Long Boardrooms Poems
Long Boardrooms Poems. Below are the most popular long Boardrooms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boardrooms poems by poem length and keyword.
Courtesy of one or more tradesmen,
first Monday in September set aside
for employees able, eager, ready
and willing to acquire money
to marry groom or bride
climb the corporate ladder or
become an artisan, entrepreneur, technician
to side step getting rung, drafted
like an oxen plow, commandeered and chide
by management as insubordinate
till retirement or join kiln fields
once the music died
from plane over exertion, yet nonetheless
sweat of brow efforts praised I espied
searching me noggin brief history re:
aforesaid day, where barbecues fried
dispersed aromas recognizing efforts
of workers with quality control as guide
grievances against danger challenged
sense and sensibility stalwart did not hide
the shenanigans that took place inside
sense and sensibility
without prejudice nor pride
boardrooms in tandem with glories of
American made products from those
who put figurative nose to grindstone –
just common everyday Jane's and Joe’s
who weathered extreme temperatures,
whereby bodies froze
but thanks to those who battled elements
at large and snatched doze
birth of brute efforts eventually
earned reserved renowned
borne couple shy of
nineteenth century, whence sound
of industrial silence replaced with
parades where hoof beats did pound
burgeoning and bustling city streets
echoed along hardened ground
fealty to country soldered
with faith, federation union freedom
and job security did thence abound,
which holiday underwent
transformations as bustle
and hustle proved myth regarding
land of milk and honey –
from straining of muscle
whereby life, liberty and pursuit
of happiness less of physical tussle
set (thank you Masons and Dixons)
cornerstone to an invisible
complex edifice originally from New York
forgotten builders, farmers, machinists,
et cetera who laid groundwork
wrought by destruction
from Civil War largesse and pork
loosed from the bottle in
Antebellum South, when off flew cork
freeing a genie, which became rendered
supremely courtly poet, i.e. this former dork.
If I were to collage next year
I’d place bronze across gold
and third over first,
stick paper upon electric,
paste glutton below thirst.
If I were to sculpt next year
I’d chisel women into boardrooms,
chip away white to reveal colour,
smooth borders, fences and walls,
curve catwalks with something fuller.
If I were to paint next year
I’d splash rainbows over churches
and shade Xs in boxes to stay,
I’d smudge pay gaps, titles and labels,
etch over surgeries, filters and Black Friday.
But if I were to sketch last year,
using invisible ink I’d draw a stage, ruined,
without watercolour I’d wax a bridge, rammed apart,
in fine liner I’d retouch a city’s cycle path, attacked,
keeping a vanishing point in sight and restart.
So if art was time, and I free to design,
I’d graffiti the White House
with handprints the paint of all races,
I’d stencil love above hate,
and erase hurtful mouths from all faces.
**The Next Zimbabwe: A Call to Rise**
In lands where dreams were forged in fire,
A tale of strength, of fierce desire,
From ashes of despair, they’ve learned to climb,
Zimbabwe’s spirit soaring through the sands of time.
A currency’s fall, a lesson steep,
Where once was value, now shadows creep.
Yet brothers and sisters, with hearts aflame,
Have risen from ruins to reclaim their name.
Across the borders, they sought a way,
With every rand, they’d chart their sway.
Determined souls, they harnessed the grind,
While others indulged, their vision aligned.
In taverns dark, where laughter flows,
Their laughter echoes, where no one knows
That diligence crafted on foreign ground,
Now boasts of success that astounds the town.
“Oh, they take our jobs!” is the weary cry,
But it’s passion and grit that lift them high.
While some chase vanity, or fleeting thrills,
The Zim hearts beat strong, finding strength in their skills.
From cleanings to braids, they’ve mastered the art,
With every endeavor, they've played their part.
Boardrooms and mines, a tapestry spun,
Where barriers crumble, new futures begun.
Look closely, dear neighbors, it’s time to awake,
From slumber of habits, it’s change that we’ll make.
The bars and the bottles won’t fill us with gold,
While wisdom’s embrace maps a future more bold.
They carry in pockets what we too could claim,
Values that flourish, igniting the flame.
So rise, South Africa, from shadows of doubt,
See the wealth in hard labor; let the spirit sprout.
Success isn’t stolen; it’s built and it grows,
On sweat and on tears, the determination shows.
In unity’s strength, there’s a chance to thrive,
Let’s learn from each other, let the best of us drive.
In the heart of our struggle, let’s sow seeds of trust,
For in every challenge, there’s power discussed.
Rise up and awaken, let visions collide,
In the next Zimbabwe, let our hopes coincide.
She wakes before dawn—not to serve,
But to survive.
Not to brew tea for others,
But to boil her doubts into silence.
The world looks at her
And calls her “independent”
As if freedom is a flower
Handed politely at a ceremony.
No, hers is a freedom
Plucked from thorns,
Paid for in sleepless nights,
And a bank account that never rests.
They say, “You don’t need a man.”
She never said she didn’t.
She only said—she won’t kneel.
And for that—
They call her arrogant.
Too modern. Too cold.
Too something they cannot define
Without trembling.
At work—she leads.
At home—she’s told to obey.
Between boardrooms and kitchen sinks,
She is a pendulum
Swinging between the past and her possibilities.
She earns,
But must still explain
Why she doesn’t cook dinner by seven.
She buys her own house—
And they ask who will protect her there.
She raises her voice—
And they say, “Control your tongue.”
She weeps in silence—
And they say, “We told you, this is not a woman’s path.”
Her phone rings with proposals
Not of love,
But negotiations—
“How much can you bend,
So our pride remains unshaken?”
But she doesn’t bend.
Not because she is stone.
But because she is soil—
Grounded, silent, patient—
And tired of being trampled.
She is not fighting men.
She is fighting conditioning.
She is not asking for pity.
She is asking—
Why must her joy
Always come with guilt stitched at the hem?
No one celebrates her.
No one writes songs for her kind.
But she walks anyway.
With cracked feet,
And a fire inside,
That no culture, no tradition, no man
Could extinguish.
And that, my friend,
Is not feminism.
It is existence—
Pure, naked, honest.
The kind that does not need
Approval to breathe.
Or applause to live.
casting away all pieces and parts
of an existence full of casual talk
of board rooms full of rage
lost bodies in burning classrooms
full of philosophy and apathy
on foolish babble on time
lost and found morality
memories based on foundations
of aimless travels
looking skyward
casting thoughts incalculable
emotions of love
hate or disdain, unimaginable
full of the rage n pain
playing the blame game
who are we to say
rooms full of empty views
the apathetic feuds
glass shards, crack
crazy crystalline harts
like falling cards or raining stars
as bodies burn in lethargy
casting stones into the ocean of tranquility
small are the thoughts that ripple large
reflections hard as yesterday’s tomorrow insane
cast away photos in a scrapbook of memories
pieces n parts of arcane life, disregard
full of white rooms and silent storms
staring into the mouth of madness
casting all way the pieces
parts of an existence full of casual talk
in classrooms of apathy n despair
watching burning bodies sitting
in boardrooms full of misery
looking into a city, feeling its toxicity
counting the bloody beads of a rosary
Courtesy of one or more tradesmen,
first Monday in September set aside
for employees able, eager, ready
and willing to acquire money
to marry groom or bride
climb the corporate ladder or
become an artisan, entrepreneur, technician
to side step getting rung, drafted
like an oxen plow, commandeered and chide
by management as insubordinate
till retirement or join kiln fields once died
from over exertion, yet nonetheless
sweat of brow efforts praised I espied
searching me noggin brief history re:
aforesaid day, where barbecues fried
dispersed aromas recognizing efforts
of workers with quality control as guide
grievances against danger challenged
sense and sensibility stalwart did not hide
the shenanigans that took place inside
boardrooms in tandem with glories of
American made products from those
who put figurative nose to grindstone –
just common everyday Jane's and Joe’s
who weathered extreme temperatures,
whereby bodies froze
but thanks to those who battled elements
at large and snatched doze
birth of brute efforts eventually
earned reserved renowned
borne couple shy of
nineteenth century, whence sound
of industrial silence replaced with
parades where hoof beats did pound
burgeoning and bustling city streets
echoed along hardened ground
fealty to country soldered
with faith, federation union freedom
and job security did thence abound,
which holiday underwent
transformations as bustle
and hustle
proved myth regarding land of milk and honey –
from straining of muscle
whereby life, liberty and pursuit
of happiness less of physical tussle
set (thank you masons) cornerstone to an invisible
complex edifice originally from New York
forgotten builders, farmers, machinists,
et cetera who laid groundwork
wrought by destruction
from Civil War largesse and pork
loosed from the bottle in
Antebellum South, when off flew cork
freeing a genie, which became rendered
supremely courtly poet, i.e. this former dork.
This war was not born in the fields of Ukraine,
But in boardrooms, treaties, and promises betrayed.
In 1990, beneath quiet lamps and whispered words,
The West told Russia,
“No inch eastward.”
History remembers. Power forgets.
Then came the boots of NATO,
Not with bombs, but with intent—
Expanding silently,
Like shadows stretching across time.
Each step east, each vow broken,
Tightened the circle until it snapped.
Now Ukraine burns.
And so do Russian homes.
Children cry in both tongues,
And death does not ask
What flag they were born under.
Russia is not blameless—
But it was baited. Provoked. Encircled.
Not by democracy,
But by strategy dressed as freedom.
Ask Napoleon.
Ask Hitler.
Ask the frost-bitten legions of empire
What it means to tempt the bear.
Russia bleeds, but does not fall.
She endures.
You say this is about values.
But democracy does not ride on missiles.
It does not sell weapons in the name of peace,
Or profit from rubble.
This is not Ukraine’s war alone.
It is the war of broken words.
Of maps drawn in arrogance.
Of treaties torn in silence.
The world teeters.
Not on courage,
But on deceit.
Withdraw your lies.
Withdraw your lines.
Honor your word—
Or history will write your name in ash.
True workplace beauty resides not in grand corner offices
Or sleek designer furniture that impresses.
Nor is it found in trendy open floor plans,
Or state-of-the-art gadgets in employees' hands.
It doesn't dwell in fancy lobbies with marble floors,
Or in boardrooms behind imposing doors.
It's not confined to Silicon Valley's sprawling campuses,
Or Wall Street's towering glass fortresses.
For workplace beauty knows the craft of productivity,
And cares not for superficial creativity.
But...
Perhaps it blooms in a sun-lit, plant-filled space,
Where ideas flourish and stress has no place.
Perhaps it hums in collaborative zones,
Where teamwork thrives and innovation is sown.
Perhaps you'll find it in quiet focus nooks,
Where deep work happens, away from overlooked.
Perhaps it dances in flexible seating arrangements,
Adapting to tasks with swift rearrangements.
Or...
Perhaps it sparkles in a well-stocked break room,
Where casual chats dispel work-day gloom.
Perhaps it glows in ergonomic design,
Where comfort and health perfectly align.
Perhaps it sings in spaces that inspire,
With art and colour to light creative fire.
Perhaps it whispers in soundproof pods,
Where concentration nods.
For...
It is the flow that comes from a well-designed space,
The productivity that quickens work's pace.
It is the balance of function and form,
That makes coming to work the happy norm.
It is the synergy of team and place,
The innovation that thrives in this space.
It is the well-being that permeates the air,
When employees know their company cares.
So...
Make not the mistake of neglecting your space,
For the workplace, beauty sets the work-life pace.
It's beyond mere aesthetics or trendy design,
It's where purpose and people intertwine.
For "Workplace Beauty"...
Once embraced, it transforms the daily grind,
To a place where great work and joy are combined!
He stands, golden, cloaked in ruin’s thread,
A radiant god among shadows that writhe.
The scorch of brimstone lingers around him,
Perfumed on whispers where lies take flight.
Hell’s legions bend the knee, adorned in silk,
Doctors, judges, priests, throats stuffed with power.
Their temples gleam with duty unspoken, rotten.
Mouths curl prayers that burn in their teeth.
Apollo waits, for 40,000 breaths of time,
A king of truth in deception’s masquerade.
His hands, a forge of judgment, white-hot.
Will they kneel? Or crumble under his gaze?
Servants wear abundance like shrouds of virtue;
In boardrooms, clinics, altars stained sacred,
Their words, a balm, empty. Ferocious as shadows.
The cigarette flares in Apollo’s cold hands.
Touch their foreheads, he muses, then marks them.
Pain is worship; they sip its poison.
Do they hunger for freedom? Never, they crave;
The one who loves will weigh them all.
The sun god waits, his mercy feral.
Not wrath, but a decision, shaped in flame.
Each condemned by whispers they thought sacred,
His light reveals: the truth has wings, and teeth.
They came not with swords, but contracts in hand,
With smiles that curdled like poisoned sand.
World Bank, IMF — dressed in divine intent,
But behind every loan was a nation's lament.
They called it aid, we called it debt,
A collar on the neck, a future beset.
They promised bridges, but built no roads,
They promised freedom, then handed codes.
Our children’s hunger signed the dotted line,
While theirs drank wine aged sweet with time.
Economic sodomy in boardrooms cold,
Raping our hopes for silver and gold.
They taught us numbers that never added up,
Left us drinking tears from a broken cup.
Privatize the water, sell your sun —
Now see who owns the rain when the deal is done.
Our fathers begged with bowed-down eyes,
Our mothers paid with silent cries.
Entire nations left to crawl,
While towers rise in Washington’s hall.
But karma walks on barefoot fire,
And history listens with deep desire.
The winds are shifting, the tides awake,
And no thief shall keep what they did not make.
The poor now rise, not with plea but flame,
And speak in tongues that know no shame.
Shall we forgive? We may. But forget?
Never — not while blood and bond are wet.
Under this cosmos, the cycle turns —
And empires fall the way the fire burns.
Let the West beware what the East remembers —
No winter lasts through all Decembers.