent mind to Andy's evil plots
To chloe the nutter who knows who she is
To elise the genius the queen of the quiz
I gained the experience and I learned from the pain
that is where this comes from for readers, to entertain
Form:
Writing deeply and avidly
is another way of coping,
if seeing that not-so-pleasant reality;
and feeling the presence of truth,
encourages one to reveal oneself
and being true to all words:
perfectly thought out, not hesitant to burst out...
Many write for profit,
modifying their sentiment,
to make it fit into the demanding times,
so that cunning stories can pay off
without considering whom they hurt;
I am very polite when I express myself,
discerning what is worthwhile telling or not...
Will I strike it rich and be lauded
for my work, which strays from the required trend?
Fortune may make me happy...never complete;
my role is not to act out sheer vanity, but to implement
the importance of greatness
that awaits me after my death...
And with pen and intellect, my ideas
flow on paper delighting my readers
who are continuously amazed by its insight!
I can be hostile, bitter,sad, infuriated, unsympathetic, happy or kind,
but these emotions have stirred those who proceeded me;
to get their message across: for the sake of Humanity....
copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci