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Zywa Jul 2023
In my work I can

add trumps and do everything --

if it comes off well.
Poem "The Profession" (2002, Lars Gustafsson)

Collection "Specialities"
Dave Robertson Sep 2021
Here is a carrot
we made it from sticks

eat it

eat the stick carrot
or by gosh
we’ll hit you with
this stick

which is not made of carrots

here’s a survey about how you feel
which we also made from sticks
it doesn’t matter if it’s glass or gold
we won’t look at it anyway

eat the stick carrot
and try not to look over there
where they’ll give you actual carrots
and sticks are frowned upon

you’ve gone
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
Maybe Dracula

was a phlebotomist.

In which case,

he was only doing his job,

and pretty well, at that!
Jones Ayuwo Sep 2018
As I sat by the window sill
Decked in grey garb
Listening  to adumbrations
And other grey garbage,
My eyes were drawn beyond the room,
Out across an odd sea of serrated roofs
Till I saw,
On a sandy patch of land
Ten boys and a ball.

I sat between my passion and my profession,
Peering out the window of my profession.
I watched engrossed, my passion
Bib around my neck,
Boots upon their feet.

“LD/HCR/.... “
The court clerk cried.

I profess passion for another profession,
I’m not a professional at my passion,
But I can profess my profession passionately!
And so I rise...
“May it please this honourable court...”

And it was ******.
Suhas Sep 2018
A teacher is honored
adored and idolized,
A doctor considered almighty
and worshiped into.

An engineer portrayed
as the pillars of future,
A bureaucrat painted
like a messenger from above.

But little does the world know
the truth of the twilight,
everyone coming here for services
under the low lit alleys.

Alleys that are always looked below
ironically are the alleys of forbidden pleasure,
all i am is just another soul
working to feed her kind

Abused shamed and discriminated
forced to bear an illicit fruit
only to realize she shares the same plight as mine
and yet i put on a smile to serve every night

only to pave a different path, a path
abiding the "NORMS" of society.
neth jones Jun 2018
An udder of lies
A profession
You are an utter lung

Fresh of breath
You prove yourself
Over and over
To be evident and no false seller

But a greeder within me
That I offer meals no longer
Stirs in its dormancy
Alters in recognition of you :
Double Tongue
D.T. 2.         Pledge

though a tradesman by action
I pledge no double tongue
and steer
by matching simple heart to equal heat
good of spell
clean of word
to be a tradesman of loft
deemed weight
Gloved hands flex in umbra of night
a cot rocks, glittering in the rays of moonlight
baby coos, shaking its rattle
the leathery hands stalk the craddle
finding their prey, the gloves seek the neck
like guillotine, they reap
... they reap

Every idea meets this end
Every dream of mine every prayer
In infancy they glow then glow no more
throttled by shame, they break
chastised by fear, they fade
I would rock them, nestled in coaxing arms, close to my heart
the clock chimes its hour with pride and finality
at midnight, the reaping begins
upon the witching hour, my dreams are snuffed
and nightmares usurp their place.

Is it torment to expect more of myself?
Content to write poetry and leave epic tales of heroes and nemeses to doom and dust?

How many old lovers have I professed my dreams to
how many friends have I bored with my tales
how many family members smiled as I asserted my storytelling chops
only so I could stop, even before the period could halt the last sentence of the novel, thwarting its purpose.

How many heroes clambered upon my doorstep
begging, pleading for me to pen their heroism
How many villains woke me up with their cackling
In the corner, sitting, their eyes glowing in the void of night,
smiling teeth too white
or too black
feathered hats bobbing as their malice peaks
when they hold snaking knives to my throat
and with morbid breath instruct,
"For the love of God..." they say,
"Paint me in a good light, but make my misdeeds known, **** you!"
And I would lay awake, dreaming of these worlds
until the clocks knell
allowing the ebb of time
to wash away my desires, my talents
and the glistening, far-off worlds fade to nothing...

In the end, indeed,
even my mind fades
leaving nothing but a husk behind
and all who knew come to watch
hanging a tombstone upon my rigor mortis neck,
it reads the words,
"He tried, of course he tried
but the devil has his price,
and this poor soul couldn't make rent."
My most cynical take on my problems with writing long stories (some short stories and otherwise, novels): It's also the first time I've written about it poetically, almost therapeutically.

I remember a time when I could sit down and not leave until 5000 words (or midnight, whichever came first) sat on the page.
I remember when there was no concept of a chore, or bore.
But these are just memories...
Who am I now?
Someone unhappy, that's for sure!

I'm trying to do something about it, so I hope I can keep doing what I'm doing (had a list or goals here, but it's wayy too long).



four decades of professional life
    considered with benevolence
(how else …?)
have altogether
not turned out so badly
even though no party politics
helped me climb the ladder
of not so easy scholarly achievement

often in the beginning I discovered
that my politeness was mistaken
for simplicity

and so I had to learn a bit about
   how I could stand my ground
to kick the shins of those who thought
    they could step on my toes with cool impunity

until they noticed that they were mistaken

over the years I found my ways to garner
    not everybody’s love
    but their respect and recognition
which is what we all mostly need

Just reminiscing
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