Slam poetry has no single definition. It's a combination of feelings, power and points the speaker is trying to make. A few well known poets are Shane Koyczan, Suli Breaks and Katie Makkai. These three poets write outstanding spoken word and slam poetry.

The Wait

     I walked into the animal hospital waiting room and sat down desperate for some good news about my dog. Everything about this room feels cold. The looks on the nurses faces, the plain white walls and tile floors, even the food is cold. Not that I feel like eating anyway. Everything tastes the same and eating will only give me something to throw up if the vet comes back with bad news. My palms are sweaty now. I try wiping them on my tough seat cover and the rough material scratches my palms but at least I know I can still feel things. I keep scratching my hands on the cover until my palms burn and there are a few small cuts on my skin. It's a good distraction from the complete silence around me. I feel like I'll go crazy if I continue to hear only the clicking of the secretary's fake nails on her keyboard, or the constant panting of dogs that have been waiting for hours, or the ticking sound of the clock just above my head. If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to smash it. I'm getting a little nauseous with the wait. I try to distract myself again by counting everything in the room. Three elderly couples. Two families, two children each. One with one a boy and girl, one with twin girls. All look between eight and twelve. Four dogs and one cat. 36 boring white tiles in my vision. 52 equally boring ceiling tiles. No picture frames. Fourteen uncomfortable, scratchy chairs. One secretary and one nurse. While counting, I see someone out of the corner of my eye and turn to look. It's the doctor working with my dog. She slowly walks towards me with a somber expression. She quietly tells me something. I nod my head, turn around, grab the clock off the wall and chuck it.

I Have a Dream

     There was once a year where part-time workers were not frowned upon, where customers knew they would not even have stores to shop in if there were no part-time workers, where every bit of assistance was valued. Times have changed. Currently, part-time employees feel inferior. Currently, they are at the bottom of the job pyramid in society. But why is that? Why, especially in retail, is the employee that works part-time suddenly shunned? Why is it so bad?

     When I visit a clothing store, I do not disrespect the employees. I do not make a Mount Everest of clothes in the changing room. I do not destroy the perfect display that the employees may have spent a good portion of their shift on. I appreciate them. I hang my clothes back up. I ask politely for help.

     Unfortunately, hardly anyone does this anymore. But I have a dream. I have a dream that one day, customers will acknowledge and appreciate every single "Can I help you with anything?". I have a dream that everytime I greet a customer entering my store, they will say hello back to me and not grunt or ignore me. I have a dream that parents will not let their kids loose like the tazmanian devil in the store, free to lock all the fitting rooms and knock over piles of shoeboxes. I have a dream that customer service will be appreciated. I have a dream that we will be equal.

     When this goal is reached, happiness will be achieved. When this goal is reached, part-time employees will give better customer service because they know their effort is appreciated. When this goal is reached, more people will be able to hold their head up high and say "Yes, my job is part-time and I like it." When this goal is reached, no one will be ashamed of their job.

     

George looked up from shoeing the horse to see the outline of Curley's wife in the doorway of the barn. They were alone. George snapped, "What're you doing here? You're about as welcome as a bull in a china shop round here."

                    "I just came by to talk a bit, I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go," she explained.
       
                    "I got somewhere you oughtta go. How 'bout you go home before Curley finds ya here?" George challenged.

                    "Please," she said scornfully. "That man's got a face only a mother could love."

                    "Yeah well beggars can't be choosers," he spat. "I heard you were piss-poor before you married Curley. You oughtta be grateful."

                    "Yeah well I'm done playing second fiddle to Curley's life all the time," she said sadly. "It ain't no fun being married to someone you don't love."

                    "Listen, you're the apple of his eye." George said softly. "He loves you more than life itself. Cant't you just grin and bear it?"

                    "I suppose," she admitted, defeated. " I just always dreamed of marrying the one, not some rich scumbag."

                    "Well look, I'm gonna hit the sack," George said in between his yawns.

                    "Okay but don't you go telling about this," she warned. "other wise you're gonna bite the dust."