Working Class Generation Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The Lost and Forgotten

Working Class Generation.

We who left school in 1968 without

Honours and degrees, had dreams when

We filled factories and building sites

With youthful laughter which soon

Stopped when run over by the juggernaut

Of life, marriage and a high rise flat.

Later when work dried up, no skills no

Education and too old for a new job,

Divorce, queuing at the dole a flight

Into booze, walking the streets of rue,

Fuck it all and waiting for tomorrow.

Lady of Mercy, only one dream left,

That of coming up on the pool, quid’s

In, a round of drinks for the mates in

The pub and self-respect; we know it

Won’t happen but dream we must, or

Be flotsam in streets of regrets where

It’s always gloomy and eyes have lost

The sheen of hope.


Sit in a Cubicle Poem by David Michael Jackson

can we civilize the salamander
make him
sit in a cubicle
for eight hours
The animals don’t stand for any of that crap
my dog knows what is important
it is important to sniff at that bush
on the other hand
have trouble with
the importance of things
and other people
like me who
don’t allow themselves time to sniff
the air for
anything really
other people like me
don’t have time for that bush
it is landscaped into our orderly little lives like
the trees in our yard which are
planted just so
made to look just so
my dog knows what is important
and I,

– David Jackson


To the Bed Pan Person Poem by David Michael Jackson

Nursing home
Clean white
dry sheets
every day now.
There are the memories of another place
another time
wet sheets every day
bladder infection
kidney failure.
No don’t think about it, he says.
The bed pan persons
are doing the job
as important as the doctors
as the nurses
There is a place for you
in my tears
We need
for you

I can only think of heros poem by Wayne Jackson

everybody writes such neat stuff
about addicts in checkered alleys
who touched the moon.
and a whore in hight heels
limping badly
one heel broken
and sticks and straws and snot
and purple poison sniffed in sacks
of rooms without furniture
and bugs
and sex
but though I try
I can only think of heros


Homecoming Poem by Linda Straub

Linda Straub

It was a pink cotton dress
patterned with white daisies,
sleeveless with spagetti straps
that slid off the shoulders
like children who can’t sit still.

It was a navy blue uniform
with seargant’s stripes
and an adjustable belt
anchored on a slim waist,
below the purple heart.

It was a July day in 1969
at a suburban train station
outside of Philadelphia;
no longer “in country”,
now steppin’ on American soil.

It was a white corvair
with red bucket seats
and Dylan on the radio,
each turned up high
and playing for peace.

It was a warrior and his woman
driving by the school yard
where the band played,
but there was no parade–
just two hands exploring.

Linda Straub