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Werner Scheepers Nov 2016
Slowly losing sight on the important things in life
Stuck on screens, different scenes
The endless pursuit of happiness
Just another day wasted by…

Living in an outside jail
Losing track of the beauty made
Seeing the world through postcard mail
Overworked,underpaid

Taking the same road
To the same place
For days on end…
Caged,in the same routine

Living in an outside jail
Losing track of the beauty made
Seeing the world through postcard mail
Overworked,underpaid

Just keep smiling
There will always be another sunset on the horizon
Just keep tryin'
One day we'll be sitting,looking out on the ocean...
Kelsey Banerjee Sep 2020
The List:
carrot, eggplant, arbi,
capsicum, green peas -
press one for more options -
apples, new list apps
applesauce and ketchup
not Heinz but the cheaper one,
a new pressure cooker because the whistle doesn’t work
And with each tweak it tizzles out more,
theek nahi hai, yaar  
no matter how many times you take it in,
it’s just jugaad again,
a permanent temporary fix,
so we need a new one, stainless
steel and big, bara
to cook all of your dreams.
grand total rages against your wallet,
paper thin but it’s digital,
anyway,
your eyes glaze, blaze
as the bag boy, too tired, too hassled,
too underpaid squishes the eggs
beneath the cooker
the shells quake in your eardrums
the smell of something rotten
beneath all those discounts.
BTW, I've now put my poetry book on more platforms and in print. Check it out here: http://kelseybanerjee.com/shy-anger-poetry-collection/
Cedric McClester Oct 2015
By: Cedric McClester

We have a crisis
When the savages of ISIS
Blow up antiquities
And summarily lay siege
To Syria’s ancient ruins
Which is totally incongruent
With the Prophet’s example
Which is recorded and ample

It’s a travesty and a shame
What they do in Islam’s name
Because it’s not reflective of
The religion of peace and love
And the hatred that they fuel
Havin’ broken every rule
So it’s open to debate
If their end game is the caliphate

Al Baghdadi proselytizes
While his true mission he disguises
On the ground are lots of boots
That’s comprised of old and new recruits
As Syria and Iraq get hotter
They’re like lambs being led to slaughter
And many more nitwits he’ll find
Who tune into him on line

Soon they will discover
It’s not one thing it’s the other
And the women can’t escape
From the drudgery and ****
And the men overworked and underpaid
For the devil’s bargain that they made
See they’re all going straight to hell
In a handbasket can’t you tell














Cedric McClester, Copyright ©  2014.  All rights reserved.
Overwhelmed underpaid, looks down at pavement.
Sam Temple Jun 2014
perfunctory actions
zombie habits
sheep normalcy
blindly following the cud chewers
lemmings fall to their deaths
slowly
genetically engineered crops
dusted with pharmaceutical poison
laced with irradiated petroleum pesticides
fed to the babies of the poor –
wealthy voyeurs eagerly tune-in
as the impoverished masses rot
for viewing pleasure
leisurely strolling across manicured lawns
those in power scoff at the growing spectacle
unaware that the cake is stale
and the masses smell blood –
hurriedly, accountants shuffle tax rates
mix those with interest credit
season it with mortgage fees
and serve it on wall street
place mats
taking stock of stock market gains
gamblers do double gainers off high rises
adding to the flesh being consumed by the under class
under classed –
underclassmen, underpaid, stretch under ware elastic
as waistlines expand with the debt ceiling
both symbolizing the slow decline of
the American dream
screaming into the sewer
fewer eyes look back as disease dulls the iris
loss of the inner shine
glowing reflection of living organisms
fading as the day
slips into the blue-black –
night falls on a nation of imbeciles
brain dead patients
broken by depression and weight-loss scams
hearts crying out for care
personal and compassionate
instead are met with sterile robotics
and sanitary “C” students dressed in white
fearful of lawsuits
and spiders
they prescribe to symptoms
without knowing insurance number 87319A23-S1
is a human being, just like them
also living in fear
of the same establishment –
Susan O'Reilly Apr 2013
I'm just sitting her waiting on the bus
I'm tired, it's been a tiring day
not because I was busy
the opposite, sitting there stagnating
like grease going hard and sticking to the pan

I'm underpaid when busy
the recession has ended that
I hope they move me
I'm getting paid for doing nothing
It's soul-destroying, spirit-stifling, mind-deadening dull

I'm working for the public, apparently
but their an entity I rarely see
I talk to them on the phone and now and again communicate by letter

I'm drowning in nothingness, there is no job satisfaction
maybe they'll offer me redundancy
it could be the kick I need to search for something
something that feeds my soul
at the moment I feel I'd be better collecting the dole

Here I am collecting dust
pretty soon my brain will rust
vircapio gale Oct 2015
smashbook wasn't nearly as offensive
with its objectifying koan-click--
on and on, smash after smash

you sit here, and here, and here
angry soldier, oversexed boxer,
underpaid, overworked mexican

what will my face look like once i am born?
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

Coins jingling in the pocket
Paper money makes no sound.
The coins are pennies and a dime
That I just found on the ground.
Some days my nest-egg can
Be counted as just a few cents.
I have grown used to living without
Much of a sense of recompense.

Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

Nothing like any kind of income
About which I can easily brag.
No shiny stuff, never any bling.
No limo, no Rolex, no swag.
Though I did once dream of
Living in a ritzy sprawling place,
That kind of daydreaming is
For someone who won the race.

Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

It’s often called The Rat Race
But I have a problem with that.
I saw a whole lot of fat cats
But I never saw even one rat.
I think it’s better to call them
What they actually happen to be.
They’re hard workers, underpaid.
They’re the working class, they’re me.
I remember my moms cups of coffee as a child.
A hazelnut aroma rising out of her travel mug --
a gift she got as an underpaid teacher who had to get her boost on-the-go
--filling the car like steam from a hot shower fills a bathroom.
I remember that smell ironically always headed to school.

I remember the first time I was offered a sip of coffee.
Not nearly as sweet as it smelled.
Bitter liquid that terminated taste buds like water extinguishes flame as it billowed across the tongue and  down the hatch.
I remember that taste vowing never to have to again.

I remember when my sister started working at a "coffee shop".
The one that competes with itself across street-ways,
and still has lines filled with downward looking drones despite being in Paris.
I wouldn't even eat the pastries she brought home
knowing the aroma entwined around them long enough for osmosis.

And sitting now, in the office of my retail store at 23,
Staring into my travel mug,
which looks like an above ground pool version of the black lagoon,
These are the memories that come to mind
as caffeine blocks adenosine from their receptors in my brain.
The memory in stanza one hit me at work today, the rest I wrote on break drinking my coffee.
aviisevil Sep 2016
In today's society we do not get sad because we are sad, but because we were expected to be sad. It's ingrained in our minds. What's good and what's bad. Think about it, we get sad when we think we're on the bad part of the society ( normal people like me obviously, everyone better than me stay out of this please. Your superiority complex hasn't subdued yet or maybe it can't because it's genetic and in that case I am sorry. No Matter how insensitive I've appeared because I just don't care... And also it has a very rock-n-roll-hey-i'm-an-******* vibe to it) and get happy when it's vice-versa. So, is happiness and sadness a human creation ? I don't mean in a biological sense ( philosophy, bro ? ), I mean more as a modern day concept. Why are we sad ?, Relationships, cosmetic issues ?, Jobless, underpaid, couldn't get the new iPhone ( **** those seriously). Most of us are just being sad because everyone before us were sad, on things that don't matter, on things that makes no sense when you look at the stars at night and see how big the universe is, or unless someone points out its not realistic, we need to be realistic ? Realistic all the danm time ? That's not human, human is to dream and imagine and create. Sadness is beautiful too, that's why great poets were born. But the fact is, sadness today is sold and bought, given names and even made fun of.. today sadness is as superficial as happiness. It is, it really is. There's no worth to our sadness, it means nothing. It's in our head because someone put it there. It's not natural anymore that's all I'm saying and it kinda bugs me. Have a nice day. It's okay to be sad if you are a man. Yolo.
Danielle C Nov 2011
We are the fathers that couldn’t pay the rent,
the single mothers that can’t afford daycare,
the cancer patients that die instead of drown in debt,
the college drop-outs that couldn’t find loans,
the fry cooks that are overworked and underpaid,
the graduates that become homeless,
the musicians that want to be happy,
the daughters that sell themselves to eat,
the alcoholics that couldn’t find work,
the atheists that stopped believing,
the ex-husbands that were left for the CEO,
the minority that will never get a green card,
the sons that enlist to avoid the streets,
the homosexuals that can’t marry,
the intellectuals that know better.

We are the loves with broken hopes,
and the dreamers with no more faith.

We are the ninety-nine percent.
Darkly Nov 2015
Two steps and you're into the room and onto the stage - who will be the hero and who will be the villain today?

And the watcher sits with a set pen while another ghoul moves in his general direction

(I'm sorry but your persona can only be understood by something specific based on its projection - a slight cringe and an eye twitch)

And the drinks were fifteen minutes late - thus comes the fate of all fools, to get caught up in a moment with a villain you want to **** and what's the catch?

"I'll swallow your soul!"

In the time it takes to form an opinion the watcher became a writer and a warrior - before the coffee was ready

He tipped with the blood and ichor of his foe (whoever closes will be underpaid tonight), he set his gore-stained pen on his notebook and took in the room and all within

Ready for the next day
Inspired by events that took place in a local coffee shop.
Andrew Parker Jan 2014
Professional Poem
1/14/2013

The shelves are full of papers.
My e-mail folder full.
Workload maxed capacity.
But still got more to do.

Each day the office seems to shrink.
Buried under business.

But each day my experience grows.
And with it comes persistence.

My confidence has gone out the roof.
As I dress up in tie and suit.

I wear my watch.
Look my best.
Never sloppy.
Slim-fit vest.

So here is my confessional.
The life of a new professional.

I kind of like the grueling hours.
and even the underpaid wages.

Because the more I learn,
The less I yearn.
For this happiness to become contagious.
Professional will save us,
from our lackluster lives.
Kagey Sage Mar 2016
Honesty: that elusive trait that is the key to a great society.

The boss says he'll give you your share, he hoards your labor for himself.

Congressman says he'll make the boss give you your share, his pockets get stuffed; blames the boss.

Give the underpaid money for food, and they'll just spend it on *****.



Don't trust the powerful or their competing victims; either gnashing or selfishly escaping from it all.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 2022
Please call me back,
written message in the network's text. I don't have
enough airtime; so I'll borrow some. Knowing it's
not the best—in the fact of being underpaid.
I haven't been paid this month, so it's still a dream
of moving house. The funds are never enough,
but just tuck shop money, and a gin allowance for a
couple laughs.

But I'll call you soon.

7.50, left in my bank account. Maybe I could
pull out six to make the call. Insufficient funds to
complete this transaction,
the screen read in bold.
Feeling insufficient, sufficiently to say I've worked my due.
If I had a girlfriend; which place could I take her to,
and what would we do? As I'm broke and empty on funds
and dreams in my pocket. While driving past the mansions
of my two bosses.

But I'll call you soon.

I'm running out of rhymes, without any airtime
to Google new ones on Rhymezone. So I'm just
staring at the phone, hoping you make the repeating call.
I missed it the first time you beeped me, knowing I was
feeling tearful in my room alone. I must have been so focused
on staring at the pictures on the wall, to hear your call.

But I'll call you soon.

As both of my lines have pending debts, and I'm not
keen on borrowing  money to have debts with friends.
But in the end—your fun size pride rarely cares.
Still the anxiety of not making an effort to call back,
pushes a reason to swear. To pull my hairs, struggling
on why—why I can't return your call. As if I don't care
at all.

But I do; I'm just fighting to call you soon. Unfortunately
in the end; I never had the chance to support you my
friend. I never returned that call, and it's doing in my head.

It's an unfortunate one missed call.
Nik Bland Aug 2013
To and fro as the saying goes
As the afros chase rainbows in search of gold
And the money's ****** dry, 'till the rich only supply
Ways to the make the poor poorer & keep the crackheads high
Then we overdose on sighs that all come at once
The teachers so underpaid that we're soon led by the dunce
And the market's like the breakers of the sea, it just crashes
The 99 sinking in ships while the one percent dashes
We find the dream of the US tainted green
Or to put it correctly, it has been tainted greed
With the day to day in ways that leads to the end
With a knife in your back while they pat it like your friend
So reliance on defiance is the key so defy
All the brainwash and the violence, raise you hands to the sky
And live
Hudson Everett Aug 2013
Everybody I knows grows up hearing that they’re special
Like just being born, earns them some kinda metal
But I’m mental, and now I’m 20 years old flipping burgers
And it’s ******
Only thing round here that’s the special is the sauce
Everyday I show up and get yelled at by my boss
Because I was two minutes late
or my uniform was misplaced
or he just likes getting red in the face
And I took the bus here
Homeless dude next to me vomits
Now I gotta clean myself off
What goes around comes around
Like a comet

Yeah, I wish that I knew it when I was younger
I’m not special, not gonna cure world hunger
Stop war, world peace, I’m no boy wonder
Got nothing special to say
Just a place to stay and bills to pay
Nothing left to do today
Can’t afford a better way
Because I’m underpaid
Minimum wage needs a ******* upgrade
Chris Feb 2014
Mom
You sit here telling me I am to emotional
You sit here telling me I give you shame
You sit here telling me I am nothing
You sit here telling me about your awful life
You sit here telling me to stop playing the victim
You sit here telling me you were a straight A student
You sit here telling me that this house is all you have left
You sit here telling me that I am going to end up like my father
A lier, theif, crook, and a bad husband

However you, mom are were I get my emotions from
However you, mom bring shame to the name
However you, mom aren't even important to me
However you, mom have made your own mistakes
However you, mom cry about how you're always the victim
However you, mom dropped college and is now struggling
However you, mom don't even realize that once had me
However you, mom make me choose him over you

You mom bring tears to my eyes
You mom are overprotective and crazy
You mom yell at me for doing nothing
       When you sit here yelling at me that I am nothing
You mom could have changed your life forever with me
You mom are the victim of yourself
You mom are underpaid and dropped out of college
        Look at where those all important grades got you
You mom were once the color of my life
         And now you are out of my crayon box
You mom took me away from you, when you chose a house over me
You mom are the sole reason that I want to be my father

I would rather be a bad husband and a good father
Then be a ******* dad and a good husband.
Your not even a good wife either you don't deserve the name mom, Debbie.
Mary Dec 2014
Overworked and underpaid
To help the family survive
To please you
I just can't

Two jobs, school and dance
Little sleep and lacking comfort
So much to do to help
I struggle

No time for me to relax
Working,  revising,  practicing
For what?
A better future for all

I'm stressed out
And struggling
With life
With everything

Failing school
Failng my family
Failing at dancing
It's all falling apart

The stress I'm under
It's effecting me
You
All those I know

I can't keep it in
I will just burst
Leaving you all behind
          *GOODBYE
Days slip by with remains of my emptyness cast aside like bottles apon a vacant highways path.
How often had I found little comfort in the arms that knew nothing and only lingered for
payments often underpaid  in moments best left to forgotten like nights of youth kissed in
a lovers lipstick called regret .

Sometimes it takes a good demon's  burn to pull your head outta the cloud's.
And in these empty highways reflection often i'd found little more than rest stops
and regrets to fuel my anger and true sense of I dont give a ****.

Faces of a blank canvas heading toward new horizens and bitter end's.
Children lost clinging to people more clueless than there youth cast logic could bare.
No one's home in the lost.'
Only found in the emptyness of a new destination.

I cannot say wear I became such a heartless soul.
Only point you towards another route and send you off to find something
that would resemble a traggic play called happiness.

A broken down machine shook  by  other's in hope for a free treat.
Some just for the hell of seeing it swerve ive long since learned to respond
in a stock sense like some robot no true thought  left in my blackend soul.

Dark roads spread like snakes across tatered highways soon to be forgotten by all.
Rest stop ahead one mile.
We gather a lost audience with a shared flaw.

Tired of travel some drenched in life.
Togather we gather in seconds as soon we all do depart.

I cannot say ive spent the time only to erase it in vain.
But a highway is a womans love never returned only taken we no
longer feel the desire to give.

In darkest hours of mornings soon to be aproaching light I sit watching
the lights chase off into the distance swallowed into a never seen again void.
So many chasing dreams others just chasing a new stage.
All of us headed towards yet another dim lit destination.


I always dread my return.
Often long trips have that sureal sense to me.
Yet all the hours ive spent out there along with faces i know i'll never see again
I find unlike most I dispise my trip for I know no home only a place were
unlike the starngers I meet for only seconds.

Im treated as a fool a gypsy of the highway.
Im more home in the emptyness than  here.
Rest stops are the true place in between what some may consider heaven and hell.

Course what does the clown know to begin with?
Stay crazy Gonzo.
Shawn Awagu Dec 2019
The restaurant is quiet, relatively, the one that
Maya told you about yesterday at lunch
She and her boyfriend mentioned “Three’s Company”—
No not the show—
And how we should go out there sometime
“Yeah, maybe we should”
You said because you don’t know how to say no

The lighting is warm, like an Olive Garden
But there’s a draft on your neck and your hands are cold because there is no one standing next to you
You wish you were there instead; even though this place looks nice, you don’t know if it actually is
And you start to feel the vibrations

Before you psych out and walk out, you sit down at a table and wait for an underpaid waitress—
There she is—
“Hello, my name is Elif and welcome to Three’s Company. What would you like to order?”
You spot her nametag—
“Excuse me, would you happen to be of Turkish descent?”
Her eyes light up—
“Wow, how’d you know that? Everyone just thinks I’m American.”
Remember, she has to be nice—
“I like exploring languages cultures. I find it fascinating that we’re all the same, yet so radically different in our own way.” This doesn't actually make sense, but it sounds interesting.
Her eyebrows dance. Cute—
“Well Mr. Philosopher, what can our establishment provide for you today?”
Quick, glance at the board—
“American Classic. No pickles”
“Coming right up!”

Her pen damages the atmosphere for a few moments, and then she’s gone
You almost feel like you’re human until you remember she’s underpaid to smile and small talk
And your hands start shaking again; look I’m sorry kid
I like you
But you’re not much company
Aveline Mitchell May 2015
Scarred hands of a
Tired, underpaid worker
Shake while he
Picks the beans.

Tired, underpaid worker
Sighs at the routine as he
Picks the beans
And carries them out the door.

Sighs at the routine as he
Orders the same things again
And carries them out the door.
I watch him as I sip my coffee.
Ryan Cripps Jul 2014
Hey, Mr. G, remember me? I was the kid in the class with Davey G. And after I moved on to another grade, I continued to visit you so in your memory I wouldn't fade. I just wanted to say, you meant a lot to me, because you were the only teacher that didn't look down on me. You gave me hope, you gave me inspiration. Even though I didn't follow your advice through graduation. But you did a lot for us, and all your other kids. And because you were the cool teacher, the board treated you like spit. But you made school worth going to, you changed all of our lives. We became sort of a family in 5th period, even if all we did was fight. Because of you, I passed and went to the eleventh grade. You did everything you could even though you were underpaid. And let’s not forget what you did for Davey G. He wanted to drop out, I remember those words “Mr. G, you saved me”. Though we didn't exactly follow through, and ended up in bad places, you gave us hope for a minute, you didn't judge our cover, but read through our pages. The day you said they were firing you, I swear I shed a tear. I knew what you were going through, and I felt your fear. I tried everything to save you, but it was too **** late. I remember the goodbye like it was yesterday. I shook your hand the way you taught me to, and we shared a gripping hug. That day was one that surely ******. But not as much as the first day of the next year, when I walked past your class, just to see some teacher yelling at their kids, looking like an ***. But I hope you’re good G, because I think of you a lot. I hope you got a better job, because you deserve another shot. I hope your future students appreciate you as much as I do, and hopefully we cross paths again, because that’d be pretty cool.
a letter to a high school teacher of mine. One of the greatest teachers to ever live.
Raygan Emma Jane Mar 2016
Born again
I have been born a hundred times but like the inches between my thighs it is never quite enough
I was born this morning I woke up mourning my flawed skin but when I use cover up it is not jut the blemishes I'm hiding.
Born again into highschool and by the second hour it is your sweet sixteen,
And you're  jealous fifty girls bodies you've seen.
Born again and by the end of the day, you've graduated from seven minuets in heaven
by now you're more comfortable with showing photos of your naked body than your naked face.  
Born into the whispers of *** deprived teenage males who's idea of a good tale is talking about the circumference of a women's chest
and if she's a size zero,
Well I have zero tolerance for unrealistic standards.
Speaking of unrealistic since when was it real for a women only to feel worthy to a man when's she's altered her body.
I grew up in a society with make up adds on tv full of women who have inches between their knees and my peers beg please,
Please,
Please can I look like that as if photoshop could be found In our makeup bags.
Born again into a mans world where some women are still underpaid due to the gender they did not choose to be.
Where third world girls cannot go to school because they obviously cannot handle the task of picking up a tool as difficult as a pencil?
They die again.
We die again
and again without the enlightenment of knowing that we were born with
hairy legs,
crooked teeth,
oily skin
and braless.
We were born worthy and real,
we die to feel acceptance and love and somewhere in between we give up loving ourselves
and we accept that as were born to believe that that's the only way to live.
Many believe that suffrage ended yet we still suffer,
but it's our choice to endure the pain.
Be born again but this time be born in the rain unafraid of your make up running down your face.
Wash it off.
Be born again.
I wrote this about a year and a half ago but it's message still stands. Happy international women's day.
Ate a plate of whey, with the weight of the nation
on my shoulder blade, away from any destination
so underpaid, my paychecks archaic
not even a quarter to go to arcades with
it’s outrageous!
misery must be contagious
haven’t seen happy faces in ages
It may just be time to vacate
break out like rosacea to the golden gate
every swig of this whiskey brings me to a bolder state
like Colorado
i weighed my options and hopped in my Silverado
like a desperado full of bravado
with the bottle, feeling tipsy now though
singing in staccato ‘**** an intervention’  
time to get uncertain,
speed full throttle towards the intersection  
laughing and swerving
through the red light cursing
and yelling interjections
with a bottle of bourbon
horns blaring, it’s deafening
my ******* ascending
just struck a deaf person
no ***** giving
i’m out of my mind, livid
get hired and fired in 5 minutes
from any job i was given
i’m tired of living
no one even knew i existed
until i started whizzing through traffic
causing collisions,
now i’m forcing decisions
on residents w/ moral convictions
who’d rather see me oral constricted
then remain mortal in prison
got these ******* endorsing petitions
to have me executed by poison injection
shot, hung, electrified, the above all mentioned
and did i mention-
My backseat looks like a knife convention
there’s an array of switchblades i had since fifth grade’s declension
Sketching art on the desk while serving detention
some kind of wonderful, no eternal reflection
i’m reflecting as i smashed into a connection
and see my reflection in the water
as i’m descending slow motion like deception
my body is in all different positions of flexion
this is met with favorable reception
hear the crowd’s exhilaration
i’m unwilling to indulge in anymore retrospection
just waiting to hear the splash
and waves crash then….
this is my rap song
Kayle Marie Nov 2015
I have false memories of a broken summer.
The hot hands, hot lips of an underpaid lover.
Convincing ourselves that this town’s a mess.
Blocking out the world with liquid excess.
But I didn’t leave that town. The vicious cycle still continues and the daydream of leaving is still just that. What remains is a boy, too stubborn to not play with fire. Who still looks at me like I’m something holy. Worships every inch of me with bated breath.
I’ve got a boy who loves with every fiber of his being.
That boy is divine.
That boy is mine.
— Lawful Neutral Chaotic | Kayle Marie
dania Jul 2013
from the very first glimpse of world that greets you every sunday,
                                            tuesday
or perhaps thursday morning
the thought of an ordinary day will not dawn upon you
for every day, to you, will be as good as your first
and as bad as your last
life is your dress rehearsal
and its creatures are your cast

seated at the breakfast table
alone
   with alphabet cereal
swirling in milk
avidly spelling out the names
of all the galaxies
    and daydreaming
of sleeping under the stars

daytime means schooltime
which is synonymous with
underpaid teachers
    and high-pitched gossip
and boys with peach fuzz
who never bothered remembering your name.

the cafeteria is a habitat
which houses many
different species
of human
including the undercover poet
scribbling on a grease-stained
napkin :
the ballad of a sad child.

upon a steady return
to the undercover's residence
three things occur:
      his fountain pen is quenched
          his tears dried
and of course, a bitter realization
that his day had been most banal.

so once again the poet sets off

footsteps patting against textured carpet
   your shaky palms
grabbing layers of soft duvet
  dragging it across the empty floor
through the hallways
  and out the front door

under the stars
   you lay and weep:  safe forever
and fully submerged in the calm of the night

forever is not a lifetime
it seems
but the time it takes
for the sun to win over the moon
in a fight
june 17 2013
Marley ONeill Mar 2010
****** Colombiana
Dressed in red
Her name was Ana
Leaned in close
She named her price
Expensive taste
Aim to entice
Desperado,  El Caballero
Like Cisco Kid
The hall was narrow
Was on her knees
Always prayed
In his pocket
Underpaid
En Colombia la vida loca
Slowly reached
Her skin like mocha
A forty-five
To Ana’s head
Mucho dinero
****** dead
JM Romig Apr 2014
He sat there behind the table,
with his glasses sitting on his nose,
and his skin sitting on his bones - both loosely,
the way you’d expect someone to sit
after 75 years of good, but hard, living.

“The trick is-” he said
deliberately pausing to shift the weight of the sentence
toward the upcoming words
“you have to wipe away all the things you don't want to see."
He said this as he scribbled his name
inside my new copy of his old book
smiling in that gentle old man way.

I scampered away like a schoolboy
feeling like an idiot
having rambled at him
in my best impression of a scholar
- like a kid wearing his dad’s oversized suit.

I talked at him about
how well he captures a moment in poetry
like this former US Poet Laureate
wasn’t aware of his talent
and I was somehow the first
delivering the good news.

As I wander the campus,
having escaped my embarrassment
I think back to a poem he read tonight
about watching an old couple sharing a sandwich.
It was an ode to love,
an image you can see in any sit down restaurant,
literally anywhere in America.
He focused in on this couple,
in this diner
at this moment
apart from time, like a moving still life
forever framed by his words.

He wiped away the screaming kid
and its overwhelmed mother in the booth to the left,
the table of teenagers playing hooky to their right,
and the underpaid twnetysomething waitress
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.

He wiped away all of that distraction
and unearthed this beautiful moment
this pure example of true love-
A sandwich cut from corner to corner
by the shaking hands of a man
whose glasses sit upon his face
and skin upon his bones
all the way you expect a man to
with woman he’s loved for forty years
with whom he shares everything.

I think about the moments I have missed
the poems never writ
because I was staring at the waitress,
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.
NaPoWriMo 11
a woman's work is ever ongoing
she cooks, washes and does all hubby's mowing
the list of her daily duties quite long
she's never free from these demanding tasks
her days are as full as the fullest flasks
at no time is the housewife taking spells
every minute rings in requesting bells
few assist they're off singing an easy song
whereas the underpaid maid grinds tough stone
her hands worn down to barest possible bone
women carry tons of bricks a real heavy freight
not for one second will they idle or laze
they're running around in the busiest haze
by week's end they do feel a loading's weight
Kalliope Jan 2019
Kay
Perpetually lost
Figuratively stuck
Exhaustingly overworked
Disgustingly underpaid
Literally confused
Effortlessly cliche
Beautifully me
Sometimes it be like that
‘I am pure, forever now,’
The words scratched on a skull,
That I dug up one morning
In a garden, back in Hull.
I didn’t know just who it was
Or where the skull had been,
The skull itself the only one
That knew what it had seen.

There were no other bones, they were
All missing, neck to toe,
Perhaps they’d gone on walkabout
And said, ‘We’ll let you know!’
The skull was left to rest in peace
Beneath a flower bed,
Where jonquils wavered in the breeze
Above this lonely head.

The bed was bound by sleepers
That were there before the time
My grandparents had owned the house -
Who covered up this crime?
They must have known, had surely known
Whose head it was, deceased,
Before they laid that garden bed
Hacked off the head, at least!

For someone scraped those five short words
Bit deep into the bone,
Had used the knife that cut its throat?
Or merely, some sharp stone.
I held the skull beneath the tap
To wash away the dirt,
The empty sockets stared at me
Relentless, in their hurt.

Was this a male or female skull?
I found it hard to say,
The teeth were young and pearly white
I called it ‘she’ that day,
Old Jeb, the gardener came round
And saw, and burst in tears,
‘I haven’t seen that pretty smile
In more than fifty years!’

‘Her name was Clementine,’ he said,
‘A little pantry maid,
Back in the days of service when
We all were underpaid,
When I was just a lad myself
And new into the fold,
Your crusty great grandfather ruled,
Old Ebenezer Gold!’

‘We weren’t allowed to mix back then,
We slept on different floors,
He took a special interest in
The womenfolk, indoors.
He’d stalk around at midnight, checking
Under every bed,
Would threaten us with vengeance from
The Lord above, he said.’

‘I’d meet with Clementine outside,
We’d use the potting shed,
She’d tease and tempt me daily, dare me
Sneak into her bed,
Then one day she came crying, but
She wouldn’t tell me why,
Just said that Ebenezer was
A sneak, a ***** spy!’

‘I thought she must have got the sack,
She simply disappeared,
And nobody would mention her
Their lips were sealed, I fear.
He really had a hold on us
He oversaw the plots,
And said I had to seed that bed
With blue Forget-Me-Nots.’

He died near forty years ago
So Jeb and I agreed,
There wasn’t any point to raise
A scandal, without need,
I told him to put back the skull,
He cried, and kissed it lots;
Pulled out the jonquils, planted seeds
Of blue Forget-Me-Nots!

David Lewis Paget
Sam Temple Jan 2015
seamlessly shifting to future planning
scuttlebutts rebuff fluffernutter sandwiches
for something a little more… sophisticated
grease coated floatation device
slices dried mice precisely
clandestine militants throw rice
at the merger of church and state
hate groups **** on social norms
******* the truck drivers for ****
in rest area bathrooms –
doom laden maidens raid
safe houses set up  by underpaid feds
wretched and withdrawn, occupants pant
sweltering heat defeats all who enter
and the centrists flinch as both wings fling scented mud clods –
the gods of old sit on high watching the unfolding drama
three llamas graze peacefully on a Peruvian hillside
tide breaks shake useless dunes
and ruined looms sit broken
reminding the aged
of a non-mechanized life –

— The End —