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"earner" poems
helping the kids with homework• no one told you, was part of the job description paycheck earner a-ok, gruff but tender lover, knowing her special places, building a tree swing, a tree house safe and satisfactory, one the neighbors envy taking them to the hospital for broken arms and chemotherapy, part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable, going to school to give that principal a look that will make him think twice before suspending one of his for defending himself you remember your daddy doing the same for you, forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later the tucking in, the pretense ouch when your end of day scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies, carrying tissues in a toolbox, never heard of, nevertheless done, tho not a memory defining the future inclusive, definitely a learning ability, a likeability doing homework, nuh uh, no way jose, don’t dare let them know how you never got a gold star, always sat in the back row, outta sight, all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery, and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much ain’t exactly his strong suit sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him, know where the on/off computer button hides, the rest is up to them; got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am, how to address humans with respect, i’ll promise them anything but not doing any homework, unless it the kind that that makes “a home work
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Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
helping the kids with homework
helping the kids with homework• no one told you, was part of the job description paycheck earner a-ok, gruff but tender lover, knowing her special places, building a tree swing, a tree house safe and satisfactory, one the neighbors envy taking them to the hospital for broken arms and chemotherapy, part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable, going to school to give that principal a look that will make him think twice before suspending one of his for defending himself you remember your daddy doing the same for you, forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later the tucking in, the pretense ouch when your end of day scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies, carrying tissues in a toolbox, never heard of, nevertheless done, tho not a memory defining the future inclusive, definitely a learning ability, a likeability doing homework, nuh uh, no way jose, don’t dare let them know how you never got a gold star, always sat in the back row, outta sight, all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery, and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much ain’t exactly his strong suit sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him, know where the on/off computer button hides, the rest is up to them; got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am, how to address humans with respect, i’ll promise them anything but not doing any homework, unless it the kind that that makes “a home work
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41
While yes, I have a résumé It does no justice describing mé So I'll leave this here for all to see All I ask is please hire me I'm great with sales and communication I can create tales with no hesitation Been fixing PCs since '99 Right after I broke all of mine I don't do drugs I don't cause fights I won't give shrugs to new insights I can Photoshop best selling ads and tell corny jokes just like most dads I write HTML and CSS I can kinda spell At least try my best Started my first business in 5th grade Profiting from the paper airplane trade I'm a fast learner, a problem solver, a trust earner, an idea causer, a spreadsheet slayer, a real team player While I'm no photography guru I've actually had a paid gig or two Dove into video editing way back when MySpace was a thing Oh yeah. Plus I'm proficient with Microsoft Office.
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Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
Please Hire Me
I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour? Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law, while drinkers whoop and punch the air The bucket goes over my head and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck
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Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Bar Busking
The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson….. The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere….. The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world……. The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder… The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning…… The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being….. Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside….. The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer….. The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode…. A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face….. The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith…… The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness….. Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….
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May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Portraits of a rainy resurrection...
The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson….. The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere….. The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world……. The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder… The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning…… The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being….. Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside….. The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer….. The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode…. A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face….. The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith…… The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness….. Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….
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13
L oves to play on the computer A lways humorous U nique in every way R unning, jumping, tumbling at gym E xceptionally bright L earner
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Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
Acrostic Poetry
A father, keeping up with the pace Mother, applying makeup and mace Son, competing in most important race Daughter, content in lover’s embrace Manager, profit earner, best company man Beautiful and glamorous, archetypal woman Athlete, top scholar and paper boy Sweet sixteen now, this beautiful toy All, a sublime rhyme Man, estranged from family Woman, battered so fiercely Drug overdose, happen so easily In her girlfriend’s arms, so happily Family monarch, reduced to slave Precious, caring, loving, now so brave The candidate for the top, fighting the grave Beautiful, innocent, naive, in girlfriend’s arms, so safe Where, did we go wrong?
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Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 4:02 AM UTC
WHERE DID WE GO WRONG
When addiction runs deep, Like the blood in our veins, Its impossible to kick, Unlikely to abstain. For we are what we love,   And we love what we are; It’s said that an apple,  From its tree won't roll far. Her parents were junkies, Generations gone by, So deep in her blood, It’d be cruel to deny. I’ve found in resistance, I beat my head on a brick, So no longer at odds, I embrace life as her fix. “Honey, can you fix this?” She says, smiling at the sale. At the lamp I look closely, It stands tired and frail; It's brass tarnished dark,  Its wire is frayed. In my head I say, “No," then, “Sure babe,” someone else said. Believing I’ve dodged one,  I breathe a sigh of relief; We return to our Jeep, and Drive away down the street. Then I glance in the mirror, And what do I see, It’s that LAMP in my back seat, Staring smugly at me. *“This dresser will be cool, In robin's-egg-blue;”* Just describing the hue, I see her almost drool. *“Yeah, natural on top, It's frame painted, then glazed... You’re the best at glueing drawers!”* She adds icing with praise. *“Look, here’s a chair I found, with pretty calico; If you fix it's broken arm, You’ll be my hero! Cuz I am sure it will fetch,  Ten times what I've paid.”* I’m a wage earner no longer, She pays me in accolades. That bowl with mustard yellow, Picture frames of wood & plaster; An old tin box, and this small broach, A barrel chest with leather straps. A jewelry box,  (A lover’s locket found inside) Each purchase she makes, Adds satisfaction, and pride. Her addiction runs deep, She’s my bargain-maker; Not a corporate girl,  But she’s a mover and shaker. Yes, she's my ****** And I am her fix; Together we’re a duo, "Can we peak in your attic?" In my chair as I write this, I feel something, turn and see; And there pinned to the cushion,  Is a price tag poking me. Now I’m nervous as a cat, Wouldn’t want to fall asleep; For fear I could wake up,  In the back of someone else's Jeep!
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Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
The ****** and Her Fix
When addiction runs deep, Like the blood in our veins, Its impossible to kick, Unlikely to abstain. For we are what we love,   And we love what we are; It’s said that an apple,  From its tree won't roll far. Her parents were junkies, Generations gone by, So deep in her blood, It’d be cruel to deny. I’ve found in resistance, I beat my head on a brick, So no longer at odds, I embrace life as her fix. “Honey, can you fix this?” She says, smiling at the sale. At the lamp I look closely, It stands tired and frail; It's brass tarnished dark,  Its wire is frayed. In my head I say, “No," then, “Sure babe,” someone else said. Believing I’ve dodged one,  I breathe a sigh of relief; We return to our Jeep, and Drive away down the street. Then I glance in the mirror, And what do I see, It’s that LAMP in my back seat, Staring smugly at me. *“This dresser will be cool, In robin's-egg-blue;”* Just describing the hue, I see her almost drool. *“Yeah, natural on top, It's frame painted, then glazed... You’re the best at glueing drawers!”* She adds icing with praise. *“Look, here’s a chair I found, with pretty calico; If you fix it's broken arm, You’ll be my hero! Cuz I am sure it will fetch,  Ten times what I've paid.”* I’m a wage earner no longer, She pays me in accolades. That bowl with mustard yellow, Picture frames of wood & plaster; An old tin box, and this small broach, A barrel chest with leather straps. A jewelry box,  (A lover’s locket found inside) Each purchase she makes, Adds satisfaction, and pride. Her addiction runs deep, She’s my bargain-maker; Not a corporate girl,  But she’s a mover and shaker. Yes, she's my ****** And I am her fix; Together we’re a duo, "Can we peak in your attic?" In my chair as I write this, I feel something, turn and see; And there pinned to the cushion,  Is a price tag poking me. Now I’m nervous as a cat, Wouldn’t want to fall asleep; For fear I could wake up,  In the back of someone else's Jeep!
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72
the oldest profession doth bring much needed funds housewives and mothers walking the streets to supplement the household income Mrs Jones is plying her female wares in a motel suite somewhere those extra dollars shall pay the education fees for her daughter Claire as day to day living isn't cheap mothers and wives working the pavement at any given time the money they receive is a bonus a nice little earner a few bucks can be most helpful   as the family budget oft sinks in a well these women don't haggle with their clients too much they give them what they want and in return get what they need a dime is a dime it can be so useful when the fortnightly paycheck is so skint the ladies of the night aren't always in the game for the purposes of romping they're lying on their backs to fill the hole in the domestic piggy bank
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Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Piggy Bank
There should appear some respite, despite the fact, I am a Nyctophile as I too love my collapsing sight I too flicker in the bright. Like an earner without his earning The dark existence, by the sphere that lurks, partially satiated 'See-Saw' a fodder for human poets The other aspect, totally denied. Skin is imbalanced which showers mixed colors Why not an equilibrium? Vampires licking honeyed sanity The sane too, join the party. But, if he complies, they wouldn't If she complies, they wouldn't Fluctuations are eminent There should appear some respite, despite the fact, I am a dust stained file as I too love my collapsing might I too flicker in the bright.
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May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
Nyctophile
They talked about him as the one who none had ever seen smile. You couldn't gauge if he was happy or depressed no emoji could describe the repressed expression but all said he was dutiful. Caring husband and father responsible family head silent bread earner. His constant arrangement made sure the home was neatly organized not one object was out of place and but for the children it would have been hard to guess if he ever met his wife privately summing up him to be named robot and the belief in his name was strong. When his wife died he wailed so loud it could be heard beyond town. To the neighbors, it was mechanical breakdown.
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Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 11:25 AM UTC
Robot
real page turner real money earner feed the kids pay the bills keep the wife happy life? white picket fence my two cents, its picturesque. salt and pepper go set the table say your prayers make your bed clean the house catch the mouse two car garage bi-weekly massage clip your nails cut your hair tuck in your shirt wash off the dirt the american dream, simply ins't for me
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Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
Uh..merican dream?
the military industrial complex are making a killing the arms trade is a profitable business billions are harvested by the grey suited men the war machine supplies deadly payloads collateral damage always yields such a tidy sum why interrupt or put paid to a great earner the balance sheet must be in the black production lines busy filling orders each day the bullet the bomb the drone sold to effectively obliterate and take lives away in corporate offices the arms dealers rub their hands with glee as they amass a bounty from their lethal armories
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Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
Lethal Armories
I could have been this and I could been have that, But there were too many hurdles and the plans fell flat. I could have been like her, a very big star, But my bad luck, opportunities were few and far. I had the grace; I could have been a dancer, But there were too many objections with no solutions or answers. I had a sweet voice; I could have been a singer, But I was sole earner of family, and it sponged me dry like a wringer. I played so well with colours, I could have been a painter, But the paints were costly and with no one to guide, dreams became fainter. I had skills; I could have been anything I wanted, All I needed was a spirit which would have saved me from being daunted. Is it too late to start again? Pick up the brush or the pen and let my dreams be my swain? Just let go of all resentments and start! And not let the past tear my present and future apart! It has been so tiring, carrying disappointments and resentments for so long, Let me start fresh as if I was born today, fire the passion and let it grow strong. Yes, that's what I will do, I owe it to myself and this god gifted life, I will not cry over what I didn't get, instead use gift and opportunities which today are rife. Yes, that’s the way to go; I will give my best shot to my dreams and what I always wanted to be, For if the world ends tomorrow I will be contented and proud to have taken that dip and rescued me.
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Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 4:53 AM UTC
If you can then you must
In God we trust but the economy went bust and we ain't got a crust of bread. Got no lead in my pencil,no ink in my pen and I'm wondering when my memory's going to go. and I'm getting slow, I remember a time or it may recall me, when as a young man of twenty ,or two maybe three, I was wealthy and healthy and full of it all but then came the crash and I started to fall. And I dropped,stopped being an earner, learnt to survive on week old stale pies and hand outs, the hand me down,the other side of life in any big town, where you pay your trust to the temples of dust and the soup comes free,with a touch of religion on the crust of dry bread and sometime's I think that God must be dead. We do as we do and we can't do no more and the poor will always be poured down the drain,thrown out of the door,not let in,begging on street corners, don't they look thin! They do as they do and they do it so well and they got us believing in a new branding of hell where the adverts pervert the minds of the young and that nothing good comes from it being homespun and the gun at your head is something to think of and, is God really dead? Led to the queue and waiting in line for another strangulation,I am choking on time. I want what's mine,give me my due You own it all for now.
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Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
One more Gatsby.
I could have been this and I could been have that, But there were too many hurdles and the plans fell flat. I could have been like her, a very big star, But my bad luck, opportunities were few and far. I had the grace; I could have been a dancer, But there were too many objections with no solutions or answers. I had a sweet voice; I could have been a singer, But I was sole earner of family, and it sponged me dry like a wringer. I played so well with colours, I could have been a painter, But the paints were costly and with no one to guide, dreams became fainter. I had skills; I could have been anything I wanted, All I needed was a spirit which would have saved me from being daunted. Is it too late to start again? Pick up the brush or the pen and let my dreams be my swain? Just let go of all resentments and start! And not let the past tear my present and future apart! It has been so tiring, carrying disappointments and resentments for so long, Let me start fresh as if I was born today, fire the passion and let it grow strong. Yes, that's what I will do, I owe it to myself and this god gifted life, I will not cry over what I didn't get, instead use gift and opportunities which today are rife. Yes, that’s the way to go; I will give my best shot to my dreams and what I always wanted to be, For if the world ends tomorrow I will be contented and proud to have taken that dip and rescued me.
0
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 1:27 AM UTC
If you can,Then you must
I have tried for too long to fit into your various segments I have played the roles of Christian Passionate lover Rebellious son The perfect one-night stand Intelligent workplace hero Humble soccer talent Competitive PC gamer College graduate, master's holder Friend with benefits Big earner *** addict in recovery Devoted husband Home updater Fun party guy Deep-thinking poet Music-lover, dancer I fit into none of the roles you have to offer. I am a primate with a more sophisticated brain and a cleaner body. I declare this with reluctant disappointment. An observer would see our race developing, bodies and populations increasing in complexity and order; patterns like cities, data flowing through fiber cables, and social constructs aligning like carbon atoms becoming a diamond. But we will not reach the perfection of a lab-created stone. We have significant inclusions, The most glaring of which is purposelessness. Is there anyone watching?
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Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
World,
You think a movie camera follows you, a film crew watching everything you do and so you play that lifetime role, rolling down the blinds at number fifty one you think the film is rolling on, each scene a scene where you have been, each whisper that you hear is taped, replayed, play it by ear you could be on an earner, turn a page or two, do you think the audience is watching what you do? do you undress behind the silver mirrored made in Hong Kong screen and have you seen the rushes yet? I bet the editor has made the final cut, but you think they'll watch the film in which you star if a movie camera really follows you.
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Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
Clapper board
She told me of the horse that flew The horse with a name that Egyptians knew She told me of the hanging tree With roots that cried and caressed the dew She told me tales of a lightening storm That flashed an Eskimo cold to warm And in her eyes I saw other stories Just as important as Dali's glories Jane sat on a pine kitchen chair in the corner of the room. In her left hand she held nineteen ninety-nine, in her other, my eyes. I kissed her on the cheek and asked her a question. She told me of a white paper brick That glided through air six foot thick She told me of Christians that got wasted at lent That prayed for the light through a gap in a tent She told me of Magritte, ******* and Turner And a boy in India selling organs as an earner And in her eyes I saw other stories As bright as the Ursa's universal glories I asked Jane another question and she fused It must have been the sixth time in a month Gordon Fussey Written by Gordon Fussey (M)
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Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
What's The Price Of Depression In Utopia?
I do not see beyond the might, yet perceive more than ought. The craving of a learned tale, ability to carve out an excuse to crave. Hail to the conquerors! Teller of greatness, earner of sympathy, foreteller of justice, bearer of magnanimity. We survive you. Hail to the losers! The day waits for you, the night delights, passing thoughts escape into imagining immaterial basis of deeds. Soon, the distance between falls near and neither escapes surety.
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May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
Spaces between spaces
"Love of A Poetess " by Nadia umber Lodhi You are love of a poetess, my beloved, Reflects from my words ever, Forget you never, My passion increase ever, My Love decrease never , You are love of a poetess, my beloved You are the Magic of a words magician, You are the business of a pain earner, I shall write departure, loneliness and tears, I shall describe fears, And earn income. You are love of a poetess , my beloved I shall sell dreams, earn profit, How can I gain loss, No Never, my dear I sold my heart, my dear One and Only wealth I have. ———— Nadia umber lodhi, Islamabad . Pakistan.
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Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
Love of poetess