Today marks 4 weeks in (with 2 days to go), and today’s prompt comes from Jonathan Edward Ondrashek.
Here’s Jonathan’s prompt: Write a poem illuminating how it feels to stand up for what is right in the face of adversity in the workplace.
Robert’s attempt at a Workplace Adversity Poem:
“Poets March on Wall Street”
We want more stocks, more options.
We want more up and down line graphs.
We want more people freaking out
when we start freaking out. We want
more people paying attention to our
ups and our downs. Mostly, we want
more people paying attention. The rest
would be a nice year-end bonus.
*****
Thank you, Jonathan, for the very unique prompt today. Click here to connect with Jonathan on Facebook.
Click here to poem along on the WD Forum.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Buy a writing instruction book!
Here are a few options:
- How to Write a Book Proposal, by Michael Larsen
- The Poetry Dictionary, by John Drury
- 2013 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer
- Create Your Writer Platform, by Chuck Sambuchino
Profit Margin$
Curveball in a game of dead-
lines and deliverables, he kept be-
(live)ing people mattered
more than profit$;
maintaining a wallet
full of folding money,
gifting greens from his billfold
to beggars on the street
as he made his way
to and from the office
every day.
Money was never
his measuring stick, and
when they laid him off
his lo$$ was no profit.
Bad Management Skills
She said, “Some ‘Secret Shoppers’ came
and left reports, which placed the blame
for service lacking, or else rude.
The fault is yours, I must conclude.
“You were the manager on dates
in those reports of scores and rates
which mention ‘other’ things they viewed.
The fault is yours, I must conclude.”
I puzzled how this could have been.
Who were these folks with their bad spin?
Was something wrong…or misconstrued?
The fault was mine, I did conclude…
that is, until I found a cache
of hidden papers. Ha! No bash
for my hard work. Instead, they skewed
towards praise for me, and did conclude
that when they visited the store
when I was ‘on’, from the front door
throughout the shop, the attitude
of staff was great. They did conclude
that I should get promoted. But
my boss had disagreed, and what
she did to me was not quite shrewd:
The fault was hers, I did conclude.
So…
The next day, here’s what did occur:
I threw the ‘real’ reports at her.
I said, “For this, you should be sued.
For now, I quit.” Goodbye. Conclude.
###
DRS CHICKEN AND LITTLE
“the sky is falling!”
the doctors said
“our revenue stream
is somehow dead!
what shall we do?
oh me oh my!
watch out, here comes
a piece of the sky!”
I sighed and murmured,
“oh really? please!
are you surprised?
we’ve shown you these
on many pages
in many forms
and suddenly
you see the storms?
the sky is falling,
or so you say,
the revenue stream
has dried away
perhaps your second home
or third
(a bird in hand
is still a bird)
could be used
to clear the way
and pay off all
you need to pay
and have a pittance
left for me,
the faithful one
who worked for thee.
what’s that?
your wife needs
yet another
designer bag?
of course
you’d rather
pay the piper
who sleeps
with you
and so I bid
(not fond) adieu
to working in
a thankless job
I’m leaving work
and getting
a dog.”
security
is sometimes overrated
compared to soul
I am a learner first,
a teacher second.
I am convinced that in between the bitter
folds of pages and under the
stone-soft heat of the
pearly white lights
therein lies the truth unfurled.
We work in a place where
knowledge is sacred
-or should be-
and given freely
-or should be-
and adored…
It’s a monumentous task,
this one,
to stand in the parlor
in front of the eager hundreds,
whiling away the hours
before the day ends.
It is a goliath job,
pandering to the precious,
filling their minds with tools of dreams.
And yet,
there they are.
Those people.
As if this job wasn’t hard enough.
the greatest struggle is finding a balance,
finding a voice,
standing true to the idea that
the education you give is the education they receive.
I wonder, openly,
why these people hate education so much,
yet it was that self-same education
which brought them to the point where
they can parade their voices like a prize
shih-tzu, it’s tail pointed to the sky,
its anus positioned to the world.
But at the end of the day,
when I shake my last hand,
when I realize how sore I am from
standing so stoically,
for laughing so riotously,
for crying so efforlessly,
that they are the ones who need to be silenced.
Sometimes, I feel like I could do a better job
raising their children than they do.
Day 28
Prompt: Standing for right in workplace adversity
Adverse
My workplace is home.
Not that it can’t be adverse at times.
But I think of Raoul, who has to worry
that Colombian forces will whisk him away
and shoot him in the head in the night,
because he’s a believer.
That’s adversity at work.
I think of Mahmoud, or Miriam,
who may not be educated at university
because he believes the Bible,
or who may be forced to marry a Muslim,
because her family would rather her be beaten
by a fifty-year-old man than bear the shame
of claiming the Cross.
Their work is His work:
to do the will of their Father in Heaven
on earth. Or die in the attempt.
Nov 28 : Write a poem illuminating how it feels to stand up for what is right in the face of adversity in the workplace.
Slip Up
You roll into the office and your hem is hanging down
six inches from your ankle with the edges dirty brown.
Your knee is scatched and bloody and your wallet’s missing, too.
You’re a victim of the icy, dicey blues.
You bump into some diva who draws back with great disdain.
You’re barely hanging in there. You don’t bother to explain.
You grab a paper towel, then you rinse your hands of goo..
You slipped up on the icy-dicey blues.
You head into your office, but your boss has blocked your way.
He glances at his watch and mutters, “Why the big delay?
I need those files from you. End of quarter numbers due,”
but you’re hung up on the icy-dicy blues.
You shrug out of your coat, sit down, and power your laptop on.
It beeps, a message flashes all too briefly. Then it’s gone.
The momser isn’t booting. Damn, you haven’t got a clue.
You’re deep inside the icy-dicey blues.
Too bad you need that paycheck or you’d head right back to bed,
You try once more to boot up, then you call your boss instead.
He hasn’t got his figures, and he tells you you are through.
You fell victim to the icy-dicey blues.
TODAY IS THE DAY . . .
Look at all the people
standing in line
afraid to move, to motion
to show anger or decline,
to frightened to protest,
to persist, to throw arms open
wide, to look up, see the sky,
fight for freedom, let those
leaders know they’ve had
their time.
Oops – forgot the last line:
Memo to the Crunchers
You see numbers, I see faces.
To serve the public takes some care -
statistics dull the social graces,
you see. Numbers? These are faces!
And while they put us through our paces,
let’s not lose sight of being fair.
See through the numbers. See the faces.
Serve the public. Show you care.
Memo to the Crunchers
You see numbers, I see faces.
To serve the public takes some care -
statistics dull the social graces,
you see. Numbers? These are faces!
And while they put us through our paces,
let’s not lose sight of being fair.
See through the numbers. See the faces.
No Donald Trump
“Want to know the worst part of my job?”
my boss asked. “It isn’t working late.
It isn’t having to bully people into taking
crummy shifts. It isn’t even that I for three
years running I haven’t had a raise because
I had to choose between me and my staff.
Nope, I don’t blame anyone for that.”
“The worst part of my job is firing people.
I don’t fire people because they’re fat, or ugly,
or sick, or their kid gets sick. I don’t fire them
because they talk to each other instead
of talking to the clients, or because they show up
late all the time, or take too many breaks.
I don’t have the luxury, even if I was inclined.”
“No, I fire people because they steal. Because
they punch someone. Because they get pulled
over smoking pot on the way to work. I fire
people because they fall asleep at their stations,
and someone could die. I only fire people when
I absolutely have to. I know I’m doing the right
thing. But I hate it, and it makes me hate myself, too.”
WHO’S MY BOSS?
(a shadorma)
A boss is
not always easy
to work for…
so I choose
to work not to please man, but
the King Of All Kings.
At the Monkey Factory
We don’t kill any monkeys, not even the ones that don’t pass QC.
Instead, we discount them and ship them direct to you as factory seconds.
Some of those monkeys are perfectly good monkeys. Who cares if a monkey has
a birthmark, or maybe an extra kink in its tail? Not me. That’s why one day,
I just stopped killing defective monkeys. Just stopped. My boss thought I was crazy,
almost fired me, said we’d be overrun with monkey returns, and what would we do
then? But I know about monkeys. Once you have a monkey, you’re not going to
return it, even if it bites (and they often do). So I think it was a pretty good decision,
and also I’ve stopped having those nightmares. I can’t even tell you about them
except to say that every night, a monkey reached its hand up to mine,
from the floor, you understand—and I killed that monkey anyway.
Oh. Wherever you got this, it stopped me cold. Amazing.
This one was a little difficult, since my home is also my office. sorta
I don’t know what happened
I’m supposed to be the boss
But it seems no one is listening
I’m afraid I’m quite at a loss.
I’m sure I’ve made the rules clear
They know what must be done
But every day, I explain them again
Now this time – Listen Up Everyone!
I must confess: there are some days
When I don’t want to be in charge
too many questions, too much quarreling
Someone bring me a double-double ex-large
I don’t know where Barbies’ shoes have gone;
why don’t you look in the jeep?
No, I cannot build a Lego rocket
Now keep it down – the babys’ asleep!
No more running, no more whining
No – that doesn’t go there
It’s time to clean up the toys,
How did you get gum in your hair?
I’ve got to get things under control
before poor Ken loses his head – again,
but there’s a pool party on at the Dream House
and boy, that doll sure can entertain.
I’m not beaten: though I’ve joined them
I just need a few moments of calm
the hours are long, the pay is nil
yet, I can’t quit: I’m the mom.
I thought it was 2012
I will stop talking my Spanish
as soon as you take off that pointy hat.
Don’t expect me to suddenly vanish.
I will stop talking my Spanish…
Two languages to me is an advantage.
Guess your one language is all you got.
I will stop talking my Spanish
as soon as you take off that pointy hat.
Work Place
Changing adult diapers,
taking the clients “bowling”,
helping them “make” Christmas dinner.
You don’t choose this job, it chooses
you. Either you’ve got it
or you don’t.
The new governor balances
his first budget
with an eye on politics.
As not-for-profits belly up
to the bar, looking for
a handout, they invent new ways
to bend his ear.
The needs of the many outweigh
the needs of the one.
The agency gets more money
in having a fully disabled
“client” than one only partially so.
R. spends his time either in
his wheel chair or in
his bed—being lifted
electronically from one
to the other—bed sores a constant
companion.
Some part-time staff are
teaching him new
exercises in his bed.
He wants to visit
his cousin, but to do that
he needs walk. He really
wants to walk.
His doctor gives him
a fifty-fifty chance of it.
And then it happens. One night
you see it. You and a co-worker
try an experiment.
He stands behind the wheelchair,
and you stand across the room.
You ask R. if he wants to
visit his cousin. He grins
in excitement, and slowly,
steadily rises to is feet.
At the next staff meeting, you
ask management about it,
and they laugh at you
and say, “R. will never walk again!”
And that is when
you decide to write the letter.
Before you can get it sent off,
someone in-house intercepts
it—the agency nurse is suddenly
interested in in what you have to say.
She chides you that passing rumors
is unprofessional behavior.
You inform her that what you witnessed
was no rumor.
After a long pause, she
promises to speak with
the physical therapist the next day,
and R. begins shortly after.
Within a few weeks, you are injured
on the job and end up out
on disability. Permanent disability.
Four weeks later, you hear
from a friend that R. is
ambulating with a walker.
He no longer needs the
wheelchair, and he finally
gets to visit his cousin.
The house manager takes
him there, and in response
to his family’s excitement,
she explains about how she
never gave up hope—that
it was her idea to get him
back into physical therapy.
Six months after that,
you get a text from your friend.
It is a picture of R.,
walking with his cane.
You had always said that
there were insufficient riches
in this world to compel you
to repeat your childhood
and adolescence.
But for this picture, you would do it
all again.
Ellen Knight
OBLIGATIONS
I’m fixing breakfast – whole-grain
fiber toast for us, kibble
sprinkled with milled flaxseed
for our dogs – if they’ll come back
in from play. But look out the window,
such a strange pink-gold light
through cloud. It’s going to rain.
That light demands a poem.
And look, the dogs flashed by, all
silver in the light, backlit by morning.
I should be out there
running with the dogs. The toast
is burning. What’s my real
job in this once-in-a-lifetime
moment, anyway?
Lovely…just lovely.
Occupy
People camping around the financial district must be heard.
Grievances about unfair practices must be acknowledged,
implore the majority, the lower 90%.
They want to tell bankers and investors,
although the message is undefined,
that they own the country too.
This is their message,
and they will not go away this time.
This message cannot be ignored,
acts of fairness must be taken,
and faith must be restored.
NUTS
and in a toxic valley, I tended six score
nut trees. At noon, crop dusters would
blanket the adjacent orchards and me.
I bought a gas mask at the Army Surplus.
When I heard engines, I’d strap it on, run
for the barbed wire edge of the grove
and hit the deck, but when I returned
to work, I’d be dizzy. After the third night
vomiting, I called my boss the next day.
“Do you know anything about old maps?”
“What?” “I found this weird map” (which
Alice made for me). “It was in a knothole
in an almond. I was on the ladder or I
wouldn’t have seen it. It’s got dotted lines
and one part has a bunch of dollar signs.
Looks like the creek is on there, too.”
“Hang on.” He arrived before noon and
asked to see it. I unrolled the map. He
wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a hoax, but
he also turned his body to align with
the compass rose. He paced east, fifty
times. The engine sounds started, and
in a minute, a white cloud engulfed us.
He turned northeast at the oldest tree
in the grove and began to count steps,
but when he got to four, he started
coughing until he doubled over for air.
When he finally straightened up, he
looked at me and said, “What the hell
are you wearing that for?” Through
the gasmask I told him, “No reason.”
FangO
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 28
Write a poem illuminating how it feels to stand up
for what is right in the face of adversity in the workplace.
Color Codes
Little codes on backs
of applications. Never saw
them before I filled in
for receptionist that day.
What did they mean? Asked
the question; got the answer.
They denoted race. Infuriated,
I refused to use them. At least
one day, in one firm on Wall Street,
things were kept honest. Not
keeping this dirty practice
to myself, but letting it slip
whenever I could, made me feel
I was working toward
changing inequalities.
Pro-positioned
This sandbox
seems
more
like a litter box—
and I’m not quite a kitten
but sand.
http://jasminecalyx.wordpress.com/2012/11/28/pro-positioned/
“Only Losers Lose”
(Sestina Poem)
I tell my child, “For you I wish
always that no matter
what, you won’t lose
when challenged by some thing
new, for the reward
will be greater than you’ll know.”
Even when outwardly you lose,
if you can say this one thing:
“I did what’s right/I know
I stood up for what matters,”
You will reap ample reward:
Self-pride, a hidden wish.
I’ve learned what I know
from personal matters
where I truly wished
for the very thing
of which there’s no reward;
and for that, I did not lose.
I may stand alone, I know,
standing up for what matters
–perhaps the single most thing
I’m most scared to lose.
But in the end, I only wish
for a higher power’s reward.
“I don’t wish
any reward
but to know
I have done the right thing,”
wrote Twain. Words not to lose
about what really matters.
Remember: a heartfelt wish
is a treasure, a grand thing
of which you should never lose;
rather, have faith and know
that wise masters reward
those whose life work mattered.
My final wish will be my greatest reward
In this one thing, this one matter
I know: only losers lose!
she was ready for him
slapping a lawsuit into his hand
as he was reaching to cup her behind
Such Enthusiasm
Weary faces looked up.
An undercurrent of whispers
Men clearing throats
You look around. Some people
Are getting to their feet. Any one
You know? Oh, Mrs. Fuddle-Duddle.
Of course. She loves to speak. Listen
To her now. Our young people!! When
Was she ever young? N!o, stop that now.
Other people are speaking. Pay attention
To what’s being said. Taxes might go up.
That can stop anything in its tracks. Wait –
It will stay here – it’s for our locality. Not
Too much , either. Listen to Mr. Small-
Businessman. Anything to keep people
In the neighborhood. But that’s a good thing,
Isn’t it? All right – a preliminary show of hands.
You raise yours. To our neighborhood. What
Was that word they used to say? Oh, yes -Solidarity!
Standing Room
The meeting is long and wearying
as she repeats the question over
and over, waiting for her own answer
to be mouthed back to her. She
lives on such capitulations, and so
we sit and wait for weak links to reveal
themselves. I state the obvious, that
repetition does not breed acceptance—
drawing fire and a warning that I have
become awfully talkative and should
not be so negative. We all understand
the code for achieving silence in the
ranks. I bite down on pointing out
that she need not be so obtuse, but
I smile and meet her eyes, hoping
there is yet shame in her.
I daydream remembering my mother
asking me why I take on lost causes,
and I answer that someone has
to stand up, someone has to volunteer,
someone has to voice other ideas.
Someone has to face down bullies.
Eventually, her lackeys motions and second
one another, where no vote is taken,
to put into place what we know is wrong,
what we do not approve, and we go away.
In the hallway, a group of teachers
applaud my ‘courage’ and express
concern that I may soon be leaving,
joining other colleagues who questioned
or suggested or protested or researched.
One young teacher says, “It’s simple.
If she says the sky is green, just reply,
‘it certainly is, so very green.’” Agree
publicly and disagree privately. Keep
my convictions in my pocket where
I can thumb them like worry beads,
like shiny aggies of morality, and
pretend that I am worthy deep down.
But we are teachers, with the power
to cultivate inner lives, improve the world
one student at a time, lovers of ideas.
We are worker bees of citizenship and
learning. I don’t want to confront,
but I don’t see a choice remaining.
I tell these fine educators I’ll do
as they suggest, if they can help me
befriend my own cowardice, if they
can tell me how I am to look into
my students’ faces and teach about
American freedoms and their costs,
about sacrifices made by people
of conviction for the betterment
of those just like us who sell out
because we’re afraid to stand up for
what we know in our marrow is right.
Tell me how to go along with wrong
and still teach my students right.
Please, teach me to capitulate. I mean it.
One teacher begins to cry and walks away,
one squeezes my arm, one pats my back,
and one compliments me on my eloquence.
I am retired now.
Stand and Deliver
For years, my co-worker was treated unfairly
by our supervisor and her apprentice: like being
chastised in public for socializing during her coffee
break, and other things jerked out of context
to build a case and justify write-ups.
It bothered me. It bothered me a lot that thumbs
with jagged nails were pressed into my workmate’s
psyche almost daily. She was also my good postured
friend whom marched in shoes that barely whispered.
I felt as if I botched friendship. Weren’t there
things I stood up for that vanished like a bad fad?
How could I allow the definitive essence of what’s
right be chipped away as if that period of time had
better things going for it? Did justice hinge
on my pay grade?
Nervous but single-minded, I dragged conviction
into the supervisor’s office. It ran like a track
star around pale gray walls. I went back
to my cubicle with the urge to write a Psalm.
This was more than interesting as a prompts.
Labyrinth of Guilt
Honesty hums within
Many hearts today,
And when right meets
Wrong, one must lose.
When Right tells truth
And many lose jobs,
Wrong still wins some,
Leaving Right humming guilt
For not righting wrong’s
Total nefarious act.
When wrong triumphs
Through legal channels,
Right screams from stab
Wounds of personal
Guilt reflex for not
Fighting harder on the line.
Solace come to Right
Only in knowing that
Battle has been waged,
Regardless of outcome.
Guilt’s labyrinth ebbs or
Flows with a heart’s song.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Talk It Out (A Harrisham Rhyme)
I guess it matters enough.
It matters enough for me to unleash these difficult words,
To actually start getting tough.
Oh, you and I both know we would rather these words not be heard.
Hear me out. I know it’s rough.
Realize this discussion is the only way for us to be cured.
“Buzz Off, I Quit”
The boss is spewing hot coals, again, you could probably hear him for miles.
Was the coffee too strong? Did the printer get jammed? Did he lose his mind or his files?
Perhaps that package to corporate HQ was supposed to get overnighted,
But he’s yelling again, brow beating the staff and I’m guessing he’s none too delighted.
Maybe the quarterlies didn’t come in… on second thought maybe they did.
His pressure-cooked brain, goes through fits of insane and he tantrums just like a bad kid.
Sometimes he needs some real crisis control, but mostly it’s all self-created.
If he weren’t the rich son of that muckety-muck, I’d insist that he get medicated.
Maybe someday, I won’t take this abuse, but for now I’m in need of the pay,
For now I’ll just keep playing Russian roulette, guessing what’s going to irk him today.
Will I ever stand up to him? Who’s got the nerve? I, for one, know I do not,
But I might scrawl a note, like “buzz off, I quit,” with my tires in the parking lot.
###
Down the hall
two women
whisper. Then
they glance
up and dart
off like birds
in different
directions.
In the break
room, everyone
suddenly
remembers
an urgent
assignment
somewhere else.
In your office,
the coffee
is cold.
Ooh, I like that end line. Sums up the poem nicely.
Excellent ending.
The False Accusation
A year and a day
after I received my
Certificate of Excellence
(signed by the College Chancellor)
I was hauled before
the Vice Presidents of
Human Resources and
Administration and Finance
and was threatened
with termination
because a
female co-worker made
the false accusation
that I raped her,
when all I’d done
was have consensual sex
with her
and then have the temerity
not to beg her
to leave her husband
for me.
Obviously, a lover spurned,
classic and predictable,
but when the person making
the false accusation
possessed a vagina,
she was believed
without a critical thought
(ironic for a college,
I know).
I looked at
Walt and Jim
and said
“Both of you
have female assistants.
Don’t you see
how easily
the false accusation
can bite you too?”
They wouldn’t
look me in the eye.
I had to bring in
notes she’d sent
from the college
email server,
which used her own words
to contradict and discredit
her story,
and then
the false accusation
of rape
magically went away.
Moral:
While honesty
is usually the best policy,
in personnel matters
with Human Resources,
email evidence
sometimes trumps
the false accusation.
Oh-so-very scary, Mosk. Chilling. And to add to it, too often an accusation of this sort follows the accused, whether or not it was falsely made.
Great poem.
Happiness in the Workplace
(Or: It’s not Always Where you Work)
At first, the hardest part
is learning everyone’s names.
And then, finding out how to
navigate your way around,
be you in an office or a forest;
becoming at home in your surroundings
is key.
Of course, things are always
much more difficult
when there are challenging people
that you must work with
or report to.
Kids in school think that having
a harsh, strict, or unkind teacher
is just not fair,
but in reality,
those types of people really do
help prepare one for
working with or even
simply dealing with
certain other people.
One must learn
to deal with that kind of challenge
eventually.
And in all honesty, challenging people
aren’t that difficult,
once one learns what motivates them.
My challenging boss only wants
things to be right, and so do I,
so we see eye-to-eye most days.
I had another boss in the past
who really only wanted to
mess with me and upset my world.
Of course, that is why he is in my past.
This brought out for me one of my favorite Biblical peeps!
Thank you for the prompt!!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/28/day-twenty-eight-esther-a-haiku/
Worrier Poet
See, the trouble is, our workplace
is the heart and we all know what an
inhospitable environment that is. When
doubt screams and inner critic steams,
we stand tall and begin to fall and we hold
our breaths and wait for the stars to
align just right, wait for the caffeine to
kick in, wait for rain or bow or sorrow or
the scarlet scrim of sunset or the ebony
of death’s whisper, or for the moon
to glow in such a way that
the words are knocked
(wooed)
loose…and then we
shed our salt to the sound of indifferent
crickets. We kill our trees and channel
breeze and hope there’s more
to this than word drops that fall as they
may, rebel phrase that wants to hear it
-self sing. We fling our skins, drink deep
our ink, starve ourselves silly and get
desperate and sell out and come
crawling back smelling like new money
and regret. We fret over period or comma,
climb stanzas in multi-syllabic slatherings
of fingerbeat and tongue. We love it well,
and it rarely loves us back, but we clack
that black because our heartbeat tells us so,
and we fight and fly and wrestle and write
…because it’s all we know.
.
OH, DE. DE, DE, DE … AMAZING, AMAZING DE. This: “shed our salt to the sound of indifferent
crickets” and all of it, the whole of it, De, De, De …
DE, I am the wearer of many hats, and I take them all off and bow!
(See misplaced comment below. Stupid comment gremlins.)
♥ ♥…yes
Awwww. Thank you, elishevasmom. I, too, am the wearer of many hats. Take them off as you please, but please don’t bow…unless it’s to help pick up one of the many balls I’ve dropped.
Thank you so much, Marie and Hannah. Your support and poetic sisterhood mean the world to me.
The poem is quite enjoyable, De.
Working is a poor mans job
Living is a dream
Living the dream is only what ever it may be
Tell ur boss u r the best and do what u can
If hes a jerk then turn ur cheek and find another man
It isnt always easy but dont we understand.
Thats right. Stand up for you..its all u have
Not ever gonna change.
Live the dteam… Once u know.. U can rearrange.
Dont hurt people… Not to gain but some will still feel pain. Be good and smart..slow your pace. Thank god for all u gain. Patience.
Writing new chapter:
“How to Approach Holidays
Gifting a Pink Slip”
Jonathan, your timing for this prompt is amazing. Someone I love dearly has been given the duty of firing a coworker today. He has suffered immensely over this task at hand. My prayers and heart are with him, as with the one he must let go.
Marie, your comment and Andrew …your poem, what can I say but repeat; WOW! Andrew the imagery is…wow.
♥♥ Agreed…will be with you in this…♥♥
Such an affecting haiku – so much said in so few words. Writing a new chapter, even when one was not wanted…
Thanks very much!
Oh Marie! How sad. Great poem!
Name withheld
It was our secret. Once a week she would
take me into the windowless back room,
shut the door and stand there till the air blazed.
Clear eyed, she reveled in the silence. First,
the invocation: “We have a problem…”
She said it like a priest blessing an ox.
Then came the spit, the fire, the apple,
the devouring, limb by bloody limb.
like a praying mantis with her lover.
Afterwards she would wipe her sated lips
and go back on the floor smiling softly
while I lay in the dark afraid to sleep.
WOW. WOW. Powerful, powerful stuff.
Wow.
Game over – you win. Oy, such a story – chilling. Big ups for sharing it. – thanks Mosk
This is chilling, Andrew. Perfectly, powerfully done.
Excellent. Fantastic ending. Stanza three is fire itself.
Holy cow, Andrew! This is amazing and scary and feels too true. The third stanza just gives me chills! Very well done!!
The Truth about Lying
Honor or money
Which will it be?
For I can fool others
But I can never fool me
The plaque on the wall
Will mock me with truth
If I succeed through a lie
What truth could not do
I want to look myself
Straight in the eye
Not blush because
All I see is a lie
Money can never
Buy out regret
Or clear the conscience
Of its debt
Bills will keep coming
Words slip with ease
But guilt is an albotress
Money cannot appease
To suffer the truth
Or spill pretense?
To keep my job
At honor’s expense?
What can we say
To our children and youth
If we choose to lie
Then try to teach truth?
The cost of a lie
Is hidden from view
To keep a lie covered
Requires at least two
God forbid
I should lie so much
That I no longer feel
Reproach’s touch
A lie is a shackle
Of misery
But the truth will always
Set you free
Money or sacrifice?
Fortune or trust?
Riches in heaven?
Or treasures of dust?
Guilt or peace?
Honor or shame
What will they remember
When someone speaks my name?
Today we live
Tomorrow we die
Nothing is worth
The price of a lie
SO many wonderful poems here today…
SO many attempts to post just one thing:)
For today, as with every day this month…THANK-YOU!
Double Standards
I reaped the benefits of his sexism
Favored because of my gender
But I grew tired of it after awhile
A line I would not cross
Men were crapped upon
As were the less endowed
He couldn’t even be consistent in that
Knowing others had spoken before
And failed in their attempt
The truth fallen unheard
So I bided my time as I searched
Then gave my notice with glee
They tried to screw me even then
Dismissing me before my time was done
They gave me a sop
Hoping I’d just go away
But I took great care
Filling out my exit papers in detail
Finding out later
Thru the grapevine
That I had made his life at work
Too hot for him to handle
And he beat them to the punch
Quitting and leaving the state
What joy I felt was coupled with my shame
At not speaking up sooner
Hats and Shoes (a harrisham)
Invisible hats line up in my house
Each hat representing a job I do
Homemaker, caregiver, writer, mom, spouse
Responsibilities quickly accrue
Sometimes I feel like a rebellious louse
Simply to relax and kick off each shoe
Great ending.
I completely understand.
how does it feel
to stand when it makes more sense
to hunch down
rabbit-invisible?
it feels dumb
it feels like raising your hand,
admit it, you have an answer. like
taking responsibility when you
aren’t ready. it feels solitary
and obvious, a
jump
in the movies to a roof that must be
–yards away–impossible, just to save someone’s life
(maybe they aren’t really in danger at all)
dumb
and adult
and exhilarating
Removing the Blind
Feel the need
to fill the greed
leting in
leting out
on the ball
hearing the shout
Hairs on the back of her neck
pulling in place
all of her fears
bringing her almost to tears
Learning to stand her ground
as open mouth
shouted words
that did pound
Red faced
vein pulsing
anger in despair
emotions were high
everywhere
Finally learning to stand back
watching what moves to take next
if the situation wasn’t difficult enough
it was about to get more complex
Knowing that one day
the penny would finally drop
knowing all the pain and anguish
could be swept away like an old wet mop
Living every day in hope
knowing that it would finally come
that the truth would finally come to the fore
the lessons learned
like many of her before
It’s sophomore year in high school
and my father asks me to mow the lawn.
I quickly argue against it on moral grounds
and he replies.
“I don’t want to!”
If you cut a thing too short too quickly
you keep it from developing
roots
and building a strong foundation –
“Damn neighbors must of mowed again”
Doing a thing simply because
others are doing it and you don’t want to stand out
is a subtle acceptance of tyranny
and a self imposed servitude –
“It’s fine the way it is!”
Imposing an old European estate model
on a foreign landscape is the height of hubris -
“Don’t make me ask you again, boy.”
You’ll do well in life, son,
just as soon as you learn to finish
what you start.
Mowing lawns is very overrated. Enjoyed the give and take of this, Steve.
Budget Cuts
Opening the email, you hardly expect
that the world as you knew it would suddenly
crash down around you in a series of slashes
cut deep into the heart of that which breathes life
into a small corner of the community -
a community rich in color, custom and consequence.
But, there it is, straight from the mouth of the monster -
“effective immediately blah blah blah -
no longer needed blah blah blah -
thank you for your understanding blah blah blah.”
You stare at the screen as if some alien craft
had landed on your desk, trying desperately to comprehend
the meaning of such callously placed terms,
which essentially mean that your students
don’t matter to those in the front office who
play dominoes with the lives that enter the classrooms.
Hello fellow teacher. I tried to reach you on your blog and on FB but I didn’t succeed and please know that I would love to get in touch with you. I don’t hope your poem here today represents a real incident – it’s so sad.
ENDLESS DAYS OF MRS. FERGUSON
She stopped saying
good morning
long ago.
She just slips inside
the large, dark
building
avoiding the whispering,
slips into her office
reaching for her chair
so comfortable placed
far behind
her impressive desk.
She’s handles national complaints.
She reads the mail and
whispers yes from time to time
but marks them all “read”
before adding the date and
filing them somewhere
until one Friday late
when
she opened her door
screaming:
Is anybody here?
I read this through a few times — each time it had greater punch. Well done, Andrea.
Oh my, Andrea! The last lines really grab at you:
“until one Friday late
when
she opened her door
screaming:
Is anybody here?”
Wonderful!
As a youngster I was called a ‘blackleg’
because I worked hard when the others slacked
but I got on with the job anyway
hoping I’d have a job when they were sacked.
But I had my first hard lesson in life
when I was laid off and the slackers stayed.
The ‘last in, first out’ principle was applied
even though I was the least to be paid.
Nothing had changed during my working life -
I got promotion, but my ‘friends’ I lost.
They called me ‘brown-noser’ cos I worked hard.
I might have done well, but oh what a cost!
There are years of good deeds left in me yet.
Now I am retired I’m still keen to work
but do bosses want me? No they do not.
They want pretty youngsters who like to shirk!
LIFE IS ADVERSITY
Everyday we face our demons
no matter how or where they vex us.
But we wake up daily to handle it.
It’s not always easy.
It is life (it’s not supposed to be easy)
Our job is to get through by whatever means.
This labor of life gets harder every day,
There’s no dealing with bad feelings;
you either deal or die.
So true, Walt!