It's made me hopeful that things will one day change, however, it comes with the grim realization that my dreams and reality aren't working in co-existence. The debt seems to go up while opportunities are lost and the rich squander money that poor and middle class could only ever imagine in their finest dreams. Perhaps, it's time we take a leaf out of the book of those involved in the "Tea Party" scandal.
HOW HAS THE GREAT RECESSION AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?
Since it's harder to find work, it's given me an opportunity to produce a lot more poetry and other outlets of writing and artistic ability than I'd be able to entertain otherwise.
PLEASE SHARE A POEM(S) ADDRESSING YOUR GREAT RECESSION EXPERIENCE:
entropy
broken dreams litter the ground
obliterating the vision of my own —
I watch despair engulf the arms
of those too weak to beat it off,
debt increases and prices too while
wages lessen or remain the same —
my rose tinted glasses are broken
as entropy reigns, I wonder if this
monarch will ever be dethroned.
invisible
poet by day, janitor by night —
thoughts sometimes dance
across my mind for another
story or poem or novel idea;
they come unbidden when I’m
vacuuming the floor or dusting
the shelves or emptying trash,
I wonder if any of it matters —
will any of this be remembered
after I am buried beneath dust,
or will I be forgotten like the
rest only remembered by daisies.
lack of experience
they always want someone
with more experience, whether
it’s a receptionist or something
more; as if the only thing I’m
capable of is reminding them that
they were once young, like I can’t
be trusted to operate anything
that isn’t a cell phone or computer —
they give me that stuffy, insincere
smile and I know it’s over before
it’s even begun, and yet I cannot
melt into the floor like I’d wish
to — I wonder if I’ll ever get a job
if I can’t ascertain any knowledge.
trapped
phone call after phone call,
application after application —
interview after interview;
yet nothing ever changes only
the day, dreams are broken
and I feel even my hope can
dwindle from time to time;
I hope one day I can take these
broken wings and somehow
fly into a land of opportunity.
Apology
If I can’t afford you a proper
burial, please accept these
paper flowers; I don’t have
but a dollar in my pocket and
a mind full of dreams that
have yet to come to fruition.
ABOUT THE POET:
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poems have been previously published in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, Vintage Poetry, The Stellar Showcase Journal, Ides of March, The Blinking Cursor, The Diversified Arts Project, The Railroad Poetry Project, Skive, The Scarlet Sound, Speech Therapy, Itasca Illinois & Willowtree Dreams, Dead Snakes, The Camel Saloon, Write From Wrong, Moon Washed Kisses, The Wilderness Interface Zone, Samizdat Literary Magazine, and Danse Macabre. Her short stories have been published in Carnage Conservatory, Daily Love, Circus of the Damned, and Linguistic Erosion.
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