"licence" poems
Dear Miss ********,
We regret to inform you that unfortunately at this time we do not have space for you at our company.
Yours,
Xxxx xxxxxxxx
Dear Miss *******,
We regret to inform you that unfortunately at this time we cannot offer you a place with our company as you are under qualified.
Yours ** xxxxx
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application. We regret to inform you that you are over-qualified for the position.
Yours, xxxxxxx ***
Dear Miss ******,
I don’t think so love. This isn’t even a letter, this is my managerial position on you handing me your cv.
Cheers, bahbye now
Dear Miss *******,
This isn’t really a letter either, but despite how un-pc this is, we can’t hire you due to your gender.
Thanks anyway, save your paper.
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application, unfortunately we had stronger applicants.
Yours, etc., aaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application. Unfortunately we are not hiring at the moment even though we had advertised the job you applied for.
Yours, xxxxxxxxx xxxxx
Dear Miss ********,
We had left it between you and another applicant, and couldn’t decide so we flipped a coin, and she won. You’re a lovely girl though.
Yours, fffffff ffff fffff
Dear Miss ********,
I refer to your claim for Jobseekers Benefit/Assistance at VVVVVV’s CCCCCC local office. Jobseekers Benefit/Assistance claims are subject to periodic review, consequently, I would appreciate if you would attend this office for interview on the 31/17/78 and bring the following :
1. Proof of Identity (i.e. Passport or Driving Licence or Long version of your Birth Certificate)
2. Proof of Residency (e.g. Letter from landlord/ Rent Book/ Lease/ Mortgage Receipt/ Letter from Parents + Household Bill)
3. Written Proof of recent job applications and replies.
4. Proof of job applications made through FAS
5. FAS courses applied for.
6. A copy of your Curriculum Vitae (CV): unemployed from
7. If your spouse/partner is an adult dependent on your claim, please bring his/her GNIB and Passport/Travel Documents.
Failure to respond to this letter may lead to suspension or disallowance of claim.
Yours sincerely,
**** *****
Local Officer
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
I've got poetic licence
So I can right however I want.
Even if whatever I right doesn't make sense
I kan right with whichever font.
I use my poetic licence in whatever I right
An sometimes, de thins I right does not look write
I have de power power 2 repeat rhymes
Over and over countless of times
I use abbreviations in de mst unusual ways
My, commas, and!!!!!, escalations, marks come!!! as they may!!!!
I've got poetic licence cos I am a poet
I use it in odes, elegys, ballads, epitaphs, and sometimes in sonnets.
I am never rong.
And with my poetic license I will remain strung.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
Motorcycles are fickle things
fleeting as fairies with whizzing wings
don't always work when you want them to
sometimes faultless sometimes poo
mended mine again today
set fire to it as well but hey,
it goes again and kinda smiles
waiting for the happy miles
we do together in the sun
this winters frost has been no fun
My men's bits froze to popcorn size
don't ride in the snow, so say the wise
so wee and slow it won't go quick
been so cold it's made me sick
but got no licence for my car
and my bike though slow gets me quite far
got the car test coming soon
easier to touch the moon
worry so if I will pass
maybe I should offer up my ***
do the examiner ****** favours
or pray to the lord my only saviour
Hmmm my **** is not so cute,
and prayer is such a selfish route
I'll settle for a mournful wail
when the examiner tells me "Jeremy.. FAIL!"
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Through the smoke, **** and *****
A parking fine, ***** on it.
The most horrid sight, we’re used to it, right?
The capital’s disgusting and we’re ******
Lengthy ques for employment,
Assorted drugs for enjoyment,
Our bank account’s bust, believe it we’re ******
The government won’t even lend a hand.
Will it be Lidl or Aldi?
Wetherspoons, cheap and rowdy.
An overdraft to, purchase more *****
Fracking makes us hate you more, it’s true.
Unpunctual trains, privatisation.
It’s ******* cold at the station.
Elite middle class, this country’s a farce,
Don’t even get me started on the EU.
Chicken wings and pollution,
Private health care – THAT’S THE SOLUTION!
Increased licence fees, no money for tea,
Five more years of Cameron and we’re *******
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
Let us speak only in tongues
For all that wasn't made obvious
May present its true meaning in the unintelligible
Let us converse in stanzas
For what wasn't clearly heard
May perhaps show itself between these lines
Let us exaggerate and romanticise
For all that was spouted bland
May be heightened to receive some light
Let us exchange and trade through poetry
For all that's lacking in common words
May secure a foothold in the readers' hearts
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
they're nothing but glorified bus drivers, said my father after i told him i wanted to become a pilot.
the opposite of love is not hate, but contempt.
what causes the kodachrome to fade little by little to grey? is it really bred of familiarity. the wear of gradually learning the truth about somebody. the minutiae of the everyday sanding away at the idealised, sculpural dream.
or is it triggered rather by the dull shock of an identifiable disappointment; the inevitable transformation towards sallow disgust justified by the devastation of slap-to-the-face betrayal or loss.
must we fulfill the dream simply to learn that it was only ever empty?
my father, a devoutly unspiritual pragmatist, had nevertheless as a young man fallen in love with the expansive embrace of the blue above. the son, grandson, and great-grandson of farmers, he worked his hands down to shredded red sores to put himself though flying school only to have his application for a commercial licence rejected due to a doctor's confounding eleventh hour diagnosis. colour blindness. an all-or-nothing man, my father never once returned to the enthralling blues, yellows and pinks offered up by the cockpit, and from that point forward became a farmer.
i gave up on the thought of becoming a pilot, and later, (much later), developed a fear of flying.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
I left thee last, a child at heart,
A woman scarce in years:
I come to thee, a solemn corpse
Which neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs;
They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes
To seal them safe from tears.
Look on me with thine own calm look:
I meet it calm as thou.
No look of thine can change this smile,
Or break thy sinful vow:
I tell thee that my poor scorn’d heart
Is of thine earth—thine earth—a part:
It cannot vex thee now.
I have pray’d for thee with bursting sob
When passion’s course was free;
I have pray’d for thee with silent lips
In the anguish none could see;
They whisper’d oft, ‘She sleepeth soft’—
But I only pray’d for thee.
Go to! I pray for thee no more:
The corpse’s tongue is still;
Its folded fingers point to heaven,
But point there stiff and chill:
No farther wrong, no farther woe
Hath licence from the sin below
Its tranquil heart to thrill.
I charge thee, by the living’s prayer,
And the dead’s silentness,
To wring from out thy soul a cry
Which God shall hear and bless!
Lest Heaven’s own palm droop in my hand,
And pale among the saints I stand,
A saint companionless.
1.8k
A LAND OF HONEYED-PRAISES,
FULL OF ARROGANT AND PRIDE,
MALIGNANT ONE's,
WITH AN UNCURED~ CANCERS.
A WORDS AND PHRASES
FOR THOSE WHO LOST IT'S SENSE
IN PUBLIC ~SERVICE.
IT'S NOT YOU?
REALLY?
HA!
PHILOSOPHY DOCTOR?
MASTER OF EDUCATION?
MASTER OF PUBLIC SERVICE?
YOUR PORTRAIT HANG ON THE WALLS!
NOT ONE!
NOT TWO!
NOT THREE!
REALLY?
BUT HOW MANY ARE YOU?
MORE PEOPLE, YOUR CONSTITUENT
HAD ALL A DECADES OF
BROKEN~ DREAMS,
THAT SHATTERED INTO PIECES
THEIRS TEARS? IS NOT ENOUGH ...
TO FILL UP YOUR CUPS,
AND EVEN CAN'T ADD UP
YOUR HUNGRY PORSCHE WALLET!
EDUCATIONS MAKES SENSE
RIGHT! CAN'T ARGUE WITH YOU THEN...,
BUT IT ALSO MAKES YOUR FACE~CENTS.
A NECKLACE OF YOU PRIDE,
MY DEAR, DEPED
DAVAO DE ORO EDUCATORS. (Division Office)
OH~SILENT AND ARROGANT
WHY? YOU PERMIT THE BROKEN~CULTURES
EVEN THE TOXIC, GO FAR BEYOND MY LINES.
SORRY, I FORGOT AM NOT A LICENCE, POET.
DID I NEED TO GET ONE?
OR TO PAY YOUR HUNGRY PORSCHE WALLET!
O' COMO'N
SORRY DEAR MAAM, AND SIR's
I LOST MY APPETITE FOR GRAMMARS,
SA , BISYA PA "TULA NI OR DELI"
TO, MY DEAR READER
"NATIVE LANGUAGE"
DEPED~DAVAO DE ORO (Division Office)
O~ DEAR INSTITUTION
THANKS FOR EDUCATING US
FOR ME TO LEARNED
ENGLISH FOR A WHILE
AH, NOW YOU AWAKEN ME,
OH, MY SENSE OF CAPTIVITY.
THIS, UNJUST INSTITUTIONS
CAUSED VEXATIONS
TO YOUR DEAR GRADUATES,
AND THOSE SPIRITED~ONES.
DEPED ~ DAVAO DE ORO (Division Office)
ARE YOU AN INSTITUTION OF
UNJUST & UNWISE
GIVING BREED OF CENTS~EDUCATORS?
AH, SORRY, IT HARD TO GIVE THE WORDS
SENSE, OF YOUR INSTITUTION.
DEPED~ DAVAO DE ORO
YOU LOST YOUR WAYS
YOUR MASTER DEGREE's & PHD's
EVEN BLOWN ~UP WIDE.
SIDE -BY-SIDE!
OH~STUPID THINGS
AND THE ARROGANT's
WRITTEN IN THE HISTORY!
YOU CAN FIND THEIR NAME's
IN THE HALLWAY OF GALLERY
AH, COMO'N
THIS IS NOT A POET
OR A SONG EITHER.
WHAT's, IS THIS?!
SORRY, MATE....
THIS IS PART OF ME,
WHO HAVE LOST AND WANDERED.
REALLY?
ABOUT WHAT?
FOR THE DEPED~ DAVAO DE ORO (Division Office)
WHERE? & WHAT COUNTRY MATE?
IN THE PHILIPPINES, MATE.
WHAT NOW, MATE?
JUST NOTHING.
JUST, A HELL OF ONE PROVINCE MATE.
GOOD TO KNOWS,
FOR THEIR ******* MATE.
YOU KNOW, MATE?
WHAT?
SEC. LEONOR BRIONES
IS ONE OF OUR COUNTRY BEST EDUCATOR.
THE WISE~LADY MATE?
YOU RIGHT, MATE!
HOPE, SHE VETTED.
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 9:05 AM UTC
XII. On the same.
I did but prompt the age to quit their cloggs
By the known rules of antient libertie,
When strait a barbarous noise environs me
Of Owles and Cuckoes, ***** Apes and Doggs.
As when those Hinds that were transform’d to Froggs
Raild at Latona’s twin-born progenie
Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee.
But this is got by casting Pearl to Hoggs;
That bawle for freedom in their senceless mood,
And still revolt when truth would set them free.
Licence they mean when they cry libertie;
For who loves that, must first be wise and good;
But from that mark how far they roave we see
For all this wast of wealth, and loss of blood.
1.4k
i believe we all have in our lives
a crazy love
consumed
too late or too early
too fast or too slow.
we all have that love that will always stay there
no matter what
whose remnants won't be able to be erased
no matter what.
it is like a scar from childhood which will remind you of that fall...
there will be other men
each of them will hold my hand
they will muss my hair
each in their own way
and they will all laugh at they way i sleep.
each in a different way.
i will
probably
live with each of them
a late 20 of July
or
i will
maybe
meet them
every time
in an empty intersection
at midnight.
and will
possibly
wear the same clothes
the same flowery top
the same shoes
or
we will run foolishly under the same umbrella.
i will have a particular ritual
with each of them
we might drink tea instead of coffee,
or we won't drink anything,
or on the contrary,
we might drink too much.
or we will smoke like Turks.
maybe we will quit smoking.
we might ride our bikes every day
or go out rollerskating
or maybe i will get my driver's licence
i will drive one of those old Beetles.
we will listen to the same riotous band
we will sway on the same songs
and maybe then
he will hold me in his arms
the same way.
and so what?
everything will be the same
but in a totally different way.
with someone else.
always someone else and not him.
it is that love that made you fly
and then slammed you to the ground
for a few times
without thinking about anything
and then
it repeated the process for a few times
and then
it left you like this
hovering between sky and earth.
adrift.
it is that love which is
agony
and ******
in the same time
and...
it is that love that has left a scar in your soul
and whatever you would do
you can't forget it.
and you hope that
this time, maybe.
but it's not working.
it's that love...
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
The Street Cleaner
He is not a lucky man, but he is happy but one day he won on a lottery ticket,
not a not a big sum of money but enough to by wheelbarrow got permission
from the local council to keep the town's streets clean. Happy, telling himself
he was self- employed and could sleep till nine in the morn if he wanted to.
A busy bee a busy bee he was till he collided with Mercedes was taken to court
and his wheelbarrow was confiscated to pay for the damage. He had a bike and
got a local garage to put a two- wheel contraption to fasten to his bike, the town
got rid of its trash again until an officious policeman asked him if he had a licence
for this he didn't and it was confiscated. Now he had a jute sack slung on his proud
shoulders and a walking stick with a nail attached, a weapon a police officer said
he was carrying a weapon in public and he was prosecuted. He didn't show up
to the hearing and when the law came around, he hung from a rafter sometimes
even serious optimists give up and with no cleaner the town sank into misery,
plagued by vermin the population fled, a town given into paper napkins pizza boxes
and burger wrappers and the poor who had nowhere to go. And if this reflects
the life of a typical inner city of our English speaking world it is purely incidental.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
Leave aside your spiritual hunger,
There’s enough wisdom in generational ideals.
Leave aside your worldly exposures,
There’s enough comfort in familial misery.
Leave aside your vindictive allergies,
You’ll crawl for societal acceptance anyway.
Leave aside dark undertones & this poetic licence,
In spite, light breeds light every single day.
Jun 5, 2023
Jun 5, 2023 at 10:56 AM UTC
.
Woe is me!
Oh! Woe is me!
No longer can I create art
No longer can I pen stanza's
No longer can I rhyme couplets
No longer can I compose beauty
Because they won't let me
They won't let me
Not until
I get
a
.
.
.
Poetic Licence
© Pagan Paul (01/09/16)
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
I knew him because he was there...sometimes
in the morning drinking one of his sixteen cups
of coffee before I would go to school.
I knew him cause we would go camping sometimes
and the four of us and our dog would be in the station
wagon towing a tent trailer, to be set up and taken down.
I knew he was there sometimes when I joined cadets and
then the militia and...sometimes after I joined the CAF,
and less when I began to have a family.
I knew where he was when we were home... sometimes,
as he was cleaning his rifles or handguns, making beer
in the wine room, carving or tinkering with something.
I knew he was there...sometimes he and mom would
argue and their voices would be raised and we could
hear them through the floor, as they struggled with
reason.
I knew he was there...sometimes he would smoke
when he drank more than he should so I would
drive us home with my new licence, before that
he would do the driving.
I knew he was there in the hospital...sometimes he
would have seizures then the aneurysm that did not
take him but made him less able to be a father
and grandfather to our children.
I knew he was no longer there over twenty years
of a slow spiral down, to where the cold, cold
lay waiting...sometimes sooner for some and
later for others.
As he lay on the bed in the care home he was
no longer there, cold to the touch, heart stopped
struggle quit,... sometimes I miss him, sometimes
I am not missing him, he was not the kindest,
and I made him my only dad... sometimes I
wonder if that was, my mistake.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
Can I stop you for a moment
cos I think you need to hear this
I can work with a little discord
I can dance with juxtaposition
I'm even sometimes partial to
a suggestion by omission
I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
I've got a mouthful of metaphor
and little time to chew it
I get giggly with similes
and silly with alliteration
I'm warning you now
I'm devoted to proper diction
I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So give me some extra space
cos I think I'm going to lose it
I'm in love with eloquence
and I fawn for fluency
I can't get near enough
of off-beat rhythmic lunacy
I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
But I use it for the good
and avoid the call for nasty
I'm tired of hearing hate
bred from agressive bitterness
I'm looking to collaborate
with writers with forgiveness
I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So let's sit down to talk
cos I think you need to hear this
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
delilah was my only love,
my only escape from this world,
a drive with her was all I needed to take the edge off,
no cigarette or drug could really do the trick,
nothing really worked to clear my head,
but delilah could.
delilah was my best friend,
never lied to me,
never went behind my back,
delilah was like an angel,
used to always help me get home and back,
delilah died.
and I killed her.
someone drove us off the road,
a third of a mile from my house.
and we hit rock bottom,
before we hit the tree.
delilah died,
going under twenty.
fifteen years old,
my first real love,
my first investment to better myself,
ripped from me.
Delilah the victim of accident,
left the world,
with two flat tires,
and a bent licence plate.
we took delilah outback,
and put her out of her misery.
r.i.p. 2001-05/12/2016
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
We all piled out of the pub
****** as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O 'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.
*'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'*
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.
So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this ****** stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.
*'Oh **** would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'*
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.
How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober ****** was on
The wrong side of the ****** street.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
What love is not
is more important than what it is
the young lover dreams
about moonlight and the first kiss
he reads too many romantic books and is hooked
to love like a drug-- but love is not always sweet wine
worse than hemlock when it enters the blood-system
and no medicine can cure--the poets say (do they know?)-love is divine
too much given to poetic licence
with little substance when viewed in real life
love is suffering, rejection, loneliness, in-fighting, day-dreaming
a litany of hurt feelings, threats, murderous accusations--an endless strife
if in my youth someone
had told me so
I wouldn't have found myself in that self-inflicted hell
and would have avoided so many a sorrow
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
I'm tired of the same licence plates
over and over,
all the padlocks, all the nods
from my neighbor over here.
Why must you ask me questions when I say some
people are more beautiful than others?
You are full enough
You will go home and eat at least
two more meals,
you will pet your cat and yourself and have a bowl of cereal before bed.
dreams like chocolate
silk. fingers like bear claws on trout
or salmon
from upstream with last names
coffee shops. They try to
warn you and you let them lose their cries
to the wind. They think
of their grandmothers.
When you ask me to hold your
hand I wonder if you will wash it before we eat
kiss make love
(you don't always warn me if you're
not clean)
In your chewing I hear the words
I should have said before dinner with hands
clasped, heads bent, feet flat
on the restaurant floor. The waitress
is younger than she looks, I
try not to laugh because I'm sure she's worked here for ten years
no
benefits
no
raise
no
tip over seven fifty.
Her eyes are strong from all the tears
but her words sound like
swing sets
half eaten dinners:
merciless.
Her teeth are the San Andreas Fault:
tired of opening and closing.
Tired of fake smiles, nicotine gum, chattering in the cold of other's
glares, all the nods from her next door neighbors, the same streets
with the same cars with the same licence plates. So she'll press them
down over her tongue, and curl her lips back slowly
until the day someone touches her the way she was touched
before claws
salmon
chocolate silk
before she was fat.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
Bobby's couch has a biography
of cigarette burns, food stains,
and cushion wear, all there, though
he doesn't know who wrote it
for $5 at the AmVets store
he bought a place to sit, and sleep
on nights when he was too wasted
to it make to the bedroom
where he has a mattress on
the floor; Bobby knows its life story, because
he filched it from a loading dock
at Sleep World
in five months,
it's had three women sleep
on it -- all hookers who gave
him a freebie
after they did copious lines
of coke on the glass topped coffee table
Bobby inherited from his brother, along
with a recliner he sold for ****
Bro's doing hard time at Huntsville;
he wanted Bobby to have a nice place
Bro gave his '73 Ford to their half sister
since Bobby's licence was suspended
when Bobby gets that oil field gig,
he's going to buy another Lazy Boy,
and a refrigerator to stock with beer...
maybe later a color TV
Sherman, Texas, 1978
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
He took a heart and he plucked its
Strings recklessly to compose a second quartet -
Of love! Of passion! Of chaos! -
With sounds dredged from a hollow
Box inhabited by his masterpiece - Kamila.
Not the young, flattered, other man's living wife,
But the manifestation of his desire to depict
Longing;
An artificial, delicately moulded, fervent
Wanting.
One of the great classical passions -
Up there with Dante and Beatrice -
Tarnished by a most deceptive
Embellishment in exchange
For radiance.
His melody - although bracing a lie -
Sings to the fizzle in your chest and
The tingle in your fingertips --
A lullaby to the desperation he required
To convince us it was at all possible.
"And in your withered heart you know it's crap."
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC