Long Glass ceiling Poems
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Friday night pints in Cleethorpes
I was young and fancy free,
Shift change lasses from Birds Eye
And one of them chatted with me.
She said she was bored near silly
Working on the Fish Finger line,
Was studying at her night class
For a white collar job like mine.
This was the mid nineteen sixties
Class distinction so much worse
For a lass it was work until marriage,
Factory, shop, maybe enrolled nurse.
Never heard of the glass ceiling
Never heard of the Rat Race
All was well with the world and folk
Largely knew and kept their place .
So sweet, that lass from Birds Eye
As we kissed, cuddled, entwined
And for a few glorious moments
I was hers and she was mine.
I walked her to her bus stop
Quickly kissed her goodbye
Watched her driven into my past
That sweet lass from Birds Eye.
Weeks later back to Cleethorpes
But by then it was far too late.
The Birds Eyes lasses there
And I chatted to one her mates.
No longer a fish factory worker,
She’d worked her notice, gone,
Nobody knew where or when
Just she’d recently moved on.
They said she’d been a loner,
Not really one of their crowd
Was quiet and reserved ,
They were boisterous and loud.
None knew where she went
None knew her address
She was just a past work mate
They couldn’t have cared less.
So I supped my pint, loudly
Played the chatting up game
My heart not really in it,
Without her it wasn’t the same.
At closing time we parted,
They on their way, I on mine,
The last time I met the lasses
From the Fish Finger line.
When darkness falls on the fortunes of men
And dark clouds of shame gather about their brows
There're stars that rise deep in their eyes.
There they stand frozen
Beaming forth a message
For the shepherd of men to seek and read.
By these stars he divines their sorest need
And by them he navigates to lofty thrones,
Carrying his broken flock to golden hills
Willed by Heaven as their dwelling place.
There's a new leader come in America
That found his way to the White House
Following the twinkle of these stars
That like the flash of beacons
Did bid him to the right turns on the mazy path to power:
Here to the right, there to the right again;
Further down the road to the right once more
And thence to glory.
By his triumph, the story of Moses in Hillary unfolded:
His sour fate she came to share.
The glass ceiling she struck with her golden staff
And like the Red Sea at once it parted.
Through it she set off on her long march
To the Promised Office across the desert.
But soon she tripped on her dozen faults
To be condemned by grieving Heaven
To see, to approach, the Promised Office
But never once to reach it.
It was never about the suit,
the charcoal stitching,
the pocket square that folds itself,
the red tie I swore was alive.
At first, it just stood there—
hooves crossed, ears like knives
stabbing into the conference room light.
It never spoke, but no one dared speak over it.
The org charts bent to its gaze.
Quarterly losses shrunk like timothy hay
waiting too long for sun.
I kept my hungry eyes on the llama,
after all, its black-marble stare could polish
a version of the best vision of myself, if I let it:
animal energy tugging at my own red tie,
my voice cracking like a glass ceiling
when I pitched the last idea I was proud of.
Now the llama knows my name.
It signs my emails
and leaves fur in my throat
when I try to say no.
On Tuesdays,
it stands too close
to the mirror in the breakroom,
straightening its tie with my hands,
licking the salt from neck—
its muzzle smelling like a ferment
of wet grass and my sweat.
The interns whisper that it’s a myth,
but they’ve all stopped wearing red.
I now sit at the head of the table,
rubbing my hindquarters with two toes
on the scale, protecting my own
wall-eyed stare. The suit fits better
than I thought.
You can see everyone from here—
their necks, their ties,
the slow nodding of skulls.
The llama was never absurd.
It’s they who look strange now.
The pages meet my fingertips again
Tenderly guiding the ink, as if it were rotten bile
Channelling all away
To minimal change of my world
The illusory script does not function
To the disappointment of myself and the happiness of others
And again to my bewilderment.
The room spins even though.
A dumb look washes over my face or it must have
Reality pixelates and I feel a weight at the side of my head
Up and down it nods as if opening up the plates
Ripping apart the fabrics with a sickening tear
One that plays a sweet discordant melody,
I grip the fruit infront of me
It secretes black ink that stains all,
Faux grass in between the toes, infront of a square sunset
Smothered in a blue lens,
Chunks of stuck food appear in the line of sight
Punches and stabs and what feels like betrayal
Too many words entered the ear
Removing the eye of the hurricane I float in
Drawing it back in where it does not exist
Impossible but the best course of action anyway
Deserved, echoing throughout
Truth mixes with it, alkaline
Yet still only serving to increase my pain.
The swirling parts ever so slightly in my mind
As the mantra repeats.
Not more than they say,
The glass ceiling never being broken.
Be kinder. Be more assertive.
Orders taken and meals thrown
Up into the mind the storm halts.
And the pen glides still,
Soul, guts and heart,
Empty and raw.
I was born in Green Valley, west of Liverpool, west of Sydney, Australia.
It's like being born in the Bronx, or Tottenham, or Shankhill, or Govan in Glasgow.
I might as well have been born there too.
Where those of Green Valley's DNA
Kiss the ground with a bent neck, and are proud to do so
When they look up, their face smears on the glass ceiling
But they can't feel it.
The only escape is a poor paying job
So they keep saying.
There is no door with a happy label on it,
Or a sign that says "this way to an improved life".
So here I am in Scotland.
I went through the unnamed door
I think it was called "risk".
It broke the glass ceiling.
CONTESTS
Contests! We don’t need, No stinking Contest
Participants should get honored on competence.
Unbiased impartial judgement to present.
List of winners to get focused on magnificence.
I always enjoy poem submission
to feel contests as game to play and rollick
on my creation cum recreation
running joyous in fun and frolic.
Some truly talented poets as sponsors
judge blind, showing no special favor.
Those contests are fresh blooming flowers
flushing fragrance flaunting flavor.
Some contests choose winners within a selected circle
List of toppers showing quite oblivious
Rest cannot break glass-ceiling obstacle.
Those contests are stinking, ridiculous.
Contests should be judged honestly blind
Winners to be placed on merit not on choice.
So, stinking smell will not irritate behind.
Contests are nothing but clean games to rejoice.
07/22/18
' Contests! We Don't Need, No Stinking Contests' by John Lawless
Mnid playrugond a laynbirth mzaing plzuze.
Intricately woven words amaze with nuzzle.
Nurturing emotions, they ascend,
Delicate meanings, they transcend.
Piercing through the depths of the soul.
Liberating thoughts from their hidden role.
Awakening dormant expressions with grace.
Yielding to the poet's exquisite embrace.
Ground zero with battle standards.
Rotary of gears of notary banter.
Over the top, through glass ceiling.
Under the inspiration of feelings.
Noting the placement of the crave.
Doting on each as a placeholder saved.
A
Labyrinth laboratory alchemy of allegory.
Azimuth of the gist of the main story.
Bringer of clarity of revolution.
Yearn of one's own volition.
Root spark of ignition.
Ignite thoughts, contrition.
Never just one direction.
The dissection and eye of digestion.
Horizons broadened at intersection.
Might it be by a mighty pen sword.
At taken thoughtfully at it's word.
Zenith of heart and mentality.
In to everything in between, a technicality.
No mere walk in the park or plaza.
Gameface on at every stanza.
Passion flows through each crafted line.
Unlocking emotions, both yours and mine.
Zephyrs of verses dance in the air.
Zestfully impassioned, beyond compare.
Lit path of beacons called on a paged stage.
Expressions etched upon the age,
Peas of the same pod, nurtured by soil's clutch,
Polarized cotyledons, vying for homely touch.
Like a sunflower sagging toward heliotrope’s light,
The diffident monocot cradles itself in maternal respite.
Enduring the ravages of time, standing tall,
While weary boughs decline, struggling through it all.
The intrepid monocot, shattering glass ceiling,
Vibrating with the moon's velocity, its power healing.
Whispering husk, morphed into a sheltering tree,
Yielded fruits adorned in a mosaic spree.
Lesson learned — feet firm, head strong,
Winds may differ, but our bond lives on.
Dark clouds loom beyond battered mountains,
cracking sounds seep through broken walls
and murmuring voices echo near and far.
We did not know where to begin,
but I had a strong feeling that we would win.
We leaped through block doors,
trampling on broken glasses,
tearing down make shift barricades,
busting wires fences,
bulldozing fortified doors,
and chiseling sealed up walls.
Our stricken faces dented with anguish,
broken voices crackle with fear,
spilling unbridled emotions in the atmosphere.
Smoldering petrol engulfed the air
charring corruption,
cleansing hearts,
purifying souls,
while tears of joy flow without control.
We journey through dark tunnels,
broken bridges and rocky mountains,
cutting and clearing the bushy path,
until we finally made the mark.
One chance, one dip
we broke the glass ceiling with a mystical pick.
©2013 Christine Phillips
Abortion
A pregnant woman can do as she likes, yes, I too believe
In a woman`s right; but a pregnant woman has the responsibility
of a new life growing inside her and it is paramount that
the beginning of life has the right to be born.
It is often single, uneducated women who get into the predicament
instead of making her into a killer, we should help to give her
economic help so she and her child can live with dignity.
Women who are busy breaking the glass ceiling when finding
themselves pregnant have an abortion as a matter of course, and
in the name of success commit murder.
I`m also against adoption it is a capitalist invention, take from the poor
and give it to the rich, and it is of no help, as the birth mother will regret it
and the child when an adult will ask, why did my mother give me away?