Long Unemployed Poems
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Three trains
The first train was bereavement, in the cab the driver died
pulling a coach of grieving souls, unknowing yet, inside
The second train was unemployed and heading where it will
no scheduled destination and so many miles to kill
Third train was steaming in real fast, relationship express
out of control, the brakes applied but flat out, nonetheless.
Where the tracks all crossed was a signal box, manned by a crew of one
who bumbled by from day to day not knowing what was wrong.
But up there in the box he heard, and from all sides could see
the trains approach their final stop, and that last stop was me.
Bereavement got there first and there was nothing I could do
no lights nor signals made a difference, it just ploughed on through
as unemployed converged at speed and rolled on to it's side
the pair of them went in nose first as relationship arrived
the signal box was crushed beneath, it didn't stand a chance
buried in the twisted wreck of flaming circumstance.
Shock finally subsided and the smoke began to clear
just left with total darkness and no way from out of here
all the wreckage pressing down meant nowhere else to go
just curl up in a tiny ball, try not to move, get low.
So there I stayed as unbeknown their night turned into day
the sounds of all around me going on their merry way.
Many days entombed were spent, not praying for release
comfortable in misery, my loneliness my peace
until the silence broken by a piercing warning shout,
'No rescue's due, it's up to you to dig your passage out'.
From where the voice had come from I could neither hear nor see
until the realisation that the sound had come from me
skin tearing on the razor steel I slowly fought my way
and finally emerged, bathed gratefully in the light of a new day.
No fanfare, and no wild applause, no ticker tape parade
life went on, oblivious to the escape that I had made.
Since then I've built another box around me, much much stronger
and hope the time till the next train will be, Lord, much much longer.
For contest 'Get low', sponsored by Casarah Nance
In memory of that dreadful year 2002.
shoes untied,
hair uncombed,
just a run away,
no way to belong;
walking the streets so all alone
tattered clothes, ransack home;
eating out of the trash cans day N night
no way to belong
Homeless
has a cold twenty-four with a runny nose
this is his father unemployed
mothers on the corner everyone disowns her
been a parent since she was 12 ???
no place to go
no one goes by her
right she's 25 !!!
He poses sitting on old card board boxes
while the alcohol mom trips and falls off of porches, door she's been knocking on
watching the people go by in buses
Hope less
He's homeless, but He's Got JESUS
She's homeless, but She's Got the Lord
He's homeless, but They Got JESUS
Although they're a mess, they our blessed
Cause they have GOD
Not fit to live but fit to give;
You go by him and ya hearing him talking to him self;
murmuring passages sounding like scriptures to me;
while she's pan handling
you see
Their homeless, but She's Got JESUS
He's homeless, but He's Got, He's Got the Lord;
Although they're a mess, they our blessed
Cause thank God almighty
They have GOD
Oh why or why is he so happy
why or why, why is she so glad
just a thought of suicide, depression, would make the average person mad. . .
Why are they so happy
Why are they so glad
No family, none that would admit to be
NO job no wants to employ them
Not even a place to stay shelter's keeps him (them) hid
tattered clothes undeserved
tooth's N D K (decay) underserved
why is he(they) so happy why do He (they sing and shout (a loud)
Where does the joy come from
seems like they're the only ones;
They HAVE GOD
no longer
Homeless
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
from "Something to Sing Praises:(c)2007
July 03 2007
GOODLUCK
Gutless muffled monarch wooed millions to the poll,
Our feeble lord enforced by pathetic speech of poverty (I once had no shoes)
On congruent grounds of pain we forced him, though we hated his coterie.
Disappointed, we wail waiting surrogate to lead to unending journey of relief
Lackluster, jejune as pervading rot lingers
Unvaried captain rocks our boat, gagged around by plunderers.
Circles of death, twinge, pauperdom and miseries mocks the reign of naivety.
Kleptocrat adorn self in regalia, loved the honor. lacks duty
EBELE
Embezzlers of collective trust bequeathed in hope,
Bandits as conniving ministers besmirched our obtuse scamp
Egregious, craven, shrieked at the sound of war (I am not a lion)
Laggard lumper loon left fanatical murderers at our doorsteps
Encumbrances from his delinquent clan divide the love for mother land
DAME
Damp squib's duchess of indecent tongue, never feels a vestige of restraint
Academic 'double misnomer' with licence to libel,
Merriment and intrigue feigned as obligations,
Edgy. encumbrance though ceaselessness forms their amity.
PATIENCE
Punk pretending and purloining to private vaults
Adventurous nerve for futile globe trot
Twitchy at the affairs of state, though Unemployed by sensible Poll
Intoxicated by serendipity, shaming all with activity
Euphemistic drama Usurps Scrappy literacy on cultured observers
Crude verbiages to amuse myriad of eggheads (my Fellow widows)
Encomium of Yesterday's approval turned sour and Tsar inept mode prevails
Jokers jostled in enthusiasm to rule, (politicking for 2015)
Onslaught from 'Boko-Haram' drove sleep from wearied countrymen
Numbed as "hoipolloi" echoed NO to mistimed removal,
Alas, the fraud, rapscallion looted the poor to a blindfold
Tyrannic cloaked his garb in power busted on the streets with the troop
Higgledy-piggledy bugled the travesty of Democracy
Amidst the rubble of a crumbling amalgam
Nigerian Lords watched the drama secured among a troop we die helpless
clad in rags, he wanders on Wall Street
he is invisible to hustling stock brokers
he is a man with no money, no property
a hapless struggler of excessive loan burdens
bitter winter winds blow across Broadway
he is invisible to affluent theatre-goers wearing warm winter coats
he is a man who watches them scurry past the cardboard box that is his bed
like a rain-dog, huddling in the shadows of alleys and doorways
he hears deafening explosions of New Year fireworks
he is invisible to the revellers
he is a man who cowers, recalling gunfire of a war he fought
echoing through his mind in restless nights
the incessant thumping of traumatic stress
he is invisible...a victim of post-Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq
who once bore a uniform and served his country with pride
he is invisible suffering alone, paying the price
through severe disabilities and permanent scars
with sadness, he watches voters going to the polls
he is invisible, a veteran with no voice in elections
he is a man who cannot vote without an “address”
a placard on a pavement might catch the eye
unemployed, homeless, unseen
but most of all forgotten
he is a man who seems invisible
but he is still a man
-------------------------------------------------------------
This is co-written by Paul Callus & Carolyn Devonshire
in remembrance of our war veterans.
[Published @ Muse to Move (A.P.F. Publisher UK 2017]
It's not funny
To die for the liberty
For the freedom to speak
Freely without fears.
It is not beautiful
to suffer for the rights
To use simple or single words,
To write truthfully, to shed lights
On everything, which is distasteful.
Freedom of the Press
Must be fundamental,
It is the very foundation of true
Democracy, which is a form of wisdom.
A great Nation wants nothing less
Than constant criticism from the few.
Bring the projectors, the martyrs,
The cameras, the writers,
The headlines, the headlights
Of the intelligentsia, to educate the mass,
The unemployed and the underprivileged
The real Heroes
Are never afraid to die,
For the words,
For the pens, pencils
Brushes, and crayons;
The dead heroes
Are our eternal champions.
The sick cowards
Are afraid of the words.
They are unreasonably angry,
Because they kill and hide
Like rats, like rodents.
The freedom of expression
Is absolutely warranted,
And is basically normal.
Open up, open wide to speak out,
Scream and shout.
This is fundamental
In a true democracy.
It is not funny or freaky,
To die for free speech.
However, it's too early
to die for the expression
Of simple words.
Copyright © January 2015 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
U.S. DEBT CLOCK IS OUT OF CONTROL.
IT BOGGLES THE MIND HOW FAST OUR DEBT GROWS.
IT'LL GIVE YOU THE NUMBER OF LIVING,THE NUMBER OF DYING.
SO HARD TO BELIEVE SOMEONE'S NOT LYING.
THERE'S A NUMBER OF WORKERS, A NUMBER WHO DON'T.
I'M SURE THERE'S A NUMBER FOR THOSE THAT WON'T.
THEY HAVE NUMBERS FOR BUDGETS AND MONEY CREATION.
YOU GET THE SENSE OF WHATS GOING ON IN OUR NATION
CAR SALES, HOME SALES EVEN SALES TAXES.
UNEMPLOYED PEOPLE WHO ALL SAW THE AXES.
STUDENTS, INMATES, DISABLED AND FELONS.
NUMBERS MOVING SO FAST IT'S AFFECTING MY MELON.
YOU CAN SEE FOR YOUR SELF, BUT I HAVE TO GO.
IF I CONTINUE TO WATCH MY MIND'S GOING TO BLOW.
SEARCH U.S. DEBT CLOCK SEE FOR YOURSELF.
YOU TELL ME IF WE'RE A NATION OF WEALTH.
Am I really the only one thinking outside the box,
When it comes to pension costs,
Regardless of whether people are able to work or not,
With some working til they drop.
Let me open my box and tell you how to stop the rot,
In my box is all the evidence that points to the life experience,
That those who are for a pension now due can bring to the table,
Along with the math's calculations that says how much they can give back,
If we ask their help,
To mentor the young and keep them out of jail,
To share a lifetime of knowledge that we may need if the internet breaks,
So, we don't end up back in the stone age.
To help on their good days or even good hours to reduce the rubbish pile,
That is costing us more every minute to manage,
Then there the hidden costs they can help us with,
When you start thinking out of the box,
Like, the longer we employ them when they are incapable,
Of doing their job there is a cost,
Or the fact that increasing their age of retirement,
We delay the intake of the young,
And if the age of retirement keeps going up,
The number of those unemployed for life goes up,
A cost that would burden us for generations to come.
Then there are the facts about the health problems,
With older people in workplaces,
Bladder issues,
Skin that is less resistant to knocks,
To name but two which will leave businesses no choice,
But to raise prices.
Another thought I came up with while thinking out of the box,
Is that to get the best out of the old work wise,
We should be looking at retirement as a gradual process,
With flexibility for gradually reducing a persons work hours,
And shifting them to light duties, including mentoring roles,
According to their individual health and abilities to do their job,
This should create opportunities for more young people to
Enter the workforce.
Then still thinking outside the box there is the mental wellbeing of
The aged which effects their physical health which impacts,
The overall rate of spending on health.
The more useful and less anxious people of any age feel,
Is a win in terms of real dollars saved.
If we can get more people thinking out of the box on this issue,
We will find it is not an issue at all,
Once the number crunchers see the new evidence,
That was sitting outside their box,
Who knows they might be tempted to think outside the box themselves.
Millennials
The Entitled Generation
Written: by Miracle Man
8/1/2017
Sometimes a few choose a leaving home delay,
If career doesn’t start near the ladder’s top rung.
Anything less and with Mom and Pop they’ll stay,
They’ve a degree and picky not at all high strung.
Now, free room and board isn’t all that bad,
And they’ve free health insurance until twenty six.
Rising at ten after partying all night is so rad,
But for some, work and play, just won’t intermix.
Only the now generation deals with this quandary,
And it's only temporary until they find their groove.
They do minuscule tasks, perhaps their own laundry,
Until finding themselves - or are asked to move.
Never think you’re overqualified for any job offer,
Or that the hours are too long or pay too meager.
This thinking adds nothing to your family’s coffer,
Have a positive tone showing others you’re eager.
I’m 78 years old and unemployed for the last 22 years
Hard work and sound planning allowed me to retire upon turning 56
I’m blessed,
Tom
Perhaps creating too many companies
would use to much of the world resources
yet investing in farms would grow more crops
Perhaps creating more companies
would use up the world's resources
yet perhaps, what we need most, is entertainment
Even during the war
they realised that their troops needed fun
even during war they realised
to have a settled army
you need entertainment
stimulate the troops to keep order
perhaps we need a certain percentage of our wage
locked in to providing entertainment
employing the unemployed
for jobs that create an entertaining world
why should we waste money
and get nothing in return
We focus on profit
and yet what we need most
is to focus on life
perhaps
what we need is companies,
that improve the world's resources
our sea's depleted of fish
perhaps fish farms
would be the path to take
we already have salmon farms
perhaps investing in more
would be a good idea
perhaps it's solar power
that creates the greatest growth
investments can improve the world
working together investing every week
we could build farms
to restock our oceans
we could build farms
to feed the starving people
creating jobs so they can afford to buy
we could build solar power
to create a cleaner air
we could create desalination plants
to turn our deserts into farms
we could rebuild the forests
to create a living home
as human beings we could see
the problems we share
as hurdles to overcome
Perhaps other people
have better ideas
hope they lead to a better world
Eldest daughter – I Praise
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot your horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged ,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
koolaid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and locomotive -
complicit in behavior
comparable to pedophile,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!