Long On the dole Poems
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The light is low but the music loud,
blaring from fiddles and steel guitars.
The bar is filled with a moderate crowd,
could be anywhere, but here they are,
drinking and two-stepping in this bar.
But the sight of them must inspire fear,
for the media says,’Only racists drink here.’
Stanley in boots is twirling his wife.
Conner, in trucker hat, does some shots.
A country band covers Make It Through the Night,
While Big Billy won’t move from his spot,
Sharing wings those who sadly have got,
A taste for plain and everyday beer,
a sure sign the only racists drink here.
Now Stanley you see is dark as coal,
and not from working in the mines,
His wife is pale, and lives not on the dole.
For thirty years by each other’s side,
taking the challenges of life in stride.
But the sight of this makes it ever clear,
they must be racists if they’re drinking here.
Conner’s a man who has never hurt
a single person in all of his days,
He runs the gas station down on of McGirk,
and keeps people going their way,
He puts in long hours for his pay.
But selling gas draws apocalypse near,
and only a racist would be drinking here.
Big Billy may not always eat healthy,
but his smile sure lights up the town,
The nicest of fellows, plays Santa for free,
in December when Christmas comes round,
for all the little kids in the town.
But to city folk, that’s plainly weird,
and he must be a racist for drinking here.
The band up front survives on covers
ff musicians who’ve been to the Opry,
They’re known across West Virginia,
for tunes both swinging and twangy,
they never leave the folks hanging.
But there is no turn-table in their gear,
so they must be racists for playing here.
The owner has heard this all before,
the endless and smug contentions,
from those who country-folk plainly abhor,
those who say he’s beyond redemption,
With not a whit of evidence to mention.
He lets them have their imagined fears,
he’d never want those scum drinking here.
We heard her before we saw her not because she was loud but because she was close,
she anchored herself making her presence felt; we paid the cashier and were about to leave
with our easy day shopping. She asks the man behind the counter if there was a vacancy at
this convenience supermarket (how modest are these retailers compared with their uber
shop assistants) that elsewhere 'let her and others go', as though a treat like a parent
telling a teen, 'OK you can go to the gig'. We turned. We knew her. She was short in
stature but long in confidence. The counter man boss countered in politely, pleasantly, that
he would if he could, when we intervened saying that we would recommend her
employment - thinking that as customers, as shareholders - that employers give a toss!
Ah the necklace! That's the difference, a sign of confidence, of individuality too; or what the
hell until I'm employed again, 'I'm free!' of the clock, under the bosses under pressure,
mates who are not so matey after all, of the tedium of the job classified by the uber
class 'unskilled'. Have you ever come across a job without any skill?!
The necklace, a symbol of her and ours encirclement by the cash nexus by whichever
system of obtaining our daily bread in today's world the least worst that has been devised-
yet - so fulfilling in so many ways: going home well satisfied with bringing the goodies
home to our families, to be well satisfied with the day's work or to moan because it has
been a damned dog day like yesterday as tomorrow will be, but keeping poverty at bay.
In these isles never have so many been in work (even if in a part -time, poorly paid, non
unionised world should shock Walesa) but to anyone on the Dole willing and able to work,
unemployment is a 100%.
May her necklace beads bode well for work for this hard working woman!
May her necklace beads bode well for this hard working woman moan
There was a guy who was a real loser
Only because he was quite a boozer.
He'd drink and drink and drink all day
Then he'd drink the night away.
He could not keep a job because of his habit
Always blaming something else, as he drank about it.
He would talk at the bar as he was a real gab
Couldn't pay for his drinks, so they kept a tab.
After losing a job for the fourth or fifth time
He almost went into a life of crime.
He didn't know how to get out of this hole
And always seemed to be on the dole.
One night on his way to another bar
He heard some singing from a church not far.
The music enticed him for a look see
Imagine his surprise at inside there who'd be.
It was a young girl, maybe nine or ten
He hadn't seen her since he could remember when.
Her angelic face was one of the keys
With her sweet voice...brought him to his knees.
He knew at once he was being shamed
By a power so great, now only he himself could be blamed.
For there was the Lord asking him, "Why,
Did his little girl come to the church and cry?"
The quiet words that a child implored
Heard up in heaven, by the Almighty Lord.
It was that moment when grace grasped him
Shook him awake, to recognize his sin.
After that night he cleaned up his act
For with the Lord he had made a pact.
From now on, sober would he be
And his daughter again, her father would see.
For the Lord had heard the prayers of this little child
Turned to her father, making him timid and mild.
Many years went by as then these two
Once again, into a family grew.
He found a job that he worked for the next twenty years
Thanking God each night, as he fought back the tears.
So, if there is something that you need in your life
Put it in the hands of the Almighty, Who alone can calm your strife.
There are many birds that gather
In my yard all through the year.
However, there is one I favor.
I wait for her to reappear.
You'll not find her at the feeder,
Like the others on the dole.
I think her mama taught her
Self sufficiency is the goal.
She and her faithful hubby
(Oh how that guy is trained)
Have come back to their love nest,
On my porch where it remained.
She showed him how to mend it
And he worked hard at his task.
Aything at all she wanted,
All she need to do was ask.
Their nest abuts the ceiling,
I bump my head before I see
If the little ones have hatched yet,
But if not they soon will be.
Once here, their mouths will open
And will never close again
Until they're big as their own parents,
But they're never offered grain.
No, it's bugs and bugs and more bugs.
They keep Mom and Daddy hopping.
She tells him they have mouths to feed.
There is no time for stopping.
While he is gathering the food,
She's shoving it into them
And passes him when he returns
From committing insect mayhem.
Now Daddy gets the job of feeding
While Mama's on the hunt.
In this nest of well fed children
You will never find a runt.
She grabs all of the mosquitos
That her little beak can hold.
Her mate is going out for more,
She doesn't have to scold.
You will not find better parents,
Human ones or otherwise,
Than these precious little swallows,
With a love that's supersize.
You would think they would be happy
When these youngsters leave the nest,
But they start another family
Busy swallows never rest.
Any villainous mosquito
Won't have a chance to do me harm
While these persisting swallows
Have a nest on my old farm
By: Joyce Johnson 6/17/03
There are many birds that gather
in my yard throughout the year,
however there is one that I favor.
You'll not find her at the feeder
like the others on the dole.
I think her mama taught her
the value of self-sufficiency.
She and her faithful hubby
(Oh how that guy is trained)
have come back to their love nest
on my front porch, knowing they
are welcome.
She taught him how to fix it up
and he worked hard at the job
so it looks like new.
Anything at all she wanted,
he was more than willing to tackle.
Their nest abuts the ceiling, so
I bump my head before I can see
if the shells have broken and the little
ones have put in an appearance.
Once here, their mouths will open
and will never close again
until they are as big as their parents.
Its gnats and gnats and more gnats
that keep their parents slaving.
She tells him they have mouths to feed,
and there is not time for stopping.
While he is gathering their food,
she is shoveling it into their wide open beaks
and then passes him when he returns.
The feeding job is his to continue.
Mama is now on the hunt. They are both
proud of their well fed offspring.
She grabs all of the mosquitos that
her little beak can hold and now
her faithful mate is going out for more.
You will not find better parents,
human or other wise,
than these precious little swallows.
You would think they would be happy
when their youngsters leave their nest,
but they turn around and start another family.
Any villainous mosquito,won't have a chance
to do me harm,with these vigilantes on the job.
I will miss them when they leave this fall
but they will be back again in March or April
of the coming spring.
An ol’ cowboy once told me,
“Son, keep yor’ Saddle straight—
cinched up tight ‘n squared away,
an’ don’t depend on fate.
For if yor’ a straight shooter,
yor’ life will be real tame.
A handshake will be good ‘nough
ta trust yor’ family name.”
Now, I went along believin’
the whole world thought like that,
but fifty years have come ‘n gone
with politicians gettin’ fat!
They get upon that barren stump,
an’ swear to make things right,
but what I know ‘bout them folks,
makes me lose sleep at night.
Empty promises an’ shoutin’
‘bout things they’re gonna CHANGE—
folks aren’t really thinkin’
how their life—they’ll rearrange.
It’s all about the poor folks,
minorities ‘n such—
money from the rich guy,
an’ taxes that ain’t much.
But when I get ta figurin’
what will happen later on,
like when factories an’ plants close,
an’ rich guys are all gone—
Who’s gonna pay the wages
to feed my kids and ma?
I ain’t forgot DEPRESSION times,
an’ anguish that I saw.
An’ derned if I can figure out
why some folks are on the DOLE—
Could it be a case a LAZY,
an’ a life without no goal?
If no one in DC’s lyin’,
an’ the old ways never was,
I guess I’d give ‘em latitude
in their promises an’ buzz.
But I been ‘round just long enough
to know what’s right ‘n wrong—
an’ I ain’t taken in so much,
nor followin’ the throng.
There’s one more thing I gotta say
‘bout EVIL in this world,
“Ya don’t kill a grizzly with sweet talk,
an’ screamin’ like a girl.”
Men fought an’ died to keep us safe,
an’ let our FREEDOM ring—
that there’s the tune I’m followin’—
the anthem that I'll sing!
Tamara Hillman
©2008
Presidents Washington and Lincoln met often in that Land of Eternal Bliss,
To commiserate, communicate and about the misty past to reminisce.
"What in hell (er, excuse me, Lord!) is happening, Abe, to our beloved nation?"
"Well, George, I see both good and bad but I see little cause for celebration!"
George: "I see they named the national capitol on the Potomac after me,
But they've desecrated it with greed and graft that I could not foresee.
Each President after us promised the people there'd be hopeful change,
But I fear the lack of leadership, that has left citizens in some estrange!"
Abe: "I see that Arlington Cemetery is filled with patriots who died for liberty.
I strived to restore brotherhood to a broken nation but little of that I see.
I grieve at the lack of patriotism. Even Old Glory by some has been defaced.
It seems that the God we looked to for guidance has also been displaced!"
George: "I see the work ethic waning and everyone wants to be on the dole.
Congress is casting money at useless schemes putting all in a deeper hole!"
Abe: "Yes, and those once pristine lakes and streams are polluted with disease,
And something called smog smothers cities and forests are stripped of trees!"
George: "When I see how future generations are raised I want to shudder!"
Abe: "Alas, all of this reminds me of a ship adrift without a steering rudder!"
George: "Well, I don't suppose it does any good for us to sit around and whine."
Abe: "I agree! Let's amble over to happy hour for some great communion wine!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Recently I spoke to a young man.
Let’s say his name was John.
He told me all about his life,
And the things that he had done.
Coming from a broken home
and abused by someone close
he said he fell behind in reading and sums
receiving lower grades than most.
He left school aged just sixteen
Joined the army, felt there was nothing else.
He was taught how to march, to obey,
and how to kill. In self defence
He was told when to sleep.
When to wake, when to eat.
He was feeling content,
felt his life was complete.
He then was sent to the Afgan war,
returned with anxiety and stress.
The army he loved he had to leave,
His nerves were in a mess.
He moved into a bedsitter flat,
with the remains of his army pay.
Soon fell behind with the rent,
Was told ‘Get out right-away!’
Not knowing where to go,
he walked the streets by day.
At night sleeping on cardboard.
In a secluded shop doorway.
Passer-by’s ignored his begging pleas,
muttering ‘He is on the dole,
will spend money on drink and drugs.’
His medal proudly worn, some said he stole.
Then one night someone did stop,
helped him to his feet.
Took him to a sheltered home,
gave him something to eat.
He was taught how to read,
enrolled on an IT course.
He was shown where to seek help,
and said he was able to find some work.
Now he is a leader at the home,
helps others change their lives.
For those like he once was,
I asked if he had advice.
He said, ‘My friend, believe in yourself,
never have self doubt,
say to yourself each and every day,
I may be down, but not out.’
An horrific situation happened in a country town.
The districts big employer has closed their factory down.
Twenty men had lost their job; the town had lost its soul.
Not one man was happy about going on the dole.
An application by the council for a grant would surely fit.
Other groups provided funds and the Church threw in a bit
toward a project on the books, where men would have to lodge a week,
clearing scrub for a new dam that will block the Black Snake Creek.
Dougie Ronaldson was widely known as someone who could cook.
These men trusted Dougie’s wares - they won’t eat food that’s crook.
While the gang was clearing scrub, Doug cooked, and too chilled the grog,
while sitting right beside Doug was his faithful heeler dog.
Wednesday I think it was, when a fine upstanding gent.
The local Priest had travelled out to see his Church’s money spent.
He was talking to the toilers who sweated on the Black Snake flat,
then returned to talk to Dougie and he gave his dog a pat.
“The kettles boiling Father; would you like a cup of tea?”
All the other blokes were drifting in - it was dinnertime you see.
They grabbed their mugs and lunches, after they had washed and toweled.
When Father went to take a drink, the dog bared its teeth and growled.
“I don’t think your dog cares much for me” Father’s watching nervously.
“Do you think Doug you could tie him up, I don’t want him biting me”.
“Don’t worry too much ‘bout him Father” said a disconcerting Doug,
“He’s just a little ‘cranky’ - ‘cause you’re drinking from his mug”.
There once was a man with a head
Like a pumpkin it was, and called Fred
How they laughed in the Spring
At the pumpkin head thing
Oh the sting of rejection, he said
In summer the sun burned a hole
Through his head like a rat or a mole
And no-one ate soup
Made of pumpkin and gloop
So he spent all his days on the dole
By winter he'd started to rot
Far too rank to be put in the pot
Once his head had caved in
He'd be put in the bin
That was whether he liked it or not
But in autumn, around Hallowe'en
All the girls became suddenly keen
And would fight for the right
To have Fred for the night
And display him where he could be seen
He's so big, and he's so very round!
They said as they bought him and wound
Their arms round his girth
(Both for weighing his worth
And for keeping him way off the ground)
His head swelled with masculine pride
And become almost seven foot wide
Which was almost too large
To transport in a barge
Or to fit in a car for a ride
The knife it did tickle a bit
When it went in to slice the first slit
And the spoon bit was tense
For his brains were quite dense
And his lid was quite tricky to fit
But oh, the magnificent sight
With the candle inside and the light!
It's the twinkle they said
In his eyes! Oh how Fred
Did enjoy a good Hallowe'en night!
Pumpkin Fred wasn’t pretty for sure
But on one night a year he would score
The odd treat or trick
That would tickle his wick
As he flickered and winked by the door
© Gail Foster 26th October 2023