work

What I Want To Be (when I grow up)

Now this is a tale I wish I'd been told

Back when I was 8 years old

When teacher said now listen here

It's about time that you found careers


Something that will make you wealthy

And keep your family fed and healthy

Something that may not be much fun

But the benefits are second to none

 

And so I listened to each child say

What they want to be some day

Some said nurses, some said vets

One said teach the alphabet


“Wouldn't you like to be a judge?”

No says I, I will not budge

Then Teacher said, whilst turning purple,

I could not be a ninja turtle


Nor a wizard or a beanstalk farmer

And superhero was not the answer

I'd rather not be stacking shelves

When I could discover trolls and elves


She fires choices at me 1, 2, 3

But fireman does not appeal to me

Nor policing or a dentist

Can't I be a magicians apprentice?


“No!” she screeched, losing all control

“I'm tired of this rigmarole!”

“You just do not seem to understand”

“How important it is to have this planned!”


So I sat and listened to this pedagogue

And her long and dreary monologue

By the end it was so plain to see

That she had almost given up on me


So at this point I offer my apology

And said I'd like to do archaeology

She said “hooray!The boys come round!”

“What's made you want to dig underground?”


I'd like to sail from sea to shore

To discover my own dinosaur

It's a job I'll find much more exciting

Than stuck inside an office writing


And once I've found this once fearsome beast

With giant claws and razor teeth

I'd bring him back from non existence

And ask him for some job assistance


“Don't be silly”, Teacher said

“You can't bring things back that once were dead”

She says I'm mad and wide of the mark

I take it she's not seen Jurassic Park?

 

She was so angry and could take no more

And she threw me in the corridor

I tried one last time to really thrill 'er

I told her I really could find Godzilla

 

She screamed "I cannot take this anymore!" 

And on that note she slammed the door

So I reflect that maybe I've gone too far

But I don't care for bags of money or fancy cars

 

Life's too short and far too fleeting

To be in and out of office meetings

So to give up on your dreams and magic

To work in a bank would be quite tragic


So if you want to avoid catastrophe

It's time to listen carefully

Never give up on your wildest dreams

And you'll end up where you're meant to be

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Sustainable steps

Sustainable steps

  By jfarrell

 

Agency work is fun

And I am loving how synchronicitous it has been for me;

Having not worked for 17 years,

It’s let me get back into work, a bit at a time;

Sustainable steps.

 

Two shifts this week, three the next;

Two double shifts and a couple singles;

And a fun one tonight,

That’s left me too scared to sleep.

 

Got home from football job very late,

And gotta be at cricket job very early;

I don’t think I will wake up in four hours for work, too knackered;

But, I dare not be late.

 

Really hoping lotsa coffee, bunch of caffeine pills

And caffeine energy drink will “give me wings”

And fly through tomorrow’s 8am til 11pm shift;

“make or break” comes to mind.

 

I’m a 49 year old man who hasn’t worked in 17 years;

Who desperately needs to return to full-time work; with overtime;

ASAP!

I am really hoping this is a sustainable step :)

 

(been with agency 2 months now - love it)

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

cricket - is that the one with a big bat? all sports loook the same to me :)

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A Year Or So Ago

Folder: 
Personal

"It's been over a year. 

I realize, 

eyes playing about on dates

of the calender.

 

Suddenly thinking

back to a year before, 

days exactly 364.

So, less than a year, 

 

by hours. When the

lips that pressed were ours.

When our fingers intertwined, 

when we felt each others' bodies, 

 

souls, mind. 

So wrong, so forbidden, 

it felt right.

Written into passing,

 

the scripts and screenplay

of night-time stays, 

never staying until morning. 

Visits, 

 

door left unlocked, 

just in case.

Offered, often heard, 

only once utilized. 

 

She always said she would. 

 

Eventually. 

She did, 

softly cooing my name, 

pulling me out of my slumber, 

 

and instantly hopping into my bed, 

my arms, pulling her close. 

My warm bare skin

 

juxtaposed to her cold clothing. 

We soon matched. 

There was no lack

of mutual attraction, 

 

no shortage of constant communication, 

trips, adventures, 

ridiculous confessions 

and straight-forward denial. 

 

I denied I did wrong, 

to myself. 

Who knows how she felt.

All I know 

 

is that she felt good, 

she felt like home, 

like I belonged. 

Longing for her scent, 

 

I still remember

how it drove me wild.

Past-tense, 

as she liked to point out.

 

It's a lie, 

there is nothing passed. 

Though, once she asked

if she was hurting me.

 

I, misunderstanding, 

replied, 'why, no, 

it's my other shoulder 

that's broken.'

 

She grinned, 

leaning into my arms, 

'no,' she said, 

'this. Us.'

 

It hurt, 

seeing her dog I grew to adore

slowly separate us on the couch 

a year or so ago. 

 

It hurts still

thinking of some details. 

Fond memories, 

so vivid, full of her laughter. 

 

Haunted by scorn, 

the scorn of several people, 

over all that transpired. 

You'd think a year

 

would wash it all away, 

but nothing is past-tense. 

Hence, 

 

the dreams. 

Thoughts I can't deny, 

lying that they're gone.

They aren't.  

 

I was told it was trouble,  

I was warned. 

But still I got in her car, 

she got in mine. 

 

She's a phone call away;

I don't have the heart

to dial, 

knowing damn well

 

I'd immediately answer if she called. 

Does she read my poetry? 

Does she think of me?

Love me like I love her still? 

 

I should have not turned my cheek.

I should have came to her rescue 

against canine off-leash. 

But I didn't. 

 

And I wish I had.

Instead, all I have

is a book with edits, 

another that's a gift

 

belonging to her, 

one of her favorites. 

We even shared a quote, 

'Never lend a book.'

 

An act of affection instead, 

one of several.

She never said the words, 

but she gave me many gifts. 

 

It started with a cold can.

That's how she loved me.

I wish I had realized it

a year or so ago."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I was too scared to post for a long time. Funny how time heals. 

Preconceived Creativity

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"You're free

to be

as creative as you are;

or so they say. 

 

Yet. 

Every time, 

the artist guided,

unwarranted. 

 

Unnecessary. 

Why is the artist

so restricted? 

IS it concious? 

 

Do those who commission 

Art

know they can be stifling it? 

Or, 

 

is it a lack of trust? 

Not enough of it 

to go around, knows 

the budding artist

 

with lack of portfolio. 

No trust 

goes to those

with no reference. 

 

So often are we told

we are free, 

when we are not. 

Their own opinion 

 

trusted first, 

unintentional or not, 

before the artist, 

the one who creates. 

 

When one asks another

to create, 

to stifle the flame

is to put it out completely. 

 

Trust is a must, 

we must learn to 

give our hearts and minds

and souls 

 

to others

to mold.

 

And that's the hardest thing to do."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So often am I told by other artists they are held back by those who ask for their art, creativity. 

Rusty

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"No excuse, 

but the metal has rusted. 

An unkept armory. 

Barrels with red, 

 

triggers peppered orange. 

Springs stuck, 

pins, unmoving. 

Bores obstructed. 

 

The whole weapon set

useless, 

to the trained eye. 

But

 

a gun is still a gun, 

the potential it has

to kill, 

ever present. 

 

Rusty or not, 

it is still recognizable, 

months of no use

not enough to erase

 

the sizable impression

of the shape, 

the indication

of the handgun, long gun. 

 

The task looming, 

Armorer, 

keys in hand, 

sighing. 

 

Unlocking 

the cages, 

duty tumblers turning, 

locks coming free. 

 

So long, 

had it beem

since maintenance

had been laid

 

where it belong. 

The familiar metal

began to fill hands, 

twist, turn,

 

rifles broke down, 

pistols slid apart. 

Rusty was the

mind, 

 

as were the firemans, 

but both began 

to be broken

free. 

 

Rag, brush, 

break-away sprayed, 

assemblies oiled.

Pieces began to click, 

 

operate smoothly, 

unlike language, 

where lack of use

means disappearance, 

 

past tense

isn't the demise

of functionality of things,

like bike riding. 

 

or an armory. 

 

The Armorer will be busy,

it may take some time.

But he will pass inspection. 

 

With work, 

with determination, 

desire 

and time. 

 

It takes time

for things to rust. 

 

It takes time

to fix such a lack of use. 

 

The best solution

isn't busting rust, 

but daily use, 

rather." 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Time to write a book...

Other Life

Folder: 
Hand Written

"First, he says, 

 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

 

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

 

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

 

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

 

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

 

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

 

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

 

life."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.

Corpse Pose

Folder: 
Hand Written

"Feel it, 

the sensation of breathing, 

with a new friend. 

Not

 

the addition, 

but the release of a union

of muscle and sinew, 

effort

 

cast to the side. 

The breath

enjoyed

with the support 

 

of the floor. 

The ground, 

the dirt below, 

thinking now

 

of feeling the green grass

in between your toes, 

the Earth, 

our Earth. 

 

Nay, she is not ours, 

we are instead Hers. 

Your breath... 

given strength by Mother Earth. 

 

Do you feel it? 

The ebb of the Earth, 

the beat, 

the ancient, encompassing embrace. 

 

Do you feel the flow

of the Ocean,

the breath of Mother Earth

made manifest?

 

Do you feel the presece

of the energy,

in this room, 

right now?

 

The energy that is still, 

the energy that links us, 

neighbor to neighbor, 

the energy of the mightiest wave

 

crashing onto the shore,

the wrath of the surf

felt as fury by the surfer

that Hell hath no. 

 

The energy of the exhausted canine

resting finally on couch

with the child who so tenderly

ran it tired. 

 

The energy when Autumn comes

when you're not quite done

kissing Summer

goodbye.

 

Do you feel the breath? 

Do you feel your mind 

spiraling all over this

whirl of whimisical words?

 

Do you feel the heart? 

Your heart? 

My heart? 

The flow of energy 

 

of the one to your left

or right? 

Us all, limited not

to labels

 

or categories, 

not by old, young, 

American, skin tone, 

the foolish boy or the sweet lady.

 

Try Human, 

Homo Sapien, 

try Earthling, 

giggling practitioner about spirit fingers. 

 

But, 

you know what? 

I do not

need to instruct, 

 

because I feel it. 

I feel you. 

I feel joy,

stress, searing pain, 

 

us joining as a whole

with our Om. 

So beautiful, 

you people. 

 

This is it. 

This is you, this is me. 

This is Mother Earth. 

I feel it.

 

And maybe you do too."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The piece I wrote for Lululemon's UNITEd State campaign, during a yoga session I sat and observed.

Unity

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"Tragic, 

tragedy can be, 

with repeating sounds of words, 

or screams and cries;

 

pain is a universal language.

Everyone knows it, 

this I believe. 

But,

 

even then, there's plenty

of discontent for which has and has not

been felt, 

as though suffering is to be measured.

 

I've seen it, you have, too, 

the pain of the neighborhood, 

tires slashed throughout, 

just another siren,

 

crying, 

at my end of the city. 

Such a pity, and then

the loud clash

 

of the car crash, 

one having smashed into the other,

and in this moment of pain, 

this tragedy,

 

comes unity, 

Humanity.

The unprovoked question

of the desire of assistance,

 

the rush to the scene 

seen by me

of the people who live on this block, 

calming the sobbing mother,

 

bringing the young ones out from the cold, 

the old man sweeping the broken glass,

no police having arrived yet.

Yet, nothing but pain

 

bringing us together, 

celebrating that everyone is okay.

 

Silver lining, 

pain unites,

every little thing

is going to be all right,

 

the radio said so."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I recently was invited to be part of my local Lululemons UNTITEd States campaign, and I had such a blast. This is my poem for the them "unity", aptly named.

Work

Work is natural,


Work is normal,


Even a tree does give,


As long as it does live!


 

The same goes with a rose,


Only to please it grows,


It covets nothing in return,


Maybe love it does yearn!


 

The earth does not stop working,

 

The moon never forgets moving!

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