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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 253

    Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    I try to plan out prompts ahead of time, because it’s hard enough to think of a poem on the spot. When I looked at today’s prompt, I had to laugh, because it’s something I won’t be doing today–since I’ve been summoned for jury duty.

    For today’s prompt, write a work poem. It can be about an occupation, working up a sweat, trying to avoid work, or however you wish to take it. Work is a loaded word, so I’m expecting a great variety of angles on this prompt.

    Here’s my quick attempt at a work poem (after all, I’ve got to get to the court house):

    “Miley”

    Some people love only to work
    while others prefer to just twerk,
    still other folks find they can work
    and pay all their bills as they twerk.

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    Robert Lee Brewer

    Robert Lee Brewer

    Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and has never attempted to twerk, though he has nothing against those who do (to each, his or her own). He’s the author of Solving the World’s Problems and the husband of Tammy Foster Brewer, without whom the book and this blog might not exist. Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer (he might even tweet about his jury duty later today).

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    About Robert Lee Brewer

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    165 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 253

    1. SOUL LABOR

      From somewhere out of sight,
      music resonating –
      a sonata for wind in oak trees.

      He put down his mattock.
      For all his striving with stumps,
      hardpan was winning.

      But now this arcane music
      that came from thin air –
      even the earth stopped to listen.

    2. lddillard says:

      These two poems are not about work as employment, but rather work on a personal level, self-improvement, working at accepting oneself, which is some of the hardest work we can do.

      Seeing Classmates After 20 Years

      Staring in the mirror-

      search deep in the reflection

      in front of me.

      Trying to understand myself,

      wondering if I see what the others see.

      -

      Am I beautiful or ugly?

      Am I brave or courageous or strong?

      Do I inspire? Do I uplift?

      Am I getting it all right or getting it wrong?

      -

      Searching myself and questioning,

      Where is this journey taking me?

      Do others see the work I’m putting in

      to get to a place where I’m not faking me?

      -

      I look in the mirror again,

      for the first time resist the urge to criticize.

      I see beauty and strength and amazingness,

      and self-approval shining in my eyes.

      DB- 9-18-10 — 10:13 a.m.

      ROAR, and Other Works:

      I am fierce woman.

      Hear my Roar.

      Fierce woman tryin’ keep the wolf from the door.

      Fierce woman cry in her bed at night.

      Her babies don’t feel like she love them right.

      Fierce woman fight to keep food on the shelf.

      Fierce woman fight to learn to love herself.

      Fierce woman keep tryin’ do what’s right.

      Fierce woman never gon’ give up the fight.

      Can I get a amen?

      DD- 9-23-09 10:14 pm

    3. After Hours

      The eyes of the young in coffee shops
      always look afraid, cupping each other’s furtiveness
      with glances like leaky fingers, too shaky to
      stay together for long, too cold to want to try,
      if anything at all.

      The boy against the yellow wall, unshaven chin tucked
      into a stiff collar, the tongue working against his jaw,
      moving the white wire of his earphones back and forth
      on his spotted cheek. I always wonder what they’re listening to.
      If it’s anything at all.

      His eyes jumped to mine a minute ago
      and before they skunked away, I saw the little boy
      from hours before, his moony skin on the street,
      the pimples tracking up to the dark wound from a hand-gun.
      It resembled a coin in the dark, if anything at all.

      He looked up at me, and his eyes were lonely
      like every teenager over coffee — begging me to drop him
      like a lost penny, or let him slip between my skinny
      fingers like the ghost he feared he’d grow up to be,
      if anyone at all.

    4. lionetravail says:

      Ba-Doom, Ba-Doom

      The sun is low, the lines are met,
      the drums play on both sides.
      We move, blades and appetite whet,
      for coming, reddened tides.

      The sun is high, the lines are blurred,
      it’s “March!” and “Stand your ground!”
      Cries vie with orders to be heard,
      from standing and the downed.

      The sun is low, the lines pulled back,
      blood on each sword, each dirk.
      But with the morn, renewed attack;
      Mercenary work.

    5. lionetravail says:

      Unlucky

      Love.
      How did it come to this?
      A stellar day,
      colors of the grass and sky
      so bright
      and stark
      that they almost hurt the eye.

      I thought, at baseline, I was fine,
      the distance between us
      a thing of necessity.

      Now closer, now farther-
      I was heavy handed, perhaps,
      and regret it, now.

      And this: love.
      Love!
      I had thought we might be set,
      perfectly matched,
      but the competition between us
      has led to the base practice
      of scoring points, one off the other.

      You thought it would serve me right,
      a death of one vicious slice,
      and a net loss at love.

      But the game isn’t over yet.
      I flip my racquet once, twice;
      it’s time to get to work.

      • PressOn says:

        This is another enjoyable piece. You seem to fly on the prevailing winds of fun, sometimes with an edge.

      • lionetravail says:

        Thank you! This is such a wonderful community- everyone’s willingness to put work out, and to comment on others, has helped rekindle my own enjoyment with word play. I tend to think of associations that are a reach, and then work around that to play with concepts, images, and poetic form to make something I think is interesting, fun, and different.

        I was inspired for this one during my sunday paddle-ball game- I thought to myself, down a few points against a tough team: “Time to get to work”. I knew I had something, and spent some time noodling about it, and thought about the related sport and all the great metaphors with love, and, whammo, it sprung almost fully formed and hit the keyboard fast.

    6. ChefSabs says:

      Stay-At-Home Mom
      I did not go to work today. But, today was full of work.
      Today I have made a pizza, some muffins, and 5 rows of a hat.
      Also changes, friendships, rest, and pondering, and also
      I ran errands. So many
      errands.

      I’ve also worried about money, and time, and health, and family, and boys.
      Well, boy
      or rather
      the thought that I could be loved by someone, and how foreign
      that idea still seems to me.
      But He says it is so. So it must be.

      I ponder such a curious idea, as I change her clothes, and help her with
      the most basic of needs
      and cheer her on when she takes a few steps in a row–
      and then I adjust her oxygen tank so she can
      breathe

      I sleep early, and wake up when I hear her
      crying. I wake her up completely; she can go back to sleep
      but only after
      pills water blanket nightlight
      oxygen tank
      and watching a video clip of her grandchildren
      sending their love.

      I tuck her in, and go back to my chair and lean back,
      blanket around my shoulders. I start to dream of
      work and school and tasks and chores and errands
      as the whirring of the compressor
      lulls me back to sleep.

    7. lionetravail says:

      At Great Price

      Hadn’t noticed how hard I was working
      Until it became irritating.
      The once-natural pass of ebb and of flow
      Transformed into something quite grating.
      Comfort and ease were two things of the past,
      And stress and obsession came hating.
      Every moment of every day
      The pressure kept mounting its rating.
      Still I persisted with efforts unsung,
      In manner so self-deprecating.
      Older I grew as my work never slowed,
      Will bolstered by my armored plating.
      And then I was sacked, self-protection cracked-
      And inside a pearl was found waiting!

    8. This man was meant to toil in the sun to earn his pay,
      my muscles strain and ache and in time, my back will break,
      but make no mistake: This hard working man likes it that way!

    9. BANGING ON THE DRUM

      Brother Rundgren, I can smell what you’re cooking,
      I’m looking for reasons to put rhythm to work for me.
      I can picture food on my table, since I’m able to produce,
      I have a roof over head, and it’s really no use
      to think I could do it if I were the same slob with no job.
      Driving a good car, putting good girls through school
      yet I’d drool for the chance to glance at daytime TV.
      But I go to work near the railroad, all the live-long day!
      And with all those perks can bring, I still need to sing,
      “I don’t want to work, I want to bang on the drum all day!

    10. lionetravail says:

      Jack and Jill

      There was this hill we climbed, y’see,
      and up, and up, it went.
      For water, we did both agree,
      and the thirst-quench it meant.

      But there were other thirsts I knew,
      for drink as red as rum.
      And in the mirror’s morning view,
      I saw my madness thrum.

      Grim, the top of hill you stayed,
      in place where none heard noise.
      You learned that worked, but never played,
      made Jack of the dull boys…

    11. cholder says:

      Faith

      He trudged to work each day
      Slaved for love; it barely paid
      Found that love shattered
      Brought a man to his knees
      Low to the earth toiling
      To plant a tiny seed

    12. Heather says:

      better late than never:

      work

      responsibility beckons
      the line cues
      sinuously
      along my desk
      inside my home
      in a Social media thread.
      Can you take care of this?
      Can you help me please?
      I miss you, where are you?
      some ignored more than others
      when a new question whispers
      from within
      when is it time to play?

      ~ also published at http://heatherbutton.com

    13. EMPTY SCREEN

      I sit and watch the speeding clock.
      My words sealed tight with key and lock.
      No images to soothe or shock,
      no work that isn’t poppycock.

      The keyboard’s job: to harshly mock
      my efforts that are often schlock.
      This writing life can be a crock
      when weighted down by writer’s block.

      © Susan Schoeffield

    14. lionetravail says:

      Solving for Work

      If work equals energy over time,
      it’s clearly how much you put in
      and divided by hours sublime
      which defines what your efforts have been.

      But if you find energy lacking,
      and time a huge denominator,
      expect you might get a good sacking
      for a “player” who will be named later.

      Do overtime over time long enough,
      one must find ways to self-motivate.
      Solving for energy can be tough,
      since long times at work can frustrate.

      If energy is based upon mass
      times the speed of light (which is squared)-
      will more massive work help surpass
      the previous output you’ve shared?

      Work equals, too, force times distance
      which equals your energy, per time;
      so your energy, in this math instance,
      is force times the distance times time.

      Now, the distance is how far you’ll go,
      and time simply cannot be bottled,
      if you’re forced like square peg to round hole,
      someone’s begging to really be throttled.

      If work’s longer, why is energy lower?
      It defies arithmetic equations!
      ‘Cause if energy drops we move slower
      (which is why we all need more vacations).

      In the end, one can reach this conclusion:
      physics only can take you so far.
      When time, mass, and force need solutions,
      it’s time to quit: go hit a bar.

    15. BezBawni says:

      WorK

      From under the crumpled bed-sheets
      stick out a toe and pull it back
      into the warmth of slumber
      and your acusatory body.

      Into the twilight of outside
      stare without thinking,
      listening to your breathing
      on my unhallowed skin.

      Then in the phone of missed calls
      type with my guilty fingers:
      “Don’t wait for me today, hun.
      Working late.” Sigh and send.

    16. julie e. says:

      S.A.H.M.

      Yes, I laid around eating bon-bons
      and watching old movies all day
      between the five loads of dirty laundry
      I washed, dried, folded, and put away
      No, your children were just precious angels
      home with colds didn’t make them berserk,
      and you’re absolutely right about that, honey—
      at least I don’t have
      to work….

    17. seingraham says:

      PUTTING IN A FULL DAY

      She’s always up before the rest,
      has everyone’s timetable
      memorized and puts their day
      together before they’ve drawn
      daytime air into their lungs
      Breakfast’s on the table; lunches
      made and by the front door, as well

      Feeds the dog, unloads the
      dishwasher, loads the washing
      machine but waits to run it…
      doesn’t want to use all the
      hot water until her husband’s
      had his shower…
      Lets the dog out and brings him
      back in; calls the kids to get up,
      up, up
      Checks on her love and as he’s
      showering; she makes sure
      he’s got everything he needs;
      clean shirt, tie, shoes polished
      etc. big meeting today …all good.

      The kids are giggling but dressing
      and getting ready on time…
      She reminds them to make
      their beds and amidst groans
      they do, then stumble to the table.

      Her day goes like this, everyday –
      a carefully scripted and choreographed
      play that she’s written herself…
      Oh, she knows to leave plenty of
      room for improvisation and that
      lots of days, probably most days even
      she’ll have to go “off-book” many
      times
      She also knows that’s part of what
      makes her life so wonderful, so
      worthwhile…

    18. Building Dessert

      I want a sundae
      with hot fudge
      black walnuts,
      coffee or chocolate ice cream–
      in essence, the works!

    19. bclay says:

      Beasts of Burden

      From sun-up to sun-down,
      we gon plow, we gon plow,
      ‘haw” for left, “gee” for aright,
      “whoa”-stop and “yaa” starts,
      we’s gonna plow untill its dark,
      the corns is aready for planting,
      and tobaccos’s ready for beddin,
      so we gotta plow straight till night,
      to the barn we’ll ago for our dinner,
      and ole ‘Minnie’ ”ll aget 30 minutes
      to let her jaws arest from the metal
      an shoulders aloosen from the collar,
      but we agonna plow, we agonna plow,
      the sun is getting wet in ol’ aquarious
      and the moon is all dark in it’s shadow,
      aint no time better, aint no times better,
      we gonna turn the dirt out from under us
      lettn burn all the weed’s roots in the airs,
      but we’ll keep plowing straight on aheads,
      tilting right for tha left, tiltin left for tha right
      acres on acres of rows straightend by sight;
      but when sun touches ground we’ll go bound
      back to a shelter pen full of hay, adown to lay,
      but till then, we’s gonna plow, we’s gonna plow.

    20. Hannah says:

      Smiles to all! Thank you for the prompt Robert…good luck with the jury duty. :)

      http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2014/02/05/the-art-of-intracranial-forestry/

    21. PowerUnit says:

      There is no light, only fast terror in the rains
      Large, rickety, oil-laden, tip-toppy trains
      But I keep my head down and mind moving
      My fingers slap the keys
      and my students rap on my door, please
      stop slapping us with theory we won’t know
      and technique you can’t bestow

      I wonder at my purpose, why should I care
      If a young man can’t get out of his chair
      I take a break and brew a pot of coffee
      Is there any hope for the laggards
      The lot of the mouthy braggarts
      That my efforts can nurture
      Or am I condemned to this torture?

    22. De Jackson says:

      Punching the Clock

      She wants to
      most days,
            (pow!)
      right in the face,
      because the hours be
      -tween drop off and
      pickup are constant
      -ly shrinking. She’s
      just thinking of the
      perfect word or phrase
      and
           (bam!)
      it’s time to head out
      again. It’s not enough
      that this thing she
      loves pays in copies,
      promises, garbanzo
      beans…she’s got to
      pilfer pause, beg
      borrow and steal
      minutes as well?
      (swell)

      They tick
      her off,
      these steady hands
      that know where they’re
      going, ever flowing for
      -ward when she’s wishing
      for a way to breathe back,
      clack something more, be
      -fore that door opens and
      some hooligan bursts through
      needing a snack or two or
      spewing some new knack for
      (new) math
      she will never
      understand.

      (Q: If a speeding WriterMama
      starts a poem at 9:02 and does
      a workout, 3 loads of laundry
      and 2 errands before noon,
      what time will said poem
      be finished?

      A: Never.)

      She has spanned the gamut
      of the
      calendar
      dayplanner
      globe, filled boxes
      and blanks and
      lists with the word
      WRITE
      all caps, in pen,
      underlined. Twice.
      …only to have the
      Do Not Disturb
      sign perturbed
      from its place
      set high
      on her heart.

      Sigh.
      Maybe she’ll start
      again tomorrow.

      .

    23. priyajane says:

      Time
      Time is always working hard
      pulling and pushing the tides
      crashing on waves, polishing stone
      We may try to hold and flow in it
      falling back and springing forward
      But it follows its own rhythm
      working its charm through a colloidal
      consistency of changing effervescence
      always working hard — effortlessly

    24. cmariee says:

      Drowning in 150 essays I think these writings are the death of me.
      When can I be done, be free from this workload in front of me.
      I love to teach, but grading I feel more machine.
      Not enough time in a quarter, not enough days in a year.
      Deadlines, percentages, comments, and emails.
      Now Gradebook won’t open and the baby starts crying.
      These writings sit naggingly by me.
      As if wanting to know, when will you be done with me.
      And I think, just maybe tonight I’ll get the time that I want to break away.
      To have some me time, and what will I do, I’ll write. Can’t wait.
      There words a daily struggle. Mine, my one release.

    25. priyajane says:

      Paper Work

      As the sun gallops faster
      winding his time machine
      I’m reflecting on the pool floor
      shimmering salsa swirls
      Transparencies that emerge
      through my bored paper work—

    26. Hi-Ho

      I whistle
      while typing or hum
      polishing
      each fine piece
      of art work littered around
      my home – soul working.

    27. Snow Plow, Man

      Getting coffee now
      Stopping to peruse
      The land
      Drinking her coffee
      With her child in back
      Sleeping
      She buys chips and apple
      Juice for the child and
      Goes off

      http://agelessdummy.wordpress.com/2014/02/05/snow-plow-man/

    28. writinglife16 says:

      Life’s work

      When he was a child
      he traveled far
      to go to work.
      Got up at 5 a.m.
      Bathed in the river
      as the snakes swam by.
      Had breakfast and
      walked to the fields.
      Worked until the sun set.
      In his mind, he traveled
      beyond those fields.

      When he was a man
      he still traveled far
      to go to work.
      Still got up at 5 a.m.
      Took a shower.
      Had breakfast and drove an hour.
      Worked until the sun set.
      In his mind, he traveled
      beyond those roads.

      He breathed
      his last breath
      at 5 a.m.
      No more work to do.
      He was thankful, that at last,
      His soul could travel far.

    29. Work

      Some days work is labor, from the moment
      I wake up until I fall exhausted into bed,
      and though my line of work rarely strains
      my back, and the only callouses I boast
      show imprints where my pencil rests,
      I know the stress of a mind and a body
      drawn by some invisible whistle; impatience
      marks my days as sure as any time clock.

      But other days, I wake before the clock’s
      rude alarm, one eye on the numbers
      as they turn, planning my day, eager
      to see the challenges I’ll meet, ready
      to address the problem I’ve unknotted
      in my dream’s subconscious mind.

      Even love can seem a chore from time
      to time, as I’m compelled to act
      regardless of my spirit and my heart,
      but what a grand reward it pays,
      and what a beautiful retirement plan.

    30. lionetravail says:

      What Do You Call It When A Florist Goes Out Of Business?

      Though the florist had planned to retire,
      After making his fortune entire,
      He’d just had to stop
      All the sales at his shop,
      Because of a loss of desire.

      But, in truth, to get out of the selling,
      Takes hours of effort and yelling.
      And if one doesn’t take
      An appreciative break,
      One misses the roses for smelling.

      And since time takes its toll on us all,
      Like the status of lilacs in fall,
      Sometimes you go silly
      From staring at lilies,
      And taking some orders, too tall.

      But after the years have been counted,
      And endless bouquets have been mounted,
      The floral frustration
      Of re-in-carnation
      Can be, like the crocus, discounted.

      And surely this story so floral,
      Must have, at its end, its own moral?
      To a horny layman,
      The inviting stamen
      On tulips might seem kind of oral!

      But the truth is, all kidding aside,
      The efforts with Susans (black-eyed),
      Or wrapping up mums
      For such pitiful sums,
      Makes one ask: “Why have I tried?”

      Like when friends ask you sometimes for trees,
      So you overstock palms just to please.
      You think, looking back,
      Over scores of lilacs:
      “With friends like that who needs anemones?”

      So, after the business has soured,
      And marigolds seem underpowered,
      You sell off the store
      ’cause it’s been such a bore,
      And you realize you’re finally de-flowered!

    31. elishevasmom says:

      Labor of Love

      Just after reposing,
      and while I was dozing,
      my muse had given me warning.

      If I went off to sleep,
      the thoughts would not keep
      ’til the earliest light of the morning.

      For that very reason,
      and not befriend treason,
      a night stand was found at my bedside.

      With a notebook and pen
      for just the times when
      birthing ideas from the inside

      I awoke with a thought
      of such clarity, caught
      the entirety of my attention.

      I knew the right venue
      for airing this menu,
      of that there could be no contention.

      As I reached for my tools,
      the voluminous rules
      of Justice became just a fable.

      The journal I found,
      but my pencil was drowned,
      in the darkness off of the table.

      With my pencil replaced,
      my muse I embraced,
      but just saw how my efforts had failed.

      She had now turned her back.
      All my thoughts were off track,
      and had totally been derailed.

      With no words to foster,
      I knew I had lost her,
      ashamed as I am to report it.

      Called to dance by my muse,
      all I’d had was excuse.
      The work of this writer was forfeit.

      (c) Copyright Ellen Evans – 2014
      2.4.14 “work” poem for PA

    32. lionetravail says:

      The Expert Who Puts Worms On My Hook

      The fishing crew’d fully assembled-
      The better the sooner than later-
      From the Captain, whose hands never trembled,
      To the widely renowned Master Baiter.

      The crewmen all took out their poles,
      Heading out for the big haul.
      And, of course, you must know the outcome-
      He Master Baited them all!

      A man most adept at his craft,
      He’d found his true calling, you see.
      For once he’d discovered his ‘nature’,
      He’d Master Bait quite easily!

      He’d failed a career once, at farming-
      The problems did simply abound.
      Like when it came time for sowing
      He’d spill all his seed on the ground!

      He’d failed once at tending a vineyard,
      But don’t call him names so detracting!
      It’s his choice if he remains so
      Very fruitless and subtracting!

      His stamina’s simply amazing,
      He certainly works like a loon-
      At peak, I have heard he can do it
      Some fifteen times before noon!

      And lest you are thinking that his is
      A very crazy way to live,
      He works with about forty sailors-
      Whatcha think are his alternatives??!?

      And surely his palms may get hairy,
      And surely his sight may grow dim,
      But he’s not the village idiot,
      And sometimes we emulate him!

      (Oh yes, and sometimes we emulate him.)

    33. Working at Home

      Do you work they ask?
      Meaning outside the home.
      If I say no it sounds like I
      sit around and eat
      proverbial bonbons all day,
      whatever bonbons are.
      Yeah, I work like a slave,
      when I’m not at the rec center,
      having lunch with a friend,
      or a out on a shopping trip.
      I can do what I want,
      as long as I’m not busy
      with what I don’t want.
      Can get lazy, crazy,
      unorganized, obsessive,
      tangled and tied up
      with projects hither to yon.
      I feel like I’m never done.
      Relentless.
      Can’t clock in and clock out
      and leave the work behind,
      but I like my coworkers
      and have a great boss.

    34. Working blue

      my fingers
      need a home A warm
      place to breathe and roam
      They trampoline over coal
      domes combing letters to grow
      a tome of groan or love or poems
      to bemoan (oh, woe is me) or
      some other overblown
      droning on and on
      and on
      and
      Oh, I don’t know . . .
      what else I really
      can do.

    35. PressOn says:

      DEFENDANT

      In this spot I’ve no reason to hurry
      or vent my distress in a flurry;
      instead I’ll sit here
      and, I hope, persevere,
      while my lawyer is working the jury.

    36. PressOn says:

      SOLUTION

      When a fellow is down on his luck
      and his fortunes are running amok,
      he should greet fate and sin
      with a wink and a grin
      and be working at passing the buck.

    37. ON THE JOB WITH LOKI

      “Do you want to work?”
      She glitters. She leaps, and grabs
      a taste of sky
      coming down, then stands motionless
      as I slip the harness
      over her head. “Give me five!”
      Lifts her right front paw, shoves it
      through the loop – Chinese-
      puzzle of D-rings and red webbing.
      We’re ready. A signpost
      at park-entrance is point-last-seen
      for Linda’s daughter, Tracy.
      Loki pulls me in a big circle around
      the post – trails taking off
      in three directions through the woods.
      Which way did Tracy go?
      Loki’s sniffing everything –
      plantings, pavement, bare earth,
      this morning’s gray squirrel,
      the man with pugs on leash who just
      walked through – Loki’s
      sorting all those scents. I clip long-
      line to harness;
      open ziplock bag, give her
      a whiff of crumpled kleenex inside,
      “Check Tracy! Track Tracy!”
      And we’re off.
      Loki’s in charge now. Up the south-
      end trail across a bridge
      down rough dirt road into tangled
      woods. On the job.
      She’s expert at this work, her
      greatest joy.

    38. annell says:

      Studio Practice
      I come to the studio
      Each day
      I set a goal
      I work toward it
      Sometimes I take
      A breath
      Try to calculate
      Where I’ve been
      Where I’m going
      And where I hope
      To be
      Alone with my
      Thoughts
      Some would not
      Consider it work
      And often not much
      Progress is made
      But…
      Because I am loyal
      To my studio practice
      A body of work
      Is created

      February 5, 2014

    39. JanetRuth says:

      Work

      The merchant’s salvation

      The sluggard’s dread

      But ever the ration

      That butters our bread

      The wise man’s blessing

      The dreamer’s curse

      But ever the jingle

      To pleasure the purse

      Our waking purpose

      Our well-earned rest

      Of all that life offers

      I say work is the best

    40. PKP says:

      Brief-case

      She stood at the door
      barefoot
      reaching up with one
      outstretched arm just
      missing the front knob
      His bulging brief case
      pressed against her
      thigh – snow falling
      in fat flakes outside
      erasing the front steps
      as she cried in a small
      determined voice
      eyes flashing
      “Don’t go work Daddy”

      ~
      *happy jury duty RLB …..*

    41. jasonlmartin says:

      Evolution

      On the evolutionary chart
      we are apes. On the organizational chart
      we are apes.

      The Chief Evolutionary Officer growls to the
      General Manager
      Something incoherent, points to shapes

      On a wall, points to boxes, names, lines
      Nodding heads, swinging neckties, chewing pens
      And this is what we have become…

      - Jason Martin

    42. barbara_y says:

      Have fun. Jury duty can be a goldmine of material.

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