Last Edited Work Poems (5)

Weeping ageless
on the moonlit street,
grabbed by branches
a bare winter's feast,
ice stiff birches
exploding upwardly!

I used to be a writer; a little poetry by hand. A poet without the glitter; no audiance did i command. My messages were solely mine; a cummulation of my thoughts. Here and there little lines, and whatever comfort it brought. I was not the shakespear; i am who i am. These my writings, i shared, hoping if "one" would understand. Then my time was past; i wrote poems no more. Not even good poets last, muchless me, this simple bore. Yet you can make me great, reading my work through and through. Do so for this poet's sake; one who is infamous as you. Become a well known critic-: debate my work and its value. With comments from good to derelict; such helps my work shine-through. I am not the immortal; my body dead and gone. Make my work-:a living portal and byfaith a legend lives:- on!

I work
As I'm sure many people do
I have the day off to celebrate nine years of work at this company
My first question I had to ask myself
Were they nice to me?
Overall
I'm sick at the bad treatment I have recieved
But I could have said that at any time during my life
Except for the time I spent away from work from 2009 till early 2013
I did work at a ski resort for 24 days from November 2010 to February 2011
I did like it except I got paid an average of 1.25 when you figure in my expenses
10 dollars in gas a day, socks, boots, 7.00/hour taken out of my unemployment
I got to hug really pretty women when they need help off the lift
I got to eat anything I wanted to during my shift and drink free pop and hot cocoa
I was comfortable by myself sitting in a chair
I am thankful for the money, especially during the pandemic
I don't appreciate the masks which don't seem to be going away any time soon
I have over two years to go to beat my longest job, panwashing for 11.5 years

A factory full of odds and ends, assembled and arranged in lines by non-mechanical beings.
Punchdrunk time cards chart their lives through typical weeks with typical tasks.
Printing the barcodes, scanning the barcoded things.
Plotting points on a graph, crunching numbers - like a cog in a machine.

I could've had religion
but I loved God too much
I could've fought for a living
in boxing rings and such

but I guess we are who we are
and we can't outrun ourselves
and the traits that make us rounded
are often stored in others shelves

I could've been kinder
to the girls that shared my bed
I couldve talked and listened
and let some inside in my head

but the world's an inverted question mark
pointing to the east
and the sum of every good I've done
is balanced on a beast

the more dangerous the obstacle
the more determined I am in tone
see I've always been a protector
to every soul I've known

for work I mind for money
the wealthy and great
the affluent and healthy
beneath the cloak of fate

at home i shroud my family
by planning and device
a shield of hard experience
deep roots untouched by ice

I couldve had a different life
I couldve been carefree
I couldve swam in lukewarm ways
but I chose the Atlantic sea

as cold as knives each morning
as salt it licks my scars
I see the dawn's reflection
in a billion floating stars