I have offices all over the place and I avoid work everywhere. I don't like to write - I like to be finished.
quote by Richard Price
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Filed Away (Stream IX)
Finished filing
They file out.
File down the street,
Out of the offices.
Finished the offices of the day.
The light of day fades
Like their lives,
Pale imitations
Imitating a life fulfilled.
Filled up
With empty promises,
Not fulfilling their promise.
Each day they become thinner,
More transparent.
It's apparent.
Until one day,
They fade,
Fade away,
Disappear,
Are tidily filed away.
P H Brookes Copyright 2012
poem by Paul Brookes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Man Or Machine
Auto, bus, walking and sweating dermis,
somehow on time I reach my office.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
breakfast time, toast, butter and tea glass,
hurriedly I eat, unaware it may appear boorish and crass.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
lunch time, dosa containing rice, dal and yeast,
the way I eat can put to shame any wild beast.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
till evening, I am tired, drowsy and dozy
but I skip the plan to go outside to have some tea.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
My head aches, my eye burns
but I continue work amidst yawns.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
Just before logout, I work with great pace,
with time I contest, compete and race.
work needs to be finished on time so a computer sits infront of computer.
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Md. Asadullah
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What If I Do Not Have To Do Anything Anymore?
What if I do not have anything to do anymore?
What if I am finished?
I have written what I could write
I have gotten to where I can get
Not very far
But it was what I am capable of -
What if I am finished
And all I have to do is rest
And write small poems
Bad or good as they are
And not even these
For the rest of my life?
What if I can say to myself
I need not try anymore
Because I can do no more
And I am finished?
What if I am done
And can take relief from this
While still longing to do more
And dissatisfied with where I have not gotten?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Painted House Is Like A Poem.
In a way-A house painter is like a poet...
The house painter or average person just might not know it.
A lot of cleaning, sanding and preparation of the surface takes care and time...
Compositions, editing and thought polishes the rhyme.
When finished, they both are a work of art...
A lot of sweat and work is done by the artist's own part.
In the end, a finished polished piece...
Makes the artist, happy and at peace.
The work is finally done...
What hard work, finished-Now
feelings of enjoyed fun.
poem by Michael Gale
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Work Prepared For Us
The Lord has work for all to do, prepared good works for me and you.
A work that is intended to Glorify, the One who on the cross had died.
Jesus’ work accomplished for all, man’s redemption from Adam’s fall.
Christ’s finished work for all of us, a work in which we place our trust.
And nothing can be added to, His work accomplished for me and you.
For salvation is a gift of Grace, secured when Jesus died in our place.
No righteous works on our part; it was all of Christ right from the start.
Christ’s finished work on that cross, alone is what saves sinners lost.
The work prepared for us you see, is to point others towards Eternity.
As God will use you in many ways, as you live out your earthly days.
God above can use most any skill, as it’s tempered by His loving will,
Pointing other men to Jesus Christ, as The Holy Spirit leads your life.
This work was prepared long before, anybody knew Christ was Lord.
An Eternal Plan by The Lord above, and centered on a cross of Love.
Where Christ Jesus paid the price, by offering Himself as a sacrifice.
For a body was prepared for Him, as the atonement for all of our sin.
Now for us the work to be done, is to lead all men to God’s Only Son.
What better work could there be, than in helping other people to see,
That The Lord Jesus died for us, and in Him we must place our trust,
So when all earthly labors cease, with Him we’ll have Eternal Peace.
(Copyright ©03/2006)
I write and rewrite and rewrite and write and like to turn in what I think is finished work.
quote by Gay Talese
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Work!
Work or no luck
If you don't have work
You get killed sitting still
Work or no luck
If you have too much work
You get killed struggling still
Work or no luck
If you finish fast
You get killed killing time
Work or no luck
If you don't finish on time
You get finished on time
Work or no luck
If you do well
You get recognized well
Work or no luck
If you do not do well
You get the pink paper wall
Work or no luck
If you are organized
You finish it on time
Work or no luck
If you are disorganized
You get finished on time
Work or no luck
If you are interested
Toughest becomes easy
Work or no luck
If you are not interested
Easiest thing becomes toughest
Work or no luck
If you are carving
You keep doing it great
Work or no luck
If you are not carving
You keep doing it a trait
Work or no luck
If you have work
You have luck
Work or no luck
If you have work
Still nothing to do
You have no luck
That's the fate of
Work or luck! ! ! !
poem by Umasree Raghunath
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Why I Write?
I write poems for myself and I write for the readers
I write for the masses and I write for the leaders
I write to imprint my thoughts in people's mind
I write to make the bad guys helpful and kind
I write to light up our path to Great God
I write for everyone home and abroad
I write to preserve values new and old
I write to make my ink precious like gold
I write for peace and I write for progress
I write to make the world a better place
All major issues I want to address
I write to see smile on God's face
poem by Asif Andalib
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If you can't think of what to write, tough luck; write anyway. If you can think of lots more when you've finished the three pages, don't write it; it'll be that much easier to get going next day.
quote by Philip Pullman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Paradelle Of A Poet (The Paradelle)
Of all the things I need to write
Of all the things I need to write
To spread my wings and be a poet
To spread my wings and be a poet
To write a spread and to be the things
I need all of my poet wings
A pen and paper in my hand
A pen and paper in my hand
I then begin to script the word
I then begin to script the word
Script to the paper I then begin
My word in hand and a pen
When I am finished with my work
When I am finished with my work
I'll grin and wrap the string on scroll
I'll grin and wrap the string on scroll
The work on my scroll I'll wrap when
I am fisnished with string and grin
To spread a write I need to begin
All of my work, hand and pen
I am a poet and I'll be the things
I script to paper with my wings.
Then the word on scroll...finished when
The wrap in string...and my grin
poem by Adam McKim
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Through these offices it was my privilege to get to know almost every Jewish person, and those whom I did not come to know through these offices I came to know through love and a desire to know my brethren, the members of my people.
quote by Shmuel Y. Agnon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The issue of terrorism must be dealt with firmly. We must work very hard to avoid loss of life. We must work very hard to avoid civilian casualties. And those terrorists and Baathists are holding the people of Fallujah hostage. We must release the hostages.
quote by Ahmed Chalabi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, you know I have an office, my film offices. So I know that syndrome. I fancy offices, so there must be something wrong with me. Even the window cleaner intrigues me. It's a very sexy environment.
quote by Hugh Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Teachers Are Afraid Of The Pupils
Theres too many people
Planning your downfall
When your spirits on trial
These nights can be frightening
Sleep transports sadness
To some other mid-brain
And somebody here
Will not be here next year
So you stand by the board
Full of fear and intention
And, if you think that theyre listening
Well, youve got to be joking
Oh, you understand change
And you think its essential
But when your profession
Is humiliation
Say the wrong word to our children ...
Well have you, oh yes, well have you
Lay a hand on our children
And its never too late to have you
Mucus on your collar
A nail up through the staff chair
A blade in your soap
And you cry into your pillow
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
Say the wrong word to our children ...
Well have you, oh yes, well have you
Lay a hand on our children
And its never too late to have you
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
Im very glad the spring has come
The sun shines out so bright
All the birds that are on the trees
Are singing for delight
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Even at the United Nations, where legend has it that the building was designed so that there could be no corner offices, the expanse of glass in individual offices is said to be a dead giveaway as to rank. Five windows are excellent, one window not so great.
I don't write drafts. I write from the beginning to the end, and when it's finished, it's done.
quote by Clifford Geertz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another One And Another One
i am referring to a bread and butter
thing, the work that we must do,
when it is finished
there seems to be no
end
it becomes a case of
this one too, and another one and another one,
this is work
obstructions of the heart
hurdles of the running game
a pain in my ass,
but i give myself a break
for every case resolved
for every problem solved,
i take a pause, think a little bit,
see the sky, walk at the upper part of the house
open the window and
see for myself
the world
of planes and birds
of flowers and tall buildings
of playgrounds and yards of grass
and then i begin
to write what i love
another poem from my heart
this one is not work
but play, it boosts my energy
it starts my life
all over again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I write
I write and imagine
and create my own story
and what I think I write down
without anybody being able to stop me
and there’s a knight clothed in steel
who’s finished fighting and unsaddles his horse.
I write and imagine
and make everybody’s story
of peace descending to earth,
children honouring their parents,
being exemplary and prepared to study,
but reality is cruel and naked
and I write and imagine.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Love Your Work
just love your work
and tell you what
the work does
it all for you
just sit there
do not even think
or lift a finger
your work hands
everything to you
in finished forms
perfectly perfect
love your work
and everything is done
without noticing
the existence of time
love your work
the table comes to you
all set and all you have
to do is simply sit,
eat and relax and
wait
kewl.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Write, Write, Write
Write in the language you dream in.
But this had never made sense
as far as I remember, I’ve never dreamt in nouns and verbs,
but always in huge boxes,
or dark abandoned malls,
or long flights
where my slippers are lost and my baggage,
missing.
Perhaps i should write in the language
that wakes me
That keeps me restless,
that feeds my hunger,
that reminds me that
i am alive.
it’s a matter of hearing
the heartbeat of one’s words
I can’t wait for more writers to write
Perhaps if the work of critics and teachers
will eventually bear fruit,
it will not be too far off that the streets of my town
will one day be filled again
with the lyrical lilt of my own language
I also can’t blame those
who continue to write in English
and live
in English
which is easy to dismiss as snooty
and elitist,
and alien—
even if it is the same village street,
the same home
that is being woven into words.
A tongue only becomes alien
when we keep it at the gate,
at the door.
The stranger is only as strange
as when we do not know his name,
and he does not know ours.
the job of the writer is not really
to master his language,
but to make it his own.
Not just to study its syntax
and shape but
to invite it into his home.
To kidnap bored English from the court offices
and banks
and schools,
and bring it to our beautiful messy rooms.
To tell it our stories,
whisper into its ear
our dreams,
and if the timing is right,
and the intention is clear,
then to show it our hearts
and we’ll begin to write.
Really really write.
Without guilt.
* reflections by L.L. YPIL
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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