I'm just an old-fashioned, flannel lumberjack shirt.
My father was some overalls, a farmer of dirt.
I'm a worn out and holey pair of cotton socks,
An unwanted sweater, packed away in a box.
My son's a fancy ascot living in New York City.
He can't be cut from the same cloth, he's too pretty -
A button down shirt, a jacket of fine leather,
A whole different sort of men's wear, altogether.
I'm aged pair of wing-tips, no longer employed,
Split along the sides, by overwork, nearly destroyed,
Living in the shiny black dress shoe memories of
Backless gowns, diamonds, stilettos and satin gloves.
I'm a quiet and unassuming pair of jeans,
A t-shirt with a picture of natural scenes,
A pair of rubber sandals, and a worn out straw hat,
A beachcomber, escaping the race of the rat.
I'm shorts on the way to the laundry in a sack,
An old hat that's traveled around the world and back.
Though I may have a loose thread that needs a snip,
Still, this hat gives life an appreciative tip.
I’m lost.
It’s nothing new, I just sit around and overthink, overcompensate, over complicate, overwork the brain but it has its limits.
I see now what I do, how I am, who I become when I’m lost. It’s crazy though, you see it, you feel it, you know it but still you dare to ask me what my thoughts were.
I can’t answer, I’ve been chasing the answers for years and still I have yet to see the light at the end of my tunnel, funneled from the beginning of being lost.
lost, is how I feel without you. It’s been 3 days now and still I feel as if we’re hanging on by a thread. I hate this feeling of being; being lost, being crossed yet again I pour another glass of champagne because for in this moment, I feel found and not lost.
Lost, is what I feel, and I know I’m not helping this feeling by overthinking, over complicating over working, but still I can’t help but needing the answers I’ve been yearning.
How I hate being lost sometimes, but how I love finding out more about my damn self.
It’s not hard work that kills a man,
But overwork shortens lifespan.
Indolence also does the same,
No work sure makes a person lame.
Many, in order to gain clout,
Work so hard, they wear themselves out.
Taking regular time to rest,
helps us to perform at our best.
Better to wear out than rust out,
Is what the workaholics shout.
Rest is for the lazy they say,
Until their body makes them pay.
Slow down and you would farther go,
To the overwork urge, say no.
Make time for God, family, friends,
While there’s still time to make amends.
If you’re caught up in the rat race
It's time to slow down your pace.
Material wealth is not worth the chase,
Take time to enjoy God’s daily grace.
With the chalk,
Teachers' hearts knock
Students flock;
Goats, we overstock
And sheep, we unlock!
With our talks,
Teachers' mouths stalk
Lazy students' works,
Discipline the ones that balk,
And reinforce the gawks!
With our walks,
Knowledge toast to hawk
Teachers nighthawk;
Going days overwork,
Reactivating students' blocks.
Happy Teachers' day!
He played in the hills that day,
And in the evening he heard the call to gather,
And he came running,
Eager that he might learn.
He listened to the older horses:
No horse is lucky till dead ...
A horse’s lot is tragedy ...
To stand always in the cold …
To almost be killed, driven to overwork …
And on evenings like this he learned
what caused the others to fear and dread,
while less and less did he understand himself.
Still every evening gathering
he would run back to learn
to prize his days in the hills little by little less and less.
(based on Kierkegaard, Purity of Heart, I learned about through Thomas Oden's Parables)
Mind-body tires, causing stupor
Why then overwork mind
Make unending playful caper
Free from desires that bind
Awareness unbroken
Needs ego forsaken
That we now awaken
Heart bliss aspires
Mind-body tires
07-September-2021
Quietus
5...
4...
3...
2...
1... lets go
Tick Tock Tick Tock, time can be a blur, we all need to enjoy each minute, each second that much I can concur, before I go on I apologize if my words are a slur..
Live life to the fullest, reduce any regrets you have, evolve be your best version, yes i know it can be quite a hard conversion , at all times be yourself, for long life keep good health...
Random this poem may be, words that I have typed most likely overused ,yet the action of the words underused, all in all make sure to smile, to laugh, to once in a while have a bath, conquer your desire, always reach higher, the next generation try to inspire, show them that incandescent fire, that they will definitely require and at the end of all that don't overwork, in essence retire...
Was it the death of the child,
playing in the busy street,
where traffic frequently exceeds speed limits,
in neighborhoods like this one,
even in summer evenings when children gather
with stick and ball?
Or was it the single mother,
who allowed her child to play outside,
without adequate supervision,
on an evening as sunlight faded,
inhibiting vision of drivers?
Or was it the mother’s employer,
who forces employees to overwork,
without adequate breaks for nurses,
like herself,
leaving her exhausted at day’s end,
just in time to rush home and prepare the evening meal?
Or, maybe, it was the driver,
who failed to drive slower,
on a street known for its abundant children,
in a neighborhood with no city parks?
Or was it the alcohol in the driver’s blood,
impairing judgment and giving false sense of security?
Or was it the driver’s employer,
who arranged a business meeting over cocktails,
where the client could be manipulated to make decisions,
in the fancy lounge of the large hotel,
as all participants drank to excess?
So, I ask again.
What was the human error?
Whoa back Lucy, hang on to your panties
Ya gots to take care, you're one of the dandies
You're famous, my dear
Had quite a career
But ya better slow down, don't overwork your fanny
Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge movement, the leader Pol Pot,
Killed twenty-five percent of the population, a fact most people forgot.
To spare you is no profit, to destroy you is no loss,
That was the ideology of the evil boss.
Buddhist monks were killed and religion was banned,
No one was safe with this beast in command.
Children placed in labour camps, civil rights were abolished,
Schools and hospitals shut down, homes were demolished.
People getting shot for wearing glasses, laughing and even crying,
And if you spoke a foreign language you were definitely dying.
Slave labourers dying from overwork, malnutrition and executions,
While the U.K. gave the Khmer Rouge plenty of contributions.
Minority groups were targeted, Thai, Muslims, Christians and Vietnamese,
But they explicitly targeted the ethnic Chinese.
Millions of pounds from the U.K., millions of dollars from the states,
All working together in terror, they were the best of mates.
What Nixon and Kissinger began, Pol Pot completed,
And none of them ever showed remorse for all the people they mistreated.
Tired lids to buckets of endless hours
open cracks and creaks
and cold saps their strength.
Exhaustion gives
and so do lids
for I was not born a god.
As end to time,
results evade.
Exasperation grasps unthinking.
Sudden shaking, endless quaking;
Axes work upon my trunk and limbs
as children join my garden of dreams.
Growling, grasping and blind,
reaching for those brave souls
-though errant spawn evade.
Yet, a fallen titan,
Cronus, I shall rise again;
a new day has dawned.
Pulleys creak and
levers groan, "Overwork!" they cry,
but work they do as I wake.
One thought I have, a simple dream:
I truly wish that someday
-past dawn
-past six o' clock
-maybe even eight
the kids might deeply, sweetly sleep.
Standing outside,
Working in the heat,
Skin charred and brown,
Weathered and leathery.
There toils the laborer.
He’s fixed at a distance,
Huddled with others.
Like warehouse items,
Tools packed together,
Yet to be used.
His clothes are caked,
Decorated with dirt and dust.
They are torn at the sides
And unwashed for days—
Except from his sweat.
But when he comes near,
You shy from his odor,
Disgusted by the soiled shirt.
Avoiding him like spoilt fruit
Rotting when left in the sun too long.
His arms are creased from overwork,
His hands are like bricks,
His body is weary and chipped,
He is ready to crumble and break
Like the rusted tools he carries.
Yet he keeps toiling.
Ignoring the complaints of the noise
Or the accusations of lethargy.
Swallowing his pride
To earn his allowance.
When I first took up residence,
We were neighbours who kept to ourselves.
But I needed more room
Abundantly provided
Thanks to your unwitting generosity.
That's when your trouble started.
Those odd bouts of tiredness
You put down to overwork and stress.
All you needed was a holiday
Or so you were led to believe.
I was sorry about your little headaches
But I had to stretch myself still further.
Even beyond that point we were doing so well
Until you began seeing double.
That's when all hell broke loose
And they found you had an unwanted guest.
They tried to evict me
But I had burrowed deep
To keep you as my host.
Our symthanatic relationship
Means we must go together.
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