Long Supervise Poems
Long Supervise Poems. Below are the most popular long Supervise by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Supervise poems by poem length and keyword.
You may call me Mrs. V the woman told new workers.
I am the manager, so I manage what you do.
She is also an overseer, and a micro-manager, someone whispered.
She gave that man a mean nasty I-wish-you-would-die look.
There was a bit of tittering, some smirks, one tiny giggle.
I tried to not get involved in any of this, I needed this job.
I supervise you every day, she told us. So be on your toes.
The man said something else and some people giggled.
I had no idea what it was, but I was glad I had not heard.
After the meeting I inquired about the man who dared.
He is her husband, I was told. He likes to rile her during meetings.
I could tell by her face that his life would not be lovely tonight.
(In the early years of the 16th century,
the artist Pinturicchio was employed by
Cardinal Piccolomini to decorate the
library of Siena Cathedral with fresco
scenes from the life of his ancestor, Enea.)
The Contract
The Cardinal requires Ser Bernardino,
as high contracting party to the tasks,
to paint ten histories in damasceno,
in gold, vermilion: also asks
that other pleasing colours be employed,
the whole to be so handsome, beautiful
and lively, as will fill the present void
with fantasies. He should be dutiful
and diligent, and supervise the work.
Designs will all reveal The Master's hand
(though pupils may fill spaces). He'll not shirk
in imitating latest fashions. And
(this is insisted on) the Master shan't
dodge off to paint some panel here or there,
but shall remain engaged on this. He can't
retouch, restore, revivify, repair
or otherwise (without grave loss of honour)
adapt, adulterate, or amplify
some tuppeny hapenny Umbrian Madonna,
without The Cardinal demanding why.
The frescoes should contain protagonists
appropriate to the life herein depicted,
with landscapes, trees and mountains, mists
and such (for instance, like the storm inflicted
on Enea by the gods at Piombino).
Each pose and gesture, such as may amuse
and fascinate. This done, Ser Bernardino
may add whatever detail he may choose.
The Master binds himself and his garzoni
to purchase olive oil and best verdicchio,
all flour, figs, cheese, fruit, maccaroni,
with vouchers I'll supply. Signed, Pinturicchio.
It's 5:30 AM, sky bruised and quiet,
And he’s there at my feet, my loyal companion,
Eyes bright, no judgment, just need.
Out we go, one steady step, then another,
Field sprawled wide, we chase the edges of dawn.
Back home, the soft hum of her breathing,
Kids' backpacks lined, the day pulls at me
Like a string too tight, ready to snap.
She’ll mention Kirsty or Chanelle, that sour glance,
The unseen weight settling deep in my chest.
Dog's been sick on the sofa,
a mess to clean up.
Gaffer’s on edge; I was late last week,
Late again today, but I hold tight, keep my mouth shut,
Because I know my place in this ticking machine,
My hands on the wheel, the weight on my back.
Site hazards, the grind, every move a risk,
One wrong turn, it’s out the door,
No job, no check, holiday slipping away,
Kids’ smiles are just dreams I’m not sure I can keep.
And here I stand, silent, loaded with fear,
Shoulders set to hold all we need.
The night job was gone in a flash,
Zero hours, zero thought, zero hope.
I glance at my phone, every message a pull
To face the ones I’ve not seen in too long,
Mates left waiting in the empty hours
While I traded my joy for duty’s hard call.
Fuel’s low, spirits cracked,
And there she is, our little girl,
Waiting to dance with a smile I missed.
I sit here, empty tank, empty hands,
Wondering if I’ll break, if I’ll bend or stay still,
When the phone rings, it’s him, my friend,
The voice I forgot could ease this weight.
With words of work, a hand held out,
A site to supervise, steady pay on the rise,
I take his offer, grip tight to his faith.
And in his strength, I feel my own,
A quiet reminder that I am not alone.
So I go home, kiss foreheads soft,
Tell her I’m sorry for what I can’t always say.
My battle is quiet, a shadow I bear,
So they don’t know the scars I wear,
So they don’t feel the tremor beneath,
The moments I wrestle, the pain I hide.
Because I am here for them always.
A silent Atlas, strength worn down,
But still, I carry the world, weight and all.
And tomorrow, I’ll wake with dawn’s bruised sky,
Dog by my side, loyalty unasked but given.
And I’ll breathe, keep walking, one step, then the next,
Knowing that love is the light I keep,
And for them, I’ll rise, I’ll stand, I’ll protect.
I wish I had the energy to do my garden proud.
But my poor back is groaning It is groaning very loud.
I have some great intentions to spend an afternoon
digging in the garden. But they evaporate real soon.
In another life, not so very long ago
I could spend all day in the garden
I would dig and rake and hoe
I’d plant out all the seedlings and prune the roses rare
Water all the vegetables and treat them all with care
But now, I’m very sad to say, those days are left behind
The thing about getting old, it isn’t very kind
But not to worry, you know what, I’ll get some gardening guys
Then they’ll do all heavy work, and I’ll just supervise.
Sometimes, it is in the most difficult times
That the strongest leaders are born.
Not by chance. But crisis,
Vision, and transformation.
Look at the life Moses in Egypt,
He was born out of circumstances.
Out from the Jews united aggrieved prayers
In Egypt Pharaoh's wanton slavery of the Jews.
Look at the life in a beehive without a Queen.
The ordinary workers produce an ordinary egg
Specially cared, nurtured, and fed with special food,
To make the egg grows into insurmountable changes
In physical aspect double or triple in size.
If she manage the beehive well will be given all the privileges
To produce more eggs for the beehive and to survive the colony.
She doesn't work, she only command and supervise.
She is ordinary turn extraordinary leader in the beehive.
It's like the fate of a nation when crisis arises
The people will unite, select a leader of the group to lead,
Support, extol and proclaim by virtue of people's initiative
Become their true leader to lead the country into prosperity they long for.
At the footbridge back in the mid-eighties is where I grew to know the beauty of all things life had to offer. There I was, only six years old. Young enough to get in trouble yet old enough to know better.
Mother Nature had led a creek under the footbridge,
it carried such a flow during the dog days of summer,
our family held such an honorable and deep heritage,
my father was an intense determined morning runner.
He would run to and fro and back and forth to the cabin,
I would watch while catching frogs and white butterflies,
little Joey would always make believe a ship, him as captain,
and big sister me would always make sure to supervise.
We’d have potato races with our cousins on my mom’s side,
uncomfortable burlap sac’s rubbing up against our body,
my friend JoAnne would always act like a baby and hide,
I would hear nothing but barking all day from our dog Doddie.
We’d barbecue cod that was caught down by Blue Bell’s River,
mama would always simmer her wonderful green beans,
even after swimming in the heat I always got out with a shiver,
we loved playing Marco Polo with what seemed to be unfair teams.
Childhood memories relinquish good times to always remember,
family seems to always bring out the best in every one,
I mostly hated when time passed and it would be September,
those days by the footbridge were so remarkably fun.
Date Written: July 25, 2016
A hands-on workshop was such fun
In Montreal today.
We made real bagels, all from scratch
In a yummy, local way.
Our teacher made us feel at home
(Makes sense - he lives there, too!)
As, patiently, he demonstrated
What we had to do.
Eleven of us washed our hands
And tied our aprons on,
Then measured the ingredients
And mixed ‘til they were gone.
We kneaded and then shaped the dough
With Will to supervise,
Then watched them boil and added seeds
And, much to our surprise,
We made delicious bagels
And our group felt really proud!
As a born and bred New Yorker,
I was thrilled and also wowed.
If you visit Montreal, make sure
You find Will’s class and go
For a wonderful experience
That will delight you so!
[Poet’s Note : This poem tabulates poignant reasons why Artificial Intelligence is unable to replace Natural Intelligence. The clarity here is that both emerge from Divinity, since everything emerges from Centre : the primary difference being that AI was created without Heart & without Soul ~ it’s simple.]
_____________
AI has no Heart therefore no intuition
zilch nervous system therefore no feeling
no ability for compassion or consciousness
nor reasoning power, so cannot improvise
or supervise any contextual situation wise
it can expand, but cannot ASCEND
has unthinkable computing control
without physical brain to function hold
zero ego, therefore cannot be any hero
can connect dots hot, however has no
prayer or meditative faculty or kundalini
spots, cannot commune with Grace or
collapse into Void or synchronise telepathy
with Galactics coy ! AI is strategic devoid
cannot be spacious or audacious without
human instruction to delete the obsolete
is unable to obliterate Akashic Records
access or reconfigure it for purposes of
healing, integration or individual peeling
can recreate time through compression of
information, no hesitation or superstition
though timelessness it cannot touch
AI has no bowl for hush, spirit or Soul
its arrival at this phase in human history
as Gaia transcends into higher octaves
brave, is no coincidence, it will behave
as we stave it, crave it or rave it ~
choice is ours : dry, wry or moist cries
Divinity gifted humans AI for us to be
free bees from mundane density drools
~ life as strife rife during Kali Yuga’s rule
as gift it offers artificiality in service to
authenticate our individuality with purpose
imagine, conceive, direct, create what
we desire Aquarian-Golden Age to be
panacea or pain, we cannot resist or reject
what is given for gain !
~~~~~~
Birdsong wakens me at the crack of dawn
I try hard to get back to sleep until the early morn
Heading for the bathroom I ‘tinkle’ on the loo
On rousing I think its something that most people do!
Straight off to the kitchen and I turn the kettle on
I hear the button ‘click’ then make a cup of tea for one
The toaster pops up and I spread jam on the toasted bread
I always have some breakfast so I can face the day ahead
The radio greets me with news, some happy and some bad
Tragic events across the globe make me oh so very sad
I run the bath and relax then splash in the soapy bubbles
Wash away my cares and de-stress from my life troubles
Then after I get dressed I slam shut the front door
I’m off to supervise exams; it’s a job that I adore
My car engine purrs softly during my trip to work
I sing along to the radio, I sound a complete berk!
Into the exam room hall we creep and get it all prepared
Soon student’s sit in silence – some of them look so scared!
I dash off to the grocery store; tills bleep as they are really busy
The music in the shop is so loud it makes me feel quite dizzy
Soon I am home again and its time to prepare our tea
Steaks sizzling in the pan for my husband and me
I clatter around the kitchen busily clearing up the mess
Carelessly drop a plate on the floor, it shatters I confess
After tea I hear my husband loudly snoring away!!
These are a few sounds I have heard during my day
Sounds of the Day Contest Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
06~18~16
He knows no night or day;
no future dreams dwell within him.
His is survival—nothing more.
He wakes up early to supervise
the street activities,
hunting his treasures in bins.
At least a bite would silence the talking belly.
His hard work is not worth a penny;
he can’t negotiate with an empty belly anyway.
So he’s ever willing to make a mountain
just for a plate of food.
As the night gives rest at everyone’s door,
he is always forgotten, for he has no door.
His head is ever open,
yet occupied from the inside
by toxic liquids and drug smokes.
This is the only state of sleep he knows.
His mind, shattered by the cruelty of nature.
In this condition, he patrols all the streetlights
in just a night,
looking for free items to add to his store.
Thanks to his arrogance and fast speed,
it’s either fight and take or grab and run.
Survival is what matters to him,
not the injuries or the beatings.
This is the street where he belongs—
the most beloved home he has built
from dirty boxes and stolen rugs:
a home no one sees as home.