"shirked" poems
For too long I've worked
Run errands not shirked
I've obeyed the rules
Done with work, down tools
Almost end of day
Yaahaa! It's Friday!
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
What I'm imagining isn't considered pretty
You don't want to know where you're sitting
What I'm imagining isn't considered pleasant
We're inappropriately using a pheasant
What I'm imagining doesn't go with God
And is laughed at because it's odd
Into my life they peer
Trying to insert fear
My owl head on a swivel
My rabbit ears perked
When people don't act civil
And decency is shirked
I needed answers
For my cancer
I find them in love and pain
They both seem the same
I begin to view the rain
As a type of gain
Everyone knows love's scorn
Which leaves me torn
I can't help but feel my situation differs
Something about the rejection seems stiffer
So I become a shapeshifter
To avoid the hate gifters
To avoid bearing the shame
Of being called names
I know other people have it worse
Sometimes that feels like a curse
I can't gauge the importance of major events
In my life
I don't know whether to think they're intense
Or just right
Maybe I'm just being dramatic
But these instances aren't sporadic
When those that I love
Push and shove
I start to wonder if I'm broken or stained
Until I realize we're all burnt by love's flames
We all have a path to travel
And they're all made of gravel
Our feet become sore
Which affects our core
We find people below us on the totem pole
To know how it feels to treat someone cold
For when our enthusiasm for love has faded
It's easy to become jaded
There are things we're ashamed of
That morph us into something unrecognizable
In which we should be truly ashamed
In the mirror we look the same
But our actions are toxic
We become radioactive
We see where our stock sits
And become merely reactive
And it's hard to find grace
After being punched in the face
But one must remember punches come in all forms
And we must not punch back to survive the storm
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Orpheus
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
I.
Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.
I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked
nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.
II.
Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,
the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.
III.
Among the children’s
daisy faces
and in the women’s
frowsy laces,
I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,
unbeguiled,
were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild
I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.
Keywords/Tags: Orpheus, singer, poet, William Blake, whistle, Satanic, mills, manacles, law, leaden, ball, chain, prison, song, freedom
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 1:34 AM UTC
Mr. Mole
stayed in a basement
but lived inside a tent
and everywhere that he went
took this cute little thing
he took under his wing
a hedgehog
named Olivia!
It was not really sad,
not really bad
Not terrinble at all
this basement it was finished
no comfort was diminished
some furniture and plants
this was his sanctuary
A little scary...
Mr. Music
this was his real name
no one knew and such a shame
no one he could ever blame
as he played guitar
she was quite tame
Miss Olivia
his life
he thought so lame
but at least he had her
and that were
true
until the day
Olivia said had to say Goodbye
only time
I think he cried
the day she left
the day she died
tears, fears...and years
streaming down his face
and then he sighed
her death implied
time to do other things
let people hear your voice, go sing
And so..
Mr. Music
he decided to go to work
duties no longer can be shirked
off in a Volkswagen Vanagon
Painting houses
As a star employee
worked at times, he did...for free
Dedicating his labor
to his Little Miss Olivia :-)
Called himself
a Mole he did
Never grew
up
that great big kid
he is still living this tale today
perhaps a slightly different way
without dear Miss Olivia.
Cherie Nolan© 2016
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
Calloused hands, long days work
Responsibilities are never shirked
Eating keep from what I give
What a crazy life to live
Wanting, yearning for something more
Not quite sure where happy's stored
All the while keeping on
Listening to mournful songs
Hoping that life has something more
Searching, striving towards the next door
Can't stop now, I've just begun
Starting with the rising sun
Praying hard it doesn't set
Like it did when we first met
Trying not to be undone
Really thought you'd be the one
Sitting here with a smoking gun
My life, to me, didn't mean a ton
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
See, once many moons ago,
by a single solit'ry sun,
I met a cat nominated Liam,
and above him was his thumb,
Twas a good thumb,
twas the best thumb,
unspun the skin cells were silkest
and yet, when reassembled,
not that ilk. It's (Whaaaaaat?)
She was a tough and callous blemish
that he'd relish, totally cherish
'till he'd perish, (not embellished
tales true, but tails lie)
and Lasquisha for all her balance
and her posture
all her talents
Gideon knot who'll accost ya, with her roster's
Fox'd-ya-got-cha talons
(oooooooooooooooooooo)
This Liam was a good old cat
a tabby cat, not big and black,
but orange, mangy, super slack
deranged, estranged and caged in slack
with slipper feet, and coddled back,
he sat in chair that lazy sack
and when the doorbell called his track
he shirked the effort needed, whack!
Lashquisha, see, she was another
met our cat before this brother
Set her sights on not a smother
but, acknowledged rites of other.
So lashquisha with her sight so true
and thumb eluding tyrants skew
so set about to be anew
not thumb or (k)not, nor nails too,
and that was where I'd met these two
well first the cat and then the shoe
for sock was never needed, who
would hide themselves from their own view?
Lashquisha when I met that thumb
surprised not I by glove of fun
and *** and ***** layered un-
derneath the figure Liam strum.
See Liam knew his thumb so well
he knew the thumb twas not a shell
that caged the angry men that fell
to clipping when their partners tell.
For thumb a partner never is
unless like me you've ****** the quiz
and ended up a pointless shiv
in side of angry hornets nest.
And rest assured the thumbs annointed
given by their partners pointed
comments feeling slightly daunted
by need to act their best.
Attest they do the thumbs that chew
And unrest is left by plough and brew
But then again a thumb are you?
And me, and we, and I?
So tru....
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
My brain
As a child
Was immaculate
Stored facts
Everything was in its place
I talked to grow ups with confidence
I never shirked
Confidence
In myself
Grownups
Surprised
Angry
At my insolence
Would tell me to go away
To go play with other kids my age
I tried
And tried
And tried again
But they deamed me
Weird
Freak
Nerd
I couldn't talk to them
About things I
enjoyed
Eventually
I stopped
I tried my best to become
Them
My brain
No longer immaculate
Grew
Dim
Messy
All to make them
Like me
I grew shy
Bowed my head when
I spoke
I no longer aproached
Grown ups
Yet still
I was now too
Shy
Reserved
And with ought confidence
For them
why?
What had I
Done
I destroyed
Myself for them
And I
Got nothing
In return
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
Sat on the pew as a boy
My hand brushed the formica underneath
Holding the hymn book like it was a toy
I bit it with my small stubbly teeth
Mother tapped me forcefully on the shoulder
And I shirked at her disapproving frown
It's only now as I become a lot older
That I realise I was behaving like a clown
The priest in all his glory spoke high from the holy table
And I yawned as my father gave me a look
Whispering to my mother ‘the boys unstable’
His bony fingers took away the heavy book
The old lady started playing the tune
So we all stood to sing a hymn
Hoping the droning would finish soon
I thought should I sing but the chances were slim
The old lady with a wrinkly grin
Waved the collection tin in my face
Mother passed some coins that I dropped in
And then we left the cold hallowed place
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 4:43 AM UTC
cliche ****
i wrote clishe
she corrected it
irked me
there was a nerve
it hit
tonight she shirked me
off like a shirt that slipped
from her shoulders.
maybe, when there was a doubt, i should have done more than told her,
i shouldnt have done anything more than hold her,
maybe it was a mistake, to think, our love might make
a bad decision okay, that things wouldnt change,
maybe break,
i dont know what to say
but ill fight, do what it takes
to face
everything
that i want to
escape
because somehow, this was fate.
Bleed to keep what you love,
before it's to late. . .
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
The shirt you’re wearing as I sit next to you in one of the few pictures we have together that I kept. We’re smiling as though there is nothing to fear, and if there is, then we know we will be there for each other to stave off from such a feeling. I never saw you wear that shirt again. The shade of my ceiling when I wake up in the middle of the night, stirring from a sad dream. The color of the bow I wore in my hair a couple of times at school. The way you felt when you couldn’t remember the words to one of our favorite songs. The way I felt when you couldn’t remember the words, because I could tell it was the beginning of you forgetting me. The small waves gently milling about in the pond in the park we’d walk through every week together. A bright feather on one of the birds you tried to feed bread crumbs to during a walk in said park. Her eyes, a piercing hue that demanded your attention like a performer at a circus. The blanket that preserved our warmth during brisk mornings waking up beside each other. The mug you drank simmering tea from soon after getting out of bed. The ink from the pen I used to write you letters. The box you put the letters in underneath your bed, obscured by shadows and necessary secrecy. Your gemstone, because in dire need of amusement, I looked it up once. The sky just before it becomes truly nightfall.
The color you shirked off in favor of a “real” blue.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
There seems to be ongoing confusion,
regarding the ministry of good works.
After all, Christianity is a lifestyle
and responsibility must not be shirked.
Don’t be deceived by the religious leaders
saying ‘it doesn’t matter in what you believe’.
For the righteousness of Christ is available,
as soon as His promise, you willingly receive.
We are clearly taught within The Word,
that ‘real faith without works is dead’.
Although there is value with good deeds,
acts of Love should not swell one’s head.
We can be redeemed from Hell’s fiery pit
and easily avoid spiritual devastation.
For we are not saved by our human actions,
but by acceptance… of His gift of Salvation.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Jam 2:14-26; John 8:24; Rom 10:10; Acts 16:31
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
when people cry I look away
being there is not my forte
I'm sorry I'm sorry
it's awkward to stay
at a crossroad I paused
to gawk and be awed
I'm sorry I'm sorry
I'll get out of your way
I refuse to study, I prefer poetry to work
parents and teachers are sure to be irked
I'm sorry I'm sorry
responsibilities are meant to be shirked
I sit at my desk and begin to cry
I'd like to think there's still time to buy
I'm sorry I'm sorry
it's hopeless to try
I'll take my leave, try and see what I can gain
take a gamble, throw a die, life is merely a game
I'm sorry I'm sorry
it's a pain to be tame
don't save me from falling
let's not draw the line
I'm sorry I'm sorry
now's not the time
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
leaving spaces vacant
all time erases
complacent patrons
nearing the end
of a long road
otherwise known
as patience
blatant irregularities
combatant singularity
revel in the hilarity
of how this has
turned sour, like
month old dairy
already milked
the moment
for all it's worth
time to give this
place a wide berth
hard not to be
the first to smirk
at shirked responsibility
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC