Best On Work And Workingold Poems
A wizened little old man hunkered over his bench.
Gnarled hands wielded screwdriver, hammer and wrench.
Hung on the walls of his shop, all types of clocks were arrayed.
He'd been a clock maker for decades - he was master of his trade.
His quaint little shop was set in the Black Forest of Bavaria.
For his horology craft he was renowned in all the area.
Always smoking a pipe, the smoke forming a wreath about his head;
On his cluttered workbench, springs, gears and wheels were spread!
He could repair any old clock in a trice,
And have it back up and running for a reasonable price.
He could make you a fine clock from oak or cherry wood,
That would make you the envy of the neighborhood!
He adjusted pendulums to ensure a synchronous tick and tock.
Grandfather, cuckoo and mantel clocks he made from stock.
He took pride in his guild and his clocks are antiques today,
And in antique stores and museums, you'll find them on display.
To make his clocks he used no fancy lathes or tools,
Nor did he learn his craft in one of those elitist schools.
He dear old Father taught him everything he knew,
Telling him, "Son, be accurate and "timely" in all you do!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
His old hands were calloused from all the many years of work and toil.
His life seemed to be his work and the never ending search for oil.
Seven days a week with no let up in sight,
He manned those rigs morning, noon, and night.
A dangerous and hard job where everyone strived to be the best,
In all types of weather, under the open skies you were put to the test.
A rowdy lot, the Roughneck Breed, but a brotherhood just the same.
In unproven fields called wildcatters, that had to be tamed.
You work with iron that intimidates most, but is a normal days fare,
And you can look any man in the eye and match their stare.
From H2S gas that can kill you on the spot,
To getting crushed or mangled by that awesome iron for the faint hearted it is not.
To a blowout that happens when inexperience leads the way,
A few of the things that happen somewhere each and every day.
The rookie they call the squirrel or the worm,
And he has to prove himself before he is classified with a different term.
They work in shifts that work around the clock,
Some work eight hour shifts, some work twelve trying their best to keep that rig
drilling thru dirt and rock.
Most of these old boys like to drink and raise a little cain,
Just their way of hiding inner fear and gut wrenching pain.
A word of advice don’t push these guys cause they’re liable to push back,
Cause drinking and fighting or skills these old boys certainly don’t lack.
But if you’re in need they’ll share everything they own,
And that’s part of the reason these guys are the best bunch of people I think I’ve ever
known.
Like his fathers before him, he was a tiller of the soil.
He loved the old farmstead that was built with sweat and toil.
He farmed with Clydesdale horse and cantankerous mules,
A sickle bladed mower, sulky plows and other John Deere tools.
He rose before the sun was up to milk his Jersey cows,
To feed the fowl, his cattle and the Poland China sows.
This was a way of life for him, never taking any vacations.
He cherished the farming life despite its many frustrations.
Tho' he'd seen unprofitable years, floods, hail and drought,
With indomitable courage, he chose to press on and see it out.
He knew the successful fruition of crops was a roll of the dice,
But he steadfastly labored on taking his chances at any price.
His fields of corn, wheat and oats were a beauty to behold.
He prayed he'd get top price when his various crops were sold.
At harvest, his mows were overflowing, his bins flush with grain.
Come next Spring he and his horses would begin the cycle again.
In overalls and an old straw hat, he toiled 'neath the Hoosier sun,
Laboring from dawn to dusk - it seemed his work was never done.
He clad his little son in overalls and assigned him simple chores,
Saying, "Work hard my boy - someday this will all be yours!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Working like a dog for no wage at all,
She said I’m going to make it, I ain’t going to fall.
She said it’s not easy being cheerful but she needs those tips,
Lot of people just enjoy giving waitress’s a hard time and a lot of lip.
She knows she has to smile, she’s got children to raise,
Working this dead end job with very little praise.
She said she wished she finished school, at least learned how to type,
I apologize she said seems all I ever do is gripe.
She said when I leave this job I don’t get much rest,
I’ve got to go home and cook and clean, Lord I’ve just got so much on my chest.
She said daycare is getting more expensive what with the rising price of gas,
And I can’t seem to satisfy my old boss, she’s always chewing on my --- !
She said I don’t know how I ever got myself into the situation I’m in,
She said Lord I’m calling out your name, I need you again.
She said my old man was a bum and I was glad to see him go,
Said he wouldn’t work or help take care of the kids, pure dee worthless you know!
She said mister why in the world you want to interview a waitress for anyway?
My goodness she said but it’s your dime, and I can sure use the extra pay.
Said there ain’t much more to tell except you spend the biggest part of your day on your feet.
And come time for the end of your shift you're pretty much beat.
Well I handed her a couple hundreds and said I appreciate the chat,
She looked at that money and said mister I sure wasn’t expecting any thing like that.
As she turned to walk away I slipped another hundred under my plate,
If you’ve got a little extra and you see someone who’s down share a little, it might change someone’s fate.
.
I'm jarred and jolted up
from a snoring sleep
by my old cranky alarm clock's
clang and beep.
My legs they disobey me,
can't make them move.
My coarse hair stands stiff
in the old Einstein groove.
All the blurred way to the light
switch by the door,
I stagger down what seems
like a mile or more.
But every bone joint in me
screams: arrgh and ouch!
So I drop myself back
on my sleepy couch.
.
.