I have lived on the side for so long
A life full of drudgery and misery
A victim of unfortunate birth
To a lowly stock of humanity
And to that soulless contraption of a fatherland
Destined to scrape along
On my daily shamed trajectory
Of the wretched of the earth
Living a good life has always been a mirage
Gleaned from pages of papers and televisions
In the heat of electioneering campaigns
Which fizzle out as elections are won and lost
Why has a creature like me
And my ghetto siblings created
And Condemned permanently
On the fringes of life if not to
Mock God’s creation?
Why has nature bestowed so much?
But has failed to bless all equitably
Bumbled bumble bumble bee
flew from bloom to bloom,
busy-busy-a-buzzing-buzzy-busy
Heard by flowers
from here to there, a-mumbling to himself...
saying… no-not-right, no-not-this-one, no-no-not-good.
Until finally touching down
on daisy's yellow landing pad
for the gathering
of his day harvest.
As so be for me busy
all a-buzzing all the day,
programmed for mindless tasks
of mute survival
of all that
‘must-do doing’
‘I just-have-to…’
all that buzzing work
for to gather
all the must-haves
for my day harvest.
One of them
I managed to avoid this existence
For quite some time
I alleviated freedom from the
Comeuppance no one cared to explain
I placed my soul into the
Bosom of filth and grind
All for the fulfillment of
Those who care not
All for the preservation of
All that cannot
Yet this rote-flavored chivalry
Confounds all light that
Dares to pierce the shaven meadow
Blankets warm from certainty
Bubbling over into stranded froth
Means
The mechanical standard bearers
Which uplift us against the will of men
This man
And chortle, they will, in the end
Because there's nothing left to say.
(5/3/10)
Have you ever come to the end of the day,
and can run the clock back play by play,
and can add it up that supposedly
it was the day it was suppose to be,
but somehow it seems that no time has gone
like a broken record playing on and on,
and you think back through all the things you’ve done -
every day every deed bleeding into one,
and you can’t help but feel just a little fear
and hopelessness, cause it isn’t clear
what it’s all about, why you rise each day
fight the fights you fight, play the games you play,
do the things you do, “Just what the hell for”
for you’ve done it all a thousand times before,
and could keep on going til the bitter end,
and perhaps you will but what purpose then
does it serve, and so your left with not
but to sigh and deal with what you’ve got,
and just keep moving for you know what they say…
tomorrow will be a bran new day.
Drudgery
Monday I’m groggy
Want to stay in my bed
Tuesday’s a bit better
But wish I were dead
Wednesday is hump day
I don’t care one single bit
Thursday’s pre-Friday
And I’m ready to quit
Friday drags on
I need a few beers
Saturday’s cheerful
No need to shed tears
Sunday’s much needed
Off early to bed
‘Twas a long week
There’s another ahead...
~J.D. Cromwell
A little too much of my time I must say
Is taken up with the druge of the day
The cleaning, the cookin, the beating the mat
All of the ironing and washing the cat
How boring, how tedious, when will it end
I try to sit down but get up again
Oh when, oh when will this drudgery end?
Oh there's the doorbell, who can it be?
Oh, it must be the children, they'll be after their tea
Wash up, dry up, then put it all away
Hurry up bedtime, that's all I can say
I'll gat a new job, if I ever get the time
All that I really want is my pen and to rhyme
Well to bed now I must have a rest
Forget about the children and all of their mess!
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.