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abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
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angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
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childhood children
chocolate christian
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color columbus day
community computer
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cousin cowboy
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culture cute love
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death death of a friend
december dedication
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divorce dog
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education emo
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endurance engagement
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eve evil
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fear february
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fire firework
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freedom french
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fruit fun
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games garden
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girl girlfriend
giving god
golf good friday
good morning good night
goodbye gospel
gothic graduate
graduation grandchild
granddaughter grandfather
grandmother grandparents
grandson grave
green grief
growing up growth
guitar hair
halloween happiness
happy happy birthday
hate health
heart heartbreak
heartbroken heaven
hello hero
high school hilarious
hindi hip hop
history hockey
holiday holocaust
home homework
hope horror
horse house
how i feel howl
humanity humor
humorous hurt
husband hyperbole
i am i love you
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image imagery
imagination immigration
independence day innocence
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international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
january jealousy
jesus jewish
jobs journey
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kid kindergarten
kiss language
leadership leaving
life light
little sister london
loneliness lonely
longing loss
lost lost love
love love hurts
lust lyric
magic malayalam
marathi march
marriage math
may me
meaningful memorial day
memory men
mental illness mentor
metaphor metrical tale
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mother son
mothers day motivation
mountains moving on
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muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
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native american natural disasters
nature new year
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nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
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old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
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pollution poverty
power prayer
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proposal psychological
purple quinceanera
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rain rainbow
rainforest rap
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red relationship
religion religious
remember remembrance day
repetition retirement
riddle rights
river romance
romantic rose
roses are red rude
sad sad love
satire scary
school science
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seasons self
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sick silence
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simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
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smart smile
snow soccer
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solitude sometimes
son song
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stress student
success suicide
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symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
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thank you thanks
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tiger time
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tribute true love
trust truth
universe uplifting
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visionary vogon
voice volleyball
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wedding wife
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Long Career Poems

Long Career Poems. Below are the most popular long Career by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Career poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Teppo Gren | Details

BIO T J GREN part 04 01 Young Love Gone

January 1975, Mount Druitt, Sydney, Australia

At the end of 1974 high school was over, and it was time to start a new phase in life. Whether it would be a continuation of studies at University, or starting a working career would depend on the results of the Higher School Certificate. Whatever the case, finishing high school closed a chapter in my life. Carlingford high school had been a good experience for me.

At the start of the new year, I had everything going for me, except for that one thing that was nagging away at me: a deep, meaningful relationship. I was now eighteen years of age, turning nineteen in Febru-ary and I had not been kissed by a girl, or kissed a girl, since I was thirteen when I kissed with Linda. For many years I had been carrying the yearning for love: to hold someone lovingly in my arms, to caress and fondle a loved one. Looking back, I had lost my teenage years. The young love of a teenager could not be recovered. I had not experienced teenage love except in its negative form of rejection. I was total-ly naïve when it came to matters of the heart and sexuality. I had not received the education or the expe-rience received by most teenagers.

I had started work at the Penrith branch office of the Bank of New South Wales before Christmas. The banks were always looking for new young employees and for those who had completed their higher school certificate it was easy to get employed. It didn’t pay a lot, but it was a job that brought some in-come for the time being. The work was quite easy and the workmates were nice. The Penrith branch had near enough ten employees working under the supervision of the manager and the accountant who were the bosses. I was quite quick to learn whatever task I was given to do.

I had an interesting and flattering instance one day when we were having lunch in the room upstairs at the bank. One of my workmates at the bank was a young married woman perhaps a few years older than me. She started asking why I don’t have a girlfriend. She made positive comments on my looks and then continued the flattery by saying that if she wasn’t married she’d go for me. These kinds of positive comments had been long time coming. I realized that it was only a compliment and the intention was not for it to lead anywhere. It didn’t. I took the compliment at its true value. Perhaps there was still hope for me.

The job at the bank was something I wanted to do whilst waiting for the results to whether I’d be accepted to University. I had applied to a course in architecture in all the Universities that it was studied in. The first two options were a full-time four year course at Sydney University and University of New South Wales. The third option was a full-time course at the Sydney Institute of Technology and the fourth option was a part-time course over six years at the University of New South Wales.

I hadn’t applied for any other courses than the architectural courses available, so if I didn’t get accepted it would change my future plans completely, and I would need to consider making a career in banking. I received the results in middle of January and I was accepted on the part-time course at the University of New South Wales. Six years seemed a long time to study until I would graduate, but I was happy that I was able to scrape in.

At the bank they were preparing me to work as a teller. The next day after I had received notice of my acceptance to Uni, I notified the accountant and the manager at the bank that I would be leaving at the middle of February as I was accepted into University. They were very upset and said that didn’t I say at the interview that I wasn’t looking at continuing my studies. They were very disappointed and said that I could leave straight away. In essence they dismissed me on the spot. Losing the job immediately wasn’t such a big deal for me. It would’ve been nice to earn some money, but I was already looking forward to starting my archi-tecture studies, and it would be nice to have a few weeks’ break before the first semester began.

At the end of February I started studies at the University of New South Wales in Kensington. Because the course was a part-time course over six years, I had lectures only on two days of the week: on Tuesdays from 11 am to 9 pm and on Thursdays from 2 pm to 9 pm. By no means was the course easy, but I settled into studying quite well. We had a lot of exercises to do, so most of the other days I would work on them at home. Uni was different to high school. We had the freedom to attend lectures or not attend them, but if you started skipping too many classes you would quickly fall behind.

The University campus area was huge covering thirty-eight hectares of land and consisting of over sixty faculty buildings as well as open park areas. It took roughly fifteen minutes to walk from one extreme to the other. The University was one of the top Universities in Australia and the academic achievements there were well respected. The University was established in 1949 and had expanded rapidly to over twenty thousand students by the mid-seventies.

I was a Uni student at the University of New South Wales. How cool was that? I was proud of my achievement and I had everything set for me and life was going according to my dreams. Except that I was alone without a girlfriend. But I was confident that happiness would come my way soon. After all I was a pretty could catch for any girl: I was okay looking, I was smart, I was athletic, I was going to have a respected professional career, I had deep feelings, I wanted to be married and have a family. What more would a girl want? I dreamt my lifelong dream of a meaningful relationship, the ensuing bliss and happiness that would lead to marriage and children.

Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Good Journeys

I have heard many moms repeat
"You never stop being a parent."

Sadly, I don't see or hear that quite so much from the dads,
although I know of remarkably nurturing exceptions.

I thought of this as my impossibly young,
yet oldest son,
nearly twenty-two,
stopped by for an early birthday present, cash,
before heading out in his car
with a fellow rap artist friend
on their way from this Atlantic coast
to that San Francisco Bay.

D.B. never drove away to college,
or flew off on a great summer excursion,
or even went off to a technical school,
nor the military.

He did try to make Job Corp fit.
But, two suicides
and one stabbing on his dorm floor
and he decided not to return
after Holiday vacation that year.

He has been the last driver of not just one,
but two, of my totaled cars.
The second crash he walked away from
was when a drunk young white male
hit him head on
in the middle of a gorgeous New England sun-bright June
afternoon
as he was coming home from his first,
and last,
out of home employment
busing tables in a casino diner.

D.B. was approaching the end of his three month probation period
when they let him go,
primarily for his ADHD challenges
with getting to work on time
with all the pieces of his uniform
clean and intact.
But, he also had trouble showing up
ready to set aside the dramas of his personal-political life,
which often feels like a race 
and age 
and gender profiled
and marginal 
and commodified life.
It was hard to stay focused;
to be there when he was there.

Tomorrow D.B. and his friend since high school days
will see a slice of these continental States
from coast to coast and back again
for the first time.

I am ravenously happy for him.
I wish I could have given him wings, 
some outrageous pile of cash.
My heart stops
when I notice how he is so vulnerable
exposed
raw
too often despairing and perhaps even terrified
more about himself
than intimidated by a hostile world closing him out.

Closing ranks
on all the ways his particular black life will not matter
in Earth's vast history.
Not significant enough to be sure if it could become possible,
or even safe,
to love himself,
to allow himself a long and warm regard,
as I embrace him.

I don't know if I could finish being a child
without becoming an everyday
relentlessly caring and nurturing parent.
I can think of nothing so binding both feet to Earth
yet so free flying impossible to control.

For many reasons,
whether despite or because of my single gay male identity,
I chose the second class Mommy Track
instead of going for the Ph.D.
And not just the Mommy Track;
I adopted only the older broken kids
who would never safely drive or hold a job,
or would never talk or walk,
or would never thoroughly clean off her own poop,
or sleep through the nightmare night,
or would not feel safe outside our home,
stalking the boundaries of life while high school friends head on and out
to colleges and new friends
while he struggles to tolerate two classes each semester
at a nearby community college.

It feels good to know I am needed
but frightening to realize I cannot retire from this parenting profession
except through my own growing incapacity.

These four charges of mine
remind me we are each such a precious gift
for each other.
I have never regretted my more generous choices
rather than less magnanimous.
Not necessarily because the return on investment has always been better for my kids,
but because those were the moments standing out most clearly
in my column for Fully Living,
rather than continuing to draw out a stingy half-life,
under invested in our shared future regenerators.

I hope D.B. and friend have the time of their young lives
as I have had mine,
and even better,
even better.

It is so much easier,
and comforting,
to have old and happy memories
when we have had both young and generously happy times,
seasons,
reasons to smile
and greet each fleeting dawn.






Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Primal Questions

Do I want to only look at new ones,
never been used,
or is that a too restrictive market,
too competitively priced
for virginity of place and relationship on Earth?
And, is such redemptively-intended virginity
an asset or a deficit,
in which ways?

Could I rather shop in a wider market,
someplace more gently used
and well-maintained,
someplace with smooth natural wood and stone,
rich in character
and not the smell of fresh acrylic paint,
when I could have wisteria and roses
lavender and mint
wafting through those big brown
or blue
or grey
or hazel door and window frames.

If this prospective relationship
does not bring sanity and health and pleasure and beauty
then is that not a contract violation
and time to be thinking about separation
so Self and Others can get back into our confluent market
for a better fit with this Time;
not a decade ago?

Have my needs
and wants
and preferences changed,
while my life partner's and vocation's may feel
boxed in,
no more room for additions,
lack of flexible floor plan,
too big or too small?

It happens.

Have I changed my definition of paradise
"beloved community"
is not who I am still investing in.
My fellow pilgrims, and places, and their path,
seem entrenched in incompatibility.
They have grown older,
more cracks in the plaster,
wear in the not-so-natural rugs,
missing some shingles on the roof.
Does the view from outside
look more like a weedpatch,
than my intended investment in paradise?

While shopping used expands your multicultural potential,
it also brings its baggage.
All that good and/or bad karma
yours for a down payment
but not always part of what you bargain for.
Did I ask if anyone had ever been murdered here,
or how many toxic fantasies cast their shadows?
Is this 
place/person 
service/product/plant
swimming in carcinogens,
tumorous habits growing mold under the roof?
What is prior experience with abuse,
neglect,
deferred maintenance?

Do I have a right to know, to be informed? Could I ask prior co-habitors and self-marketers with a prospective position/vocation/place/person:

Why are the two of you going your separate ways?
Was this your decision or did it feel more like
your house/spouse/employer gave you no choice?
If it was your choice,
if you have moved on
to something more to your liking,
rather than merely running away
from a smelly situation,
then what does your current relationship
offer you
by way of contentment,
and peace,
with justice and beauty and health,
that is lacking in my prospective investment?

Perhaps there were reasons unrelated to your vocational satisfaction.
Maybe you couldn't afford to stay any more?
Is this place/person high maintenance, do you think?
Too heavily taxing,
bleeding you through inflated costs of living,
working,
divesting,
dispossession of responsibility
and/or authority,
too much Win-Lose gaming?

Are there problems in the neighborhood/extended family
that I should know about?

Does the plumbing still work?

Are the lights on but nobody's home?

Would you recommend your house/spouse/job
to your best in-the-market friend?
Why or why not?
What interior and exterior landscape and design issues
did you have?
What did you find were your interior and exterior relational strengths
for future development?
Knowing what you have learned
through your own investment experience,
who do you think would be the ideal partner
for this former place now in my face?

Too much information, or appropriate responsibility to be informed
of which economic and political incarnations we embrace?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Corpus

          Corpus

                     in words 
designs 
             coloured structures   
  tones                                   movements
       all the multifarious ways of being savvy      earnest
                                                       of show-looking  in earnest
                                                              of believing in earnestness
                         of wanting to be thought of in earnest
            by being read thumbed 
     scrutinised       listened to in silence
                              
                    who shores up whose image

« when the feeling comes, I feel the need to go » … 
                                                                            Sekoto said
      looking into the guest with devouring Picasso eyes
       
   and yet his image bothered him
              his need to be felt useful        needed  
                                                      to be thought of as in the know
        no background to lay the usual foundation
    Ecole des Beaux Arts  
		Atelier in the Rue des Augustins
            no one to lean on to
     only the self-peddled jazz piano   a lolling pittance
        and the loud lingering death at the Maison des Artistes
     canvasses    stached away at some brocanteur’s junkyard
     

it matters to leave behind a corpus
     a bibliography firsthand original    right from the tréfonds
         long before  death 
   the diurnal deaths   
                      felled by dizzy spells
   
 some ex-librarian’s list of secondary source pieces
                         articles talks opening-day speeches conferences radio-interviews
                             tv declarations chapters-in-books edited revised --editions reviews biblios
             tertiary lists of critiques 
       unsigned TLS reviews        communications 
                what the editor said in memoirs of his peers

      not to have said enough is not enough

there will be those who will attribute what others have said to us

we have made provision for that
       we told so and so what the others have taken from us
                                             with a word carefully placed in the leeward of the ear
              while sitting in the din of the rear seat    words garbled gobbled by the exhaust beat

to have left behind a load 
    heavy with prizes pounds royalties titles
                                                    by the dozens  even scores
  definitive recapitulative editions in velours 
                                                                                             
       computerised translations         transvesti(t)es 
     
        through years of solitude sans sexe sans joie sans care may the publisher be
        
      forever loading to jettison 
the heavier the corpus the longer/longslower 
                                                                           the worm rot in the      
            mud   catacombs of staring accusing 
skulls  



From the privately-pub. coll. (rev. 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems), Paris : 1999, 115p.

© T.Wignesan - Paris
Fresnes, November 6, 1994 

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Maria Williams | Details

Elly May



ELLY MAY


poem by: Maria Williams

T'was the night before her birthday and Elly May
Still in the office putting stuff away
In her horn rimmed glasses and grey flannel suit
She was the epitome of perfection, the essence of truth

She was the best secretary that they'd ever had
 They had sure gone to pieces after that Yorkshire lad
 Elly May had filed and tidied and worked like a slave
For her two grisly bosses Mr Smith and McKnave

After ten long years in this office so dim
In her grey flannel suit, the atmosphere grim
She needed some new clothes, she needed a rise
She needed an optometrist to check on her eyes

Poor Elly  May paused and leaned on her file
 She closed her eyes and wondered awhile
 She dwelled on the hardships and hurdles she'd crossed
In her pursuit of dreams -and the hopes that she'd lost
That tall handsome stranger never did come her way
And he never ever will thought poor Elly May

The day dawned ,the birds sang 'twas a beautiful morn
But Elly May wished she'd never been born
Her rice bubbles refused to Snap Crackle and Pop
Her feet felt like lead and her hair like a mop

RING Ring went the doorbell, gosh a special delivery
Elly May bit her lip and went all shivery
The package looked expensive with a lovely red bow
Its a mistake thought she its not for me No
it was clearly addressed to her -No mistake
Her heart was pounding and she started to quake

She managed to get the wrapping undone
And wondered aloud whose heart she had won
She hoped upon hope'twas no cruel joke
Or some silly dream from which she'd not woke

And there it was midst the tissue all satin and lace
a creation upon which she could only but gaze
Try it on compelled a voice-but there was no one there
She'd be late for work-should she? could she dare?
No card to say who it was from
Then with hands that trembled she slipped the dress on

How it oozed how it rustled how delicately it hung
How it shimmered and shone-how provocatively it clung
The waist nipped in the neck dipped low
she cut such a fine figure of which she didn't know
She was beautiful all along she thought with a sigh
She had lacked the nerve or the confidence to try
She'd  resigned herself to her terrible fate
Oh Fiddle Dee said that voice  Its never too late
Now make haste it continued There are things to be done
There are people to meet-that worlds full of fun
The first thing to do at a quarter to ten
Is to get on the phone to those two grissly men
Tell them where to get off you'll not be their slave
They'll fold up without you that Smith and McKnave

Years have gone by since that eventful day
That  magic morning saw the change of Elly May
Now she calls herself Ella - theres a smile on her lips
A song in her heart and a sway to her hips

Being a jet setter is not easy, her days are never grey
Its Paris by night and London by day
 But every now and again she thinks back with a shudder
Then silently gives thanks to her fairy Godmother


Written many moons ago for my daughter who wanted a modern day Cinderella story

Written and published in an Australian National Women's Magazine for whom I wrote motivational stories and poems intermittently.

Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Cmack Estevez | Details

Don't throw it away

Don’t throw it away
I never had lots of people that actually believed in me as a kid  . I always had these delusional thoughts that one day everybody would love me and believe in me. Well it came eventually to this day when I left poverty forever. I always   wanted to be this to be that but it was all talk . Someone use to tell me if you want to be somebody you’re going to put the effort , be discipline and work your way up. The ego   the cockiness   the arrogance and the ignorance will destroy you instantly and you’ll feel very heartless in your heart. Never throw it away over those traits    never,  listen  and feel emotion that you think the people are right and don’t believe in you that you can be something. Your dreams , Your opportunities ,  Your hopes , Your passion and you  being a somebody is all on you to make it come true. There’s no easy path   I always tracked it down all my life and I fail every time it takes patients   it takes efforts it takes to have another   plan another opportunity to search what you want. The world can’t help you   you are helping yourself the world can’t owe you. It doesn’t define you , you do. You can taking it if the world don’t owe something and give something to you easily but you might fail. There’s no excuses for you to say you have talent   you have lots of creativity and you’ll feel in your thick minding skull that if you use it for an easier path then the world will make you feel  embarrassed and humiliated. 
Without practice
Without effort
Without a plan
Without hard work
You fall you throw it all away based on just talent you can’t be build and rely on talent  and creativity to be successful and make it. Every human has it not just you. Ego and being cocky destroys your images it kills your chances. Be patient   Persevere your way to greatness. Search and feel the effort by doing the work   use your mind   have a   plan   use your full potential because if you don’t then your dreams will remain a fantasy and not a reality. The world wants us to face our challenges to overcome and improve. Without it we all collapse. WE all need challenges to improve our ethics and talent. If you throw it all away then what’s the point of being a somebody   ? Young people need to understand that talent   creativity having an ego and being so better than the world and better than everybody and the world will be much very easier on you is actually more to it.  Don’t let this destroy you   because if you don’t   believe in yourself then you’ll never be  good  enough .   If   certain people don’t believe you have a good future then ignore them and chase it. The struggle is real but we can overcome it by making the struggle into our dreams turn into reality of our wants and highly doubts of desire.
If you throw it away you’re losing
If you throw it away  you’re   pointless.
If you throw it away you’re hopeless.
And if you throw it away you won’t be good enough to be a somebody.  
Stay in school be patient it’ll come get the amount of education and work hard you just have to focus and feel the pride of greatness within you to improve and lastly chase it and go get it.

Copyright © Cmack Estevez | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details

Remembering Atari - Part 1

(Unsigned, Sealed, and Delivered)

Part 1:
Oh I worked several years at Atari (1)
Always thinking, "It's too good to last,"
Bushnell's (2) leaving - hand writing on rampart -
Though momentum would carry us past.

Nolan's (2) vision was not all that perfect,
VCS (3) up to roof day I joined,
But then critical mass was accomplished,
Nolan screwed, and Atari purloined.

Nolan's loss viewed by most as quite tragic,
But the bean-counters quickly took charge
And though remnants remained of old culture,
New unfortunate seeds loomed quite large.

Like one time at a company picnic,
With a beautiful girl by my side
Ray Kassar (4) introduced himself firmly,
And he wanted to give me a ride.

Ray's experience mostly was garments,
But his management style seemed too tame,
For to handle unruly designers,
He would need to be "Master of Game."

But Atari was poisoned by money,
And in death throes was free-falling up,
Lining pockets of sycophant beggars
Whose main talent, the art of the cup!

It is certainly hard to believe now
But your game's launch won't bring you Champagne,
Though the folks that distribute your product
 Likely treated to week say in Spain!

Game designers considered cheap labor
Not deserving of mention by name,
Though their effort might span year or longer,
Sacrifice not attached to their game. 

Mike Moon's (5) spending of cash flowed like water
Hard to think new 800 (6) would fail.
Soon our campus had grown to five thousand
Management had a cat by the tail.

But wild cats at their best are unruly, 
And their egos not soothed left the ship,
Founding numerous troublesome upstarts,
Whose last vote for Mike Moon was "pink slip."

But new management all failed Atari 
They were trying to save their cash cow,
While ignoring the 800 platform,
Game improvements that it would allow.

Their suggestion, "Compete against Apple!"
Was like calling a Zebra a horse,
And predictions it might win the "Derby,"
All amounted to nothing of course!

So now CDC (7) stars of computing
Began scanning the 800's charms,
What they found was fantastic game platform,
But for business they soon raised alarms.

Well the Wozniak (8) floppy was genius,
And Paul Laughton (9) made Woz (8) hardware sing,
But then neither man worked for Atari,
As it turned out, that meant everything.

Roger Badisher (10) melted when testing
Showed that drive by Atari was flawed
But the business crowd changed one to zero,
Up till then, frankly, all did applaud.

I was there to see friends "raked on hot coals,"
And for Zebra, not horse to be blamed,
This delusional marketing posture
Cast dispersions in hope they weren't named.

Premier game machine served its intention
To strike fear in competitors' heart
Specs then changed post production had started
Blocking game vindication dead smart!

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Andrew Crisci | Details

Undeserved Generosity

In his wealthy days, he looked down
on homeless people and disgusted by their
stench, he cried out, " Take a warm bath! " 
He kept on walking fixing his black hat
tossed upward by a capricious, wild wind.

He dressed well and passerby admired him,
he turned many ladies heads with his stylish
Armani dark suit and Gucci dark sunglasses.
but older guys stared at him with much envy:
he was in his early sixties, but looked younger. 

A hungry man sensing his greed shouted,
" Sir, do you have a dollar to buy me coffee? "
" Filthy bum, you are too lazy to get a job! "
He replied with much indignation in his voice.
" I was like you wearing the best suits money
could buy, then I lost my job on Wall Street! 
I am forced to beg...where is human kindness? "
He spoke those words with great bitterness. 

He wasn't moved by what he had heard
and muttered, " They are all the same,
freeloaders fooling idiots who give them
dollars and they in turn buy cigarettes
and alcohol; who is the clever one?

Months passed and the homeless guy
still begged, some gave him quarters
and dollars, others kept on walking;
he didn't see that stylish gentleman
who despised his condition and insulted
him with nasty looks and unkind words,  
where had he gone? He had to ask somebody.
" I think I saw him today on Lexington Avenue."
A passerby shouted running to the subway.

The teen told him he lost all he had 
when the Stock Market dropped to its 
lowest in August, another Black Tuesday,*
then he pointed where he was laying,
" He's on next block in a cardboard box! "
The homeless man deeply wondered.

He got up, went to take a shower
and put on a suit somebody gave
to him along with black shades;
He looked very rich, everyone was
impressed by his attire, and best
of all, he smelled good: he was alive.

" Good morning, Sir, can I offer you 
anything, coffee and a hot hero *? " 
He asked him by hiding his identity.
" Yes, please...I haven't eaten in days! "
Nobody is showing mercy, they look
away if I were a sewer rat looking for
food on this sidewalk of cuisine smell."

" Wait, I will right back with your food! 
He ran across the busy avenue and
returned with a bag full of sweet cakes
and a pastrami hero; the coffee steamed 
in the chilly afternoon, it seemed a
Manhattan' street giving off puffs of stream
from under the sewers during Fall and winter.

" Thank you for your kindness, kind man! "
The once-rich-man said to the stranger,
he seemed sorry as if his greedy heart had
had found underserved generosity which 
he himself had denied...remembering how
desperate that man was when he asked
for money to get coffee and stay warm.

 
* A Hero is a New York or New Jersey
Hero Sandwich
* Black Tuesday happened on October 29, 1929
  
 

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details

The Job Interview

The HR person called me in… I was turning gray… Was he even twenty-one?
I wondered if the interview would go well, as he did fung shui the chairs around.
Offered a caramel expresso mocha late decaf, I told him I took my coffee black.
Alas my friend, it got progressively worse, this: our proverbial generational gap.

He asked me to explain, how I’d be the best personnel fit, for this illustrious job.
Ah! Experience I had in abounds, as I pulled out a 100-page resume, neatly bound.
That question, had me off and running, but I knew, I was in some trouble when…
I saw his eyes glaze over, and he ask me, ‘Have we made it into space yet?’

He smirked, when he ask, about ‘Recent’ applicable education, in the last 5 years.
I condensed my course certifications till he nearly fell off, his crazy chair, my dear!
He ask the projects worked on, unfortunately, all were government secret classified. 
So I added some of the numerous skills, that had been applied, till he almost cried.

I started with the job descriptions, but he didn’t like… that the names were so long.
And the abbreviations normally used, in this line of work, almost blew his mind.
Though I also got the feeling, he may have thought that I’d finally, lost mine, since…
My accomplishments had scads of stuff he’d never, ever, be able to comprehend...

You know, ‘things’ about the job, HR doesn’t care about or bother to be clued in.
Luckily all was saved, before the interviewers’ jaw, hit the floor around his chair.
Using a power point presentation, illustrations appeared, giving him a better clue.
I even gave him a burned DVD, set to the music of  ‘Live Free or Die Hard’, too.

He ask about items, he’d never heard of, you know, from way before he was born.
But got the feeling he’d be more attentive, talking about a computer game going on.
I didn’t lie about a thing, it’s not my fault some Companies are now closed down!
But I felt things were somewhat a success, as security finally came to lead me out…

Unfortunately, in the end, they hired a young one, and I couldn’t understand why.
He was a quiet, little, studious kid, who didn’t say a thing, but had stars in his eyes.
He didn’t understand any of the work involved, but his pay would be next to none.
But that's whom they got: until that company closed for work that couldn’t be done.

All because the HR Department didn't help them get the workers they did need.
I became self-employed, developing computer games, all the rage! Oh So Sweet!
Yes, I became a millionaire, with my own company, without HR, anywhere seen!
Now, we develop rockets to go into space, where I felt, that HR person should be.

Dedicated to all those Middle aged people stressed out after looking for a job.
Wife and Hubby Collaboration

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Jack Nganga | Details

A tribute to Merle Haggard 1937-2016

The first thing I remember hearing 
Was a car radio with a country song playing
A man singing while my mom was steering 
A song about heartache and pain
That’s the day the good boy in me died
When you sang “Mama tried”

Country singers come and go
Old songs hang the airwaves and are hardly played
But you put on the best show
People still listen to everything you said
You were a Grand Ole Opry member
Helping people make it through December

Country music would not have done without your voice
You sang small shows and large concerts
You were everyone’s number one choice
You wore different kind of hats, sang from your heart and won hearts
The singing side of a fighter
The fighting side of a songwriter

You jumped freight trains and crossed highways
Kept the wrong company and robbed stores
You were soon to discover crime never pays
When in prison you were tossed
You could have escaped but decided not to leave
You were tired of being a lonesome fugitive

No more freight trains leaving town
For now they put you in San Quentin
But they could not keep you down
For you were good with the pen and not quitting
Soon you would be famous from Muskogee to Rome
After you sang them back home

One day you were free, the tide turned
You took up a guitar, someone gave you a chance
You wrote songs from things in life you had learned  
Your songs became hits and not just once
Soon you would become a legend in your own right
Like the legend of Bonnie and Clyde

Wasn’t long before Nashville would admit
That you were as good if not better than Jimmie Rodgers
When you reached country music’s summit 
No more working man blues; you had your own bus
Traveling all over the North American blue skies
No more staring at your mama's hungry eyes

Every time am down I play your records
And get that old time rambling fever
I wish i had seen one show to contribute applauds 
I wish i had swam next to you at Kern River
Just like you and your ex-wives, am nobody’s fool
I've got swinging doors a jukebox and a bar stool

You got better along the years
Country music changed; not your songs
You still stood out among your peers
You still sang to collect society’s wrongs
Now you’re gone, you took that last freight train
But today i started loving you again 

Are the good times really over?
As you go to the last big city
Say hello to George Jones if he is sober
Hope we can hold on to your pal old Willie
He is the last old man from the mountain I think
And I think he will now just stay here and drink 

Copyright © Jack Nganga | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems