Short Working Class Poems

Working class hero
With an untold memory
On the steps of hell...

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The poor want to live
   The working class want a life
           The rich want it all

By
David Kavanagh...

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All I see is sadness up on people's faces long hours away from family- yet employers say they are family friendly...

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Liberal papers like the “Guardian “
Like to talk about the working- class 
But dislike hearing their gruff voice...

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D G Rossetti's lover Elizabeth Sidall
an unlearned working class gal
Artist Lizzie in love with life,you see
model & wife, died too young , of tb...

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Built with rusted steel 
Steel mined by the workers’ hands
Faceless above crowds 
An angel not from the blue
But built with man’s blood and hope...

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Tanka 
Working class people 
Do not trust socialist intellectuals
Don´t get lured by them 
They are upper middle class people 
Who want to run your revolution....

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Social Animal Not Cultured Horn Limerick

Trump is social animal but not cultured
And women's lives he had adultered
With smile phony as can be
Always despicable was he
Working class people went around and detoured.

Jim Horn...

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long dark night
cold silence
ice dreams
and tomorrow

warm hands
of people
just people who care
who dare
to believe
not religion
not corporations
not politicians
just people
working class people

warmth
within this
long dark night.

                  - jude...

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The unknown and the famous
the Entrepreneur.
The working class the homeless
the rich and the poor.

The weird the misfits
the wise and the fools.
All nations all genders
I've embraced one and all.

Every faith all religions
different cultures and beliefs.
Soho square in London
Is my haven of peace....

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Footsteps crunch the winter’s snow
Cold daylight has yet to dawn
Go they towards where busses go
With hopes of getting on
Huddled there in heavy garb
Snow’s ghosts stare ghastly masks
Casting sneers at who they are
Workers of the working class
Trudging towards another day
In winter’s dark torment
Again and again that way
Their working life is spent...

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In the cold 
they do their work 
   The work is of utmost importance 
  Buildings, churches, synagogues and parks 
all exsist due to the sweat and blood of the workers
They must continue to do their work 
  So the city will be safe and strong 
Fantasy has its place 
But sometimes we should write 
   of the stark truth 
Even if it ruffles a few feathers...

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A flower


On the wayside, I saw a beautiful flower
it was deep purple, among working-class weed
and I thought it suffered greatly.
I picked the flower put it in a vase only to see it die of loneliness.
Next day I went back to where I had picked
the purple flower and the weed said: why
did you do this to us we may make fun of the flower
But we like beauty too...

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I think I hear a train,
better stop, look, and listen,
I must take precautions here,
is there something I am missing?
People talking, but not making any sense,
nothing seems as it should,
now the bad is tolerated,
and doing away with the good.
Laws protect the outlaws,
money passing hands way to fast
rich are getting richer,
who is looking after the working class?...

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Life is a thread 
 When my aunt
Told me when
 Mother
Was pregnant 
With me
I was not a welcomed 
Addition 
Mother had been
Told skipping
Could bring on
A spontaneous
 Abortion 
 She was rather sedate 
Soon gave it up
I was born 
There are things 
We should
Not be told
I never forgot
But she was
Working class 
And poor
Life or no life
The line is 
As precarious 
As a skipping rope...

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Minimum wage

The olive trees in the landscape
near the village,
Have working-class trunks
and no illusion
Of becoming middle-class trees.
They refuse to grow 
in a plant- nursery and be tampered with
by botanists.
They do not envy tall palm trees.
Good luck to those who see the world 
through an elevated height.
Good soil and water the plebian olive tree wants
it has deep roots and will not fall
in a storm....

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He wakes very morning
to trudge through his day
a labor of love
or just bills to pay?
it seems that forever
he's been burdened with debt
and retirement a time to reflect
or regret?
She awakes every morning
to labor all day
kids are in day care
there's really no choice
no other way
the bank accounts empty
and pay day seems so far away
I think that this government
has lost the plot
think of the people
who ain't got a lot....

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Jingoistic Men

Oh they are so smug
Because they have enough money
In the bank
They call the strong women “sluts”
They pretend to be the savior of working class
They forget that they are vacuous
And have dollar signs in place of their hearts

They argue that political correctness is gone mad
By this they mean why ladies are seeking equal pay.
Let us teach our daughters to stand up
Against these men of fragile egos and no brains...

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Self Depreciating 
Flagellate 
Popularity 
Feigning craving approval 
A path to Institutionlised acceptance 
Rising to the next level
Free of the title working class
The fabric cloth cut from
A sell out a Charlatan 
For the Man to prey upon
What is a boy without a soul
A rich man
Who when fails 
Is hung out to dry
On blacksmith's nail's 
Hoping his old friends 
Will forgive and forget
Given the choice 
He pretended he outgrew...

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Erratically you 
 
It was by chance I came to Portugal.
I was a failure in Norway and a bigger loser in Britain.
I could not absorb a culture that makes the working-class
dumb workers and ignorant soldiers.
It was a day in May when I came here, didn´t want to live
by the coast, which was like living in Liverpool with sunlight.
I bought a ruin/stable got local workers to help me restoring the place.
One day I looked up and said: “I´m home.”...

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I walk these many streets

I walk this path of stone

I hunger for a life

That I can call my own

I'm a slave to my job

I'm a slave to this town

I'm a slave to the system

That strives to keep me down

I owe money for my house

I owe money for my car

I owe money to the bank

I'm left with pennies in my jar

If your life's the same as mine

I know just how you feel

We have one thing in common

We're just a cog in this wheel...

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Reading the enemy

Chaos, a whirlwind of dreams and laughter
I read a conservative paper full of hysterical lies.
Trying to defend the rich and well to do.
Pathetic, their uproar became comical.

Goats like tobacco they chew and chew and
Ask for more, the swallow too quickly.

It was good to read this paper showing them
Contempt against the working-class
It is through the enemies’ writing we can find out
What a horrible lot the wealthy class are...

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I am really quiet disturbed,
at the news I just heard,
illegals getting checks,
for coming to this land,
I don't understand.
Whose money is backing this,
taxpayers, hiss, hiss,
the economy is sinking fast,
the funds can't last,
what are taxpayers going to do,
can we get one too?
The working class is tired,
paying for that wire,
that hasn't been used,
can this be true?
Who decided to give,
away our money,
I really would like to know,
next election, they go....

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They gathered as a freezing group 
To plead with the sharp-shooting troop
Not to even around them snoop.
Their murderous wings not flutter but droop
For being, all affable chicks in a coop:
A working class from The South Loop
Travelling with a fun-loving troupe 
And an athlete draped in his whoop…

A tears-unlocking “Please, Don’t shoot us!”
By the just-discharged from their bus 
Willing to all cough out from their purse 
Rather than be sent to sleep or a nurse....

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The Shine

This year I will shine and hold my tongue
When my neighbour, an unbearable snob goes on about
The lazy working-class.
Since I write and he doesn’t read he assumes we are
In the same clique and invite me to the golf-club and
Invited to drinks and asked to give my view of the current
Situation,
I will not tell them they are tax cheats and fat bastards,
The problems in life are them and not the poor.
I will, for once, be a success if only I can hold my tongue....

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