On Saturday afternoons long ago, when cartoons faded from the TV’s glow
A teenager earned a modest pittance, to finish the week with his remittance
From coins for cans and chores to do, the basement became the work place too
A weekly ritual dust and sweep, and memories were polished for us to keep
Years rolled on yet still there lies, a wooden shelf with the writing of “pizza flies”
A phrase half-lost, a family thread, echoing something once misread
From allowance paid to words unclear, the past returns as I sit here
In chores, in jokes, we had a good time, it’s these small moments of which I write
Hello, my dear Margarita.
Trust me, sweet muy bonita.
Indeed, lovely Ms. Lillico -
my dear Margarita, hello!
One moment of your precious time -
I'll sell so cheap, it is a crime.
Won't you allow me to come in?
I'll sell so cheap it is a sin!
Thank you, I'll just unpack my case.
Oh, this low price is a disgrace
for something that's sure to delight
when you read on a sultry night.
Count them like petals of a rose
(and I'll throw in free pantyhose).
On installments, it's billable,
a pittance for each syllable.
Everyone always says to reach out for help
It there is no reaction unless you yelp
They ignore talking and wait for action
If your talking and walking it’s dissatisfaction
They want to see real harm done
To yourself or others, for them it’s fun
They make you feel stupid
Want to shut you up and make you muted
They have no care or compassion
But want to dictate and ration
They decide what you get
Get high on authority and demand respect
And expect the vulnerable ones to be grateful
For the pittance received not hateful
They lie and make you feel crazy
Hope that your memory is hazy
The ones paid to help utterly refuse
Don’t act with passion and care but abuse
Tiredness and overworked is no excuse
For those to be so nasty and obtuse
They take advantage of those with no voice
Only in your misery do they rejoice
This is the reality of public services
They provide everyone with a disservice
Hauling hard my fate I’m weary,
Bearing world of hate I’m weary.
Getting paid a pittance’ my fate,
How you rate me makes me weary.
And after all, how you treat me--
A fish biting bait-- I’m weary.
On your laments on labour woes,
By dreary debate, I’m weary.
And O Krishna, by your discourse:
Fruitless to fight fate, I’m weary.
____________________________
Ghazal | 14.01.2026 | fate, fruit, hate, work/labour
No more my mother is the only woman I love-
I say it with respect and truth.
No more my sisters first, my wife and kids last
No more kowtowing to my bloodline while you
must grovel for a pittance from me
That was childish,selfish,small minded.
I put you second too many times, I hurt you.
I treated you like you were temporary while
protecting habits that didn't protect me.
I am sorry. I was wrong. I mean every word.
Two triangles for an eye
a nose has to fit
That orb for a pittance
the veiners stay pritt
To be as a gourde lye
then hold to a pose
What vineyard for crawling
night snot up your nose
Pittance
Nary a pound a penny a pittance not.
Many a scoundrel will take what you've got.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
He mended shoes for a mere pittance
His payment was your smile
A craftsman from another age
Pride in his work his going wage
One morn his light was off, his door closed
His customers wept, understanding
Never again would they see his like
The call of his craft daily demanding…
Sore Ankle
impatiently edging past my husband
the lid - lifts off - from the pot
microwave still ajar
He Cares
not in mood to hear capitulation
at my ankle’s screaming pittance
I harden, he softens
Introspect
his kindness and care remove my black ring
my mood slowly turning blue
not unlike my ankle
Prologue
microwave does not throw out dirty looks
nor does it knock out the light
that fills room with gladness
George Rodrigue never expected the Blue Dog to be his ticket to fame
But it is, and it has never stopped
If you were one of the lucky ones, you have first editions
Purchased for a mere pittance on the streets of New Orleans
Others can copy it, but they had better not.
Everyone knows who has rights to the Blue Dog
George has become rich off of him, and rightly so
'Twas a tawdry affair that trifles pittance fare,
A Qualified Judge.
~0~
Allied With Grudge.
~0~
Pride Did Smudge.
~0~
Backslide By Nudge.
~0~
Denied To Rejudge.
~0~
Teary-Eyed No Budge.
~0~
"FORGIVENESS"
"Implied?" ... "Theorized!"
"Her fate has already been decided ..."
"... and what of me ...?"
"Your fate will be defined."
In New York City- Nineteen thirty-six,
the crowds had gathered for a final show;
none playing the next day- no more to see
of organ grinders coming to their streets.
Throughout the city, all those places where
they came around to play- silent would be.
The citizens protested- with no win;
Mayor LaGuardia- ruled they must leave.
Renew their licenses, he would not do-
that radio and concerts were enough.
A nuisance, these musicians he declared;
he did not want them on the city streets.
As poor Italian immigrants, for them
their talent was the means to live and earn
a pittance from the coins left in their tins;
as songs, the sadness of their lives, unveiled.
On this last day, the organ grinders came
to greet their waiting fans and play for them.
When done, all waved goodbye with teary eyes
as the musicians gathered up their things.
With monkeys in their arms, they walked away
to leave their lifetime art of playing songs-
as each last organ grinder bid farewell;
to dwell as history from New York's past.
To A Warrior's Creed, Valiant Death, Fate Oft Decrees
I follow the red line into hot, blazing Hell
with razor sharp long sword firm in my fighting hand
sending the devils down where their demon friends dwell
down, down deep, upon earth's surface I take my stand
I, raging fighter, with valiant blood in my veins
The Sun my only friend as its light clears my way
I leave behind me, nothing but huge bloody stains
I live as a warrior on a pittance of pay
A day's ration of bread and a bold flask of wine
few gold coins for every dark monster I slay
and the great favors of girlfriends, I daily dine
pride and Fate demands I die on some future day.
As life will be forfeit what care I of death's hand
no more than a bad-spit whisper the dying groan
To truth I am sworn, courageous is my dear stand
I am a valiant warrior, I dare fight alone.
My Lord, to an honorable death I so plead.
I lay here glad as away my life slowly bleeds.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Note- "The valiant brave die but one honorable death"
With a roof over your head,
A key to your door
Fire in the grate
Clippie rugs on the floor
The countryside to roam
A dog by his side
A boy may be poor but
He’s still got h!is pride.
Another spring approaches
Weather more and more mild
Memories rush back from
When I was a child
More than fifty years ago
My dad used to say
Nights were drawing out by
A cock stride a day.
A man of the land once of
The shire drawn plough
Earning his weekly pittance
By the sweat of his brow.
A man of his time when
Most of the working nation
Were condemned to poverty
And blatant exploitation
My mam and dad never
Ever had a lot
But seemed so happy
With what little they’d got
And I had a childhood rich
In everything but wealth
Loved and wanted and
Blessed with good health.
Times have changed and today,
Poor materially have much more,
But the bailiff does at times seem
Never far from a worker’s door,
And I never thought I’d see the day
When a worker gave thanks
For the charity donations
From now essential food banks.
Mithering - North England dialect - worrying , complaining, countering
Murmuration of starlings high. I’m high!
Low stars twinkling with wings. The trumpet’s call!
As winds of war, incline, in warm wind sigh,
the flock, a shock, sans enemies appall.
These friends do fascinate, heard like bombers,
like Japanese over unsuspecting
Pearl Harbor fight ~ these darling bird-balmers.
The nudge of melodic buzz, quite affecting.
Not of national consequence, abuzz
not with politicking but peace of soul -
remains of war pittance, the scrawling-t’was.
My awesome sight, this di’mond-bling of coal.
Mere humans offer crumbs ~ my heart flaps wings.
With murmurs high and low, communion springs.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.