Best Poems - Work

“FIRST STANDS the lofty Washington,
That noble, great, immortal one.
The elder Adams next we see,
And Jefferson comes number three;
Then Madison is fourth you know,
The fifth one on the list, Monroe;
The sixth, then Adams comes again,
And Jackson seventh in the train.
Van Buren eighth upon the line
And Harrison counts number nine.
The tenth is Tyler in his turn,
And Polk the eleventh, as we learn.
The twelfth is Taylor in rotation,
The thirteenth Fillmore in succession;
The fourteenth. Pierce, has been selected,
Buchanan, fifteenth is elected;
Sixteenth, Lincoln rules the nation;
Johnson, seventeenth, fills the station;
As the eighteenth Grant two terms serves;
Nineteenth, Hayes our honor preserves;
Twentieth, Garfield becomes our head;
Twenty-first, Arthur succeeds the dead;
Then Cleveland next was selected;
Twenty-third, Harrison’s elected;
Twenty-fourth, Cleveland is recalled;
Twenty-fifth, McKinley twice installed;
Twenty-sixth, Roosevelt, strenuous, firm;
Taft, twenty-seventh, serves his term;
Twenty-eighth, Wilson holds the place,
A nation’s problems has to face.”

“She brings a drink to the table,
pivots, and turns away
with a smile

and soon she brings me
a menu, smiles,
and takes the empty glass away.

She brings me a fillet of sole
on a plate with parsley
and thin wheels of lemon,

then more bread in a basket,
smiling as she walks away,
then comes back

to see if everything is OK
to fill my glass with wine,
turning away

then circling back to my table
until she is every waitress 
who has ever served me,

and every waiter, too,
young and old,
the eager and the sleepy ones alike.

I hold my fork in the air—
the blades of the fans
turn slowly on the ceiling—

And I begin to picture them all,
living and dead,
gathered together for one night

in an amphitheater, or armory
or some vast silvery ballroom
where they have come

to remove their bow ties,
to hang up their red jackets and aprons,
and now they are having a cigarette

or dancing with each other,
turning slowly in one another’s arms
to a five-piece, rented band.

And that is all I can think about 
after I pay the bill,
leave a large, sentimental tip,

then walk into the fluorescent streets,
collar up against the chill—
all the waitresses and waiters of my life,

until the night makes me realize
that this place where they pace and dance
under colored lights,

is made of nothing but autumn leaves,
red, yellow, gold,
waiting for a sudden gust of wind

to scatter it all
into the dark spaces
beyond these late-night, practically empty streets.”

“I’m a down-home boy
trying to get ahead.
It seems like I go
backwards instead.

Been in Chicago 
over a year.
Had nothing down home,
not much here.

A measly job,
a greedy boss—
that’s how come 
I left Waycross.

Those Great Lake winds
blow all around:
I’m a light-coat man
in a heavy-coat town.”

“He hopes
it’s only a dead battery
when he answers the radio-dispatched call.
Anyone’s day can end in a ditch,
the tow chain and winch strain and buck,
the front end of the car dragged from the culvert.
Sometimes it starts with a scream
then sirens and finally the phone call
to notify the next of kin.
He won’t tell you what he’s seen
unless you’ve been in combat, the ulnas
and rocker arms, ribcages split
open like radiators, pages torn from Chilton’s 
and Gray’s Anatomy.  Besides, everyone knows
what it’s like to be cut by the lid
of a tincan, sheet metal is no different.

He knows the iced-over bridges, the pylons
and embankments, the bad stretches of road.  
A kid will put too many miles on the convolutions
of his brain, the tiretread wears thin
then the mind just blows out at high speed
and he loses control of his life.
When the wrecker arrives the flares burn, red
and yellow lights streaming,
an ambulance pulling away.

Days later the family will ride by 
the salvage yards where the savage wrecks
are towed and left, total losses.  The guarddog,
a great dane, paces behind the chainlink fencing.
A father stares at the mosaic
of his son’t face in a shattered windshield.
The older brother cleans out
the glove compartment, leaves the carnival dice
of graduation tassel that swings
from the rear-view mirror, a talisman
of terror.  He will check
to see if his brother died with the radio on.
If there were last words,
then they’re scrawled illegibly,
skidmarks across the passing lane
of the highway.”

(in favor of immigrants)

“how many of you sitting
here
think some woman of color 
Black Brown Yellow White
woke up this morning thinking
‘Goooolly … I can go to the airport
and clean toilets?

Raise your right hand

how many of you sitting here
woke up this morning thinking
‘How lucky can they be
Oh Lordy I wish i could
do that’

Raise your left hand

how many of us sitting 
here gave one dollar
to those women knowing
they are underpaid
and not appreciated
at all

Raise either hand

did you know if we all
gave one dollar
every time we urinated
those woman might
take 100 dollars home
to feed their mother
their children
their uncle who moved in with them
their husband who will beat them

Raise any hand

how many of you
when you see those women
say ‘thank God
it’s not me’

Raise both your motherfucking hands
and Clap”

“it’s all about the tamale hustle,
making something out of nothing.

when you don’t have access to wall street,
main street,
easy street—
even though
you’re a rent check away
from living on the street.

yelling out ‘tamales!,’
with no
license, permit,
or document
legalizing
your right to existence.

yelling out ‘tamales!’
like
yelling out ‘fire!’
—’fire’—
to
anyone and everyone.

yelling out ‘tamales!’
because
yelling out for 
‘help!’
will get you nowhere.”

Work – Angela Morgan

“Work!
Thank God for the might of it, 
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it—
Work that springs from the heart’s desire,
Setting the soul and the brain on fire—
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work!
Thank God for the pride of it,
For the beautiful conquering tide of it,
Sweeping the life in its furious flood,
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,
Mastering stupor and dull despair,
Moving the dreamer to do and dare.
Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,
And what is so glad as the surge of it,
And what is so strong as the summons deep,
Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work!
Thank God for the pace of it,
For the terrible, keen, swift race of it;
Fiery steeds in full control,
Nostrils a-quiver to greet the goal.
Work, the Power that drives behind,
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,
Holding the runaway wishes back,
Reining the will to one steady track,
Speeding the energies faster, faster,
Triumphing over disaster.
Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,
And what is so great as the gain of it?
And what is so kind as the cruel goad,
Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work!
Thank God for the swing of it,
For the clamoring hammering ring of it,
Passion and labor daily hurled
On the mighty anvils of the world.
Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?
And what is so huge as the aim of it?
Thundering on through dearth and doubt,
Calling the plan of the Maker out.
Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,
Shaping the earth to a glorious end.
Draining the swamps and blasting the hills,
Doing whatever the spirit wills—
Rending a continent apart,
To answer the dream of the Master heart.
Thank God for a world where none may shirk—
Thank God for the splendor of the work!”

Alberta (Factory Poem/Variation 2) – Brenda Marie Osbey

“When my grandmother alberta was a girl
she worked in solomon’s factory
alongside women
who stood to stitch men’s suits
to hang from the shoulders of white mannequins
who would not say thank you
for the any number of needles sewn through flesh
to put food on the table
to keep children in school
or a husband home
to avoid the indignity of government ‘Relief’
to protect a mother or father
from the old folks’ home.

My grandmother alberta was a girl when she first saw
women eating small sandwiches
or bread dry-long-so
from the hip pockets of their dresses
as they stood sewing
because they were given no time for lunch.
women bleeding through triple-layered toweling
afraid to leave their machines the length of time it took
to wash and change the wadded cloth between their legs
afraid to lose the pay
solomon’s sons doled out at week’s end.
and more than once
a woman who had to go—
but not soon enough.
a woman sprawled against the white commode
the dark fluid slipping across the floor
and the two or three other women
standing guard against the door
hiding away the solution:
quinine and castor oil
to bring on the quick violent abortion
that might let you stagger back to a machine
to stand and stitch together
collars and lapels 
welt pockets to decorate white mannequins
propped up in better stores
throughout the southern region.

she was a woman with a husband and children
by the time she knelt
between her own baby-sister’s knees
and caught the nearly full-term moving mass
felt its warm head in her hand
before she flushed it down the toilet
and wiped between galena’s legs.
all kinds of things i saw and did she said
working in a factory of women
and it was no time
before she was promoted to floor-walker
freed from the stooping posture 
of those women who stitched
heads down in silence
or singing across to one another
lyrics spun out above the hum of motors and needles.
often it was the threadcutters
whose bottoms bore into the long wooden benches
where they squatted gap-kneed more than sat
who tossed out a line
and it would come back
stretched by the heavier voice
of some woman who stood all day
wiping the oil from her fingers
into the blackened wood
of her upright atlas machine.
such a woman sent back a line stretched to endurance
altogether seamless
against the drone of motors
working at full pitch.

my grandmother alberta walked the boarded spaces between the women.
she walked.
she kept time. 
is it any wonder she asks
as if i were to answer 
is it any wonder
we sang like that?…”

Help Wanted – Franklin Waldheim

“A LAW FIRM commanding
Position of standing
Requires a general clerk—
A man who’s admitted
To practice, and fitted
To handle diversified work;

Must know the proceedings
Relating to pleadings,
The ways of preparing a brief;
Must argue with unction
For writs of injunction
As well as for legal relief.

Must form corporations
And hold consultations,
Assuming a dignified mien;
Should reach each decision
And legal provision
Wherever the same may be seen.

Must analyze cases
And get at their basis,
Should never be idle or slow;
Must manifest learning
In all things concerning
The matters referred to below:

Attachments and trials,
Specific denials,
Demurrers, replies and complaints,
Disbursements, expenses
And partial defenses,
Ejectments, replevins, distraints

Estoppels, restrictions,
Constructive evictions,
Agreements implied and express,
Accountings, partitions,
Estates and commissions,
Incumbrances, fraud and duress.

Above are essentials,
The best of credentials
Required—and handsome physique;
Make prompt application,
Will pay compensation
Of seventeen dollars a week.”

“1.
Half way up the Cinder hill
back of Jamison’s stave-mill

was the cottage of Mathilda
who collected pocket silver

from field hands and stave-mill workers,
grocers’ clerks and soda-jerkers,

anyone with half a dollar
and no brighter start to follow. 

2.
She was neither young nor old,
her hair was red, six teeth were gold

Her frame was large, her bosom very
nearly shamed the local dairy—

Though no beauty, it is true,
Matilda knew a trick or two

That could give a new sensation
to our old recreation. 

3.
She maintained her social station
for a halfa generation,

waxed in glory and in wealth
without apparent loss of health.

Then all at once, and God knows why,
Matilda kissed the boys goodbye,

Drew the curtains, latched the door
and gave up practice as a whore.

4.
For a while the town was rife
with rumors of her cloistered life,

was she crippled, was she blind,
had Mathilda lost her mind?

For six years nobody saw her,
the ice man was her only caller

And even he was quite unable
to distinguish fact from fable.

5.
So for six years she remained
in retirement unexplained—

Then, for no apparent reason
but that it was budding season,

old Mathilda reappeared,
like the sun when clouds have cleared,

She descended into town
and bought the boys drinks all around.

6.
She was lively, she was loud
as a brass band in a crowd—

Taught a brand new stand of cotton
things their daddies had forgotten—

seemed just like the old Mathilda—
but the effort must have killed her. 

Ice man found her one day later
cold as the refrigerator.

7.
Soon Mathilda’s former ‘trade’
came with shovel, came with spade

Came with pick and came with hoe*
in the half moon’s tender glow—

Dug the earth up all around,
turned up every inch of ground,

It being rumored that Mathilda
had interred her shameful silver

Somewhere in the cinder hill
back of Jamison’s stave-mill.”

*This couplet can be eliminated if you want an even number in all verses.”