Colick eight hours straight.
Note to self: I asked for her, so
Learn labor of love

poets and programmers
share traits.
like:
good programmers
squeeze
every drop out of
each line of code.
no waste.
use the language
in ways
that surprise
even the creator.

THE JOB THAT ISN’T A JOB


Twenty-four seven
I write poems and fiction
The job that isn’t a job
The pastime I dreamed about
When I had a job
Of teaching the young
Who didn’t care to learn
Who wanted instead
To play video games
Find joy in games won
The same height of joy
I now find when I write
A poem or a story
And lift off my chair
When I read it back
And know it’s done

#

how embarassing - I spelled it wrong


Colic eight hours straight.
Note to self: I asked for her;
Learn labor of love

Oh Chev -- I really like that one! (It probably helps that I am a poet and a programmer! ;-) )

Work

it's paying the bills,
not the money, maybe it's that too.
It's the endless chore
of receiving it in the mail
(doesn't anyone write love letters anymore?)
opening the letter, ripping through the paper
looking at the amount
then filing it away
I watch it sit there waiting for me
I take out my checkbook after too long
I write the check, find the envelope
place the forever stamp
and bring it with my hands to a mailbox
my beautiful creative hands.

"Work"

Work
Where I can be creative
Work
Where I can shine
Work
Where I spend most of my time
Work
Where I am generously compensated
Work
Where I do what I love to do
Work
A fresh new challenge everyday
Work
Where co-workers are supportive
Work
Where I don’t mind overtime
Work
Where my boss is understanding
Work
Employers please send references

Workers

It's not fair.
Nothing is
they say.

For we who labor long
in the dark recesses
there are no mounted ponies
no choruses of fanfare
no parades in our humble honor

We are the workers of the world.
We rise and do and get it all done
quietly, heads down, making do
no huddled masses we, as each
has her own job to do, and does it

Each of us hums our own melody,
faint tune of purpose, we silently hope
someday a great swell of music will rise
and we will feel the force of the world's voices
singing our very praises, heralding our brilliance

But for now
we work
that is what we do
especially when
there is nothing else
we can do

Work or Calling

Stap on the gunbelt put on the hat
Get in the blue and white
Drive into the danger zone
Look evil straight in the eye
No time for fear no time to decide
You're the only thing saving us
From those that would do what they will
To steal our serentity to do us all harm
Police work a job or a calling

PSC in CT, I thought I was the only one! Thanks.

I've worked at the BK
Selling burgers and fries
I worked as a DJ
Spinning records and lies

I worked as a golf pro
Giving lessons to brats
I house sat for some people
Watching the dogs and the cats

I worked in the Caribbean
Right next to the sea
Solving imaginary problems
For the rich and flighty

I've been a poet for 22 days
Writing lines just for fun
Reading the angry, the deluded, the crazy
And the occasional happy one

And now I've got this radio gig
We own the thing, so it's not so bad
Because the free time I get to create
Allows me to be a better husband and better dad.

The perfect Job

The perfect Job
For me
would be writing
all morning
and then taking a nap
and then a walk
and then writing
some more
and then taking another nap
maybe on my swing
and dreaming about writing
Would someone please
pay me for that!

Work Related

Work related the prompt said
Spill some words
About work
Down the page.
But I’m retired.
I used to
Work
But now I play
All day
So words about
Work
Are work
Hey! That’s work
Related.
Spilled enough
Words
Did the hard
Work.
I guess I’m done.

Shout out to Chev - from another closet geek ;)

ROUTINE

Bill felt he was born for this. Eating lunch as he watched numbers scroll a board, sift through e-mails, organize filing cabinets. Each day itemized by activity. Carefully scheduled and planned. On Fridays, he'd wear his dress down tie and have obligatory post work drinks. The girls nodded at his nervous hellos before turning back to the slick sales boys from the third floor and Bill would sip his half with the other accountants from his division.

Days passed this way until he turned as grey as his sweater, and began to fade into his cubical walls. Lunch no longer interested him and he worked long into the night, home an untagible place. His keyboard began to give out, the keys no longer responding to his touch and the IT team never came. Unheard, he stayed glued to the number board, eyes flicking at the changing state and he'd guess the curve of the upward/downward fluctuation. At drinks, he sit in corners, watch the buzz of hormones. His hellos no longer nodable became a quick glance behind shoulders, a shiver as if graves were walked upon, a look straight through as if he was no longer there.

Curtains for a Career

Curtains drawn shut
Becoming mere drapes
Hiding the stage where I play out
My Life in Secret after Curtain Down.

Ought I to rearticulate that
As “my secret life”?

Cloak and dagger stuff.
Assignations... or trysts...
Blinds pulled down over the
Blind side of my life.

Missions worthy of a film-plot...
Shades for a shady lady.

Life is a stage, or so they say.
Rephrasing...
My life, on stage...
My life, in stages
Screens screening the hidden side of my life.

And behind the thick damask curtain,
Pretending that
On the set of my personal theatre is a home
With shutters shutting out intruders.

And

A kitchen window with cheery,
Frilly gingham curtains.

Lace curtains through which the
Sun stencils patterns on the floor.

I am an actress.

Off-stage, too.

I teach violin lessons to small children.

DANCE

The music begins,
Twinkle played out of rhythm
and I sway,
tap a toe,
pencil on desk.
Feel it inside.
Let it dance.

Minimum wage

I crossed deserts
jumped fences
risked my life
almost died
in search of the promised land
but I made it.

I’m safe under the stripes
spangled sky
I live and work here
I keep your tables clean
your dishes clean
your dog walked, fed
your bed sheets covers, crisp
your car sparkly, shinny
your house orderly, fresh
your yard clean, neat
your food tasty, warm
your kids fed the table set.

Others tell me to go home,
but this is my home,
my community, my church
my neighborhood, my family my home.

Working honestly, earning minimum wage
under the stripes spangled sky of America.

RS 4-22-09

It all ADDs up :)


We've ADD thrice.
We've ADD thrice.
We've all been trouble to someone.
Been told we were hard work and watched them run.
But when we're together we have such fun.
We've ADD thrice.


This is about my little family of ADDers.
ADD - attention deficit disorder. We're all too lazy for the H (hyperactivity).

Work

Work is the best
4 letter word I know.
And then there’s love, hope, rest
And more.

I like all of them.

Richard

Weekdays
at four am
the alarm sounds
I try to block it out
but he's never too quick
to turn it off
and I wake anyway
He will spend three quarters of an hour
preparing
preening and waiting for his body
to do what it needs to
muscles recalling
circulation returning to
prematurely worn out limbs
I rise
and cook bacon and eggs
make tuna fish
bag cookies
and tortilla chips
I start the coffee maker
it has a timer
but I always forget
four thirty
as a cool breeze rushes through me
I venture out into the dark
to start the car
to defrost the windows
creamer and sweetener
in the bottom of his travel mug
I wait for the coffee to finish brewing
I hear his footsteps above
as I pour
and tightly secure the lid
Heavy steps on the staircase
Some simple greeting
and mint flavored kisses
I lock the door behind him
as he heads off to work

Gleefully I Speak…

Oftentimes it’s best to say what needs to be said
Directly to the one for whom the words are meant.
Interpret what you choose, to drive the main point home;
Avoiding the read text you could have sent to her –
Conniving boss of those who fear her cold, mean acts;
Abrasive ways she shares with one and all of us;
Ignorant of my calm mood as I walk and talk,
Worshipping the real boss - the one who is in charge.
Happily I will still write for the cause and care
Provided by ones who have love of life and man.

Housework

Ladies doing laundry
on Sunday morning
fold and primp, manicure
loose threads on wash cloths.

Now their breasts sleep
lazily upon their midriffs.
So much pleasure is taken
wrapping socks into a wad
or picking at pilly cotton sheets.

I tend to speculate their undone dreams.
But I really only see them with clothes baskets,
often their contents neatly groomed.

Rediscover

The grass is not always greener
on the other side. In fact, sometimes there
is no pasture over the mountain. Only weeds.
Instead of looking for new treasures in an unknown land,
try and rediscover the gold you dug up long ago.
Sometimes, something old just needs a good polish.
Don’t abandon what you know. Work it out!

Working – By Jane Eamon 2009

There is a line
I know there is
It’s that perfect combination
Of words and syllables
Saying exactly what I want to say
Without excess

It’s on the tip of my tongue
As my pen holds steady
Above the paper
It sits just out of reach
On the air
Waiting for me to unlock
The door that will invite it in

There is a note
Several notes in fact
That perfectly calls to mind
The emotions and memories
Needed

I strum the guitar
And wait
Hearing the last note
Drift off in its quality
And know it’s not quite right

I sit
I stare at the blank sheet of paper
I close my eyes
I wait

Maybe this time
I will find the words
Maybe this time
I will hear the melody
So sweet it will make me weep
Maybe this time
I will know it is complete

But for now I’ll keep working
I can’t give it up
It’s what I do

Work = force x energy
So even with the force
of spirit, of mind, of heart,
if unaccompanied by the energy
of movement, fire, friction,
no work will be done,
no love will be made,
no towers built,
no change wrought.

Cube Farm

we work in a cube farm
where heads rise above panels

we all play groundhog,
scanning our territory for predators

cogs in a finance wheel
peons working for pittances

we speak in foreign tongues here
the jargon of bean-counters

it is an alien language, full of acronyms,
an alphabet soup of sorts

snowed under by reports
we ponder the long-dead promise

of a paperless work world.


Carol A. Stephen
April 22, 2009
PAD Challenge poem

Busy Days

Housework, critique deadlines
and meetings, oh my!
Tutoring, subbing
and baseball games, too.
Sometimes I feel my life
so busy I could cry.
Maybe I should go
back to work and renew.

Laurie K.

Working It Out
April 22


After three days cleaning
applying primers and sealers
and slapping on paint, up
and down ladders and stools
upstairs and down, he crawls
weary into his sleeping bag
and quickly falls asleep,
then awake again deflated
like the leaky air mattress
under him. Sandra is dozing
on the couch close by, and so
not to wake her, he carries
the flattened cloth and latex
out to the darkened kitchen
blows out hissing lungs of air
until, exhausted, it seems right.
Then back to try it again.
But what seems moments later
he wakes to feel beneath him
unforgiving hardwood floor.
Outside he goes to the trunk
of his car and then heads in
relieved the door hadn’t locked
behind him as he stepped out
and returned with a foam pad.
Once again he hits the deck
and sleeps fitfully until 6:00am
when their son, Adam, and Alison
with their cat, dogs and parrots
enter the early morning jungle
the barks and calls, the scurry
the hurry-ups and I’m comings
the hot coffee and morning plans.
We’re here to help, Mom and I.
our oldest child and his bride
as they scramble to outrun their lives
their demanding jobs, beloved pets
and an impending house expropriation.
We understand the way it feels
when the unexpected happens.
It comes to everyone sooner or later
and it’s always a total surprise.
It’s often dark and you are alone
but you learn not to panic
or make an unnecessary fuss
as most things work themselves out
if you relax and do the best you can,
no need to wake up the world
with your cries and protests
try to find some quiet place
take a big breath and get moving
you feel better already don’t you.
Hugh

Midwife

Rub the belly with the finest
olive oil gathered and pressed
from the orchard of thought.
Clean, smooth hands of maia,
I am about to give birth to
sorrow, anger, joy, life.
Breathe now, you tell me.
Push push, I see it crowning.
Deliver this poem from my body,
staunch the flow, tie the cord,
bury the placenta under a full moon.
Midwife, witch wife, obstetrix,
This is our labour; bear down to write.

My dream job!
***************

After working for a few years,
At last I found the job that I love,
No need to meet customers or minding the cashiers,
I thank my lucky stars and God above.

I just do my work on my own,
No need to feel down or frown,
I really feel I am the type more comfortable doing it alone,
Just do my best without any letdown.

No one to disturb me or criticise me,
I don't mind if only my boss is bossy,
Anyone else don't have to be bitchy,
Just do my work no need to worry.

Reposting with a footnote.


Midwife

Rub the belly with the finest
olive oil gathered and pressed
from the orchard of thought.
Clean, smooth hands of maia,
I am about to give birth to
sorrow, anger, joy, life.
Breathe now, you tell me.
Push push, I see it crowning.
Deliver this poem from my body,
staunch the flow, tie the cord,
bury the placenta under a full moon.
Midwife, witch wife, obstetrix,
This is our labour; bear down to write.



*Midwives were known by many different titles in antiquity, ranging from iatrinē, maia, obstetrix, and medica. The terms I have used should be in italics, which we can't do here.

Here's three poems about 'work'. The first is a Pleiades, the second is a Rondelet and the third is a Septilla.

1.
Re: Writing...

Re: Writing...
Rewriting (as usual)
Redefining (as necessary)
Redacting (as required)
Reappraising (as a matter of course)
Rejected (as sometimes is the case)
Rejoicing (as it happens)

2.
A Mom

I am a mom,
a challenge but a huge delight.
I am a mom,
a job I do with great aplomb
from dawn to tuck-in every night.
My children inspire me to write:
I am a mom.

3.
A Job I’ll Never Have

Upon the boards I would have tread
and sung and danced. I know I’ve said
that line at least a thousand times
but angels will not fly from me.
I’ll never be on the marquee
since I have not the chops nor chimes.
That final act’s just in my head.

Hats

The potato fields at 5 years old
Every fall until 19
Potato houses in the summer time
20 thousand pounds per trailer
Drove bulk loader 3 years straight
Dumped 40 barrels worth in a ditch
Lights went out at 4 am
Back on the road by noon
So was life in Northern Maine
When growing up

Air Force came in late ‘73
The world would be mine to see
Basic and tech school in the Lone Star State
Then off to Okinawa
18 months later a job change already
From phone work to plumbing
A strange combination
To Missouri and the missiles
Chasing airlines and water

Two years and off to Germany
Special duty as HQ maintenance
Part time in a pizza joint
The “Roman Inn” if you please
Two years passed too quickly
Then back to Japan

Outside Tokyo this time
Still plumbing away
Got married and had children
Saw this wonderful land
From the inside
Took 75 orphans
To Tokyo Disney Land
The year it opened

After 5 short years
And no more rank to make
In my field of expertise
Became a computer programmer
Illinois in my sights
Seven interesting years
A divorce and remarriage
Two more children added on
Working at the club to make ends meet
From bar back to greeter
Greeter to bartender
Bartender to night manager
And a programmer by day
So much of my life changed
While much stayed the same

Then off to Hawaii
For my last uniformed move
Two years searching war zones
For MIAs and POWs
From my desk at Camp Smith
A perfect conclusion to a great career

But civilian life was on the horizon
First retirement move to Rapid City
Life was hard in South Dakota
Bartending for pennies
Family very unhappy
One more move at Air Force expense
And we took it

To the Emerald Coast of Florida
No job leads or guarantees
With a wife and four children
Determined to make it work
My first job was cash manager
At night in a water park
My wife worked the day shift
And we passed the baton once a day
Summer came to a close and the job
Went away for both her and me
I worked Wal-Mart for Christmas
Then got into weatherization
With state grants and federal funds
Seven years helping others
Programs closed, looking again
Back to plumbing building airport
Assistant manager of older company
Fire sprinkler project manager
Property damage project manager
And now a damage estimator
So many hats for this balding head

Most important of all of my hats
Is the one that I wear for the Lord
He’s seen me through all my troubles
And He’s got rewards waiting for me
He knows what I’m doing for Him
And that’s all I have to say

His hat is my favorite

You put a brick
on a brick
A stone over a stone
What hands and time
create
Stands.

Shave a shim
To stop the window
Pull a new cord
through the sash
What hands repair
beauty
lasts.

--

Work

Work
conscious
defined
'work'
is simply
continuing
on and
on and
on and
on
despite
the chill
of passion's
sparkle
dulled

GAMEMAKER

I sit at a desk,
Enclosed by partitions,
Stare at the screen,
Knowledge ammunition.

I wear my fake ears,
To block out the din,
Throw my mistakes,
In the trash bin.

When the phone rings,
I look at the I.D.,
I only pick up,
If the caller is mighty.

I rarely use pens,
'Cause they don't erase,
Programming is complex,
We’ve put men into space.

I pluck at my keys,
I twick them and twack,
When I'm writing code,
I strike with a whack.

My software is tested,
By primitive fools,
Who compare the source,
In files of spools.

When I am finished,
I sit back and I grin,
I grab a cold one,
And promptly log in.

To the game I've created,
With all the work and the plod,
In the ones and the zeroes,
I am a GOD.

And Yet, Here I Am

I imagine the works of writers before me,
and their accompanying author spirits,
standing witness against my writing,
judging my work as mediocre, nothing more
than teenage angst, dragged out into my thirties,
no better than leftovers forgotten, found years
past their Best Before dates, green and furry,
like Sesame Street puppets.

My verse, just childish lyrics, as deep and as riveting
as the cat in the hat, the fox in the box,
Inconsequential, Unimportant, Unimpressive…

And yet, here I am.

Writing this poem, committed to my work,
furiously typing away, scrambling for words --
perfect words – to properly express my art
in letters and space, nouns and verbs,
hoping I’ll see my work published, appreciated, enjoyed,
before I die -- unlike the works of those writers
standing behind me, now nothing more than ghosts,
easily blown away in a breeze.

Can you Work it out?

Always the same since the birth of time
when the first politician oozed out of the slime.

This question I ponder while they still exist -
if evolution's true why were politicians missed?

I have two jons
both pay
one with money
one with love
every morning
i wake her up
and get her ready
for school
a good life
an education
thens its off to work i go
braking my back
in that factory
it all pays off
when i see her
smile

It Works For me

It works for me this life of joy
that I have gained as a geisha boy,
serving my wife and others too,
daily happiness in what I do,
this world of excellent employ.

Could there be more to enjoy
were I in routine paid employ?
Writing, painting, film screening too,
it works for me, this life of joy.

No monthly check, no store-bought toy
could equal when someone calls, “boy”,
How can I be of aid to you?
It’s the most selfish thing I do.
It works for me this life of joy.

This is Our Work

Heidegger, Nietzsche, Virgil, Moreau
All lovers for an evening in my fireside chat
The leather bound scent of tomes extended through to chairs and velvet drapes
Their history seeping through my pores, intoxicating drift
Our semi-Parisian lair
Where we drift in and out of sleep
Who was she and why? Always why, date, history, motive
Why, asking questions, forging tentative theories
The keystone of our labor
Followed by a sip of black coffee, a stroke of the keys
Searching through piles of books for answers
Channeling Nabokov
Derring-do in order to reach conclusions
Virgil, a hint on Dante please
Occluding inferior scholars with my giant men
This is our work
B… what a fool, ha!
And when I write my book, he’ll blush
In a Parisian lair tied to books like wool unspun
Imaginary no, my fireside friends
We know the cream from the crop, shedding layers of ourselves
In silence by light
When the mind cannot bear another syllable
We haze, become foggy, dragging our fags
Relishing in our own brilliance
Singing our work to sleep
Dreaming dreams
Until morning breaks

Falling Down

I watch you hobble up stairs.
Watch you gobble lunch. Gargle.
Your speech is garbled.
You stroked three times.
Always alive.
Your face is a color.
Your pruned fingers still preen weeds.
I take you out to the garden to write.

by Kitchell Resimi, 2009

“E-911” By: Melinda Elmore

Phone rings
Hearts pound

It’s the 911 line
Wonder what’s wrong now?

Horrible accident
Small body
On the ground

All emergency personnel en route
Especially EMS
To help her out

Caller states, “It’s a child, not breathing, what now?”
Instruct CPR must begin
Hopefully it will save her in the end

EMS on the scene
“Launch helicopter”
Is what they scream

“Helicopter launched,
on the way”

Hope turns to heartache
When the words
“Cancel helicopter for its too late”

Little angel
Could not survive
No matter
How hard
We all tried.

By: Melinda Elmore

Coffee Girl


They see me at Walmart or Kroger,
the post office, out to dinner,
and give me that quizzical
I-know-you-from-somewhere look.

I let them "brew" for awhile
(so to speak)
while the recognition slowly
drips into their foggy psyche--
"Ah, you're the coffee girl."

I suppose I could find that offensive,
after all I am so much more than a "coffee girl"
I'm a wife, mother, writer, massage therapist,
I cook, I garden, I love to do yoga--
I fancy myself a well-rounded multi-dimensional woman.

But to many men and women in the community
I am the local coffee girl
(though barista sounds so much more exotic),
And, you know what? That's just fine,
because when I hand them their latte,
or cappuccino, or that steaming cup of Italian Roast,
I am fortunate enough to get to see
the first smile of their day.

UPON THE ROCK:

http://heartofareadywriter.blogspot.com/2009/04/april-22nd-upon-rock.html

Haiku: Modern Warriors

Modern warriors
fight to preserve the old ways.
It takes great effort.

“Work: Parenting”

They come with no warning label
No “Hazardous for your health” sign
Not even an Instruction Manual
Bundles of joy
Smiles, goo-gooing
Pooping and throwing up
These you can excuse
When your yearning ears hear,
“ma-ma” or “da-da”
Hearts melt and fold
Given the choice,
You’d sacrifice your very life for theirs

Labor was…well, just that
Long, painful, bloody
But when you emerged all that
Become but a distant memory

Teething, toddlerhood, teenagers
How did it go so quickly?
Driving, dating, saying “I do!”
Where did those years fly?

Then, the long-awaited day arrives
“Dad-Mom: We’re pregnant!”
Hearty congrats from dad
Ecstatic screams from mom

Life came full circle
Before conception, thoughts of you
Were merely in my head
Now, you are in my heart forever
A special place no one else can possess


By Teresa Lasher
© April 22, 2009

(an experiment in misdirected ekphrasis, with apologies to Keats:)

Ode On The Finest Worksong

Oh, rousing exultation of honest workman's thoughts!
Frozen, fixed forever on plastic "Document"
Thoreau and rearrangement, more discipline and strife
Let's not confuse our needs with what we merely want for laughs.
The passions and the pulse will echo, always amplified
By stolid guitar buzzing and by thunder-heavy drums.
When Michael wails out: "Take your instinct by the reins!"
I feel the urge to grab a shovel or a rake
To strike aside the modern, desk-bound man in me
And go outside to grow more calloused hands.
When sloth and idle thoughts lay waste to generations
We need this harsh reminder of a working life
Spoken by a happy band about to soar:
"Work is beauty; beauty is truth; truth is work --
That's all you know, and all you need to know!"

Gurgle, slosh,
Dribble, groan,
Trickle, swish,
Chortle, moan.
I run on noisy,
I declare.
Bet you hear me
Way out there!

“My Love”

Work doesn’t feel like work,
When you work with cats.

They are lovey dovey,
And nothing but adorable.
So, I have to clean a few cages,
Then it’s just playtime!

They rummage and roll,
Pillage and plunder,
Cry and whine,
Meow and kiss,
What more could you ask for?

They make my day complete,
And I’m proud to say that I love my job.

Grandpa at work

After weekends of creating circuit housing,
of re-priming the well, his hobbies in all seasons -
mowing and raking, and burning the brush,

I would take him frosty glasses of sweet tea,
and he would stand briefly
beside me, drinking in the twilight.

After evenings full of newspapers
priming the soil of his mind,
planning and dozing in his chair,
his body on the farmer time of his childhood,
asleep easily, up before the sun,

Every day he drove to work early,
parked as far from the door as he could
and walked.

Work before work -
a line drawn to prop up his words,
his life as straight and sharp
as the leveling planes kept in his orderly workshop
every footstep placed deliberately
one long rhythm measured and accounted.

Alternatives

could be crunching numbers, chasing twisters,
scrubbing toilets, wearing blisters
on my hands while digging ditches.

I could be filing tasx forms, sawing logs,
stocking shelves or slopping hogs
destined to be bacon.

I could have paper cuts from days of filing,
muscle aches from hours of piling
concrete blocks at building sites.

I could construct some kind of Ponzi scheme,
cheat my neighbors, but my dreams
might shake me, wake me up at night.

Instead, I'm grading essays, typing tests,
shaping minds, foregoing rest
while creating lesson plans.

Every single hour that passes,
I am sharing with my classes
the incomparable power of words.

I'm happy with the choice I made;
Sometimes I can't believe I'm paid
to do something I love.

Nancy Posey

Patience, George
By R. Chazz Chute

Wage ape and pay slave
peeling bananas for
the Man in the Yellow Hat,
curious how I’m always the
monkey, getting into trouble
and deeper debt
up to my tired leathery neck.
Makes me want to
throw my feces
at the cage keepers
who hold the keys
to this glass prison,
not of my making,
that somehow evolved
around me.
I don’t understand it.
I need to get a
Yellow Hat, too.

The Protestant Work Virus
By R Chazz Chute

God cursed us for the curiosity
He Himself gave us,
so naturally when I was 13
I worked in a warehouse,
an ant heaving furniture and boxes of
other people’s stuff
and taking God’s name in vain.
Carrying heavy things.
That’s the muck which
the ladder’s feet sits in,
the bottom rung is way up there.
You can see it, but it seems too far
to bother.
Two years later I was behind a counter
renting out porn to grim farmers
studying the floor
as I took their cash,
as we pondered
cold nights in a remote
clapboard shack,
the wind whistling through the holes
in the walls and their secret dreams.
The skin flicks must have kept them warm
for a few minutes, and then they were
back in rural Nova Scotia
with fat wives and that mix of
sweat and cow dung
that doesn’t go away
with a mere dozen washings.
That’s three things I really
really
don’t want to endure:
carrying heavy things,
work a farm,
and suffer retail’s empty hours.
So I built my own short ladder,
made my own jobs so
I wouldn’t have to work
for The Man (or my dad.)
But that first summer
putting fridges on trucks
is still with me.
I took God’s curse in vein,
an inoculation protecting me
from the weight of too much
ambition.
Work makes laziness
a rich chocolate virtue.
I won’t let anyone tell me different.
(So shut up!)
Give me a library to read
and books to write,
and many fictions is which to hide away,
far from heavy things.

Earl Parsons, you're a peach! Yours is the only one I've read - have to post and leave today.

Happy writing, all!

ROOM 322

Third Floor.
Another Evaluation to be done.
Knock on the door of room 320.
“Come on in”
Pale mustard curtain pulled around bed 2.
I slipped behind the curtain.
There on the edge of his bed
was a naked 81 year-old-man.

“This is the first sponge-bath of my whole life.
it’s been rather successful,
but it’s hard to reach my back
and it itches so”

“That’s easy to fix”
was my instant reply.
A wash cloth, then some powder
rubbed across his smiling back,
made us fast friends.
After all, who but a friend
sees you naked,
folley hanging,
with freckles, wringles
and chats as if you just saw each other yesterday.

I rub, he chats.
He tells me how desperately he wants to go home,
to pet and feed his cats.
They are his family now.
He tells of his wife,
their meeting,
loving to dance, garden, cook and camp.
Her amazing collection of LP’s.
How they enjoyed the movies
and reading to each other on long trips.
He says, the cats sit on the couch
while he watches movies and sometimes
he reads out loud to them.
Then she became ill
and for 4 years and 3 months he cared for her.
He said she died 2 months ago,
just two doors down in room 322, bed 1.

"Brick Worker"

She slams the hammer
and the brick breaks;
red dust sprays her eyes
and she can taste it, too.
After dark, the boss
drops coins on her palm.
She turns away, spitting grit
from her teeth, before
she eats the mango.

PERSPECTIVE

Depends how you look at it

Anything can be work
Drying that dish
Feeding that fish
Anything can be work

Work can be anything
Building that fence
Signing that legislation
Work can be anything

What are you working for?
Are you really working
When you do anything?
Is there a limit to working?
Anything at all?

there are things i do for money.
i pay the rent. i pay my bills.
i eat. sometimes i buy exotic fruits
just for decoration.
but, the real work is internal.
the real work is breathing.

Teaching

"Us dykes always do the extra work,"
my student said, helping me load
office supplies into the faculty room.
I didn’t answer, because to correct her—
"WE dykes always"—would be to condone
her probe. First day of class, covering
for her section’s absent teacher, my hair
buzzed to mirror my father’s post-chemo
fuzz, I didn’t want to get into it with her.
She and Josh sat in the back and whispered
all class. Josh, after switching into my section,
said they were trying to figure me out.
"She has such a dyky haircut! But
her movements are so feminine! What IS she?"
Sweet Josh, dead six years later at 29—
pneumonia—a friend saying, "His time here
was done, he was complete." As if we
could ever know. Driven by need
to categorize, in life as in grief, people
assumed one of three things when my hair
was buzzed: cancer patient—"How are you
feeling today, honey?," letting me use
the diner’s bathroom without buying food—
Buddhist nun—a pranam from a stranger
at the mall—or dyke—the student slinging
boxes, feeling me out for commonality, trying
to box me in so she could say she knew me.


All the lines in quotation marks should be italicized instead, but I can't do that here.

I was a School Bus Driver

My little daughter, at two,
curled on bus seat for hours.
Not the best place to raise her,
but at least she was with me,
not a daycare.
After the bad daycare
where the lady screamed at the children,
I took a job as a school bus driver.
Drove a small yellow
handicap van, Number 12,
picked up four times a day,
early morning high school shuttle,
middle school , then elementary kids.
The young ones and I had a deal –
if they were good all week,
which meant no getting up,
no hitting or throwing things
out the window, at each other,
on Fridays, we’d go
over the “surfside bump.”
This was a bump on a hilltop,
not too big, but large enough
to bounce really well, sending them
about a half foot off the seats.
They would put up their hands
like a roller coaster ride.
Made the bus children squeal,
and my daughter giggle.


Lori Desrosiers

job dissatisfaction

a thankless task --
cranking the engine
that powers the rollers
that squeeze the flesh
to produce the splurges
of piss, blood and mucus
that decorate
the master's walls
in various shades of brown

but somebody's gotta do it

Day 22 Work

the rhythm
of hanging clothes
is caressed by the breeze
of doing dishes
by seeing them clean

the rhythm
of raking brings
soft pain in my arms
of rocking a baby
weighted sweet breath

the rhythms
of working
echo in my body
blessed reminders
of jobs well done

I work for Marketplace Chaplains who supply chaplians to businesses.

CHAPLAINCY

4/22/09

Never a dull moment;
visit people at their workstations
in office cubicles,
under grease racks,
around print presses,
beside chrome-plating vats,
in body repair shops,
by sewage-pump trucks,
and an RV repair shop.
After relationships are established,
I might visit an employee’s home,
sometimes in jails,
or hospital psyche wards,
newborn nurseries,
or morgues,
with an occasional wedding
and funeral thrown in.
A joy to serve
The Living God.

those who say
your job
should not
define you
do not live alone
in a world
of couples
in a world
of contemporaries
who speak of
children and
grandchildren

do not
spend the
weekend cleaning
and cooking
in an effort
to make the
time pass
to make Monday
arrive to
hear the sound
of another
human voice

so say
those
who say
your job
should not
define you

When You Asked Me if I Enjoyed My Job

“You have a great job,”
I hear it often from unlikely persons.
It’s always easier to admire from afar
What some one else has gotten themselves into,
than to be in the thick of things, having actually to do it.
“I work hard at making it appear that way,”
I could say, but don’t
Instead I say, “That’s true.”
Thinking the definition of great reveals
less the actual vocation, more the quantity of envy
I enjoy.

The Twenty-Second Job Charm

droplets in a thin membrane
over-flow
coarse tears secrete secrets
slime pools
fanlike algae greens out
everyone
swims back after lunch
when I
scrub up again.

Work work work work work
work work work work work work work
work work work work rest.

Work?

My life is my work,
My work is my life
I’m self-employed
I’m the boss
I’m the organizer
I’m the scheduler
I’m the motivator
Even when I have no energy or motivation
It’s hard to tell in my life what is work
What is fun
What is family
What is maintenance
What is merely the act of survival
I write
I take care of people
I spend time with my family
I read
I study
I teach writing
I lead writers groups
I teach children’s church
I sing
I pray
I draw and paint
I swim, dance, and hike
I shop
I crochet
I watch TV
I cook and clean
I take care of the yard.
I play Scrabble and Canasta
I travel
I talk on the phone
I communicate online
I go out with my friends
I keep in touch with my four sisters
If I stopped any of it, would it matter?
Is it work?
Is it play?
Is it merely living?
I don’t know
I can’t tell one from the other

Another poem for today, just for fun:

"Trabajo" is the only word I know
That and “perfecto”
Oh, and “bueno” and “mucho”
Somehow they figure it out
Even when I forget to point.

Getting the Job Done


He hasn’t worked out
the details on the job

but he knows he’s got
to get to work, and he’s

going to work it out soon,
maybe after breakfast.

However it works out
it will be a-okay

but the work needs
to get done asap,

and if it doesn’t
work out quite the way

he plans then he’ll have
to work it out with

the manager. His work
is lonely but work

is the only thing
that keeps him sane.

He works hard, & he’s
the only one who

can get the job done.

IT’S EARTH DAY

but I’ll be spending it in court as lawyers
ask their questions. It’s how they earn their keep.
I’ll say there was a road I used to walk
till someone put a fence across it. That road was
there before my time, before any living
neighbor’s; dug in to dirt, eroding, sometimes
almost lost in meadow grass. Plaintiffs
will talk about right-of-way, a defendant
about trespass. I don’t have to be in court
till nine. It’s just 6:30. I’m eating
weeds –star-thistle, ripgut-brome – mowing
the right-of-way, making my road-edge
fire-safe. I spare the purple vetch and poppies,
milk thistle for the goldfinch; a fringe
along the creek for wild creatures with their
rights of passage. This road leads to another,
to a dirt track with a view of ridge
and canyons. The lawyers show us plats
and aerial photos, but have they tasted
the blue of lupine in a meadow
where road is almost lost,
unless a traveler knows to find it?

Monotonous,
the rotten list;
snooze, shit, shave, shower,
dress, drive, dazed, devoured.
Inside a circle suffocating my soul.
Reaching, awaiting extrication,
but nothing for my hand to hold.
No control, no alternatives, but to meet
the passed…
Ctrl-Alt Delete,
End Task.

I love my job
Maintaing a relationship is not hard work
When did rain start falling upward

Walking the Dog

It's the same every day for the human
except perhaps for the weather
Rattle the leash,
"Come here," snap it on, keys in hand
out the door, down the walk,
"Stop that!", "No!",
Hurry up!" , trying to control a recalcitrant
animal on the end of a lead.

From the dog's point of view.
every day is different, new scents
to be inhaled and savored, to entwine
deep within the canine brain and trigger
visions of prey, new loves,
of rivals for her affections, something
good to eat, something else good to roll in,
sniffing the doggie calling card
on lamppost and fireplug and tree.
Then there are the things he hears,
well beyond what the man comprehends
sirens screaming far, far away,
cats fighting, squirrels playing tag through
the piles of leaves that escaped
the lawn guy's leaf blower,
that big dog two blocks over
who is locked in the garage
and not happy about it
and of course there is all he sees
cars whizzing by, ripe for chasing,
ditto for bikers and skateboarders, blurs of motion
triggering a chase response,
debris on the sidewalk to be sniffed and muzzled
before he is yanked away from it with a "Leave it!"
when all he is doing is testing the parameters of his world.

Yes, every day is different for a dog.
It must be how you look at it.

Kind of a Working Man's Sonnet

I envy the man who loves his career
Found what he wanted, attacked without fear
But for the rest of us mis'rable slobs
Arriving each morn at meaningless jobs
It matters not whether unit or team
A job is a job, or so it would seem

Customer service is now deemed a joke
For all your questions some key you must poke
Pretending it matters, but what do we care?
We keep showing up, but aren't really there
Merely reflecting how management feels
And as for the job? It rarely appeals

You see we're stuck in some silly old rut
Waking each morn to that pain in our gut

Fading Memories

give me something to remember you by
don't make me work so hard
to keep the memories
of your soft lips against mine as we danced to our song
of your scent after we made love during that summer afternoon thunderstorm
of your smile - that beautiful, simple smile that melted my heart
or how we sometimes didn't have to say a word - our thoughts so in tune with each other's

please just give me something
so I don't have to spend more nights trying to capture what is slowly drifting away from me

working from home
has many pluses
as many minuses
it's still viewed
with suspicion
by traditional
workplaces bound to
mundane workspaces

working the NYT's
crossword is a nice
reversal of the workweek:
they start easy
get progressively
harder until casual
Friday's is anything but

looking for work
from home or not
employed or not
is hard but
not the hardest
my real work
is wondering which
book to read next
and after that knowing
the payoff is non-monetary
but necessary

For the Love of Gardens

Halfway across the world
Mom tells me my yard’s
a mess. Must have some-
thing to do with shovel-
fulls of roof snow thrown
onto flowerbeds or gravel
mixed with several feet
of snow pushed into
hibernated lawns. From
here, it just sounds like too
much work, especially
after watching the land-
lord till the garden, mow
the lawn, fertilize oregano,
hoe around asparagus &
rhubarb, and plant lavender
beside the wooden front door.

professing

university students are great
it's the bureaucracy:
the endless forms
the online requests
it's the endless meetings
nothing ever gets done
or gets decided.
there is no organization.
what's the workload expectation?
i made the mistake of asking once.
noone knows.
we need you to do more says my chairman.
more what? i say
he doesn't know.

my best friend at the university
worked so hard she put herself
in the hospital.
now she's out working just as hard
again.

you either are that person everybody hates
who's famous -- researches, publishes, goes
on CNN --
or you are the person everyone says they
love but truly
despises
like my friend who runs everything
fills out every form
attends every meeting.

being an adjunct is horrible
but being tenured is its own
steady slide into depression
and hopelessness.

the answer?
fair pay for all teachers
the end of tenure as we know it
and a society that
cares about and values learning.

Pacific Pantoum

The ropes are drenched gray
On the harbor's brittle dock.
The nets are dumped today,
But the men wear no clocks.

On the harbor's brittle dock,
Night heaves its body down.
But the men wear no clocks,
They don't see the light of town.

Night heaves its body down.
Hands wrestle fish in the dark.
They don't see the light of town,
Their eyes knotted to their work.

Hands wrestle fish in the dark.
Sore labor's flesh has stains.
Their eyes knotted to their work,
Sailors on deck complain.

Sore labor's flesh has stains
From time spent on the ocean.
Sailors on deck complain.
The sails heaved by drenched men.

From time spent on the ocean,
They long to step on dry land,
Where sails heaved by drenched men
Will not deny their words, their brand.

Parenting

Parenting isn't work,
though it can drive you berserk,
clean your room, take a bath,
look at your floor! Make a path!

Do you homework right now,
You got another A, oh wow!
Did I say I was proud of you?
And will be what ever you do?

You are our son, are youngest one,
You make our life full of fun,
but also filled with worry too,
But it is worth it, that is true.

You do not like all the rules,
you think grownups are just fools,
But when your grown you will see
they made you into who you will be.

Did I say parenting isn't work?
What I thought! I'm such a jerk.
It's hard work, but please to fret,
it's the best job you can get...

"Necessary Love"



A telling sign
As to what my mind wishes would be
Every time I dream
About work
When I punched keys in Texas
When I posted missives in southern Cal
When I ran this place here in Arizona
It always involves romance
Not necessarily with a co-worker
But embraces happen
And kisses are exchanged
I guess it’s the only way my mind
Knows how to rationalize
Why I go to work everyday

Seek Ye All

They say it’s only work if you don’t enjoy it,
but I can’t agree. It’s a job, no matter what you do, since
there is always something that impedes on contentment
some niggling detail that you worry at until you find
your fingers covered in blood. Negative thoughts, hurt, regret,
inadequacies that you never quite squashed. There are too many
books proponing happiness in just five minutes. Which is entirely
possible, but we can’t help but worry that stone. Work is just the
easiest of scapegoats. Gifts are given everyday if we can only recognizes them.

“Work”

Effort
So much effort
Just
Just to wake up
Just to get out of bed
Just to move
To breathe, to think, to live
Why?

Housework

Housework is never ending.
It is a job that I do every day.
Dishes that need washing,
beds that must be made.
Furniture to be dusted,
floors that I must sweep.

( work )

***
the recital
***

it is work
she says
to love a man
has only
sons. she stands
as an usher stands;

if I sit for god
I will sit
last. and then

on the schoolbooks of Adam.

Suburban Sidewalk

The mouths of houses open wide
spitting cars onto the drive,
so I hurriedly walk by.
I hear the swish-swish sound
of my jacket as my arms pump,
the hum of engines as they zoom past
on the wide black ribbons of asphalt,
the bird's melodies draped in the trees.
Step, step, step say my sneaker clad feet
as I proceed down the cement fringe
that borders both sides of the street.
I am working out the stress,
so inhale, exhale, breath and release!

Part-time typist needed

It was a local weekly
piecework
five cents a column inch

Not bad back in the sixties
a break
from wife and motherhood

Time passes and things change
more work
and new technology

closet sized computers
now reign
thought it was amazing then

time passes and things change
learn more
now they're called word processors

walk into the future
what's 'dos'
cybertext the program

too labour-intensive
try mac
see your work up on the screen

fast and furious now
updates
use the new program right now

and then -- who would have known
the web
the world is an open book

now anyone can do it
my job
I leave it to the young ones.

Charity Work

"Here abideth faith, hope, and charity -
These three, but the greatest of these is charity!"
Said Father, repeating the Scripture
On which he based his sermon around,
And there was something deep about that word
"Charity" which is something I must work on.

And in the labs around the world
Animals die - unless
Those with charitable hearts
Speak out loud and clear -

I don't want to, I really don't want to
Write those harsh clean logical letters -
I mean I really don't want to.

And I seethe with anger
When real fur - the product of animal torture
Is strutted about on sizzling streets
Like Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards,
For even shorts can be made of real fur -
Unless
Those with charitable hearts speak out
Loud and clear.

I don't want to - I mean I really don't want to
Break away from my beloved verse
To write scathing prose -
I mean I really don't want to,

But I remembered Father's words in church,
And St. Paul's so long ago,
And I picked up my pen and raised my voice
Along with those of other charitable souls.

And in the labs around the world
Scientific progress rapidly advances
Through studies not involving animals
And the doctor, the lawyer, and the actress
And even the scholar
Are stunning in synthetic fur.

Because many who didn't want to -
I mean they really didn't want to -
Write those letters in a spirit of charity.

The lives of the tiny white mouse
And the graceful leopard
And others who cannot speak for themselves
Are saved by the words
Of those who wrote
With faith, hope, and charity.

Sixteen

Driving through downtown looking up
at the G. Fox, I wish myself inside. Come sixteen,
I want to work there on the perfume-floor
with the slender girls who tuck in their blouses
and nip nylon runs in the bud with clear
nail polish: bending over, dabbing on, fanning dry.

From the backseat, I tell you as much. Half-
listening as you drive, you speak roughly to me; inform
me that G. Fox won’t be around by the time I’m sixteen—
what with the world in the state it’s in. You bring up

missiles and where they are pointed. But I don't want
to think about that, all I want is to work in G. Fox
getting discounts on perfume for ma and cologne
for you, daddy. I'd get off at closing time and catch

the S bus home. Baby, you say, this world is
coming to an end and you mean it— so sure
G. Fox will be blown to bits and I won't even get
to see sixteen.

Work in Progress

The pages of your novel number 400
and second-draft paragraphs – white sails
blown full of metaphors and asides –
are off course, pushed by imagination and caffeine
into a see lane of boring doldrums.
A sloop with Irene, Third Draft gilded
on the prow of a work doc folder founders:
the turnbuckle of transitions has frayed
rigging, misplaced tenses crowd the foresail
of when what happened to whom, and timing is
that warning red sun of morning
sailors ought take notice of. You are
color blind, especially at daylight and dusk,
knowing more in dreams and half-waking night
when the stars of your story slip silver
and phosphorescent green as surely as tides,
and the 400 wind-driven leaves of fancy
are concise, balanced, lovely as a perfect
pearl inside a hinged shell, unopened.

The ink flows from my brain
To the pen
The brain cells travel
Mixing with the ethers
And the muse
My thoughts
Hand
Pen
Paper
Alive
One being
One ever-present
Omniscient
Luminescent
Life
That breathes
With the emotion
Of an idea
The matter of the mind
The work of the ages
I write

Dianne Ryan, GREAT outlook, I want YOUR job--RMAtwater
Darrell Teubner: Good for you, I like it. RMA
Diane Rowland: Here's YOUR pay, "Kudos" on reflecting MY JOB.
Tanja Cilia: My daughter would love it (maybe). She wants to be an actress. I told her that the great acts of life are pereformed inside the walls of your home. Good job. Reminds me of the famous poem "The Girl I Used to Be.
Nancy Devine: My mother would love it, the eternal launderer.
Celia S.: "I tried" I really did> To get my daughter to stay with violin lessons after buying her a nice new violin. She opted out for electric guitar--(I presume Jane Eamon uses an acoustic guitar for good outcome)so i gave her mine from "the Sixties", my rock 'n roll guitar of the band "Rich Atwater & the Astronauts" which resulted in 4 music CDs all available at www.cdbaby.com or at www.3swanspublishers.com both in cassette and CD format. But i like your poem, even though at Christmas time I acquiesced to buy "Valya" a drum set she wanted! Cover your ears!Leslie Pasquin: Great expression, I visualize my daughter's birth--delivered by an Air Force Captain at Scott AFB.
RJ CLARKEN: I am a Mom Great Kudos from "Mr Mom" the "Dad"
Earl Parsons: Great reflections of a traveling military man turned to God. I see Aroostook county in my head, and all the trails you speak of that have similarly crossed my path around the world as a military man, retired to Florida and in the "wake" of God's arms! See my poem below on the final look!
Marie Vibbet: I see my brothers hands in your poetic work, he is a brick layer in Utah (3 of my brothers work--masons)
Demsy "Jefferson" Monticello" Interesting reflection!
Rachel Gurevitch: YOU are published, appreciated, enjoyed on these pages of POETIC ASIDES. The poetic world of Living Poets knows YOU,
I'm running out of time to write Kudos so let me give KUDOS to all who WRITE and REFLECT, I see some wonderful RELECTIONS all the way down through today's prompt. Mine are herein below:

THE COMMON MAN (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 22, 2009
(or The Working Man)

Steadfast, earnest in his call,
True to the ties that be,
The common man, not known to all
Is the salt-of-the-earth you see.

His thoughts now turn to Jesus,
His heart belongs to Jesus,
He loves because of Jesus,
The Savior of us all.

Homebred, clay in 'the Potter's hand'
Without a care in the world,
Willing to do what the job demands,
Beyond the control of fame and gold.

His thoughts now turn to Jesus,
His heart belongs to Jesus,
He loves because of Jesus,
The Savior of us all.

Dignified by the work he does
To sustain his family's faith.
Honest and true to the one's he loves,
A public spirited man of worth.

His thoughts now turn to Jesus,
His heart belongs to Jesus,
He loves because of Jesus,
The Savior of us all.

Courage to do, and the will to dare
For the cause of good and right;
Great is the man who kneels in prayer,
And appeals to God each night.

His thoughts now turn to Jesus,
His heart belongs to Jesus,
He loves because of Jesus,
The Savior of us all.

Status, position, pretending to be,
These are the things to ban;
Faithful and true to himself, Indeed
God loves the common man.

His thoughts now turn to Jesus,
His heart belongs to Jesus,
He loves because of Jesus,
The Savior of us all.

Employment

a Jesse James poem

Jesse – now he’s a boss man like any other.
He's just lookin’ for me to work hours
unfamiliar to most folk – likely
when night’s chewin’ on the sun like a wad

of tobacco, gettin’ ready to spit it out.
He’s not one for compliments, but he makes
sure I get my share. I ain’t no scholar, so I
don’t count it none. I just say Thanks Jesse.

I wanna keep my proper place. Like I said,
Jesse is the boss man. He ain’t ask me to shoot
no one yet and I haven’t seen a need to, but he
will time comin’ – test my loyalty. Jess don’t

know it – I’ll say I can’t cause I knows I can’t.
Not the way he done it – for fun it seems.
Guess I’ll get myself fired then – from a job
and between the eyes. Workin' - it's a bitch.

i love my job
but school is ending
every students heart throbs
the summer is impending

school is ending
and in OKC i don't have a work secured
the summer is impending
so i'll probably be broke all summer

in OKC i don't have work secured
but i'll be able to write
so i'll probably be broke all summer
with skating all day then stay up all night

i'll be able to write
i mite get a job just maybe
with skating all day then stay up all night
or find some other work to keep me busy

i mite get a job just maybe
but in the fall when summer ends
i'll find some other work to keep me busy
when i'm not hanging out with friends

but in the fall when summer ends
if all goes according to plan
when i'm not hanging out with my friends
i'll be sitting here in the library once again

if all goes according to plan
this student won't sob
i'll be sitting here in the library once again
i love my job

I'd like to work on rhyming this poem, but I don't have time now because, uh, I'm at work. (I'm an editor, but I used to be a music critic.)

Re-creation

As Kiedis flings his hair about the stage,
as lighters catch the weed and raise it up
to lips and lungs that suck the magic in
and folding chairs slam shut as balding dads

(some younger than the band, older than me),
the kids, the hicks, the prettier girls are raptured
flesh and soul, I check my lens and catch
guitar god Frusciante in my sight.

My hips give thrust to Flea’s marrow-deep thrum
and on my tattered pad my pen might drum
like Smith, though half-assed, hardly Smith-worthy,

and all my notes, disposable, will drift
away while all their notes, unseeable,
endure. This second-handiwork: my job.

Working


The phone is ringing
I drop the pencil
Push past the glue
And paint
To grab it
Spouting off my
Opening phrase
Without a thought
Talking talking
Assessing
Evaluating
Clearing energetically
As I sketch and draw
And signify
All life on hold
For the duration
Calls over
Take a step back
Breathe in deep
Grounding myself out
Back to my project
Til the phone
Rings
Again

Day 22

My Life
--------

There's got to be more
than this nine to five.
Something that I love
To help keep me alive

Day after day
With all this commotion.
Like a mined numbed robot
going through the motions.


I need to breakaway
and become a fighter.
And live out my dream
of becoming a writer.

#22 WORK

If you love it,
It really isn’t work
If it’s your dream job
The one you’ve always wanted
And if
It pays enough to live comfortably
And if
It encompasses your passion
It can only be
Your life’s purpose
And it’s not really work

We write, paint, draw, build
We are made in His image,
And so we create.

Repairing Bicycles in the Rain
(ShangHai)

It doesn’t matter
that the streets are awash
in muddy rivulets.
The red orange yellow
green blue indigo violet
of rain gear streaks by
despite the weather.
On almost every corner
men squat with their pumps
and tin cans filled with all kinds
of nuts and screws—
an assortment of rusty parts
saved from other seasons
because bicycles will break,
and people must work,
and get to their jobs.
They don’t seem uncomfortable
on the wet sidewalks
just too poor
to let the dirty rain
interfere with earning a living.

Poet's Note: On The Common Man--inspired by the words of Abraham Lincoln, who said: "God must have loved the common man because He made so many of them."
Since we have given credit to the "working man" it is likewise necessary to give credit to "the working woman"---here is my take on the subject at hand:

Sculpturing a Likeness of the Divine
(or The Greatest WORK of All)
(C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 22, 2009

Ah, Motherhood, how sweet
the joy can be---
To teach her children right
from wrong;
And truth and righteousness to see.

There is a God above enthroned,
And if we but could part
The veil of doubt, released in truth,
Then one could see the chart:

For in the course of tutorship
A faithful mother shines
With light and glory in her role
To cultivate the youthful minds.

No other work can equal hers.
No skill important as may seem
Can take the place in eminence
What e’r the world may deem.

Not like the artist hers may be,
On canvas paint the beautied form.
Nor like the sculptor hers to chisel,
On marbled statute well adorned.

She may not place the noble words,
As author, with embodied thoughts of power.
Nor capture melodic sentiments
To express the musicians graceful hour.

But help of God, and Motherhood
Can rend the greater part, enshrine,
To develop a human soul for eternity---
Sculpturing the likeness of the Divine.

Many who have blessed the entire world
With light of genius, holiness, and truth
Owe the mainspring of their successful influence
To a praying, Christian mother, like the Biblical Ruth.
=======================================================

Poet's Note:
To all the mothers and women of the world who have taken the time to work with figurative "hammer and chisel" to help carve out those who come under their tutorship for greater possibilities in the outcome of life

Ballad of A Gate Guard

Arise and wait for traffic to begin.
Engine rumble heard ahead of sensor shriek
Announcing arrival of the first to be logged in.
Rig up has begun, foretelling a busy week.

Trucks arrive.
Trucks depart
We must account
for each of them
until this job is through.

Tower is up, routine settles in and patterns do emerge.
Supplies and parts brought by trucks of every size and hue
Crew comes and goes as their shift cycles converge
And salesmen by the dozens at the gate do queue.

Trucks arrive.
Trucks depart
We must account
for each of them
until this job is through.

TD1 brings pipe and trucks laden with cement
Accompanied with pumper and hoses
After casing crew to depth extent
Place pipe that the hole encloses.

Trucks arrive.
Trucks depart
We must account
for each of them
until this job is through.

Mud Logger with Radioactive warning
Followed by casing crew, pipe and cement,
Warn that TD2 is spawning
A second lull until drill again begins descent.

Trucks arrive.
Trucks depart
We must account
for each of them
until this job is through.

TD3 has arrived and job finishes with a flurry
Rig down is as hectic only in reverse
Flatbeds roar through the gate always in a hurry
As to the next drill site they disperse.

End of job brings joy and sorrow
Whether well is dry or made
Out of work come tomorrow
Spending time once again unpaid.

Trucks arrive.
Trucks depart
We must account
for each of them
now this job is through.

Tuner

For 30 years he helped make beauty
sublime, tightening strings, setting
pins, covering hammers with felt.
He heard them, felt them, you might say,
not like most, as entire pieces,
symphonies, etudes, sonatas,
but as single sounds, white
notes, black sharps, even
the almost inaudible creaks and groans
of lever and pedal, bearing and spring.

Now, when the ears no longer hear
the fine distinction between in-tune
and out, he sets them on velvet, jack
and key, wippen and spoon, hearing
inside the singular perfection of memory.

Habitat for Humanity

They provide the hammers and nails;
a little instruction goes a long way,
we bring our spirit and enthusiasm
and say our prayers for the day.

In the end a family knows
how many strangers show their love.
Habitat homes are built from heart
and many blessings from above.

Eleven years since I began
with nails and hammer in my hand,
rewards are the new friends made
with tender hugs is how I’m paid.

The Little Red Hen

Who will help me launder these clothes?
Who will help me cook this dinner?
Who will help me rake the yard?
Who will help me paint this wall?
Who will help me sweep the garage?
Who will help me vacuum these crumbs?
Who will help me change the sheets?
Who will help me scrub the sinks?
Who will help me take out the trash?
Who will help me do the dishes?

Not I, said the husband!
Not I, sang the littlest child!
Not I, barked the dog!
Not I, belted the oldest child!
Not I, screamed the middle child!

Then I shall do it all, said the mother
And she laundered, and dried, and raked
and painted, and swept and baked,
vacuumed, and changed and scrubbed
took out the recycling and trash and filled the tub.
She cleaned the children and walked the dog
did the dishes and removed the shower clog
picked up the toys and mopped the floor
and finally replaced the hinge on the door.
Finally, after the children were put in their beds,
Momma sat down, and her husband said
“Do you mind if I go out for a while? I had a really stressful day”

Sister

She arrives when the priest is not in
there is only a secretary
who recognizes her immediately.
Her needs are valid but
she upsets the balance of charity
with too many requests.
She launches her shpiel
but the secretary isn’t biting.
She asks when the priest will return
and gets an evasive answer.
Sensing defeat, she tries one last time
asks the secretary to buy her a cold soda,
but the secretary
voice thick with disdain
says she carries no cash.
Defeated, she leaves.
Her day is not yet half over.
This stop has cost her two miles of walking
and two bus trips in ninety three degree heat.

A Necessary evil.

Work is a necessity,
Born out of cities,
Deadlocked in battle,
for all of us cattle.

For my grandmother, now passed:

Idle Hands

her hands
deeply furrowed lines
wring her knuckles dry
like wet flour sack towels
and twisted donuts
frying in lard

her hands
wrapped in yarn
more colorful
than her life
crocheted into patterns
too fancy to keep

her hands
nails singed yellow
from stoking the wood stove
with kindling split
her sunrise work
while children slept

her hands
on the seventh day
thankful in prayer
idle only
for the split second
they held onto the bead

Surviving

Married
thirty-eight years?
How do you do it?
The things you carry
can keep you alive.
Survival kit:
fire and light,
water and food,
signal mirror,
compass,
humor and forgiveness,
love and hope.
Together
thirty-eight years?
How do you do it?
Work.

April 22 work related


At the bottom of the orchard,
just beyond the forest's edge,
lays our only claim to water:
a creek two feet wide and shallow.
The work of clearing it each spring
of rotting leaves and broken limbs
is easily worth the effort.
When we arrived, most parts of it
were buried in a decade's dust-
detritus of the trees and shrubs.
Now it runs musical and clear
on past the orchard, escorting
our guests up the long gravel lane.
The leaves moulder into compost.
Branches will dry on the woodpile
to warm next winter's frozen air.
It's good to keep your channels clear.

The Write Job

Pen in hand I sit
puzzling out a rhyme.
Carefully each line I craft,
and each couplet falls into its place.
Sometimes the magic’s there,
and sometimes the poem soars.
Upon the best of these days
I look at the work
laid out on my desk
and wish
that I could get paid for this.

LIFE: THE TOUGHEST JOB I"LL EVER LIVE
(...and the most rewarding)

Notably absent from these "pages",
not present with these poet/sages,
Has been me, Walt by name,
who now will enter in this game.

My own horn hits some sharps at times,
as do you'll notice, some of my rhymes,
embarrassed man of many skills
(and some of which have paid the bills)

But the "job" I'll choose to fulfill my part
will surely come right from my heart,
and touch a few along the way,
humbled when I hear them say...Yep, that's Walt.

So in a series I will try to
describe this "job" that I've applied to,
A job of happiness and strife
A job I like to call "my life".

So when I'm done you'll understand
a little more about the man
who's more than repartee and rhyme
Come read my "work" if you have the time.

This is the prologue to my tale
I'll ply my craft hoping not to fail,
This will take work, I will not lie,
so on that alone I have complied to the prompt.

(To Be Continued...)

Work Is a Conspiracy

T here must have been a time
in history when there was no such thing
as "work."

I suspect that each morning
a person got up from his snug straw pallet,
went outside the cave,
and freely harvested his breakfast
of berries right off the bushes
and a handful of nuts.

Once in a blue moon,
he might confer with his neighbors
and round up a hunting party
to kill some flesh for protein,
but most of the time
salads and veggies
were enough.

He might tidy up the cave
and take a nice walk
up the mountainside,
but only when he felt
good and ready.

The idea of having to wake up
at a certain time and perform
tasks for someone else
or go hungry
would seem like slavery
to him.

At what specific time
did we all willingly
submit to ceding over most
of our precious time on this earth
to "work" and "earning a living?"

It's one of those tricky little words
like Progress and Growth.

American Haiku (5-7-5):

My Work

Huge canvas lay bare
paint mixed artist brushes stroke
time passes--portrait

Day Off.

I've been out all day, to the last rays
Of the sun. Saw nothing at all.
Tramped stubble-fields left to graze,
Weed choked bottoms, filled with dead fall.
Shotgun grew heavy as I walked,
Feet grew sore, back began to ache,
Thirst came early, as I stalked,
Sun began to bake.
I'm hungry and I'm tired,
My head and ears are abuzz.
I'm not quite as fired
Up as this morning I was.
I relax. But something rises from the murk.
"You've had fun old buddy. Tomorrow it's back to work!"

Donald R. Anderson
Feeling Guilty

Internet access
here on the job, I write when
I have some free time.

this is a test
but not a real test
just a test
to see if the test will work
then it will no longer be a test

I answer the phone, quickly pick up my bag,
the one with the domestic violence restraining orders.
I am of humble service to those who are threatened
not by religious radicals from a far away land
but by those who are closest to them. Acts of
terriorism - they are battered, held captive
in their own home, threatened, no decisions
are allowed, their rights and freedoms
as human beings are taken away. I walk
into the judicial center, turn the corner
that leads me to a room of that holds
privacy and worst-kept secrets. I
open the door and there you sit - scared, sad,
silent and bruised. I sit down, across the table
from you. I reach my hand out to you,
I introduce myself to you. I know you
are scared and sad and I am aware
of your bruises. I am here to help you
understand the courtroom procedures
involving domestic violence.
I will do everything within my power
to help you. I am not hear to judge you. I
am not here to tell you what to do. I
am here to guide you, if you wish for
guidance. I am here to give you information,
if that is what you wish. I am here
to listen, if you wish to talk because I
know I can never reach you
until you are ready to be reached. I
am here to give you a quite ear,
an unspoken word and a kind voice
to say, "I am here for You."

Biting the Bullet (by Jeanetta Chrystie)

Time to “bite the bullet” again-
get things done, accomplish, words scattered
across a too-white page.
My teeth taste of metal, grinding jaws-
an aching all too familiar,
an ending all too distant.

"The Lucky Ones"

The lucky ones are
the ones who can
work, to earn
an income, to support
their spouse, their mom, or just to take
a friend out to lunch.

The lucky ones are
the ones who are able
to work, to drive
a car, to walk, to pedal
their way to another place, to apply
their brain, their hands, and on Fridays, receive
a paycheque for the bank.

The unlucky ones are
the ones who sit
alone, empty of dreams, devoid
of ability to work, who watch
out the window the
people to the subway flocking,
feet racing in time to a hidden clock, eyes blind
to the ones within watching.

The lucky ones can work.

Poems I loved today:

Rose Anna - Room 322: Lovely way to tell a story in a poem

R Chazz Chute - Patience, George: Fabulous creativity!

Genevieve Fitzgerald - Don't know if you are just the author or if you are actually experiencing this now--but I so feel for you with the colic and the reminder to love through the crying! This is wonderful piece!

Raul Sanchez - Minimum wage: I just really like it. You express what I think all the time and "stripes spangled sky" is fantastic!

I'm finding work introuvable
And my savings quite removable
Pursuing it's abominable
In ways as let unfathomable

Yet hope is not friable
Not all results unfavorable
And momentum at times gatherable
I try to be amenable

I am after all biddable
And all together capable
My services reliable
And product undeniable

But I find my ego flappable
The impact is incalculable
My mood ever malleable
And sometimes barely viable

I hope you'll find forgivable
My being at times inconsolable
Unreasonably vulnerable
Or interaction depreciable

Which is not to say excusable
As I'm not yet immovable
It's all of course remediable
If I find a solution workable

"Morning Rush"

The push of power
and survival
flows through
Manhattan
feet moving quickly
shoes polished
or not
compete for space
the steam of fresh coffee
at the lips of early risers
waiting for the day to unravel them.

The Art of Work

When I was young, to be called lazy
was the greatest insult. Like robots
my parents valued efficiency and hard work
at the expense of anything else.
Creativity was unnecessary unless it meant
a new way of cooking dinner or a faster method
of clearing brush or harvesting corn. The arts
were luxuries we could hardly afford.

A working writer is an oxymoron
in my father's eyes. There is no sweat
involved, no dirt, he sees no danger.
I can not explain that art is a blade
turned inward, two-edged and shining,
an artificial intelligence that cuts to the truth
leaving the artist in tatters, sweating
and exhausted after a hard day's work.

Taylor--I wish I knew where you lived so I could go look at it. Not really asking you know--can't come anyhow--just saying, it sounds like a good place. But I'm happy with the little bit of Eden I've been granted.

Computer Crash


We work together to make it start.
You say close the windows
but my screen's frozen.
One second it was slow,
now it's stopped
and won't shut down.
Not even an error
message we can't decode.
Neither of us knows for sure what to do.

Neither of us knows for sure what to do.
We can't decode each other's minds
or decide who's at fault.
I want to shut down,
you tell me to stop right now.
We agree to take it slow; a second chance,
hope time will thaw
closed emotions, help us open up more.
We work together, restart.


Sarah James, UK.

Shireen, I have toyed in my mind today with how I could write this very message. Well stated. Thank you for sharing this.

A BAG OF LEMONS
By: Hannah Bowles


I got up to walk to the store
for a bag of lemons. Everyone
was still in bed I turned on
the coffee and cleaned out the
remnants of old seed in the
feeder. Filled it up while the
birds chirped their gratitude
above me. The mist filled air
blankets my hair and the fuzz
of my woolen sweater. The store
is incandescently lit and I regret
that the walk wasn't longer. "Hey
girl," says my favorite produce
tender, Amy, "Your free, no baby
huh?" "Yeah, he's at home with
daddy," we chat a bit about cabbage
and bouts of bad chicken sandwich
she had last Friday. "Have a great day!"
I say as we part and continue on our
way. The English muffins were on sale,
I get maple syrup sausage, a bag of
lemons and a bottle of acai and
pomegranate juice. Checks out lines
are few this early and I wind up
behind my pregnant friend Michelle
and her son Sebastian. "What are you
doing here?" I question with surprise.
We chat about my wedding in five days
and the baby shower of hers the weekend
before. We make our way out and I help her
load up her environmentally happy totes of
nourishment. Picking up the pace the wind I
embrace as I feel it fully. The pungent smell
of coffee greets me as I walk in the door.
"Momma!" my boy shouts with glee as I round
the corner. Breakfast is on in all its
delicious glory. Sweet hugs and kisses and
words of how he'll miss us. Daddy is going
to bring home the bacon. Caiden and I watch
a nature program, I type a line or two and
answer his questions of, "What's that, what's
this?" This is work for me I guess my lot in
life for now. The breeding ground for the love
and joy that surrounds us as a family unit, that
it might touch those around us that we meet on
our journeys and in our so called work of life.

Real Work?

Two men climb rickety ladders
Amidst the gnarly branches of ancient olive trees
Silver crystalline leaves, in icy fall wind
Bring bounty down

Darked skinned families crawl
On loamy soil
Digging deep
For earth made treasures

Sturdy, gray haired man with bruised knuckles
Lays brick on brick
And stone on stone
And restores order in relentless rain

A single, tired mother
Clears away dirty plates
Remainders of someone else’s meal
Feeding to be fed

Bent shoulders, one hundred tiny women
Sew endless seams
In a thunderous, sweltering warehouses
Clothing for a million backs

Uniformed, restless peacekeeper
Invites unseen enemies
To shoot to kill
Protecting sleeping strangers

White face, white shirt
Staring at a luminous screen
In an air conditioned office
Answers waiting email

Librarian for a day,
Dewey Decimal; old friend
Shelved books with people
Pagemaster once again.

MRS. V- Excellent

WORK IT OUT


When life threatens to
Overwhelm you with its complexities,
Ram you with its absurdities, and
Kill you with its kindnesses,
It's time to take out the trash,
Time to center yourself back to
Om sweet Om, and
Unleash the real you hiding inside,
Time to work on it, work with it,
Time to work around it, through it.
Unburden yourself. Do you think
Others care about the child
That screams and cries within you?
It's up to you to find your own
Kingdom where that child can
Reign supreme, be happy, find
Order and meaning in his life.
Work it, work it all out.


(April 22, 2009) Dianne Borsenik

The Bishop's Bejeweled Skull


Because the Holy Man will not say that Christ is both fully human and fully divine, he is strung up by his feet upon the cross and stabbed with arrow heads in the hopes he will recant his statement of: the supposed Godhead was born as man and transformed into God.

The priests feed the Holy Man communion, pounds of wafers which cause him to foam at the mouth. The bread is chased by red wine, which turns the foam red. He beats his bound feet against the cross's heads and uses his hands to pull up against the base.

He dies. Upon noting the stillness of his body, the priests take up their knives and chisels and strip the flesh from his bones. They gray of his skull startles them. They suffer from a mass dream in which they are surrounded by darkness. A voice says: dress him with stone and immediately, precious gems fall from out the sky. The priests awake and are left facing the humble bone.

They place glittering rubies in his eyes, line an assortment of jewels along the length of his jaws, covering the teeth, so that as he smiles, he sparkles. Garnet, emerald, sapphire, and topaz cover his scalp so that he has hair. The priests suffer from nightmares of the baldness hidden beneath and in their fear, they shave their heads, and streak red dye from former hairline to nape of the neck.

They take to avoiding their reflections. Every mirror is shattered and the glass burned. No one sings. Gags of cotton, the fibers tightly woven together, are pushed into the mouth to hold the tongue down. Observing such martyrdom is work they are ill-prepared for; the more they neglect themselves, the more attractive the death skull looks.

a dream apart from my dreams

When will these lonely nights finally pay off?
My image has to be wrong, I can’t be real;
writing & working like a Spartan, for what?
Even my desires show me no reverence

My image has to be wrong, I can’t be real
with anyone—who knows what hides in these lines?
Even my desires show me no reverence;
perpetual sleep won’t do, I tell myself

With anyone who knows, what hides is these lines?
Callous ambition, planning out my remnants;
perpetual sleep won’t do, I tell myself,
though my eyes have grown heavier than my heart

Callous ambition, planning out my remnants,
friends don’t understand—I need a helping hand;
though my eyes have grown heavier than my heart,
I sigh—she won’t know she was in this poem

Friends don’t understand, I need a helping hand,
“Writing & working like a Spartan, for what?”
I sigh; she won’t know she was in this poem.
When will these lonely nights finally pay off?

--starky morillo

WORK

It’s the end of the day
and I want to go home
but corporate is buzzing
with their regular noise
and I’m left exasperated
at the faustian front
of how corporate functions
with such a weak base
I’m either getting the
silent treatment or
taking the heat for the
transgressions of past employees
and it’s never about the
actual work or the
expertise for which
I was hired and I don’t know
why I do this every day
I can’t imagine
it’s worth the pay
or worth losing my life
to the corporate beast
I should have quit
a long time ago
when the sins of corporate
were bestowed on me
and I watch the traffic of
late afternoon rush hour
and I think of Jackie Chan
and start singing, “WAR! HUH!
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing!”

“Job Competition”
Once I said to the teacher: “Woman is weaker than man.”
He repeated the word ‘weaker’ and smiled. Couldn’t
Understand his smile at that time. For sure, still not fully
Swallowed it, though women are in all jobs of life suggest
Us - something is under taught. Striving woman at a job,
Ready to rip off anything lying wrong around. Goal is
Pursued, whether there is an alcohol to forget oneself
Shortly. A person wants to be dizzy any way. Job place,
Conversion for man, woman, young, old. Interaction,
Somewhere – poor join, the other places flourish.
Nobody has a desire to be out of success,
They find a pleasure in flying above; being caressed.

Gravity
(for Ed)

You come home tired from the coal mine
of your subatomic particle accelerator,
where you have spent the day writing
a computer program that never works.
Every time you try to persuade your computer
to crunch numbers and accomplish something,
it responds with 100,000 messages that say:
FATAL ERROR
FATAL ERROR
FATAL ERROR.

You have been doing this for 10 years.
Myself, I wouldn't last a day.
I would just go jump out the nearest window
and throw the computer away.
In that order.
But you, you have the patience of a saint,
and everyone remarks on that,
especially in the context
of what it must be like to be married
to me.
And this is getting a little annoying.

At our wedding, everyone commented how fascinating it was.
A physicist and a poet.
What's it like? people still ask now.
"Work," I say.
(I hope you're not offended I'm putting this all in a poem.
But I'm sure you would agree.)

%%%%%%%%%%%%

We are so lucky to be living in France this year
so you can go to the lab every day
and not have to commute from the U.S. by plane
every other month.
As usual, I'm managing the kids,
and they are not happy in a big way.
Fourteen and sixteen are not the best ages
to plop kids into a French public school
when they don't know French, but we are trying
to make the best of it.
And there's a lot of "best" here to make,
don't get me wrong.
For many people, it would seem like a dream.
And I have a chance to write for myself finally,
for the first time in 25 years, instead of writing
for somebody else. I'm even writing a poem a day.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

You try to make conversation while taking out
the cork on a bottle of French red wine
made from grapes grown in a field we can see
from our balcony.
"Did you write your poem today?" you ask.
"Not yet," I say. I'm always six hours behind the prompt,
or really, ahead, as far as what time it is
here.

"What's it about today?" you ask.

"Work," I say.

"Well, that should be interesting," you say, and the cork finally escapes
from the claustrophobic place it got stuck in sometime
during the year 2007.

"I forgot to tell you," I say as the tannins join in our conversation,
making it unsafe for pregnant women and nursing mothers,
none of which I am
anymore.
"A few days ago one of the poets mentioned
the black hole thing in a poem.
Do you want me to explain it to them?"

"Don't bother," you say. "They'll never understand."

"That's the problem with you scientists," I continue
(running out of new verbs to use to convey a sense of dialogue).
(and also undermining the status of my work as a poem, as opposed to
a play or a story.)
"That kind of arrogance is going to cause your funding to get cut,
and all of you will be out of a job if you don't explain about
the black hole."

"And how," you ask, "are we supposed to do that?"

Just say: "we are looking for the Higgs-Boson it is the last
remaining particle we haven't found in our "theory of everything"
that proves that Einstein was right about everything
in his equations from a century ago, but if we don't find it it
will be even more interesting because that means we really have no idea what's going on and we'll be making new science,
which eventually will turn into new TVs, MRIs, x-rays, catscans,
and so on, to benefit humankind."

You: "How will you explain the Higgs-Boson, then? You can't mention
it and then not explain what it does."

Me: "The Higgs-Boson is the particle that gives things mass and carries
gravity."

You: "That doesn't exactly reassure them about the black hole."

Me: How about: "Scientists work in the language of math,
and in their math equations, which are not real life,
there is a .000000000000000000000000000000000000000001
percent chance that a infinitesimally small black hole might
be created when the accelerator is turned on.
But, by nature, a black hole is antimatter, so if it IS created,
which is a fat chance, it will instantaneously
come into contact with matter,
and be annihilated." See? No big deal.

You: Great. Why don't you write a poem about it, then.

Me: Fine. I will!

You: There's no reason for you to get so defensive. You are always
taking everything so personally.

Me: I have set my career aside for the past twenty years to follow you
all around the country and world so you can chase
these little invisible particles that no one can
see. When we go to parties, and you tell people you are
a physicist, everyone always thinks you are a genius.
No one ever asks about me, or what I do.
Don't you ever wonder what I do all day?

You: You're a writer. What's so hard to understand? Please.
Have some wine. I can tell you've had a hard day.

Me: This is not about a hard day! This is about our relationship!

You: Maybe you just need to go in the next room and try
to write your poem.

Me: See? It's not as easy as that. You can't TRY to write a poem.
You can only write a really, really good poem
if you try very hard NOT to! It's like fishing.

You: WHAT are you talking about?

Me: When you stand there on the shore
of a river, and you cast your line out with good bait,
you have to make absolutely sure to communicate
with your entire body and soul that you don't care
if you actually catch a fish or not.
Because if the fish sense, in the tautness of your fishline,
or the angle of your pole, or the sweat from your body,
that you are DESPERATE to catch a fish,
they get suspicious.
They can see the hook.
They won't bite.
It's like cats. And gypsies.
You will never get to know them
if you try to meet their eyes too soon.
They'll flee, or ask for money.
You should know that!
It's the same with these particles you're chasing.
You will never, ever catch them until the moment
you give up.
So, when you are writing a poem, you have to empty
out yourself, completely, until there is almost nothing left,
just a space for something else to grow in,
a way to be surprised.
A really good poem grows in you, but it is
not from you. It's a gift. That's why they call this
a gift.

You say: "Oh." You look out over the balcony
at the vineyard, next year's
grapes. "What's for dinner?" you ask.

Fish. Some bread. And wine.
&&&&&&&&&
c 2009 by Madeline Strong Diehl
(an anti-compression poem;
the opposite of haiku.)

A Job
In front of a computer,
words appearing.
My coffee in my left hand,
still stemaing.
The phone on silent, so
no calls coming in.
I look at what I wrote yesterday,
and cringe at the idea
of correcting what I wrote.
What a job!

WORK (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 22, 2009

Bodily or mental effort, exerted, to do;
Labor or toil, to make something real;
Employment for hire, life's occupation;
A business, a trade, in stone or in wood.

Selling a product, engineering a bridge;
Employ in the factory, mechanical gig;
Needlework embroidery, doing it fine;
Constructing a watch, to run an oil rig.

Work-a-day things in all that we do,
As the Bible says: "The laborer is worthy of his hire".
Just like an actor performing his cue,
Let's get to WORK with our souls on fire:

To wrought out a poem, or operate farm;
Kneading the bread, wield butcher's sharp knife;
Molding with clay in "the potter's hand",
Just like GOD: Creating a life!
==========================================================

Poet's Note:
Believe it or not, this one was almost completely inspired by looking up the word WORK in the "Dictionary" with a few additional twists and turns added based on poetic license and the Bible> RMA

Bank on it

You can't tell what she's thinking,
chewing her lip as she does, flipping
through a Rolodex, shoving her hand
impatiently through her delicately
mussed coiffure. Something about
beaches, or books, or bottles and bottles
of booze, or maybe just slipping out of
the torture devices on her feet and into
something soft and threadbare. She pays
you all due attention without looking up
from her computer screen, shoves her
glasses back up her nose with the tip
of a perfectly manicured nail, one that looks
as though she may have been snacking on
it between breakfast and freedom.

working to understand

Little Hector and I were wire
brushing the wrought-iron
fence that surrounded the
graves of Otis, Miles and
Dolly, all award-winning
beauties; blonde, postured,
blood-lines of royalty if
the humans who owned
them were to be believed.

Little Hector was telling some
tale or another of back in
the day when he drove for
the cartels until he fell
in love and didn’t want to
end up headless or raising
pigs to sell for slaughter
to the corrupt, so he
followed the trails north,
passing more dead bodies
than he had ever seen while
working for the men the
songs on the Spanish station
were written about.

He asked me why people
in this country I was born
into erect fences for their
dead animals but those
who built the fences and
dug the graves received less
respect than the piles of
fur and bones decomposing
beneath our feet. He asked
me who would bury him if
he died in the canyon or fell
from a roof he was tiling.
I had no answers.
He half-joked if he were a
dog he’d have papers, a home
to live in, he wouldn’t have to
be a beast of burden anymore,
strangers on the street
would stop to love him.

.

The child, his hands
Reach out to grasp
The world as it goes by
For in that touch
He learns so much
And begins to wonder why
The leaf is green
This cloth is soft
What does it all imply?
Can he move it?
Touch it feel it
On senses he’ll rely.

And so, she dives
Right in and finds
What works repeatedly,
She concentrates
And tests and prods
Work is to look and see
And grow herself,
Explore the world
Even though the adults agree
Her work’s just play
Not much to say
Children would disagree.

Grounds for Retirement

The lawn needs some attention to make it look just so
but I can’t do ‘owt about it when the lawnmower won’t go.
The dandelions are seeding and I didn’t see them flower
they said that gardens are for life not every bloomin’ hour.

The apple tree needs pruning but already it’s in leaf
I should have done it earlier but the missus gave me grief –
“I want a new pergola,” she said at lunch one day
with roses climbing up it but there’s not much I can pay.

I spent a fortnight scavenging from skips around the town
and brought home six-foot lengths of wood and painted them with brown
When I had got a dozen I began to dig the holes
and screwed on all the cross rails and uprighted the poles.

By the time I finished making it the hedges were all growing.
I retired to the greenhouse and began to set seeds sowing.
After emptying the packets it was time to thin the seeds
but you cannot see the flowers ‘cause of all the bloomin’ weeds.

When I retired after forty years at the mill
they said to take up gardening my leisure time to fill.
I wish I hadn’t listened when the got around to askin’
and twatted every bloomin’ one that said it was relaxin’.

Alana Capria: WOW! Vivid portrayal of gory "work"--such as was done throughout the Middle Ages, and even NOW! Interesting caption. From whence came the insiration o do such a work?
May I suggest that you read my latest books: The STONE Cut Out of the Mountain Without Hands ISBN 978-0-9661380-9-0; JESUS of Nazareth: Savior and King---the Yahweh Code Deciphered ISBN 978-0-9661380-0-7; and The Book of REVELATION Simplified and Explained Chapter By Chapter ISBN 978-0-9661380-7-4, all available at www.3swanspublishers.com

Nothing to Something

I could toil for hours
outside in the yard
digging, weeding, planting
mulching, watering, and lastly
cleaning up my mess.

It is a hobby.
It is a passion.
It is a love,
to see things grow,
to see beauty
where before was just
a scrap of plain Earth.

But even though I adore it so
and look forward eagerly
to the next new bed,
make no mistake
it's still quite alot
of work.

Italian Subs

Gloria would make my Italian sub
She was fast,
Shoulder length dirty blonde hair
Wavy and wild
Faster and tougher, I supposed.

I stood in that same spot
One day behind the counter
Jeno’s Subs on Bridge
The manager brushing my butt
Every time he went past
It was my last

Italian meatball with provolone
Half-priced as employee
What did Gloria have to dish
To Mr. Koropopolous

Besides, rapid fire orders:
“Light on mayo, more salami
Than procuitto,
Capicola--no,no,
No capicola!
Little oil, no salt, just pepper,
Extra provolone,
More, oh-please,
More mortadella.“

Her fingers moved quickly
Over the meats, cheeses, and condiments
Half-way through, she looked up, asked me,
“You want this toasted?”

‘G. L. O. R. I. A., Gloria, G. L. O. R. I. A…Gloria’

PROSPERITY AVENUE

Driving past the doomed factory…
And the rain begins to fall
And the few cars left
In the weedy parking lot
Turn away with no goodbyes.
The traffic slows and stumbles
Like toys winding down
When children tire of
Turning the key.
And the raindrops shuffling
Down the sides of the car
Join the wiper blades
In their slow, rocking rhythm
Of defeat.

Work Song

Snow W’s seven dwarves
Sang on their way to and from work
Hie Ho, Hie Ho
Not exactly what I hear on this
Eight lane highway to hell

Two semi’s with pups behind
And a logging truck
Activate crush avoidance mode
Crisis averted, continue navigation
Wish the sun would come up

Red sports car of some description
In my rearview mirror, coming FAST
Sliding through traffic like a snake
Causing brake lights and bird fingers
Spins by me like I’m standing still

Activate idiot avoidance as he cuts me off
Try not to close my eyes as
Red sports car squeezes between large trucks
Where are Snow W’s happy little dwarves now?
All they had to worry about was the
Wicked Step Mother

While in the real world
Just getting to work
Is Work!

Nancy Bell, Balzac, Alberta

we dug holes
for them to shit in.
two mattocks
and hours of picking.

we raised homes
for them to live in.
sweat and blood
were freely given.

we grew food
for them to dine on.
dirty hands
that blisters ride on.

we built fires
for them to talk by.
piles of wood
cut to size and dry.

then they came,
they had a great time.
no thankyous
but we didn't mind.

Get to work
Which work
Dishes, sweeping or scrubbing
Painting, caulking or sanding
A woman’s work is never done
Well maybe it is when she puts her foot down
Sitting at the computer
Listening to music
Writing poetry
Work?
No joy

Homework

It can't really be homework anymore,
Cause I don't do it at home.
Maybe "dormwork."
And I really should be doing it
Right now.
But it keeps piling up, inbox growing.
Research papers, presentations, speeches.
Weighing heavier and heavier
On my mind.
And though I really should be doing it,
-- Right now! --
I'm sitting here staring,
Not doing it.

Young & Jobless

I had it all mapped out:

to live in the Mexican War Streets
& write poetry; to work in a

bagel shop &/or the English
department at Pitt to pay the rent.

That is how I dreamt it when
I was young & jobless & in college

& didn't need money to ride
the city bus, only had to flash

that student ID that made the
fare payers suck their teeth.

Way to quit your job
without a backup,
blaming your mistakes
on others, lacking
professionalism, dignity,
respect, and
common courtesy.
I won't miss you.

Miss America

My preciousssssssssssss…
Work has a new glow, a
real appeal, newly polished
by the elbow grease of
millions who want to have it,
taxing as it is, again.
Too many Americans miss work.
Might work miss America?

What I do

is what I am, a teacher
of teenagers who slide
into desks, hiding drugs,
cell phones and anguish,
preening, doping, giggling,
raising themselves from
parents, their childhood,
who, at 18, will sing the
a,b,c’s and don’t want or
need the subjunctive, the
passé composé or Proust
when they just want to say,
“I love you” in French,
or confess eating disorders,
date rape, hidden bruises,
or alcohol, because I listen.

Young & Jobless

I had it all mapped out:

to live in the Mexican War Streets
& write poetry; to work in a

bagel shop &/or the English
department at Pitt to pay the rent.

That is how I dreamt it when
I was young & jobless & in college

& didn't need money to ride
the city bus, only had to flash

that student ID that made the
fare payers suck their teeth.

BOY. FIFTY DOLLARS.
(a secret pantoum)

I paid him cash, but only just to talk
and tell of how he fell into this fate,
all curbside-sale and jangly tight-jean walk.

With no one out on Market Street this late,
he tells of how he fell into this fate,
thrown out, no shoes, the day he turned fifteen

with no one, out on Market Street, quite late.
He names the shelter where he'd first been seen:
thrown out, no shoes, the day he turned fifteen

(his father caught him, beat him, chased him out).
He names the shelter where he'd first been seen,
where men, in whispers, soothed despair and doubt.

"Your father caught you, beat you, chased you out?
Come walk with us, lay down that troubled head."
The men, in whispers, soothed despair and doubt.

And better that than end up raped and dead.
He walked with them, laid down his troubled head,
wrapped up in arms and legs that pushed and thrust,

(but better that than end up raped and dead)
cried out the first few times, but learned to trust
the men whose arms and legs would push and thrust

his body out in unforgiving night.
Cried out the first few weeks, but learned to trust
the other boys on pavement, cool and white.

His body sold to unforgiving night,
to touch its face and slowly fade away;
like other boys on pavement, cool and white,

he told himself, it's business anyway.
He touched my face and turned to fade away,
so curbside-sale and jangly tight-jean walk.

I told myself, it's business anyway.
I paid him cash. But only just to talk.

Formatting is lost. Every other line should be tabbed over.

Bachelor of Lost Arts

Perch for the crowd to die away

once upon a midnight dreary

best time to deal with fryers

while I pondered weak and weary

power down the last, wipe

over many a quaint and curious

tubes, pipes. We lost the manual, our

volume of forgotten lore

nozzle goes on like that, getting this?

while I nodded

push the pump below it

nearly napping

use a towel to turn the bolt

suddenly there came a tapping

let it drain, let it drain

as if someone gently rapping

wipe the inside

rapping at my chamber door

push all the gunk

'tis some visitor

to the center

I muttered

just keep pushing

tapping at my chamber door

till it gets in the hole

only this

Think you got all that?

and nothing more

Employer’s Blues

May I have some more please, said Oliver
Yet he was still hungry

Just like employers who want more
Overtime is just the
Beginning of screwing your after work

Plans of fun with
All your best girlfriends, family or lover
Yes, give me your life
Says employers who always wants some more


http://paigeofabook.blogspot.com/

FIVE HOURS, SEVEN MINUTES AND EIGHT SECONDS

It’s been 5 hours, 7 minutes and 8 seconds
Since I received a rejection letter
From an agent who says she can’t represent me
Because unfortunately
My words do not fit their need
Tears trickle down my cheeks
Because I am feeling dejected
And definitely rejected
It’s been four hours, 22 minutes and 17 seconds
Since I started revising my query letter
Trying to grab attention
From the very first sentence
Writing to save my life
Writing because to do otherwise
Would be a slow painful death

Raul, that's so real, and so needed to be said. Madeline, that makes me want to hear everything about your life and at the same time I feel like I already have heard it - wonderful.

What Is Work?

Honeybees buzz from flower to flower.
Mockingbirds sing all day.
My neighbor's dog lifts his leg to mark
every tree and pole and tire.

Doctors heal their patients' pain.
Lawyers address their juries.
The artist gazes at her bare canvas
before making the first bold stroke.

Squirrels hunt and gather nuts and seeds.
Ants carry treats to their queen.
A feral cat stalks a green hummingbird
as it sucks the lilies' nectar.

Farmers sow and weed and hoe.
Teamsters drive their trucks.
A teacher engages her students' minds,
grades their papers late into the night.

"And what do you do?" My grandchild asks.
I reply, "My job is simple:
I observe the work that others do,
and write their stories down."

Impressed am I with the work I see
In this April PAD.
The poems, yes, but much, much more
It’s who you all are at your core.

Of all the prompts so far, this one has given me the most insight into the quality of people posting daily. My sincere thanks to all of you. You are an amazing troupe. -Marie Elena

April 22, 2009 poetry prompt: poem about work

Count Down

There is something about my father.
He is dyslexic and bi-polar.
In the late 1960’s he taught himself
to build houses. Somehow he knew
the steady pounding of a good hammer,
the aim and swing, aim and swing
could relieve his aggressions
and calm his demons.

In this day of pneumatic hammers
and pre-cut boards he hasn’t been able
to tame his monsters. He wanders, I think,
looking for the sh, sh, sh
of a handsaw to quiet his mind,
and the single swing that drives a nail home
giving him an instant of gratification
over, and over, and over again.

I once asked him how many sixteen- penny nails
it took to build a three-bedroom-ranch.
“15,000,” he said. He’d been counting.

Now he can’t find his balance.
He doesn’t notice I’m torn apart
as I wait for his number to come up.

~~ Julie Eger

Prayer after Grading Narrative Papers

To the god of chaos, of disorder,
I pray for those writing now
of driving drunk, for those clashing with mothers,
fathers who drink and will not speak
for those with sisters they fought with,
for homes weighted with death:
I pray that they dive into these moments, fully,
but I also want to write, in red:
swimming up out of sorrow
is not easy, no matter how many words you say
or in what order.
And I pray that when concluding, in a paragraph,
there is not a sudden shift:
in a moment of talking,
or looking, life becomes
different, better, new again!
I want to bless their words, their diving in,
to give their writing to you,
god of endings that do not define us,
to lead them to another opening, at the end,
where they are standing, say, in front of a cave
(or ocean, or room, or any dark body)
and they have not yet looked into it.

Volunteers
Are a selfless lot
They give and give
And ask for Thanks not

They will not take your money
That’s not what they do
But they gladly accept
Hugs and smiles too

To see a child’s mind grow
Is pure bliss,
To see their eyes all aglow
Is a moment not to miss

To give a hand
Where help is needed
Tends your soul
Until it is weeded

To know you have
Made a difference
No matter what the size
Is better than any wage
That could be realized

House Work

There exist all kinds of work
But the dirtiest by far
Is … house work

It never ends
It never stops
Just one big cycle
Of moving mops

The laundry is
Always there
To be washed
And folded
And washed again
Heaven forbid
If it ever ends

Dust and dirt
Is everywhere
You clean it up
But then turn around
Because dust and
Dirt are back in town

So for these reasons
I believe
That housework
Is the dirtiest job
You’ll ever do
It never ends
It can make you blue

So on those sunny
Cloudless days
Take my advice
And go and play
For housework
Will be waiting
For you… no
Matter when
Your day is
Through.

Scott Owens, your poem about the piano tuner is very moving.

What Hath Work Wrought?

My God, what has work done to us?
It no longer seems to do for us.
The world has twisted everything,
The value that work was willing to give
Has been transverted into soul daggers.
The broad back of America has been
Lashed by unrelenting whips of greed.
Money matters more than money should mean.
The simple joy of a thing well done
Is replaced by the terror of nothing to do.
World-wide wires tighten like an assassin’s noose,
And everyone’s an assassin, and
Everyone’s a victim.
Hard-eyed mavens in tall towers decide
Who will and who will not,
And work waits like weedy sidewalk
Where lowered heads plod into
Daily dharma with no respite,
And no illumination.

© 2009 Chuck Puckett
22 April 2009

A Freelancer’s Lament


Here I sit,
upon my chair,
flattening my derriere.

But I won’t quit
until I’m done,
even though I’d like to run

to the bathroom,
so I can take,
ironically, a sit-down break!

Between Poetry and Prayer

she scans over her 37 year old jobless son
beer-worn on her couch,
takes boneless chicken breast out of the freezer,
mixes salt-free oatmeal and pot-warms milk for coffee,
sets breakfast,
asks her husband if he remembered his meds
and “your cardio appointment,”
clears, washes, dries and sweeps,
separates whites from colors, careful not to launder
her son’s jeans and checkered shirts
because he won’t have her touching his things,
sews button eyes on dolls for great-granddaughters,
peels yucca,
de-bones cod fish,
chops an avocado tossing it with onions and lettuce,
drizzles olive oil over the meal on a plate,
calls her husband to eat lunch
while her son reels out of the sheets
then makes a sandwich because that is real food,
she folds laundry and sets it in appointed drawers,
while her son slams the entrance to his heart on her shadow,
meanwhile curses the very God that spared him death
after being kicked and bat whipped the summer of 95
in a residential Chicago street -
she locks the door after his goodbye-less exit,
patches a threadbare prayer
folds two globes of blankets deserted on the couch
sets off to make chicken & rice for her men.

Stop

She can see her face in the wood when it shines
But maybe she’d rather not.
And the layer of dust is her trusting
In different times.

There’s rot in the skirting board
Water un-mopped.

She can clean all the garden-bits, carpet-bits
Stepped on the floor
From when people visited then
But they don’t anymore.

She can brighten the windows
Or can sit in her chair while the light fades
Drawing the shades.

Wash the clothes.
No one cares.
Or go shopping.
She doesn’t know where.

Then when no one was looking
She didn’t cook dinner.
She stopped.

And the rot set in.

What I Learned in 7th Grade

There’s something wrong with school these days
And how we teach our students;
Our plan to educate our youth
Is no doubt lacking prudence.

In olden days the pace was slow;
The concepts taught were few,
Just add, subtract, and multiply,
Some long division too.

But now each topic gets a week
And then we add the next,
So by the time the year is through
We’ve made it through our text.

And that’s just math, there’s English too,
Plus hist’ry, art and science;
Add then the stress to find some friends
With whom kids form alliance.

But as for what these youths retain
I fear the forecast’s blue;
Two weeks beyond the lessons taught
They haven’t got a clue.

The push is there to cram it in
So all kids can achieve
But many kids are left behind
Despite what some believe.

And yes, the system works at times –
For students Harvard-bound,
But most get lost along the way,
That knowledge never found.

Our system needs an overhaul;
This time let’s try some prudence.
Or on the road to the common good
You’ll find a trail of students.

It Takes Discipline

to remember that
we are not alone;

to live like
we are not separate;

to release the grudge
and forgive;

to see my part
and apologize;

to not run into the future
and live in the present;

to sit every day and
say ‘”thank you.”

3RD SHIFT
(for the pallet pullers)

She worked the retail trenches
night shift
the hours of chaos, tracers, drunks;
a blue flack vest filled with
implements, her hair bound high,
knees filthy from hauling freight and
crawling beneath conveyors and yellow
caution tape, dodging monstrous
buffing machines and using tall ladders
to peer over risers and gaze into
the foreign lands of Automotive,
Housewares, Pharmacy and beyond –
always beyond – dreaming of good
books and unstained knees,
knowing someday she’d surrender
and return only as a civilian customer
never forgetting those long laboring nights

Thanks for taking the timne to lay down some kind words Jacqueline!

Sixteen Tons


What do you get at shift’s end
but a hunched back & a broken
piggy bank? This can’t be
the place, can’t be why you’ve
studiously unlearned your child-
hood ways. Sure, you have
a living to make, bills to feed,
but the adding isn’t adding up.
Please someone fly down just
before the building collapses on
you & your baby stroller to save
you, right? Shit, this is the hard
way & no superheroes allowed.
Do what you must, but be a hero
to yourself more often. No one
else is qualified. Every morning
you wake up dried out & to some
extent it’s your body carrying you
to & fro. Otherwise you might
come to the realization nothing
you imagined for yourself lines
your walls, no masterpieces painted,
not any closer to being out of debt.
These are the ties that bind & fuse
to your neck like an outgrown dog
collar. Ready the résumé & hit
the bricks but you’re going to need
more than time on your side, more
than luck to break even, notch
a hole in the great tree of the life
you once thought would be yours.
Sure there’s a lot of heavy lifting,
but at least you’re building backbone,
making sharp your nails to scratch out
a path & then it’s climb! climb! climb!
baby. You’ll be just fine— take no guff,
keep your hands up on defense & every-
thing else will be salt spilled on the table.

WORK

One man told me that's why it's called work,
you hate it but you do it because you have to.
One man told me that hard work is aptly rewarded.
One man told me that you work from the bottom to the top,
and another said your work is your worth.

None of these men told the truth.

The last man told me that he went to work to do his job.
He did his best, received his pay, and lived his life.

This man was honest.

To walk away when you
want to scream

To laugh when you
want to cry

To be kind when
everything in you wants
to retaliate

That is work.

To love those who abandon you
and hurt you

To see the good in all

To run and not grow weary
To walk and not faint

To dream the impossible dream

That is work
It’s all part of life

And worth the trouble
in the end

By Lynn Potter

All work and no play

All work and no play
Has made Jack rich
But around his 40th birthday
He started to get an itch

Jill thinks her life is blessed
After all she’s got it made
But she could do with a rest
From all the work that goes unpaid

School runs, housework, shopping too
It’s not easy being a soccer mum
Jill is starting to feel blue
And Jack just seems to have fun

Jacks fun started without intent
He didn’t mean to stray
Coffee with a co-worker is innocent
But it didn’t carry on that way

Jill found a note in Jacks coat
She sat and cried for hours
She felt tightness in her throat
And then she called a lawyer

All work and no play
Has cost Jack all he had
Jill and the kids have gone away
Life is turning bad

The boss didn’t approve
Of Jack’s little affair
So he had to move
To an office elsewhere

Jill kept the house and car
She still has a busy life
But is happier by far
Then when she was a wife


Iain

Day 22: Work

Mrs. Sisyphus Does the Laundry

Work? Don’t talk to me about it!
Oh sure! Everyone looks at him and sighs.
“Tsk! Tsk! Ain’t it sad how he strives with the rock
Everyday just to see it roll down again and start over.
Poor, poor baby!”

‘Poor baby’ my big, Greek behind. He knew the cost
When he threw the dice. Killed the guests and stuffed
The gold in his not-so-secret stash. He knew the big guys
Would step lively off than mountain-- come looking for
Their god-cut.

And what about me? I didn’t sign up for this, nosiree!
I thought I married a prince of a guy. Promises were made
Under cobalt skies and laurel leaves. “Oh baby! You’ll always
Have acres of someones to keep your dainty hands
Pure, princess white.”

So I took the job and turned out the heirs real regular.
Demeter set her seasons by my belly, and I taught
Diana a thing or two about cycles! I did my work alright!
Did that signify when they swooped down to take him, and left
Me all alone?

Nosiree! Just “This is a matter for the gods, lady.”
And no thought to how I was to keep the castle-fires burning
With the primary breadwinner pushing a rock up a hill all day.
He gets the sympathy vote and even an adjective named for
His sorry self.

Me? I get this pile of princely laundry to do.
It hulks in the palace washroom like the Minotaur
At a state dinner. No matter how many loads I do in a day,
There’s always one two more come in while I’m folding
All the rest.

So next time you hear about poor, King Sisyphus,
You remember the missus here. Chapped, red hands never
Will be princess white again. You want to stop by some time
We’ll sit a spell and chew the fat. I’ll still be here:
Wash, Rinse, Repeat.

One Small Boy

The ASBO* came only as a surprise to him,
he was simply defending the family honour.
The brick through the window, the torching
of sheds and a Ford Fiesta, smashed gnomes,
were all small token acts of robust defiance,
his way of making all the boundaries clear.

Here was the thorn bush, woven with Man U
strip, Nike trainers that made the kraal strong,
within which his family grazed and watched
TV. It was a strict matter of tribe and honour.
Let something pass, a comment, a complaint
to the police and you laid yourself open, laid
those squeezed round the KFC bucket open
to the taking of liberties, to the taking of piss.

Liberty and piss were never clearly defined
but encompassed anything that diminished
peoples’ respect. Fear and respect, even
he knew at twelve, were the Siamese twins
that you never let anyone near with a scalpel,
joined as they were at the gut and the brain.
Never stupid, he had grown up with the rules
that governed his estate, his whole world.

Age and size were irrelevant, they just made
him work harder at being a presence, noted.
Having a big mouth, those freedoms that come
when action and consequence divorce were
more than enough to add years and inches.
Fuckin’, cunt, wanker were machine gunned
bullets he shot from his mouth, even without
the red mist being yanked up over his head.
Red mist meant fists, a good kicking, knee jerk,
adrenalin surging to each twitching muscle.

He had sold on his Ritalin to boys in the park,
been counselled on how to manage his anger.
He would grin at me, the well meaning teacher,
who took him through every useful technique.
These never quite matched the satisfaction
he felt at a slight revenged, a bloody nose,
that shattered red hat of the fishing gnome.
He did have some sense of fair play though,
brought me those nicked garden flowers,
a car radio still trailing wires when I left
to take on another boy that we both knew
may have the sad petrol perfume of loss.


* An Anti-Social Behaviour Order

Carrion Crew

A whoosh of wings and they land.
Carrion eaters stalk awkward
across soil, investigate the
carcass in the ditch.

Beaks open, tongues taste death
on the air. Heads sink wing
deep into rib cage, tear
entrails out to

gobble down. They beat blow
flies and maggots to roadkill.
Generations bred for
this clean up crew.

Elegy to My Work

“A man can do nothing better than to . . . find satisfaction in his work.”
Ecclesiastes 2:24

For many years, I rose before the sun,
tending to chores on the farm
before heading out to meet my ride
to the job I took to make ends meet.

I let my wife believe I toiled for her,
convinced my sons that I worked hard
so they might have a chance
to leave the farm, go off to school,
work with their minds or hands
instead of their backs, their sweat.

In truth, I loved the life I led,
the quiet as I milked the cows,
threw down the bales of hay.
Those men who rode to work
with me, lunch pails in tow,
felt sometimes more like family
than all my closest kin.

After more than thirty years,
they sent me off with a fine gold watch.
But still I rose at dawn, walked to the barn,
roamed the rows of crops I sowed,
to help me fill my daylight hours.

I sometimes see their car go past
and wave; I hear the phantom whistle
marking shifts that I no longer work.
At night before I fall into a restless sleep,
I think I hear the whir of looms;
I listen for the footsteps of my sons,
no longer home; I miss the work.

Nancy Posey

First
Step
We clap
Baby falls
Pulls self back on feet
Repeats "Learn to Walk 101"
Pattern established
Work is play
Until
it's
Not

A Mother’s Answer

“Do you work?” she asks me
A smirk upon her face
I can see so clearly in her eyes
I am but a disgrace.

I don’t bring home a paycheck
That much at least is true
But my tasks are many and varied
My story it is not new.

I left the 9-5 workplace
To raise a family
There is no way to quantify
All that this has given me.

I watched my kids take their first steps
And taught them how to read
All these moments and more
I’d never willingly cede.

One day I may return to work
After this interlude
But thinking back upon these years
This much I must conclude.

No matter how we toil
When we are on this earth
No one should ever equate their pay
With their sense of worth!

Hi Ho! Hi Ho! it's
off to work we go, again
Shut up seven dwarfs!
========================
Poet's Note:
After yesterday I presume we all may be Haiku'ed out of our minds. But i couldn't resist this one (#152). It came to me just after noon time as I was out walking my dog today and came across "workmen" digging a ditch in the middle of the sidewalk just beyond several large orange (colors) that said WORKMEN AHEAD---SIDEWALK CLOSED.

my wax feet travel toward

ever-receding

suns.

earth spins infinite

horizons, my lure to work

done.

Work

My life is my work
I am always
Setting goals
Reaching or not reaching them
Getting up on time, or not
Racing to get to my job on time, or not
Being happy, angry, jealous and sad
Tired
Drained
Hopeful
That tommorrow will be better
I won't be late
Or I won't forget to water the tomatos
Like a tape constantly replayed
Each day repeats
Different but the same
the same events
Never to be mastered
without constant work, and even then...
Life is work
In progress

"Neither Here Nor There"

My computer screen glares
as I work my accounts,
crunching the numbers
to balance them out,
an assignment that’s due
by the end of the day,
the bottom right corner
reads 3:43...

(Toggle)

…A briny breeze blows
off the Oregon coast,
white capped waves
teasing my toes,
Seagulls sedate
on west coast winds,
driftwood refugees
pepper white sands.
A knock…

(Toggle)

…on my door,
a co-worker invades.
I smile politely,
curse in my head;
respond to the query
as quick as I can,
cutting off chit-chat
before it begins.
I see…

(Toggle)

…almighty mountains
commanding respect
with white capped wisdom
and celestial stance.
Waterfall whispers
moisten my lips,
I drink in the flora
with evergreen sips.
A window…

(Toggle)

…pops up
and covers my screen;
a status request
from the powers that be.
I open Excel
to offset the lie,
“almost finished,“ I type,
at 4:25...

(Toggle).

Priorities

I’d rather stay home
And write a poem,
But I’ve bills I can’t shirk,
So I must go to work.

CLA

Touching My Toes

bend
at the waist
bring head
to knees
extend
arms
toward
feet
straighten legs
grasp
toes
not
a day
can I
do
what a baby does
naturally
unless
I work
hard
at it

writing code

What exactly are we doing here?
We are surrounded by mountains
of monitors, laptops and files,
both paper and electronic.
We sit around like drones and write code.
We test everything over and over
for the same bugs, the same mistakes.
Most of the time, we want the programs to fail
just to give us one more problem to solve
before we retreat to a lunch room, our cars
or any place but this room that hums like
a giant magnet.
It doesn't seem much like work
for a bunch of geeks who simply like to
solve the unsolvable.
At the end of the day,
we take it all home with us in our own laptops.
We never really leave it behind us for long.

Laid Off

I owe, I owe, it’s off to work I go.
I’ve heard this many times you know.
But right now I am unemployed
which really makes me quite annoyed.
The bills are piling super fast,
it’s crazy how much debt’s amassed.
My unemployment cheque’s a joke
I’m teetering on the edge of broke.
Jobs are scarce, so what to do?
Looks like I’m going back to school
and when I’m done I’ll find some work,
I hope a job with lots of perks.

Working it

It's the best that you can

do with what you do.

"Hey you back there,Working it

It's the best that you can

do with what you do.

"Hey you back there,

whatchu doin? Ya died

or what?"

I'm working it with

what I got. You worry

about you.



whatchu doin? Ya died

or what?"

I'm working it with

what I got. You worry

about you.

Love in a Time of Recession

We always told him we
would put him through school.
Then when he was three years down
you went and lost your job.
Now it looks like I will
very soon lose mine,
while he dreams of graduate school
and student loans and
dead end jobs.
We raised him to want things
that we can’t provide.
Will he resent us for that
between the lines?
The love lines?
Move to some faraway city
that “has more to offer”
and e-mail once a week?

Life

I love work
that flourishes
within you
touching those
within distance,
reflecting back
to show you how you've grown.

April is the coolest month

I know it's impolitic, not too smart
of me to call this play.
But tell me truly this is not a lark,
kiss in the dark,
a walk in the park.
The writing is the sexy part.
The work begins in May.

KROW

At KROW there is WORK of all sort,
the name says it even backwards
in New Mexico, at the International Airport
they work hard to receive their awards.

At BOJ is easy to get a JOB
as the letters say: Board Of J
you can even be a slob
but you need be John, Jack or Jay.

At KROW there's work in each job
for Paul, Fritz or Bob,
but at BOJ nobody works,
they can all be jerks!

Not every job is work
and not all work is a job.
He's a clerk,
poor Mr. Kob,
soon to be unemployed,
his career destroyed.

But Mr. Kob will work
even without a job
from sunrise to murk
he will garden, write and jog.


© Rosangela C. Taylor / 04-22-09

Working Lunch
(for Gene)

I can see you
at the café
in your dark suit
with your silk tie
contrasting against
your crisp laundered shirt.

Lunching with colleagues,
your Asian greens sprinkled
with chunks of chicken,
some fresh strands
of parmesan cheese.

You will have tea,
I think, sweet,
no lemon,
lots of ice
sparkling in the sun.

Puffs of clouds
race past,
the sun blinks
like a cheap neon sign,
you hang on to your napkin.

Two tables down,
at a table for two,
the umbrella lifts off
excuses itself from the table,
floats free.

And I think,
I will do this too,
because the wind
is so strong
and I am made of dreams.

Work

Work is a four letter word.
And that’s an opinion all my own.
I don’t care what you may have heard

Is it to laundry you’ve been spurred?
Remember the ironing you have known!
Yes! Work is a four letter word

Does housework have your heart astir?
It’s a long hard day of toiling alone.
I don’t care what you may have heard.

Even when you’re feeling free as a bird,
Eventually you’ll still go home
Where work is a four letter word.

Is your best friend feathered or furred?
You still have to feed them or toss them a bone.
I don’t care what you may have heard.

For even they will bark and purr
And soil the best carpet you’ve ever known
I know work is a four letter word.
I don’t care what you may have heard.

Distractions

Three nesting holes on cedar siding
Are testaments to the diligence of
One amorous red-bellied woodpecker.
This is serious business, more than
Going after succulent insect larvae, and
Caterpillars. It is spring and an internal impulse
Is calling him to drum. A metal gutter,
Some soft cedar siding, his mating percussions
begin in earnest. Eighteen times a second,
His beak’s beat matching his heart’s.
It’s the reverberations of love, all day long
For weeks. And she arrives. He kwirrs,
She kwirrs. And that is enough. But damn
If they don’t both start tapping
Just outside my office. And I can write
nothing but love poems.

"The Jerk"

There once was a man named Dirk,
Who had an odd little quirk.
He stayed in his bed,
His hand on his head,
Calling the action his work.

Poem by Vanessa V. Kilmer © April 22, 2009

Work, Definition #8: The transfer of energy, measured as the product of the force applied to a body and the distance moved by that body in the direction of the force.

Go work out
Work it out
Go to work
Work never hurt anyone
All work and no play…
Workin’ 9 to 5
If it wasn’t work they wouldn’t pay you
Work on your relationship
Work on your portfolio
Work on finding a job
Work on keeping it
Pretend to work
Mental work
Physical work
Work so someday you won’t have to
Meet me after work
A good worker
A hard worker
Work hard play hard
Men working
Women working
People working
Work wanted
It doesn’t work
I worked all my life
The workweek
The world of work
Work-study
Work group
Present the work
Workbook
Check your work
Plan your work and work your plan
Workmanship
Workshop
Work the land
Read the work
A work of love
Work it loose
Work the room
Homework
Housework
Yard work
Make-work

Does it work?

Hannah, thanks for pointing out the poem by Mrs. V! How fun, and so well done, Mrs. V!

"Habitat for Mankind"

The plane ride
Was the longest
Of my life.
Maybe because
I could barely contain
Lightning bugs
In this little jar.
And when the plane landed,
I knew I was in for hard work.
The wreckage provided
Enough lumber for the task,
But we required fresh trees,
Newly separated from life,
To rebuild with.
It only seemed right.
It only seemed just
To tear down one habitat
To build another.

Work Wanted

I want to write like Dr. Seuss;
I want to rhyme all day,
But I don’t have a single clue
‘Bout what my book should say!

I want to make the children laugh;
I long to see them smile,
But nothing funny’s come to mind
In such a long, long while!

So many books are on the shelf,
To think of something new
When life’s demands take most my day
Is more than I can do.

I’m waiting for that mythic muse
To turn my genius on;
Let’s hope she shows and flips the switch
Long before I’m gone!

Part-Time:
My first official job,
Was part-time.
But not at a fast-food outlet,
Or grocery store,
Or other such places.
My friend, who worked at a learning centre,
Recommended me to his employer.
His words earned me an interview.
Nervous, I am glad that it was informal.

I got the job, trained to mark,
Help students having trouble.
People think I am a tutor-
But that is false. I am an assistant,
Yet there is no way to summarize my true job
In one simple word,
So tutor will have to do.
But I am so much more,
And the work that I do,
Is so different.
Few understand.

Some Work

The man in the chair
not far across the room
jots a note on a yellow leaf
in a green folder with a crinkled
manila tab with my name
on the label since 1989—small room,
pale lace curtains, the house 112 years old,
the house that therapy maintains,
the house big trouble built.
Once, I came here just as a fire dept.
exited, their routine inspection moot—
4 young heroes and one asked
me, Do you work here?
And all 4, buttons shiny,
wanted to know. I looked
so normal for a college town—
brown, blonde on the outside,
fresh off the beach perhaps.
No, I said. Fires blazed
in their faces and they fled
that scene in their mighty
blues and capable boots. In 20 years
I have always known the worst
right when I'm hijacked, too stunned
for defense; later, confessed
to the subtle music of a pencil
working. 20 years. A moment
exists for putting out the next
fire before it licks up logic,
burns precious ash
to waste. This is my
work, I confess—-my sweet pill,
old bitter robber.

Barbara Young, you've creatively stated the truth!

Work

He wasn't very happy with his work
in an office he attended regularly,
doing what he could easily do
with that quick intelligence
that sat so lightly on him.
He felt like a passenger
in a meaningless train, with tracks
but no destination, stations
but no reason to get on and off.

He wanted to be the driver
in a different sort of train,
a smaller, more private one
where he knew all the passengers,
decided on the stations
and laid the tracks.
All that would take time to prepare
for a daily journey at the end of it
through country that made sense.

So he took his farewell of the job
in the office he attended regularly.
He forgot the way there and back
and instead began to see
the world as a place he could do things in,
a place he could make go somewhere,
where he could have conversations
with the like-minded
and the unlike-minded,
a place that would sometimes listen.

A Day In The Life

He gets up day after day
Never letting his needs get in the way
Goes into an inner city school
Where he is hired to teach
But, he feels like a fool
Though he tries not to preach
In his class, his is, the only rule

He reaches out to them one and all
He teaches about what’s real
While each and everyone tries to forestall
Educational time is too valuable to let anyone steal

So, he teaches on,
comes in prepared to instruct
Never stops to dwell upon
the day before no matter how it sucked

He tell’s himself,
they are only children
if not me, then who else
with knowledge, will fill them

By the end of the 8th period
He’s ready for a nap
But, he’s got home room
Which is a great time for a recap
of a lesson that met an early doom

When he gets home
he goes right to bed
His memories of the day
swirling round in his head

He drifts off to sleep
Soon dreaming he were there
Re-teaching a lesson that just would not keep
to a bunch of children who just did not care

Though, he knows tomorrow will be worse
he also knows he will arrive there first
to set up a new lesson plan
hoping this time the children will understand
Though, it’s wishful thinking
all they care about is sex, drugs, and drinking
to them, the class is a jail cell
they don’t want to pass, just fail and make his life a living hell. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, April 22, 2009, work poem. This is my typical day.

Meat Love

I can feel you glowering there through my eyes,
Red man of meat, puppet-sinews pulled taut,
I stamp my foot, shiny steak slapping the linoleum--
If you'd just shift slightly to one side,
I could see who it is standing behind you--
You see through me; but you, Adamah, are opaque.
The work of sunrise, launching it's slicing rays
Under heaven's sixth rib,
Mimicking my grandmother hacking away
In the Christmas kitchen;
The moon-kestrels cry,
The star-geese flock--
They touch the earth like a dolphin's leap,
Then sink in the glow of your body's underworld.

Carol Ward,you should be able to paid for the writing you do so creatively. :) Best wishes to you in your search for work.

Hide-a-Woman
New Program Converts Problematic Employees
into Functional Furniture


Congratulations!
You have eradicated the Me
in me: sensing, erotically-charged
fully-emoting
striving, thriving
creative being: deleted

the frivolity and spontaneity
of a fully alive woman
now imprisoned
in a job requiring dispassionate concern.
I am trying to fit

the last vestiges of humanity
into my new multi-purpose
configuration, exactly as I ought
—Oh man—

should you find me
speechless,
thoughtless,
motionless,
rest assured,
I will serve you momentarily.

Feel free to have a seat
and put your feet up
across my back
while you wait.

Whew!

WORK all day and into the night;
OPEN my mail – oh what a sight!
RUN to the bank, but to no avail;
Keep on schedule without fail.
IN to town for some shopping time;
NOW for some writing and a little rhyme.
GOODNIGHT ya'll, I'm out of fight!
Work all day and into the night...

Trying to Work and be Free

You have no need to be afraid of me. I am not what you perceive me to be. I will not rob or lower your property. I am just a black man trying to work and be free.

Hey, stop!! Trying to hold me down. I am not trying to impede on your ground. I am just trying to end the cycle that has my people going round and round. I am just a black man trying to work and be free.

I just like you want to provide for my family. So don’t let discriminatory acts keep you from hiring me. I am just a black man trying to work and be free.

Why is it so hard being a black male in my country? I just want to be the best husband, father and positive force to my family. So please just let me be. I am just a black man trying to work and be free.

To Work or to Dream

The computer buzzes a single sound
My office quiet by design
My friend is working at the next desk
She is watching and waiting for the clock to stop
Time goes too quickly for our taste
Always the same
A still small voice inside my ear
“It doesn’t matter whether it’s perfect, dear”
Just get the job done and off your desk
But my heart longs for a job well done
The numbers correct
The information in tune with the job done
Telling the world of another space
Another time
When what we did mattered
It was our signature on our work
I cannot sleep
Until the work is done
I dream the dreams of perfectionists
Telling me the secret life holds
And convincing me that I am part
Of the process to unfold
Then to rest
A soul satisfied

work work work
I said work work work
what could be better than
work work work?
we work when we're hungry
we work when we're cold
we work in the sun
and just do what we're told.
some of it's fun
some of it's drudge
some of it's easy
and some is just too much.
working brings in money
that we need to pay the bills
but more often than not
we'd rather be walking the hills.

Looks Like Work to Me

They effortlessly gather what is needed
to make their guests feel welcome -
a bit of flour, eggs, some beans, rice from India
fresh greens just picked in the garden
along with the herbs to spice things up.
The house is filled with music, art and books
with nooks and crannies that wrap around
you, creating a aura of comfort.
Long ago, they both learned about life -
about how it disappoints, how it re-educates,
and how it brings surprises when you least
expect them to appear before you.
They had found each other serendipitously
when each had given up on hope which
is why you can read Pete Seeger 's quote,
“There is no hope, but I could be wrong.”
in the strangest places – inside books,
under the table, on the bottom of a chest.
It was a blessing that they both were wrong.
Hope springs eternal for them now.
When asked how they stay so happy, they
say they work at communicating – with each other
and with the world – they make it look
so easy, but it sure looks like work to me!

Outside the box

Always think outside the box
Papa's words, sage nodding head
leading me to conflict as I thought
against the rote of school and tables
of numbers, progression methodical
my stray thoughts not conducive
to a steady march, harmony tramped
across rebellious thought

Always think outside the box
Papa's wise words, now lined face
as I entered the factory gates, followed
the footsteps of generations, one step, two
always in order, procedural duplicity
mass production thriving on the spirits
of individuality consumed by its maw
cartons packed, souls stacked

Always think outside the box
Papa's last words, he passed away
no more lists of things to pack
old gnarled hands liver spotted gone slack
customers still demand their fill
demise unnoticed, progeny still
fulfilling their lists, one after the other
no time to dwell, here comes another

Always think outside the box
it ran through my head as the hearse
drew away, we followed slow march
all hankies and tears, till our throats were parched
when suddenly sharp through the grey of the clouds
a beam came a-bursting and with it out loud
I asked one last question, 'Oh Papa, I pray,
to dream outside is what you meant to say.'

Always dream outside the box
Papa meant to say
pick them and pack them
follow the lists
seal them and stamp them
keep hold of your soul

and never, ever fall in.

©DP April 09

Tracing the Thought

Look at that last part again.
See if it works after all.
The intro could be shortened, and
Look at that last part again.
I’m concerned about the way it wends;
the thought’s unclear, there’s little flow.
But look at that last part again.
See if it works after all.

Tribute

Dressed in a white shirt, sport coat and tie,
my father went to work five days a week,
He plied his stack of papers nine to five.

His desk was one of many in the hive
of those who, no matter the havoc wreaked,
all dressed in white shirts, sport coats and ties.

He showed up every morning, rain or shine,
read memos, typed notes, telephone to cheek.
He plied that stack of papers nine to five.

At noon he ate his sandwich and his pie.
Sometimes he took a walk down by the creek
Still dressed in his white shirt, sport coat and tie.

I’ll remember him as long as I’m alive
for his loyalty, a quality now almost antique.
He plied his stack of papers nine to five

Until at fifty-one his heart stopped, and he died;
we never guessed his loyal heart was weak.
We dressed him in a white shirt, sport coat and tie.
He plied his stack of papers nine to five.

Prompt: “work”
Day 22
April 22, 2009 Earth Day


What We Call Work is Like Beauty.
by Faye E. Arcand


Do you sweat and toil in the sun sowing the seeds
that will feed eventually your family? Or, perhaps you walk the
many miles into town to get your groceries and
carry them home as your arms strains against the weight?
Are your hands raw and blistered from swinging that
hammer or perhaps cut and bloody from pulling in the
fishing lines? Maybe your feet are tired and numb after
tending your cattle and sheep in the dry and arid fields…Hmm.
There’s always a chance though, that you’ve sat at a computer
all day pounding on the keys or perhaps (if you’re lucky)…
have the authority to send someone to fetch coffee…
or, maybe you sat in a car and drove others around or
talked on a phone all day and paced in front of a desk filled
with papers and photos of your loved ones…
Yes, what we call work is just like beauty…it is
in the eye of the beholder.

It Happens Every Time

My dad is a drummer.
He plays with pizzazz
With a band by the name of
The Cake-Walkin’ Jazz.
“I’m going to work,”
To my mother, he’ll say.
My mother responds,
“No, you’re going to play.”


This is true. My parents are just so cute!

A HARD EARNED MEAL
By: Hannah Bowles

Worm bodies lie on pavement,
rain has washed debris onto
the streets and the birds
lament over wasted dinners.
Red-breasted robin lingers,
head close to the ground,
cocked to one side, a worm
he has found. I wonder why
they toil when there are
plenty of worms that have
been unsoiled. Maybe they
are much like us, they enjoy
more what has been worked for.
The good things in life that
we strive to create are the
great things in life that
never come too late.

Missy M.-- I love your poem "Young & Jobless"

The Perfect Boss
By Diana J. Baker

I love what I do,
And I do what I love.
I work for the perfect boss—
God in heaven above.

He has called me to serve others
And taught me how to do it.
He has mapped out a plan for me
That is a perfect fit.

He has allowed me to teach others
The truths in His Word
And write exciting stories
That others have never heard.

He has blessed me with songs
In the middle of the night,
And allowed me to share them
With countless people in the light.

Some may say I work too hard,
But it isn’t work to me.
I am joyfully serving God
And being all that I can be.

So if your current livelihood
Only makes you sob.
Have a talk with my perfect boss
And ask Him for a job.

LIFE: THE TOUGHEST JOB I’LL EVER LIVE
(...and the most rewarding)

PHASE 1: WORKING THROUGH CHILDHOOD


“Life is what we make it.
Always has been, always will be.”
~Grandma Moses



We numbered seven, that we did,
all when we were just snot-nosed kids.
Two sisters demure, and five strapping lads
were all the kids my parents had
all in our modest two bedroom house.

My “oldest” brother, Joe by name
never lived on past his first day.
So the other six that survived were given
all of the tools that we’d need for livin’
all in our modest two bedroom house.

With six at the table, you learned well,
to run at the sound of the dinner bell,
And if you complied with my fathers wishes,
he’d get you out of doing the dishes.
All in our modest two bedroom house.

But, I would lag, a real daydreamer,
not an underhanded schemer,
who took his “punishment” all in stride,
and wiped each lousy dish with pride.
All in our modest two bedroom house.

Along with the dishes we had other jobs,
but two of my brothers were real slobs,
who finagled their way out of doing work,
leaving it to the “ambitious” jerk.
All in our modest two bedroom house.

I took on all jobs, I wasn’t afraid.
For at the end of it all, I got paid.
And my siblings never did understand
why I always got on with cash in hand,
all in our modest two bedroom house.

When questioned one day, “How do I do it?”
I said without flinching, I got right to it,
“I learned the value of doing my work.”
And flashing my cash I said, “Now who’s the jerk?”
All in our modest two bedroom house.

And so then they quit shirking and did their fair share,
While I breezed along with nary a care,
Being creative I used my time wisely,
And the skills that I learned made my brothers despise me.
Back to square one in our two bedroom house.


(To Be Continued…)

***sorry...repost due to transposed words....man oh man****

Prompt: “work”
Day 22
April 22, 2009 Earth Day


What We Call Work is Like Beauty.
by Faye E. Arcand


Do you sweat and toil in the sun sowing the seeds
that will eventually feed your family? Or, perhaps you walk the
many miles into town to get your groceries and
carry them home as your arms strains against the weight?
Are your hands raw and blistered from swinging that
hammer or perhaps cut and bloody from pulling in the
fishing lines? Maybe your feet are tired and numb after
tending your cattle and sheep in the dry and arid fields…Hmm.
There’s always a chance though, that you’ve sat at a computer
all day pounding on the keys or perhaps (if you’re lucky)…
have the authority to send someone to fetch coffee…
or, maybe you sat in a car and drove others around or
talked on a phone all day and paced in front of a desk filled
with papers and photos of your loved ones…
Yes, what we call work is just like beauty…it is
in the eye of the beholder.

Marie Elena- Your parents are super cute, I loved your poem.

Love’s Labors Lost

A bookkeeper for forty years, she worked
a forty hour week in our small town,
loved, labored for her family of three,
her husband, daughter, grandmother and now
she labors on today struggling to work
problems in math, how to add two and two.
Dementia came and robbed her of her mind,
of thoughts once lucid. Now she sits a few
minutes of each day, then wanders off to
find the past, where she took care of others.
Her spouse, her keeper now, labors with love.

God’s Work

God had to work on Saturday.
Creating was a chore.
After light and sky and land,
he kept producing more.

The sun and moon and stars were such a
stellar undertaking.
The land and plants and animals---
perfectly ground-breaking.

But when He got to humans,
His first draft was really rough.
It was Saturday; He was tired.
But He hadn’t done enough.

So he went to work revising
His original design.
The second one was new, improved.
At last he could recline.

He relaxed and watched on Sunday
as his new creations played.
I’m glad God worked on Saturday.
I hope overtime was paid!

Workin’ Hard On Hardy Work

Some days I work like a dog
and come home smellin’
like a sweathog, actually
the truth is I log my hours
inside one of these grand, glass
towers and then ride home surrounded
by faces that glower, the pay is OK,
although the sour market has made
my 401K look like just a drop
in the bucket, I like being busy,
though not to the point of being
dizzy, at times boredom sets in,
and then it’s time to mail it in.

Day 22

Little Does One Know

“In pain shall the earth yield its fruit”.
T’is no wonder they call it work.
Through toil comes daily loot —
some sort of divine quirk.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity”.
Nothing I do lasts,
distorted sanity
hidden behind masks.

“You shall reap what you sow” —
now that’s a laugh.
Little does one know
the graft and gaffe.

Worry
Over
Relentless
Knuckling-down

Will
Others
Really
Kiss-up?

Writing
Ordering
Repeating
Knocking

Workers
On-time
Repeat
Knack.

Choices

WORK?
Go to the gym
Dye my hair
Get botox injections
Get manicures and pedicures
Watch my salt and fat intake
Take vitamins
Eat healthy
Buy expensive clothes and shoes
Compete at work
Try to look younger
Try to compete with younger women
Lust after more diamonds
Believe that 60 is the new 30 (or 40)
Set impossible goals for myself


NOT WORK?
Quit my job
Cancel my gym membership or
Go to the gym and work out less
Stop dying my hair
Stop the potions injected into my face
Shop at Loehmann’s
Eat anything I want, anytime
Wear kimonos if I can’t fit into anything else
Have lunch out with friends
Write another book
Write more poems
Pay more attention to my spouse
Go to more time plays, movies, and opera
Read all the books in my queue
Let it all hang out

Thanks Hannah! You write so beautifully always.

Debbie Pea, you've done it again! :)

Marie. Can't beat a drumming father, I'll say. Funny but I heard a similar thing at home. A great start. And yes, very CUTE!

Faye. Best foot forward and keep stepping. That's the start of a great journey. And go Canucks! Since I don't have a dog in this fight (having been euthanised early in the year) I'll back the blue and green for as far as they can go. Congrats.

Thanks Walt. Looking forward the "rest of the story" from you!

Art of Retirement

decades of deadlines
years of tears
eons of hours
trafficking traffic

worry at working
stress about stressing
shortening vacations
over the top over time

time to step back
broken and board
let it all go
time to let go

“Women’s Work”

This one places an ad
On Craigslist
Calls the morning radio show
Tells them she does it for forty-five dollars
On the side – is this her advertise?

That one answers and ad
On Craigslist
To be his date and listen
Intently as her long leg dangles a spiked heel
Over the barstool for only four hundred

Another crosses the street
No slut in her strut
No time to throw on a clean skirt for you
Must get Hope and Liberty to the bus
Little tummies need breakfast as school

My sister she walks for miles
Without shoes
Steady pot of water on her head
Dirty by our standards but clean on
Callused feet

My neighbor she lies down to work
As he enters her world of unpaid
She labors again to deliver the sixth
Reward of her toils; another set of large eyes to
Nurture. But he takes care of her.

My best friend’s daughter slides
Down to a place no longer hidden
No more short pants under her skirt to
Keep private things from collecting lust
Now green against her skin

I
Know their names but tell no one
My job is to show up and make the copies
Not to write or speak about these
For which we already have four letter words

Their work is to be women

Diana Baker, love the sentiment and attitude.

Hannah, you would just be such a lovely person to know and befriend. Bless you.

Jacqueline -- love it.

Hephaestus at the Forge

Constant hammer clanging
molding, making weapons,
tools of his time,
and things of beauty.
Barechested, sweating,
dragging that lame leg
through the smithy heat.
Etna moans with his anger.

With lesser gods who work
the bellows and stoke the fire,
the sharpeners and polishers,
he takes his break
at the water cooler
and complains about
his father’s constant demand
for lightning bolts
and the competition above
for more decorative thrones.

Do-Less Day

‘Do-less’ is my mother’s term
for those days that demand
the full shut-down
of whatever work is planned,
what adventures loom.

For reasons of health,
and doubtless age, not to mention
sheer inclination,
I have more do-less days
than I ever indulged before.

Oh yes, I did my morning chores
then, instead of tackling
some new project, or being worthy,
I sat on the creek deck.

Opened May Sarton’s journal,
the one about ‘After the Stroke’,
smiled at the Canada geese
honking above

and immersed myself,
finding great comfort,
in another woman’s search
for meaning in her late years.

Ok, all, great work here. I'm off tomorrow for the Austin International Poetry Festival in Austin, Texas, and may get behind a few days but I'll catch up when I return. Keep it going.

Better Things to Do

How do people do it?
I've got a freaking life to live --
I can't waste ten good hours a day
shackled to a desk or
driving back and forth to work.
I've got dogs to walk in the
springtime woods, a garden to weed.
I've got a granddaughter out there
in Colorado who needs my time.
I've got a man right here at home
I want to spend all my love with.
And then there are the ordinary pressures:
laundry, dinner on the table,
calling the bug man and
the carpet cleaner, painting
the newly empty bedroom
a deep, abiding shade of blue.

Thanks again, Marie. I am enjoying your poems every day!

Spring Planting

Tilling the earth
for a new year
he is willing
to fight the
soil to his elbows,
willing to smear
the rich black loam
across his brow
to swipe
at arrant sweat
as it drips
into his curtained eyes.
He is willing to toil
in the heat
of the newing sun,
feel its slap
across the bare
skin of his uncovered back.
A new season stings
at first,
preparing the ground
for the promise
of growth,
almost like work,
except for the pleasure
felt in bones
and muscle
at the end
of the laborious day.

Eighty percent

Eighty percent inspiration, ten percent perspiration,
That's all it takes to write poetry, fiction or a novel,
For me, writing the draft is the easiest part to do,
The hardest part comes from blood, sweat and tears.

Cut, edit, trim--that's what I've been told to do by others,
All worth it in multiple rewrites to the final polished copy,
Ready to query agents and publishers and literary markets,
And in the long run, more acceptances will come my way.

The extraordinary nOOb

I have amazing talents
To create and make a company
Go off the charts.

I've never done it before
But I know I can.
I just haven't been proven.

So I sit in my entry-level
Cubicle doing jobs reserved for
Poorly trained minions.

Someday I'll show them.
Soon I'll start climbing
And once I start, I'll go fast.

Work-No Way

Books books books everywhere
kids, library cards, stories
to tell, crafts to do, and
books to get ready to put on shelves
it is more fun than work.

“Finding a Happy Place”

Not so easy to do
When a teenager insists
“I don’t need you!”

When she slams her
Bedroom door so hard the
Whole house shakes

When she blasts Britney
So loud the neighbors
Want to burn her at the stake

When she swears at you or
pushes your little button
labeled “Crazy”

When she saunters out
In four inch Hollister shorts
Bra peeping out from her shirt

When she eats
Last of the ice cream
From carton to noisy to slurp

When she demands
At 10 p.m.
Notebooks for homework

Ay, this parenting thing
Sometimes I want to quit!
It’s quite a job I say

To keep from whacking
Her with a switch while off to
meditate in my happy place all day.

An Afternoon Song

He sings Roy Orbison pounding a beat
with his hammer. Rugged tool man:
Pretty woman, walking down the street


Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet.
Solo carpenter building his own band.
He sings Roy Orbison pounding a beat.

Sweating to the oldies in the summer heat.
He hoses off his muscles, sleek and grand.
Pretty woman, walking down the street

offers him an afternoon treat.
Completely ignoring his wedding band,
He sings Roy Orbison pounding a beat

with his heart. Wondering if he could cheat,
But, hoping things will get out of hand.
Pretty woman, walking down the street

Whispers in his ear, we’ll be discreet.
For a tiny fee, your wish is my command.
He sings Roy Orbison pounding a beat:
Pretty woman, walking down the street.

AT THE END OF THE DAY

She never planned this meditation
at the start of the evening,
after a day spent driving
from one place to the next.
She felt calmed as she washed
dishes, dusted tables, ironed
the wrinkled cotton of her white
blouse until its warm smoothed
back begged her to touch it
with her fingertips. She felt
the rhythm of her work,
felt her breath keep time as
she moved from task to task.
Later, as she brushed the thick
red hair on the dog’s back,
over and over, she sunk into
this moment, this space,
this prayer to nightfall,
over and over, back and forth,
in, out, inhale, exhale,
breathe.