Long Underappreciated Poems
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She smoked
She smoked,
my mother did, a LOT!
I never liked it.
To me she looked like
of those “molls” in
detective magazines,
later on television,
cigarette dangling
from the corner
of her mouth
acrid smoke
curling up (she didn’t inhale)
choking the air
as she played cards
or worked
at her desk.
To be sure,
there were “issues”
between husband and wife.
Mid-Great Depression
Dad out of work
or out of town for work
alone with
kids to manage
clothe and feed
with what?
So she smoked.
Small family Jewish
grocer let bills run up.
Smoking a comfort?
Housedresses, nothing new,
shoes needed for kids.
Teeth bad, pull them.
Children need dental care.
Sharp tongue cutting
no whining
“Just get on with it”.
Hurt, not understanding
we sulked. She smoked
Smoking and smoking
taking in relatives
with lost jobs, lost homes,
sick or in need, managing somehow
depressed (never admit it)
feeling put down,
frustrated, underrated
and underappreciated
never accomplished anything
worthwhile with her
college degree.
But, in her own way,
a saint in a housedress
Smoking away the grief.
Tired of being nice
Tired of being taken for granted
They say do something good
Forgotten and unappreciated
Do something bad
They almost got it printed
What's good in doing good when it doesn't seem right
It's not about self-gain and whatnot
Just saying that one bad thing done, makes the million good things done wasted
So tell me, what's good in being that good
Talents, Intelligence, they all come with a great price
People support when you are beneficial
They congratulate, celebrate - not a single dot and shadow were there in tribulations
Its not about playing nice to please them
Sometimes we are just too much tired
To feel used, underappreciated, and taken for granted
Let alone be the bad guy when you make mistakes
Sometimes please consider that we are not AI's and generated machines
For once and all
We're human beings
Nov. 7, 2022
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
No we may never have fought in a great war,
or saved a soul from the snapping jaws of death.
People wave to us, but few know who we are
and most on a good days run could care less.
Like the organ grinder's monkey from days of old,
we have been repeatedly trained to do a task.
We do a job few would even consider doing
and most would not even attempt to try.
A job burdened with ever growing responsibility
due to the minutia of a ever expanding bureaucracy.
A grossly undervalued, underappreciated profession
designated part-time by thoughtless administrations
that mouth how important we all are once a year
only to persecute us for every trifling thing later.
If you are lucky enough to survive a number of years
without resigning or becoming a sacrificial lamb
on the altar of a fearful self serving public face,
you will get a tiny pension for your devoted service.
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
The tolerant souls that routinely put up with
a few rude demanding manipulative parents
and their insolent misbehaving little darlings
just to be able to serve the greater majority
of decent well meaning thoughtful parents
and the precious treasures of tomorrow
they have temporarily entrusted to us.
Like a hamster running on a little wheel,
we go around in circles every single day,
but unlike the hamster we must summon
every instinct and learned skill to insure
every turn we make is executed flawlessly.
We are kept aloft on our spinning wheel
by the deliberate hands of a caring heart
and the many small souls seated behind us
that come to trust us not to make a mistake.
We are the one person in their little lives
that are not allowed to ever let them down
for neither of us may be able to live with it.
We are their school bus drivers...
Some were born to be show horses.
Pampered and fussed over to the extreme.
Accolades outperforming accomplishment
Living for tin-can applause.
Some are born thoroughbreds.
living for glory and the golden oats
blinders ablaze- racing through life
oblivious to the rattle of time...
Then there's the humble plow horse.
Overworked, underfed, underappreciated
Swaybacked from society's harsh gaze
smoothing the way for both sashay and racer
forever looked down upon-never any applause
bending over for the ones
that will eventually eat them....
The plow horse will bury the stillborn in the fields
and crows will give it a name-
The light to my life is flickering;
It shone bright for many years.
The fog around me is thickening,
But, please, spare me the tears.
I am fortunate to outlive the fears,
As long as I can lie here next to you
I’ll remember our fondest years -
As I bid you a final adieu.
The curtain falls on my final scene;
Confined to bed these last two years.
Giving plenty of time to reflect on things,
Realizing I have “Thank you’s” left in arrears.
I hope I haven’t underappreciated you, Dear;
I hope deep inside that you always knew
That I respected and loved having you so near -
As I bid you a final adieu.
I believe this is my last evening,
As I go to join my long passed peers.
I hope to be fitted with angel wings
And look down on you from way up there.
And late at night in dreams I’ll appear
To help chase away your blues.
I’ll do my best to keep your skies clear -
As I bid you a final adieu.
So, a little longer hold back the tears,
Until my last breath has finally passed through;
Hold my hand so I know you’re near -
As I bid you a final adieu.
Warmth, surrounded me…always
My lips, my eyes, closed…
Mesmerized by the darkness that brought me consolation
I remember there were colors under those lids,
Green, spurts of purple…and sporadic yellows and reds
They danced and flashed
Whenever your voice rumbled and vibrated my abode
I remember the earthquakes of laughter
That pushed me against the soft, supported side…
I merely bounced back to the middle again
My legs, bending, and then kicking off against it
My body twirling in the lavish liquid
Natural twists and turns that were later underappreciated
Twists and turns that were who I was
I didn’t realize they would always shape who I am
Deep voice—music—surrounded me always
My ears opened to the muffled marvel
Curious of the outside world that birthed the mysteries of who I am
I recall frustration, kicking against your soft insides….
Colors of black, gray tints, and calming browns…
That left me gurgling for more of those outside sounds
Because that first day I heard the lightning yells
The hot swells of your insides boiled
My body twirled and twirled as I heard you wail
Crying…sobbing…
My heart beat faster—wanting more to leave this vessel
Wanting to be a separate thing
Wanting all to hear me scream
To feel the cold, rubbery hands of a stranger
Lift me—and to your breast—gift me
It was always the warmth of the liquid
And the comfort of our bond
That always remained
Bonds and beliefs never dry
Blood is blood
Color is color
It is living to be separate that makes us gods
They don’t talk about how loud
a single mother’s mind is at night.
It’s never quiet.
It’s questions.
Did I do enough today?
Did I yell too much?
Did I listen enough?
Did I miss something that will show up years from now in therapy?
We clock in.
We clock out.
We keep the house standing,
the fridge full,
the kids fed, bathed, dressed, breathing.
We carry calendars in our heads
and guilt in our chests.
Somewhere between survival and responsibility,
we forget ourselves.
We forget to eat.
We forget to drink water.
We’re so tired that even the idea of a shower feels like work.
And when we finally steal five minutes to breathe
five minutes to remember we are human
there are knocks on the door.
Little hands.
Little cries.
“Mama?”
So we put ourselves back on the shelf.
Again.
They say you can’t pour from an empty cup,
but they don’t talk about how mothers learn
to bleed instead.
We show up sick.
We show up exhausted.
We show up after 6, 8, 10 hours on our feet
just to come home and work some more.
Unpaid.
Unpraised.
Unseen.
This is for the mothers who do it all
with shaking hands
and full hearts.
For the ones running on fumes
and still choosing love.
You are not failing because you’re tired.
You are tired because you never stop.
And even when no one says thank you
your children feel it.
Your love is loud.
Your sacrifice is holy.
You are doing more than enough.
We all love the magic of stories. They've been with us since the dawn of time.
This poem is written in support of those writers who are trying to make a living in a world paradigm of power, greed and obfuscation.
Writing makes a valuable contribution to society and should not be devalued or underappreciated.
Best wishes to all those from the Writers Guild of America. No one should need to strike to achieve acknowledgement and fairness. May the pen remain mightier than the sword.
Writers create magic with words
By Michelle Morris
03/05/2023
Writers create magic with words
They are the backbone of
Movies and shows
Seen around the world
They spin and weave
Tapestries of delight
Of intrigue and humour
Drama, love and fright
And yet they're so often underpaid
Overworked and taken for granted
While those in power take
The lion's share of money and time
Writers who win awards
Are perceived to be successful
But it's all an illusion created
To hide the truth of their situations
We need a paradigm shift
To create equity and freedom
Shining a spotlight on the blessing
Of our writers' soul inspired contributions
© Michelle Morris, 2023
Aequus = Latin for equal is the etymology for equity.
Paradigm traces to a Greek verb meaning "to show," and has been used in English to mean "example" or "pattern" since the 15th century.
Cloaked in grinding whispers
Such inhabitants feel
Their way
Gallop the day
By thrusting, trusting
Emblazoned minds
Envious looks deflected
As the clan stays on task
The full-time preoccupation
And execution of self-expression
Daring risks trickling
The vacant gutters
Thirsty for adrenalin
And a satisfying gulp
Of shattered dreams
Fashionable product
Underserved and underappreciated
By the sanctimonious angels
Slinging hash in pits
Adjacent to the realm of man
Does thou hast remedies
For secrets and manipulations
Self-inflicted
The favored play of
Tenderlicious vassals
Who clamor for more
Than anyone truly deserves
The proven chorus
Decorated in colors
Beyond their years
Hum a distant buzz
Galvanized harmony
Textured strokes o' plenty
Count the measure seventy
Plus whatever is needed
No budget heeded
Because symphonies
Laced with street sugar
And turnstiles revolving by
The peeks and cheats
Sing the bling
And never stray too far
Given no better place
To go.
(8/7/06)