Long Workmen Poems
Long Workmen Poems. Below are the most popular long Workmen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Workmen poems by poem length and keyword.
Got up this morning
Too busy yawning
To see the pee pot
Spilled the whole lot
With a short kick
Not a recommended trick
Bathroom door was locked
Stood in my pee soaked socks
Flatulence turns to lumps
Underwear full of bumps
Toaster mysteriously jammed
Smoke filled the open plan
Amidst all the chaos
My grip was lost
The bottle smashed
The milk splashed
And the kettle was dry
Almost causing another fire
The car would not start
Despite prayers from the heart
Trying to push the automobile
No movement from the wheels
Battery was flat
Tyres were flat
And I'm late for work
My boss will go beserk
Got to work in empty factory
Seeing no-one made me worry
Observed my paper front page
Date explained it's Saturday
Walking home abusing myself
Mutters heard by noone else
Slipped on a muddy bank
Falling to a sudden land
Covered in dog poop
My embarrassed head droop
Workmen outside my home
Remind me waters no more
A burst pipe was the cause
Nearly answering I paused
Dropped my ashamed head
And went back to bed
I'll sleep the rest of the day
So no more unlucky pain
My cooker's in the living room
My fridge is in there too
There's dust on all my furniture
And I cant use my loo
There's workmen tramping in and out
I'm not allowed to lock my door
The workmen must have access
From 8 am till four
They're drilling in my bathroom
I cant hear my TV
I just wish they'd go away
Cos I really need a wee
The workmen don't speak English
And my Polish isn't great
I tried a conversation
But we just cant relate
I'll be glad when it's all finished
And my home's my home again
If this goes on much longer
I think I'll go insane
I'm longing for a shower
I haven't had one for weeks
But I bet when it's finished
It will be full of leaks
They tell me when it's finished
I'll be pleased as pleased can be
All that I can say to that is
Oh well we'll see
I think that I'll go out now
Leave these cowboys on the range
I hate all this disruption
I really don't like change
Seemingly some kind of Message to
All and sundry about:
The colossal crimson sun imperceptibly sinks over the horizon,
Sinks beyond the road here, over the park in the
Debilitating, gritty summer heat.
Nearby, a huge silent hairy golden dragonfly,
As large as a fully grown man's hand,
Unexpectedly swings down from above.
The dragonfly hovers for a moment,
Then effortlessly, closely paces a car suddenly passing by,
One filled with aching sore-tired workmen.
They are oblivious to
The mute insect "spy" outside the car's windows,
Just as they are now oblivious to all:
Exhausted, the men have done their workaday work well.
Then just as suddenly as the dragonfly first appeared,
It shoots straight upward,
Disappearing.
An empty apartment,
The floors bare and rough,
Once covered with carpets
And decked out with stuff,
For years housed a tenant
Who filled it with pride;
Not a thing now remains,
For she recently died.
All her chairs and her tables,
Her curtains, her bed
Have been carted away
Since their owner is dead.
All the food in the pantry,
The pots and the pans –
For death likes to visit
In spite of our plans.
Her relatives came
And they cleared the place out.
They divvied possessions -
Of that, I’ve no doubt.
Now everything’s gone;
All the cupboards are bare.
The workmen come in
And they start to prepare.
I think for that tenant
And all of her stuff
The lease on her life
Wasn’t quite long enough.
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me as I
skimmed stones across the tiny ripples of rock pools.
Small scaly creatures and stones sliced toes like knives but
we were full of excitement then,
craning necks and nets at the alien life under water that
swilled any blood away in a salty sting.
Until that day.
My rock pool filled with tears/spit/teeth from savaged parents
covered and muddied by seaweed from miles out - dragged against
flotsam and jetsam from the seabed. It all tipped endlessly into my rock
pool in a careless hurry/rush/smash like workmen at skips.
I went back to those pools and streams, like tears, crawling from the lake.
Found it was lost and
drowning within its own water:
a roof slate, a car, a swing from along the coast. A doll’s
head that just bobbed and plopped.
It would have been sucked and spat
upward, surging towards the sky with plastic arms praying,
in the deluge just moments (days?) before.
It’s not my rock pool anymore. It’s not our town.
People killed by geography:
Subduction – Subtraction of me from my family.
Subsidence - Insidious silence that lulled people to exposed sand with palm trees over heads like question marks… before the wave even Noah would struggle to sail.
Tsunami… you and me.
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me
Once he had one he wanted to constrict it, like a boa; a python, to hold closely guarded the thing for which demure closets stay closed like iron-waitresses pervading the hostel with lime-light the lemony-snickett cackling in the born-and-bred flames, curling irons prod the paper-clip open but the stamp endures, a timid interred girl beghosts the earls. The favorite simple plan, favored in heavens gamma, where brightness surely waits in pavilion the concert. My concerto is made-man italian, the devise impregnated, like hollow bells that sour, the grim sugar from said waitress, we wildly call the crows to set and chime on the lines where workmen craft blue ribbons atop the farmland graves.
Sheep
I have read and published some of my old poems
when the world was mint fresh and I believed in the lady in the lake, I saw her swim a moonlit night
know I know she is not there, but a product of my
feverish mind
Sheep, they are dumb, think the pastor is a friend and
his dog means well and even smells like an ewe but its
fur is useless and full of ticks, can't eat grass to feed
itself forever pestering the pastor wanting to show off
when barking at the flock
The sheep and the landscape are equally old seen in
paintings of rustic art, which the pastor's wife excels at
and tries to sell on Sunday after church, which the other
pastor, the one who looks after human flock who think
he is nice but hates them.
Sheep no nothing of democracy, or security they prefer to be fenced in and only get nervous for a second when one of them is called to serve humans' need for meat as they can't count if there were 500 of them or 499 and they grazing go on and on.
How lonely I have become among the olive trees
since my dog died, I buried her in dark soil but dug her up, she is a skeleton in a black plastic liner in the back seat of the car, it stops me from feeling lonely when
visiting the local whore.
The road I drive on my way to the bar has been asphalted, flowers, by the roadside wilt covered in asphalt spray by careless workmen who inhale warm asphalt when not smoking self-rolled cigarettes
and waiting for the day to end
Day after day, week after week, when rush hour traffic’s at its peak,
I’ve had to sit and wait and wait, knowing that once more I’d be late
And have to face the boss’s frown, who lives the other side of town
And can control when he’ll arrive; there are no road works on his drive.
But our road’s down to single file; it’s been like that for quite a while,
With traffic lights at either end, while workmen work out what to mend,
Behind a line of orange cones, oblivious to the drivers’ moans.
It started with a water main. They mended it – it burst again
And cut off electricity, another high priority
So they hired another digger; made the trench a whole lot bigger.
With traffic lights now far apart, commuters started losing heart.
To town there was no other way, so queues got longer every day.
One day they started filling in, but scarcely did the work begin
Before there came a frantic yell, “The bloody gas main’s gone as well”.
And so they dug it out once more, till it was deeper than before.
They put a sign along the way, “We’re sorry for the long delay,
All caused by things beyond control. One day we will fill in the hole”.
This morning, passing in the car, I spotted something quite bizarre.
With paper hats and champagne flutes and coloured ribbons on their boots
The men were gathered all around, their spades were lying on the ground.
And I could only sit and stare, as “Happy Birthday” filled the air.
I called out, “Who’s the Birthday boy, I’d like to wish him Birthday joy?”
And, as one man, they turned to say, “The trench is one year old today!”
IBM Town
Dad whisked us away,
Mom heavy with babe,
Away from relative hands,
Two year old's off to IBM lands.
It was the machine of opportunity.
A place with technical commotion.
My Dad loves to light the flame,
All aboard the modern train.
His workplace filled with computers -
Large as houses. Do i exaggerate?
Certainly there was no moving mouse.
We moved into our Poughkeepsie house.
The village had a gray one with a pump
Station in back, workmen made a path.
Nevertheless life for us kids sends
neighbors who become lifelong friends.
I lived in the Hudson Valley, a beautiful place,
With swimming in Spring and sledding in Winter.
We loved to tour historic Hyde Park. I can still
See the sign with F.D.R.’s silhouette. We’d chill
Watching fireworks, stretched out on the green grass,
Of the Vanderbilt estate, walk alongside its stone fence.
The culinary my future son would attend also in that town.
He’d earn two diplomas, double serving his graduation gown.
6/20/2017
The old soldiers Café
We went to my favoured restaurant it is no longer so,
on a table near us sat a group of Ukrainians eating plenty
of meat with sausage and the server said there was no more left
so we lunched on a dish I wasn`t keen on.
Eight of them men with brutal faces and as the wine flowed
they spoke about the war and killing Russians.
Two of them looked like assassins, those with long knives
who kill silently in the night, eating the food I wanted.
My wife said I was fantasising they were workmen who
had left their country to seek employment elsewhere I was not sure.
My food didn’t look as good as theirs, so we left early and
I didn`t eat my food left the glass of wine untouched in a futile
attempt to show my dislike, but no one noticed.