Newest Work Poems (218)

Over 3,300 years ago there lived a man named Moses
He believed in making a six day work week
With Sunday as a day of rest
He also made sure they had enough to eat
These were slaves that he gave these rights
They made no money off of their work
But he saw the positive effect of letting people rest
This gave them hope
This restored their health
They why in 2015 are people forced to work on Sunday
For the same reasons the pharaohs did it 3,300 years ago
Power and greed

I try my best to be happy
Around me they are unhappy
Don't believe I'm clumsy
Making me feel guilty

Doubts my sincerity
Play acting my self pity
"Don't think!" they say to me
You always mess up things

I know at times i miss
Things like updating some lists
Or sometimes its incomplete
At least my mistakes i admit

why do you always get angry
For every single thing i say
You should take things easy
Not make a scene every day

I'm not your god damn enemy
Making a fool to you is not my wish
I really dont have a good memory
you dont believe me when i said this

The Girl at the Town Dump!

The girl at the Town Dump is unbeknownst to me

Beckons all with a friendly smile to launch their hectic day!

Starting the day with a simple enjoyable, how are you?

Isn’t it a pleasurable way when a total stranger ~ that can do!

You look around and there you see

A bit different at the dumpster since her coming
A friendly face but that’s not all

She sweeps up the loose trash that has been displaced and throws it in the dumpster putting it in it‘s dirty place!

Of course you don’t want to eat upon it’s dumpy shores but it is better then walking in muck & mire

Hey! It’s a place to throw out trash and stuff
and even that defective worn out tire

We have a smiling housekeeper at our dump
married to her town dump job

She treats the residence of our town proud as she makes it one of the pleasantest dumps around

This dedication is to the unsung town hero’s that make Life worthwhile!

The Janitor Poet ~JimEee

The internet seems to have gone away
The smoke is gone and the mirrors are broke
Looks like it’s going to be one of those days
Our system is kind of a joke

It was working today for an hour or three
When a student came asking for help with his work
I tried to download the file (it’s free)
But I couldn’t, and felt like a jerk

The network admin isn’t answering his calls
He is probably tearing his hair out by now
I don’t think I want to see him at all
He’s probably having a cow

The people are starting to rise up in arms
They’ve called for his head in a sack
I don’t think they really would do him harm
But I hope someone’s watching his back

The day is all sunny, the sky is quite blue
A gorgeous autumn day
I hope that he knows what he needs to do
And gets it all done right away

Bob had to leave
It wasn't his choice
He had to because the management didn't like him
He knew his job
He showed up every day
He was fun to work with
But they said he was over on his hours by three hours
Why do the good workers get trashed
And the bad workers stay forever
I've seen it too many times that it makes you wonder
Why does it seem that the bad people prosper
Is it some kind of sick joke?
I will miss Bob
I'll miss his jokes
I'll miss his company
I'll have to go on work Monday without him
Work has always sucked
Maybe it's because people like Bob find some way of dissappearing

Here I am looking at this paper and holding a pen,
trying to think of something to write about again.
But every time I try, I just come up blank,
As if there is nothing life in my think tank.

I use to be good at this, this writing thing,
it use to be I could write about anything.
Now I can barely scribble out a couple lines,
and think about how this is all just a wast of time.

Even now I staring at the clock,
only because I can't think of an original thought.
So I look at the tv and what do I see,
just my reflection looking back at me.

So maybe it's time to give up on this writing thing,
even though I love it more then anything.
Or maybe I'll sit and stare at the clock,
wishing I could get out of this writers block.

IT'S MIDNITE AGAIN; TIME TO PATROL THE STREETS! JUST ONE STOP, AT THE LOCAL MART, TO PICK UP, MY EATS! NIGHT PEOPLE ARE STRANGE, BUT INTERESTING TOO! THEY ALL HAVE THEIR STORIES; FROM MANY TO FEW! A YOUNG GIRL, FLAGS ME DOWN; SHE'S SUCH A CUTE HONEY! SHE'S NOT HERE TO CHAT, JUST PICK UP SOME MONEY! I SPEED OFF TO THE NEXT STREET, ON MY CHARIOT OF GOLD! I PUT UP WITH THE ELEMENTS; HEAT,RAIN, AND COLD! THE SUN IS UP, AS I MAKE MY WAY HOME; I SHALL RETURN TONITE, TO THAT BEAUTIFUL, PLEASURE DOME!

Why is it so that they seem to not know,
The answer to their question was definitely no?
You tell them once, you tell them twice,
Your anger grows after telling them thrice.

But they continue with the badgering,
Hoping to con you out of your thing.
To them it's nothing but a game,
Their parents probably do the same.

More than a game it is their hustle,
To them the mouth is their working muscle.
They could have what you have gotten,
The meaning of work they have forgotten.

They also don't seem to be able to save,
For if they did they would not crave,
To have that which I did conserve,
They're lying beggars, I did observe.

Maybe it's because they're lazy you see,
I just wish they'd quit bothering me.
As they continue they keep getting louder,
Until you want to fill them with gunpowder.

Their badgering seems to be persistent,
In saying no I am very consistent.
Once they realize that you wont budge,
It pleases them to hold a grudge.

It is not long before they return,
They pester you without any concern.
You always seem to have something they want,
And to get it they begin to whine and grunt.

In saying this I have not lied,
To see what would happen if I tried.
I asked of one to see how he'd act,
The dude almost died of a heart attack.

"peace! WHERE ART THOU?" I SCREAMED.
Peace said "Here I am, on the other side of hurt."
"What are you doing so far away?"
"How long the journey depends on you."
I am but a beacon of the troubled mind,
The white lining on the stony ridge of chaos,
Beckoning the soul to seek itself.
I am a gift you must seek me out.
But the mote is the hurdle you must leap.
So get jumping!"
"And so, getting through the mire of loss gives
You the practice of acquiring peace?"
"Yes, tap your Spirit to sustain,
Until the journey ends.
And loss and hurt fold into Peace."

Who can they be?
Whomever they be
It includes you and me.
For poetry is the heart of our being
What we feel and what we are seeing..
It need'nt be real but does not make it false.
We can be naked wit,h no shame
light a fire with no flame
Be in love, never knowing who they are,
Wish upon a star.
A rpoet can hear the roaring of the sea
When the Sea is not around,
Hear the singing of a Whale
ause we know it by its sound.
We can dance on a cloud on a clouddless day,
slide on the snow on a summer;s day
we treat ourselves along with the world
In every word we write
For that is how we know
That all our words have might!