A poem about unemployment by David Tombale: To a prospective jobseeker

The economic recession has birthed an entire generation of desperate and despairing youth, youth that deserve a voice, a channel for their frustration and anger. To a prospective jobseeker is an outlet for that fury and disillusionment.

To a prospective jobseeker

The warm December air breathes
across your breast as you fight to hold
your sorrow in as your mother slathers
peanut butter over bread.

Your little brother smiles, lost to the
reality that there will be no beef tonight,
no meat, father’s pension has long
stretched thin and your meager stipend
can’t feed this house.

The Classifieds run empty,
demanding much, a temporary
fix to tide you over until three seasons
down you’re back to your winding ways,
your bitter breaths, your fury.

There are no jobs my friend,
the foreclosure signs are everywhere
and the heart that beats in you is slowly
turning black.

 

A poem about unemployment by David Tombale: It happened here

It happened here is about more than unemployment it's also about arrogance. We have all read about the rates of unemployment and poverty in some countries for years and it has instilled this idea that it could never happen to us. With the global downturn that all changed and this piece marks the swift turnaround in public perception forced by circumstances.
It happened here

They prowl the streets in ones and twos.
They come here often, heads swivelling
like owls constantly searching for some
rustle, some sound that disturbs the silence
of the forest quiet, their arms swing up
and down little briefcases balanced
precariously on the tips of fingers, gentle
reminders that shows the wealth of their
best just not good enough, the doors rebuff
them like the words of hardened parents
their tired eyes despairing but the papers
fall outside petrol pumps and grocery
stores, flipping through, tracing words with
heavy heart and then sometimes the happy
roar of one more successful war, the roars
grow lesser as the days wear on, the bodies
encroaching upon each other overflowing
these dirty streets,
the stench it seems of broken dreams,
these papers decaying amongst academic
graveyards but what is left to the drifting
dregs that struggle on like sheep?
What is left but too many doors to
trouble and no more promises,
with us no more promises just a leftover
hope that is growing old.