"breadwinner" poems
African woman
Mother of civilization.
Oh beautiful woman,
Thou are beyond description.
African woman
Queen of the people of Mamba.
Jambo to all those in heaven
Bless you too my dear mama.
African woman
Royal Nubian Queen.
The backbone of her man
You'll do anything to help him win.
Single Black woman
Made of broken pieces
You're the breadwinner,Superwoman.
You're the symbol of strength in all places.
African woman
Daughter of Eve's.
Thou are God's true specimen,
And the apple of his eyes.
Black woman
Daughter of Africa.
Blueprint of a **** woman,
Dark hue of coffee arabica.
African woman
Mother of humanity
Chieftess of ancient Nyngoman,
Mama Africa's bounty.
African woman
My Mandingo bride.
First woman of Africa's Eden
Center of God's black tribe.
Nigerian woman
My Yoruba Queen.
Envied by the women of Oman,
Cafe ou lair, cream of Africa's cream!
Warrior woman,
Queen of Wakanda.
Come and flip your wand,
Find the soul of Sarafina.
Curvy woman
In your womb lies Africa's future.
My Lormah woman
Oyobuays marvels at your structure.
Beautiful woman,
Perpetual envy of the silicon woman.
Pride of the Black man,
The essence of a real woman.
Indigo Woman
Lillies of the African plains.
Thou are Eve of the African Eden,
Best of the portraits that nature paints.
Voluptous woman,
Full, thick natural lips.
Real assert of the Black woman,
Nature gets aroused by your hips.
Ellen Sirleaf, today's woman,
Africa's first female president.
A Liberian woman,
Loved and revered wherever she went.
Smile ,Gambian woman,
You're daughter of Sarakunda.
Roots of the Black American woman,
Captives of the kanda Bolinga.
South African woman
Mariam Makeba
Sang for freedom and fought like a man
You were truly Soweto's finest Deva.
Dark ebony woman,
You are red, yellow and green.
Hanmatan wind stops at your command,
Born to slay and be seen.
African woman
Thou are the only reason
God put Adam in a coma.
Your perpetual beauty transcends time and Season.
African woman,
Under your cleavage, the Nile flows
And between your fingers, golden threads are woven,
You are the reason Beyonce glows.
Harriet Tubman, brave woman
Smuggled slaves underground.
She was a freed Black slave woman,
Who avowed to leave no soul behind.
Creative woman
Maya Angelou, gifted poetess.
Famous writer and a Black woman
Will be remembered for her poetic prowess.
Native African woman,
Africa's limestone and cement.
A mother, a wife, virtuous woman,
Lioness and the spine of the continent.
Liberian woman
Roots of my poetry, you gave me life
You are every woman.
Your edges are sharper than the Sumarais knife.
#IvanBrookspoetry©
13/8/2018
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
Mag aaral ng mabuti para sa kinabukasan
Hindi lang para sa sarili para na rin sa bayan
Magandang trabaho at magandang pangalan
Aking pamilya, saki'y inaasahan
Lahat ay di kailanman sumapat
Inuuna ang pamilya dahil yon ang dapat
Ni hindi makuha ang suporta na nararapat
Pamilya nga ba talaga itong maitatawag?
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
My fingers bleed.
Back hurts.
Breathe fumes.
Never sleep.
I can't be a mother.
A child.
The breadwinner.
A human.
I make 13 cents.
Every hour.
Everyday.
For what?
I'man exploit.
A worker.
Mental.
Broken.
I've been hit,
Broken down,
Touched.
*****
They steal from me.
My hope.
Education.
My life.
I can't eat.
I can't sleep.
Get back to work.
Or get lost.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
no mean feat to reestablish,
palpitating those few seconds
when arms-in-motion wave frantic,
in desperation,
in fall-prevention mode,
comical and tragical,
a salty suite,
and the semi-familiar
taste of fall/failing
the freshest fear,
jalapeño hot on the tongue
some months ago,
the thinnest tightrope,
not an obstacle feared,
what I lacked for,
I could not say or now recall
the kindness of calm prevailed
now tension lines drawn,
under the feet,
around the neck,
high voltage wires that
no artist-survivor-breadwinner
can walk without trepidation
though you don't see my arms flailing,
there are faint marks on my soles,
parallelograms on my throat,
where fear has tested
the prowess of its equipment
my life retrospected,
have miracles
made and gained,
given and taken
nine lives used up so many times,
thought my allotment was
nine X nine to the power of nine,
stupid-stopped looking over my shoulder
the poems came so easy,
every phrase overheard was a
story explicated, and the insights slid
from throat to paper so fast
I did not count myself blessed,
just merely fortunate
well fortunes veer,
turn left bad right,
no direction home,
and what was easy,
now impossible
how the story final beds,
will keep you posted,
right now all I can predict
with 100% surety,
the fall is surely coming
for the summer-man
the sun cannot burn off
the fog that paralyzes his
ship to shore,
invisible the safety of port,
the horn sound more of a croak,
his voice, ashamed of failing,
has this man both
landlocked
and lost at sea
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Indian mother, small daughter, dowry troubles
kerosene poured drenching them
soaked rage, soaked rags
match struck, flames then death
wrenching
Two crumbs amongst these intransigent
slices of village culture
lost, burnt alive
never even at the table
A slice of life lost in a furnace
fueled by ignorance
American daughter, guilt filled
flees the home that loves her
drug fueled journey, on a treadmill of fear
for the running never ends
needle slices, a lonely son away from his mother
****** coursing the blood vessels
A slice of life, a slice of madness
English man sitting, ruminates on his slices
some with honey, some with not
pens a few lines
reality served up, tough to swallow
late in life, at least he’s realized
he’s the breadwinner and the bread maker
each slice cut, just the way he likes it
a sliced of life, a slice of love
each one chewed to perfection.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
I used to like you when you were dumb.
Then you smartened up and it pains me some.
You question almost everything I say.
You use these big words almost every day.
You really are making my brain cells hum.
You used to be **** when you talked.
You had this trampy twist in the way you walked.
You did everything I told you to do.
Now you want to try things that are new.
And at that, baby, I just have to balk.
I really do prefer the way you used to be.
You made sure to do things that pleased me.
Dinner was always right on time,
And serving leftovers was a crime.
Now meals are not the way they should be.
I used to be breadwinner around here.
That was one thing that was totally clear.
I gave you a weekly allowance to spend.
None of this going out for drinks with friends,
Now you have a job and sometimes you’re not here.
I think the cause of this is all this reading.
You think you’re getting smart is misleading.
You are getting a different attitude
And I think a lot of them are rude.
There are some basic truths you aren’t heeding.
So you should put the Bible on your list.
As a matter of fact, I really do insist.
It tells you I am the important one
And you are just a planet to my sun.
So it isn’t God’s will that you resist.
Brent Kincaid
4/24/2015
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
He gave me a ring
With its facets glazed and cracked
Insisting it was once his great-grandmother's
She who
In rot-edged vintage photos
Wore a mink stole and flapper beads.
_________________________________________
She pulls at seams
Takes up and brings down hems,
The stole pushed to the back
Of a web festooned attic
In a steamer trunk slapped with decals:
Moscow
Austria
Monte Carlo
Rio de Janeiro.
On cold days she wears it again
Dancing to old melodies on rough boards
And when she hears the front door slam
It's made to disappear in haste,
Her engagement ring clacking
Against the trunks flip locks.
That night as she makes biscuits
For her breadwinner she sees
The crack, the chip
Through a glaze of milked flour.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Soon I'll be a work day chump
9 hours a day, 1 hour drive
each way
Satisfied the pay's above minimum wage
and I got the weekends free to drink and play
8 hours of impersonal lonely phone calls
next to people unlike me in every way
except how we're all paid
A headset be my cursed crown
I'll forget to take it off
when I leave for lunch downtown
"You're doing this for her."
I'll say to the framed question mark
atop my plastic desk
A future wife, another life
Don't let the exhaustive poison win
We're destined for other places
And darling, you'd leave me here
face it
But, your king is a thrill seeking breadwinner
Who shall conquer fertile forests
abound with cabin mansions, reindeer dinners
and more than 5 hours of weekday waking freedom time
Till then, I just wish I could promise you
I won't lose my mind
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
It’s simply amazing what phrases pop into one’s head and stick - and as they stay there they develop, and as they develop the inner life takes over and what started out a superficial bit of twaddle turns into poetry of some substance, proving anything can become anything with a little bit of reflection.
I Am A Housewife
I am a housewife.
Organize and deputize,
Buy and cook,
See that everything’s delicious,
Making dishes at my best,
Matching wish of man and guest.
Preserving and conserving, I economize,
Hunting down the clever buys
So there’s savings at year’s end.
Mix and blend creatively,
And when I shop
I stop and hesitate; contemplate
And seldom buy on impulse.
That said, I occasionally fall and do.
But mostly, shopping for our food’s
A yoga. So’s the
Washing, cooking, dusting…more;
The most and best health giving chore:
Hands cleaner in the water,
Waistline smaller, reaching up and for…
No breadwinner,
But a winner baking bread.
Cakes and cookies all included.
For, of course, the friends and husband
Whom I feed,
Try to supply each need
Not because it is ‘the done thing’
But because it is the fun thing.
Then there’s me. Filled with creativity.
Actually, a private soul
With my own needs to feel whole.
I do not underplay the housewife role
As many in society
Who downplay tractability and duty.
For to me it stands for beauty,
Not for slavery.
I am a being who serves house,
Deserves the house, My house! Our house!
No mouse by any means
But combination heroine
And superstar,
Dishing out the wonder
Of existence
With insistence and persistence
For a comfy coexistence
Dishing out the dishes
And a family’s wishes.
I Am A Housewife 12.23.2018 Circling Around Woman II; Arlene over Woman II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
This is Uganda
My motherland
My home that I love so much
Boom, boom, boom,boom
Another prominent leader has been shot dead
Who is it?
Abiriga, the yellow man
Panic here, panic there
Some arrests here and there
And that’s it
He is gone
And the killers too are nowhere to be seen
This is Uganda
Around that time, it’s party here and party there
Many of my brothers and sisters have come to the beginning of the end of their time in school and some totally done
The graduation has brought well-wishers, relatives, friends and family from different places
Happiness is all in the air
But for many, the excitement ends there
Because months and years after that, they are still hoping to find their first job and the hopes seem to be withering down and getting further like the sun setting at dusk
Some have chosen paths totally different from what they studied for
The professional doctor is now a trader
The one that studied engineering is now a farmer
This is Uganda
The neighbor’s dogs are feasting on meat, chicken bones or even the chicken itself and maybe some serious Dog food sold in supermarkets but they slept on empty stomachs the previous night,
The mother is the main breadwinner for the husband abandoned them
There is very thin hope for a meal the next day
Maybe a Good Samaritan will do a miracle
But it certainly is not going to be their most immediate neighbor
While kids from well-to-do families are picked from the gates of their parents’ homes to go to school and brought back later in the evening,
Somewhere in the same age range or slightly older has also woken up to start his/her day
With his/her old & ***** sack on the back, held by the neck, he traverses the whole village throughout the day in search for scrap metal, plastics and some metallic cans that ***** hopes to sell off and find a little something to buy some food and also enjoy some ‘luxuries’ like maybe buying a secondhand T-shirt/Dress
Imagine that!
This is Uganda
We pay for justice
Some pay to deny other justice
And that’s the way it is
A police officer will ask you for a bribe openly with no shame
And that’s the order of the day
Disguised as a small token for ‘Ka-soda’ or ‘Ka-lunch’
This is Uganda
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 10:43 AM UTC
Father-
You were so many icons:
The Chief to me.
My ***** Harry.
The Chris to my Gordie.
An Alexander Supertramp.
The Rick of Casablanca.
Father-
You were so many nouns:
Protector,
Guardian,
Hero,
Breadwinner,
Rapscallion.
Father-
You were so many adjectives:
Funny,
Caring,
Interesting,
Strong,
Adventurous.
Father-
You were my biggest downfall:
Five times I’ve seen you cry.
For me, always baseball games.
Three school events attended.
Too many addictions.
One ruined childhood.
Father-
You were so many villains:
Jack, the dull boy.
Gollum, with your own Precious materials.
Michael Madsen, every time.
Keyser Soze.
The ego of Marsellus Wallace.
Father-
You were so many roles:
Liar,
Gambler,
Alcoholic,
Promise-Breaker,
Black hole.
Father-
You were so many problems:
Unreliable,
Restless,
Invisible,
Hopeless,
Cold.
Father-
I am what you made me.
I am evil and broken.
I am cold and emotionless.
I am restless and relentless.
I am insane and dark.
I am conflicted and confused.
Father-
I am everything you aren’t.
I am everything you are.
I am nothing good.
I am nothing inside.
I am a part of you.
I am because of you.
Father.
I wouldn’t be without you.
But I would have been better off.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
The poet in me
Can disappear
I’m a combo short
Without his ear
A pretender’s left
And here comes panic
Without my Muse
I get quite frantic
And chaos crowds
The remaining source
Where I’m a knight
Without a horse
A wordsmith here
Unqualified
To pick my brain
Just pushed aside
Robotic words
Will cross my page
The day grows dark
On life’s old stage
Longfellow looks down
Laughter booming
At the tripe I write
So non consuming
My ego falls
My pride goes limp
And one hung low
Is no Chinese ****
So I send prayers
From my antenna
To reach my Muse
My lost breadwinner
How could one think
Him but a myth
I lost my flow
I lost my pith
Oh here he comes
With lines exact
I'm me again
My Muse is back
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 2:49 PM UTC
In another life, my father
must have been a blacksmith.
Essential in his village
Essential to be needed
(otherwise what’s the point?)
Swinging his hammer in heat, in smoke,
content within his St Bruno haze, suspicious
of anything lighter than black leather
anything lighter than brass fittings
- comfortable with sweat stains and scattered ash,
scars and deep bruises marking him
a man’s man and breadwinner,
- relaxed with the air blue, the tribe white
and his iron laughter echoing with every strike,
every blow shaping his son
into his family’s likeness.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:22 PM UTC
don't ask permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have no clue.
my torment,
the headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
to poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay the bills.
a breadwinner has a job.
feed the family.
protect and serve.
do it well.
because there is
no acceptable excuse.
am afraid.
when was supposed
to be easing on down,
am slipping under.
have come so far.
my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition,
in the legs, knotted shoulders,
aging faster than
hungers, fingers, can write.
warped,
reversal of causality,
the older he gets,
the more mouths to feed.
man, it is tough,
this unexpected,
for me,
already,
a nine lives survivor.
can he do it
one mo' time
on borrowed lives,
again?
it is simply amazing.
my eyes,
constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong
so long.
but this well,
just got dregs left,
drudgery dregs ain't potable,
worthy of your drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
there's not a single
object on this planet
wanted to posses
or worse,
be
possessed by.
more cannot say.
jutting chin,
stomach ****** in.
nothing gonna
change my world.
monday,
wrestle with strife once again.
today, on the sabbath,
deny reality.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong so long.
when hearing Shakespeare
my own voice, stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
am ashamed
of every word
ever wrote.
hush me not,
for tis true,
yet write on for
an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a subject, a life,
mine,
still unmastered,
even after
decades of trying.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
The breadwinner was hot railing at last
We have dismantled the illusion
Persecution according to prosecution
If only to feign partiality
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
Moral depravity is a commercial asset
*** is love
Love only happens to beautiful people
People with chiseled jaws unstrap silken bras
Bras are meant to be **** and not intelligible
Intelligence is secondary to primary skill sets
Set up the idyllic world in your imagination
Imagine that you will one day know the answers to everything
Everything will be simpler and no one will hurt you
You, the delicate breadwinner who scored perfect SAT's
Sat down by harsh lessons that cannot be studied with the help of Adderal
Add up all your triumphs and they will only be a 63 percent
You have failed life
Li[F]e.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Hoisting the boulder,
Legs tremble beneath great weight,
Ant brings home a crumb.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
I see no point
In living
All the troubles
Don’t you see?
Are all caused
By human kind
All the choices
All the suffering
All the wars
All the hunger
All the
Problems
Psychopaths?
Their made from their
Past
Abused
Neglected
Deprived
Retired soldiers
Waking up from
Gory scenes
Of war
Every night?
Those nightmares
Are caused by
The wars
The strife
The protests
The terrorists
A student’s stress?
Expectations
Goals
Standards
Commitments
A breadwinner’s worry?
Money
Income
Maintenance
The next meal
Broken friendships?
Betrayal
Jealousy
Loss of faith
Competition
Therefore
Just dig me
A hole
A deep deep hole
That I can jump into
And vanish
From existence
Entirely
No need to think
No need to worry
No need to decide
No need to go
Crazy
Dealing with
Me
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
Vignettes
every read is not a feather
but a fearsome weight,
every poem~repast unique.
the desert,
toujours la même chose,
always the same thing,
self~loathing,
for now
thy questioning overwhelms you:
now what, what's next, what's left?
~~~
French bread speaks only in one tongue:
the earthy brown crust language of
soil and sun, announcing I am the flavor,
white flour is but a process
~~~
when the
breadwinner
can no longer provide,
he suffers twice:
once,
the hunger pains he inflicts,
felt more keenly,
then again,
for the dishonorific the world
does crown him,
man of no value,
bread-loser
~
my favorite raindrop is
the one that lands on my
nose and rolls slow
onto to my tongue:
a nose drop twofer!
~
all art begins with stimulus.
stimulus breaks the comfort of habit.
habit is the blackout shade
that strains out the light of creation
~
no two dancers will dance
the same choreography
exactly the same way,
no two poets will employ
the same words
exactly the same way,
the small differences
are the heart of the origins of our specie,
great art,
Vive la difference!
~
Let us give our worst performance,
Write our worst essay,
If it pleases but one,
Its success makes the great ones tremble
with envy
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
Sir breadwinner, could I peek into the golden bag
carrying all the prayers in soda bottle caps?
I’ll be a supreme producer
selling souls at human’s main income,
a sunny afternoon with spiritual ascension.
I’ll redeem main’s lips but not their soul,
can I manufacture that plastic cross with you?
A god was born on a Saturday evening
against the sky as the holy universe exploded
into fiery stars & black dust
He wore the name tag: Ultimate Being
He sat with His ear to their frosty dimension
like an alien with a superiority complex.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
For many years, you were our family's breadwinner.
Your money paid for our breakfasts, lunches and dinners.
Because of my mental impairment, you continued to support me after I turned eighteen.
You could've outworked two twenty year olds, you were the hardest worker I've ever seen.
After twenty months of chemotherapy, you lost your fight.
Your battle with Leukemia ended six years ago tonight.
For the last two days of your life, you couldn't even reply to what people said.
When I received a call from my sister-in-law, she informed me that you were dead.
Your existence on Earth ended at around 10:20 PM.
One day I'll go to Heaven and I will see you again.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 1:24 PM UTC
When I was younger,
Mother was more of the monster,
And father my knight in shining armor,
For whenever I get into trouble,
He wards off all of my fears;
But as I grew older,
Mother was more of a hero,
And father just a man I hold dear,
For no matter how difficult I can be to her,
She's always giving her all for me;
Now that I've grown so much more,
Mother is who I wish to be in the future,
And father is who I pray will get His mercy,
For if it wasn't for her I wouldn't have been me,
But if it wasn't for him then I wouldn't have become somebody;
One day I'll be someone's mother,
And I hope to God they'll have a father,
A dad not just for his title but as a figure,
The superhero,
The guide,
The support,
The breadwinner,
The one who tucks them in at night,
And makes sure that the bad things stay out of sight,
The equally cool one between us two,
For no one turns out who they are,
If not for their Mother and Father.
@byizn
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 3:49 AM UTC
If you should call yourself a student,
a truth-seeker or breadwinner,
live this life to learn--be prudent,
and absorb the evils of the litter.
Falter you mustn't
for this path you've chosen,
among others christen'd,
to be whipped and woven.
For when even life is beat, it is
sweetened with enough strife
as to never yawn or sleep, that is
but to see a cause to strike.
On the road like the beats;
Do light the fire of Yeats:
For what's a student got to eat
but a diet of dry pasta and black beans?
For who's a student got to be
but a-filling the mold and breaking the seams?
For how much a student's got to have
but a-cashing the last eight dollars in coin?
For what's a student go to know
but abashing knowledge for generations to join?
For where's a student got to go
but when a-coming home given the snare?
For what's a student got for hope
but a waterboarding victim gasping for air?
For how's a student got to live
but in living separate selves into one?
For how's a student got to cope
but to drown the fear with instant 'fun'?
For how's a student got to set an example
but being stigmatized for education?
For what's a student got to show
but to hide existential distention?
For what's a student going to do then
but to turn a-back from all with clout?
For who's a student now?
but, now, I considered dropping out.
And for what's a student got to Bear
but to no fault overhear:
"The Universities are a day care"?
So, hear this, I bring thee to light
It would mean our honest delight
For all to know our dire plight
But as we sing our "Fight, fight, fight!"
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC