Best Labourer Poems
Calloused canvas, etched with sun and rain,
A map of toil, where muscles speak their pain.
No crown adorns it, nor scepter's gilded shine,
But in its grip, a legacy entwines.
Not pharaohs' monuments, nor empires vast,
But fields that nourish, homes that rise at last.
Bricks laid true, with sweat for mortar's hold,
A city's pulse, in stories yet untold.
No artist's brush, nor poet's lyric grace,
But hammers tapping, leaving their own trace.
Steel forged and shaped, with fire's ardent kiss,
A symphony of sparks, where dreams don't miss.
Not ruler's scepter, nor scholar's quill,
But thread spun fine, with patient, practiced skill.
Garments woven, warmth against the cold,
A mother's love, in stitches neatly told.
No warrior's blade, nor priest's anointed hand,
But seeds that sprout, at farmer's wise command.
Land nurtured, yielding life anew,
A cycle's dance, beneath a sky so blue.
No sculptor's chisel, nor architect's grand plan,
But tools that mend, held by a steady hand.
Machines repaired, with rhythmic, whirring hum,
A world kept turning, never truly numb.
Not surgeon's scalpel, nor teacher's guiding pen,
But streets swept clean, where children play again.
Invisible threads, that bind a community,
A hand unseen, yet vital, you can see.
So raise your gaze, beyond the gilded frame,
To hands that build, the ones without a name.
For in their toil, a nation's spirit thrives,
A tapestry of labour, where humanity survives.
Child labour is a slaughter
Which seizes their laughter
They miss their tutors
Child labour is a process
In which they lose their progress
Child labour is a crime
But it became their prime
Child labour spoils the child
And they become wild
Child labour must be stopped
Tools must be dropped
And they must be topped.
A child should be a learner
But never be a labourer
And they should become learned
A child should be a literate
To change his fate
But never so late
To do now
Is to sow
The seed of awareness
(Told to me by a patient, when
working as a
builder’s labourer at Menston’s asylum 1963)
This little middle aged lady,
watched and followed me
around for two days,
when I was working on a
renovation job, in Menston
asylum 1963.She told me this
tale over and over again about
her and someone’s (no name)
initials being cut into rock
on Ilkley moor. I’d almost
forgot about her, till I saw on
television recently a documentary/
drama based on the asylum at Menston.
Some of the scenes from the show
were uncanny in being almost
identical with her story told to me
Thirty-two years ago.
I was told that eventually
she would soon forget all things
relating to her past. What impressed
me, was how hard she was trying to
hang on; of course it was her only
salvation.
“I saw a rat
this morning, eating
on a brain.
A surely little thing
all furry and grey.
I saw a bright light
afterwards”/
“I tried to
grasp it but it was so
elusive;
like their warm
and tender love it only
stays a little while,
before the darkness begins
to shut out all the
things I cherish.
I sing a song”/
“It helps to pass
the waiting.
I clean the
window sill try the
front door, it’s always
locked, somehow I know
my past is through there”.
"Now I
cannot except the concept
of light then dark, the
adjustment is burning me
up.
Just as long as the
memory of my loved ones/
from the
light days of my life is
kept within me/
memories
of sublime peace and
simple innocents,
like
the standing stone on
“Rombalds Moor” Our
initials forever beguiling."
Sorry! I have to go
it’s the rat/
he’s eating his
lunch again!
© Harry J Horsman 1995
The Sound of Distant Ankle Bells
Memories of those delicate tinkling bells,
casually fastened around calloused feet,
take hold of my waking moments,
and fling my thoughts back to a distant time,
where folk-songs were heartily sung,
joyful, yet hopelessly out of rhyme.
I barely saw her, a construction labourer perhaps,
hauling bricks, cement, anything, on a scorching Delhi day,
while in the semi-shade of a Gulmohar tree, her infant silently lay.
A cacophony of thoughts such as these swirl around,
yanking me away from the now, to my cow-dung littered childhood playground.
Now, a lifetime of displacement has hushed the jangling chorus of the past,
to a faint trickle of sounds, as distant as an ocean heard inside tiny sea-shells,
and,
I know, that the orchestral nostalgic crescendo, rises, dips, and swells,
as tantalisingly near, yet a world of time away, as were the tinkling of her ankle-bells.
Whether the shadow of your face
Or the stripes of grace on the leaves
Whether the water and soil
In turmoil to sprout and bloom out
Releasing the stress of the bones
Into the cones of the buds
All I collect
In the micro baskets
The moment I get a racket
And you gladly connect with me
The game starts with thrill
Smilingly cooperates the grist mill
Churning the colours
Burning the impurities
Unlocking the keys
Bending the journeys
Grinding the thesis
Breaking the antithesis
And look
Beautifully emerging
The subtle synthesis
From nowhere they appear
The humming bees
For the poetry
For example
Beneath my skull
Just the other day
The sun of Shillong
Its kisses on the hill slopes
Your mouth washing soap on the wash basin
The children
They run in the school playground
The astounding hill peaks
Seeking to pierce the swollen pink clouds
The tall trees like taller women
Shedding shadows on the tea garden
The day labourer clearing the tea roots
The plastics strewn thanks to the brutes
The grist mill felt aroused
Everything it espoused
And the processing started
The flour?
From the cuddling hills
Down to the green oak shadow
Life with peace and strife
______________________________________
June 5, 2018 For The Gristmill Poetry Contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
Note: Considering the short and shorter lines, the violation of 20 line limit
might be condoned. Submitted with this expectation.
IRONY
My joy that I wasn't born a Nigerian
Is that my parents are Yorubas
I would have been limited to Naira
Mo dúpé pé mo lókó nílé (All thanks, I have a hoe)
Mo láyò pé omo alápatà sá lèmi(I rejoice, I am the butcher's offspring)
Nigerians should say alhamduliLhai
That our legislators are not as corrupt as our president
The country would have met with a great recession
E wá womo alápatà bó ti n jàsán (behold, a butcher's meal begging for a piece of meat)
Eni tó lókó nílé tó tún fowó ó kómí kiri(and a shovel merchant handpicking wastes)
Nigeria is blessed
With green pastures
And various rich liquids
Láyé Olúgbón, mo dá borùn méje(in the reign of Olugbon I owned seven different brocades)
Láyé Arèsà, mo dá borùn méfà (in the reign of Areas I owned six different brocades)
Nigerians are blessed
With great leaders
And various 'politricks'
Láyé Olósèlú mo ra àrán, mo ra sányán baba aso( in the reign of politicians, I owned linen and silk)
Ení pé ilè yìí o dùn ení kó wá bòmíràn lo(who dare thus pasture is not green should please make an exit)
The rich no longer cry
They are the beneficiaries
Of the poorman's labour
Sisésisé wà lóòrùn tó n làágùn (the labourer are dripping with sweat)
Jeséjesé wà làbétè tó n jè 'gbádùn(the beneficiaries enjoy the clubs)
Oh God of creation
Guide our leaders right
Perhaps, to spend our labour well
Bámúbámú mo yo x2(My hunger is satisfied to the fullest)
Èmi ò mò pébi n pomo enì kankan(I doubt if there is any languishing in hunger)
...
Whenever I see a Nigerian
I see along the irony of a country
Where hunger is an offspring of plenty
Nìnú òpò ará ìlú n jòwón(despite the riches, inflation is at its peak)
Nínú oyé, èése táráyé tún n sunkún oru?( and though its winter, the masses sweat is still profuse)
I hope to change the condition
I wish I could turn this irony around
And make a great change of situations
Sùgbón níbo laó ti bèèrè?(But where hence do we start?)
Tani ká kókó gbá lówó mún gan an?(who should be our first suspect?)
Sájépo lájà ni àbí eni tó báa gbà á sílè? (The looters or their abets?)
Where from should one start
Rewriting the story of this country?
Àbí e ò rórò bí? (Can you see?)
Òrò n bá rò ma ròfó, èfó n bá rò ma mún jèko (that this issue begets another)
Irony nlá leyii je, it is a big kàyééfì (this is a big kayeefi, irony nla leyii je)
I am what I am* by the Lord’s gracious gesture:
Adopted child of God, imparted with divine nature
Beloved daughter of parents who raised me by loving nurture
Cared for and caring sibling around Christian family culture
Directed volunteer toward ministerial faith-venture…
Empowered prayer-warrior for triumphant temptation flight
Forgiven sinner fulfilled by Christ’s peace delight
Governed Gospel-proclaimer bearing redemption light
Health-conscious vegetarian along ideal weight plight
Illumined Bible-reader against skepticism’s blight…
Joyous sister, partner, mother striving to be a blessing and encouragement
Kind-hearted convert trusting the Holy Spirit’s enablement
Loyal lover as first loved by the Saviour with divine endearment
Mercy-granted recipient engaged in sharing, full of enjoyment
Nourished soulwinner over famishing worldly entanglement…
Optimistic life-builder prioritizing spirituality
Persevering social worker for children’s welfare-prosperity
Quickened believer of the Scriptures against self-righteous religiosity
Rescued hell-bound lawbreaker striving now to please the Almighty
Strengthened full-time church worker serving thru Jesus’ capacity…
Thankful teacher, writer, poet advocating responsible communication
Upheld victor in discipling, anchored upon virtuous instruction
Worshipful xenial congregant who praises the Creator with jubilant adoration
Young-at-heart adult defying, yet succumbing to aging manifestation
Zealous labourer in the Master’s kingdom with brethren’s inspiration.
*1Corinthians 15:10 But by the grace of God I am what I am: and his grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain; … not I, but the grace of God which was with me.
LIST in Bio and ABC forms
May 8, 2020
3rd place, "I AM: A LIST BIO CHALLENGE" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Andrea Dietrich; judged on 5/25/2020.
a parrot clipped,caged, cries
a bonded labourer moans
when will they get freedom
Who am I?
A peddler, a giver, a labourer, a thief?
A monster, a maniac, a secret, a spy?
A friend, a fighter, someone barren of belief?
A realist, a hater, a forsaken doomed to die?
A dreamer, a tryer, a tyrant, a fable?
A helper, destined to aid,
Those that aren't able?
A human, an animal, an assassin, a maid?
No one knows.
Who am I?
You'll find me in every dark corner,
And lurking in your dreams.
You'll see me in the shadows,
As they dance mysteriously.
You'll feel me in the dead of night,
As cold fingers creep,
Up your neck and to your head,
When you're fast asleep.
You'll see my reflection,
In your mother's eyes.
And always after rejection,
And during hateful times.
You'll hear me in the words,
That are spoken with a silver tongue
And in the lies that are
Uttered by no one.
You'll smell me in the stench,
Of burnt and rotted flesh.
And in the scent of crop,
That long since fresh.
You'll taste me in the blood,
That pools on your forehead.
And in the greasy mud,
That sprays your lips as you tread,
Through desolate land,
With nothing but hope in your hand.
Who Am I?
I am Feared,
But nothing else.
Others defined me,
But there is no guarantee,
That you're not the next I'm going to see.
Keep looking over your shoulder.
Watch where you step.
Trust no one.
For I am everywhere,
And there's no way to be rid of me,
Because Fear is eternal.
And Everywhere.
For them:
TGIF! It’s weekend;
The ATM vomits its cods,
Unwinding at the bars,
The cinema’s got a blockbuster!
Yes,…pizza… barbeque… red wine…chicken…
…come on, keep the change girl, it’s weekend!
Campuses empty for “World-Trade-Centers”;
Hey, Two nights, Sunday’s off…your bill
…turn on the gen. set boy! It’s weekend!
For us:
We wake to trader’s knock,
Farmers got to make thousand heaps,
Laundry man washes his palms off,
Bar attendants serve till time is still,
Prostitutes, pounded for few pounds,
‘Big brothers’ rob us to pay our bills,
The maid knocked out without recharge;
Labourer needs refill:
“Malt?”
“No…three coooold pure water”
“And wetin?”
“And, ehn…one groundnut.”
“Finish?”
“Add one bons biscuit,
Put am for nylon”
It’s glaring why;
Their WEEKends earn us WEAKends!
At our homes,
“We’re fasting today[no prayer point]”
“Idiot children! Drink water and be fine”
“Go meet your mother!”
“Are you blind?”
“Turn off the lantern, tomorrow’s Church…”
… and so is our weakend!
Phases
rainstorm, thunderbolt
in the desert
umbrella promise to protect us betrayed
a flash flood washed away our treasury empty –
into capital banks of self, less of -ish democrats.
lost, disillusioned
in the forest
broom’s vow to clean up and lead us to paradise
turned messy and blood gullies trail
the paths of the delusive retro-, I mean pro- gressives.
anxious, desperate
we must awake, wait for the second or first coming
of either the rhetorician or the labourer!
I think I can remember, maybe dreamed,
a bright green field one handsome summer day,
the Duke's blue tent resplendent with its flags,
his drummers practising for Festival,
a sense of things to come - that's happiness -
a chimera you're certain you deserve,
but, like the Jews in their Messiah-vigil,
you wait until the waiting rots your bones,
and in your heart concede it's not for you.
I don't see life as hopeless - goodness, no.
It's possible to wade through misery,
to cross, and clamber out the other side.
And work will help you do it. I don't love
my work. But I have reached accommodation.
A labourer is what I happen to be,
a cobbler, sir. A brandisher of tools.
The habit of work bestows dexterity,
an easy, nerveless knack of hand and eye,
but it takes back. I'm not so steady now.
I do not relish ladders. Spandrel work,
above head height, with cold paint dripping down,
is horror for an old man's finger joints.
I cover this blind wall with squares of meaning,
and - in my little way - I've changed the world.
I've taken a recalcitrant universe,
and branded it with purpose. My threefold
accomplishments are here before your eyes -
I overlap the figures, so, for depth,
the satisfying quadrilaterals,
the bloom I give to human flesh. Yes, these.
But these themselves are far from unheroic.
Encountering nothingness, I've used it up,
and spent it. These, my children, will survive
me. Ah, the plaster's ready. It won't wait.
I'll use the daylight that remains to me,
sir, by your leave, for these December days
allow no tarrying. Thanks for your pains.
So, look about below! One coming down.
Once out of a mother’s womb,
Labourers we all are,
Till we reach our tomb.
We labour for ourselves and others, day and night,
For breakfast, lunch and dinner we all fight.
Yes, we struggle day and night for our basic rights,
And motivate ourselves out of predicament during the flight of life.
Respect all fellow labourers,
Irrespective of whether they are engineers or farmers.
Don’t make it tougher for them to walk further,
By burdening them with the sharp words of predicament .
All of us are brothers and sisters,
United we stand and divided we fall,
Together, we must stand tall,
And help when we hear each other’s crying call.
Let us contribute towards untangling the world
From the clutches of predicament,
So every labourer works with joy and without resentment,
And work becomes a place of excitement and enjoyment.
December 19 Scripture Meditations Based on Revelation 2
Key Verse – Revelation 2:2 I know thy works, and thy labour, and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil…
MY GOD, THANK YOU FOR RECOGNIZING MY WORKS
Thank You for recognizing my works of servant-role
Being Your child with saved soul
Toward heavenly goal
While pursuing holiness’ pole.
Thank You for recognizing my works of steward-faithfulness
Being Your labourer with divine goodness
Toward fruitful effectiveness
While showing virtues’ productiveness.
Thank You for recognizing my works of saintliness-radiance
Being Your redeemed with joyful brilliance
Toward scriptural ambiance
While proving righteousness’ allegiance.
Thank You for recognizing my works of supplication-fervency
Being Your adopted with granted mercy
Toward prayerful persistency
While receiving forgiveness’ clemency.
Thank You for recognizing my works of sacrifice-sincerity
Being Your ransomed with eternal security
Toward submissive humility
While fulfilling commission’s authority.
Thank You for recognizing my works of sanctuary-participation
Being Your convert with biblical instruction
Toward compassionate edification
While supporting church’s function.
Thank You for recognizing my works of spirituality-commitment
Being Your heir with wealthy settlement
Toward everlasting investment
While enjoying ministry’s involvement.
December 19, 2022
Enlightenments way
In the name of the Lord the one Gods self,
begone foul demons of the health,
rise up the 5 billions of the way,
demand retake the wealth today,
cos greed makes Piggy, hey.
Every mortal on the shore,
will now not ever be ignored,
equality for all restored,
from the coarsest to the fey!
People power will take this thought,
world order brought to perfect ought,
no child labourer to be bought,
enlightenment today!
Don Johnson
ok Joe
we have the means to take the day,
people power the only way,
remove the greedy just a bit,
the fairness moral claim does fit,
fly far young Albatross.
wish it....
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3AP42gCLn9E&feature=em-upload_owner