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In this page, poems on / about “retirement” are listed.

  • 349.
    I Write Because

    I write I do not know for wealth or fame
    And not even one mention of my name
    And there is little reason to my rhyme
    And I feel lost and years beyond my prime. read more »

    Francis Duggan
  • 350.
    Muriel's Grave

    There are no flowers on Muriel's grave or headstone to mark the spot
    Where her bones rest forever more in death she is forgot
    And not one come to visit her and witness where she lay
    None helped her when she was alive so she doesn't need help today. read more »

    Francis Duggan
  • 351.
    Please Read This Poem Only In The Event Of My Death

    This poem is written to those I love.
    If you are reading this poem, it means that I am dead.
    I want to assure you that when I left for work this morning, I fully intended to return to you.
    If I was burned to a crisp, read more »

    Bob and Alex Eichen
  • 352.
    Pigeons Aren't the Only Obstructionist

    The whiskers on my face
    are spreading vicious
    rumors after five
    'bout the obvious ejection read more »

    Ted Sheridan
  • 353.

    Time is the subject on the menu today,
    It’s the one intangible that never goes away,
    Remember Christ Jesus has already paid,
    So Satan can never lead you astray. read more »

    Luke Easter
  • 354.
    Outside snow dazzled the air

    each joyous dream bit twirling out from infinity
    as I sat in Meng’s with the crew
    watching the soothing streets without desire.
    Suddenly I heard the exuberant sound of a kazoo read more »

    Charles Chaim Wax
  • 355.
    The Creation of John McCornack

    By the shores of Okie-homee,
    By the dusty, sunburnt trailway,
    Stood the wigwam of McCornack,
    (Man-child of the corn-McCornack) . read more »

    John McCornack
  • 356.
    On The Execution Of Timothy McVeigh

    He will be long remembered due to his heinous crime
    For such barbaric acts of cowardliness don't fade away in time
    Because of him one hundred and sixty eight had died and he left many with horrific injuries
    And memories of him will live on like all bad memories. read more »

    Francis Duggan
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