Best Toilers Poems
Plunging, lifting, plunging -as wind blew ashes all around -
the shovels' blades incised the cold and black encrusted ground.
Attached to shovel handles were the arms of skeletons - of men,
who pausing, hacked and wheezed; then bent and smote the dirt again.
With bruised decrepit bodies - and coerced - they struggled on
beneath a sky from which the sun for them had long withdrawn.
And seeping into nostrils came that too familiar stench
when shrieking had died out, and still - they toiled at the trench.
Perhaps they dreamed of tunnels; that the cracks within the earth
inflicted by their shovels formed a path to their rebirth.
What horror in the knowing there were no more tears to cry
or that their bodies - shoeless - might, in graves they’d dug, soon lie.
First posted 5/6/10
Entered in the '2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 8' Poetry Contest of Mark Toney
Entered Feb. 5, 2023
for 2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' Final Placement Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Categories:
toilers, history, sad,
Form:
Couplet
Matchstick Bikes
To tinkers and toilers
I salute,
From mending boilers
to weaving jute,
Man and boy
for generations,
I will unemploy
your occupations.
To brewers in sheds
I sink a few beers
To wet the heads
of our engineers,
From flat cloth caps
to matchstick men,
I will see the collapse
of pushers of pens.
To bakers, tailors
I wish you well,
To the soldiers and sailors
who fought and fell,
From doctors, nurses
to hobnail boots,
I will give your purses
to thieves in suits.
To the grieving docks
I drink a toast,
To tackle and blocks
and shipyard ghosts,
From warehouses, workshops
to fishing trawls,
I will flick my mop
in empty halls.
To union dues
I shake your hand,
To cleaning loos
and farming land,
From railway gauges
to industry,
I will turn the pages
of history.
To factory lines
I raise my glass,
'Neath abandoned mines
of times now past,
From overtime
to austerity,
I will frame the grime
for posterity.
To the silent mills
I tip my hat,
To what ever ills
and this and that,
From a steelworks spew
to a builders hole,
I will stand in a queue
to draw my dole.
To finance, the city
I bow in awe,
To show no pity,
to flout the law,
From sellers, buyers
to pickets and strikes
I will slash the tyres
of your matchstick bikes.
© RJVHorton2016
Categories:
toilers, society,
Form:
Rhyme
What to tell our children,
when we’re back from War,
back from Peace too,
from Death itself, -
what shall we tell them:
We looked for Love
but found it nowhere?
Looked for Freedom
but found it in slavery?
Longed for Happiness
but wedded Misfortune?
What shall we tell our children:
That we did not find a God in skies,
Home on the earth;
That our horizons were unwoven,
and we could not save the quiet
of our temples?
What shall we tell our children:
Why we begot you?
To stand upon your infant souls,
like on some stairs,
for crawling up to Heaven,
but still staying covered with Earth,
we the wretched.
Here’s the suffering – your Bethlehem:
Give birth, by yourselves, to a God
that’ll be your peer,
that’ll support more
you the toilers.
Categories:
toilers, romance,
Form:
Ballad
Azure blue skies weep in rent glacial torrents,
iridescent earth sun trap poised to garner sympathy,
dark red cloud’s indignant float might yet rumble,
toxic deluge drenches mudbank plot as toilers whine,
thunderstruck I gaze at wild indigo sea mist on brine-fleck shore
Edge of seat terra firma species orange alert mere bluster,
grim altitude apocalypse for amber moon orb,
rampant shower pockmark with visual scar as trenchant plague,
vapour trail from lachrymose horizon now a shrunken haze,
alarm bell’s doleful peal across an impact cratered expanse once sumptuous mint green
Stream of gurgling silken brook upon reciprocal bright cadence,
otherworldly pine from volatile nebulae’s damp swathe,
vapid biome acreage a gaunt reflection though surreal,
despite magenta stardust twinkle whose infant phase corralled
by wayward drizzle
Hemisphere by half redolent of sombre devastation,
yet exotic visual haunt is that vaunted shadow zone,
sweet maple leaf ether bound refuge from monsoon rife,
pot of gold opal strewn paradise escape hatch,
from lesion blight topsoil or open sore empyrean
Purple leaf and bell pepper cascade swirling o'er panic stricken globe,
perfume clad hillock under hawk-eye squint,
denizens idyllic foster atmospheric canny urban vault,
they hobble gingerly on salmon pink stone bridge en route to harried terrain rescue
Categories:
toilers, anxiety, art, august, care,
Form:
Free verse
A feast of eye-catching hues swirl midair,
stoic fragile leaf a chill whisper,
overt orange, deep vein red,
pallid yellow, scaly amber,
jumble upon bright clad jumble,
earthbound mattress on a grey mud plot,
bald cypress, Norway maple,
crepe myrtle, pin oak,
shed their raw-hewn splintered twig,
amid the waning sun in bleak morph,
late August and September tread,
damp weather bashful pilgrimage,
acorn mulch stuck between the grooves,
of rugged footwear on limp moss,
along harvest ripened pastures,
hardy toilers lay their white ash scythe,
they reap, gather and proudly stack,
turnips, pumpkins, squash, beet, zucchini,
lifeblood to thriving market square,
rustic idyl diet, whetstone oven backdrop,
whiffs of healthful soup simmering,
bowls scraped, hunger sated,
red ember coal fire glows,
aromatic haze taunt the frozen nose,
symbolic fall eon meter pending,
still a buoyant risen spirit
Categories:
toilers, autumn, creation, earth, environment,
Form:
Imagism
Slaves of wages for generations
long forgotten in history’s screenplay.
Each hand for a moment has held
the torch.
The people are waiting in lines.
All toilers have resisted.
All skins have felt the blaze of blood.
The people are waiting in lines.
While trash still clutters the streets,
while starving stomachs
roam like rabid dogs.
The people are waiting in lines.
Our tears have been cleaved
and parceled,
sold like floodplain to the blind
by corporate politicians,
while the people are waiting in lines.
We are lured to live among the cushions,
to rest here where the river rises.
No markets can be called free
while hosting inequality.
The people are waiting in lines.
We medicate to escape,
numbing to the barbarization.
No economy can be called just
without democracy.
The people are waiting in lines.
We shall watch for clues.
We will know the signs.
Every torch shall rise.
The people are waiting in lines.
Published: Dissident Voice, August 2, 2020
Categories:
toilers, america, class, poverty, rights,
Form:
Political Verse
The evening dons a peaceful shroud
As windows teeter in the breeze.
Here, only lone sighs are allowed
Along the road, an endless wheeze.
While toilers saunter homeward bound
Reflecting hours quite drearily,
With tic- tac rhythm on the ground
Like shuffles of a weary tree.
Dim lanterns cut through brightened shade
With moonlight glowing starlit white,
Till liquid eyes are inter-laid
For even in reminisce is light.
Let's Get Technical Contest, Andrea Dietrich
19 July 2014
Categories:
toilers, light, work,
Form:
Quatrain
Tenebrous night steals autumn days,
Invading ink subtracts the breath of light,
With tarnished mingling edge,
With dusty dusk’s laments.
Tenebrous night of immutable grave,
Infiltrating melanin loots the golden glow,
Where criminal and crucifix sink,
Where dream and delirium drown.
We are merely complexions of being
With frivolous hearts,
Chalking pigment lines to cleave
The cloak of skin we all share,
Chasing the encasing that divides us.
Across the planet, lines of disparity,
Lines of uneven imparity,
Across the globe, lines of ruling class,
Lines of the toilers and indigent class.
We are merely complexions of being
Carving rich from poor,
Along lines of race and class.
We dread what may come to pass.
Tenebrous night our final gasp,
The tenuous squandered
Dwindling light we grasp.
Published in Dissident Voice: November 28th, 2021
Categories:
toilers, class, death, international, night,
Form:
Didactic
shining lights
hide the toil of millions
in dark alleys.
in these dark corners
gleaming sweat of men
cannot be differentiated
from salty vapour of sea.
the toilers are used to
sparkle and glitter
the lives of those
who need these lights
to protect themselves
from dark.
the toiling masses,
themselves
remain in shadows;
they get burnt as fuel
to generate shimmer
for others.
this fuel is infinite in supply
for it is priced cheap.
forced to provide, perpetually
the lustre, the dazzle, for others;
keeping their own aspirations
in shadows; and
somehow hoping
to be redeemed,
some day, one day.
for only this thin,
trembling ray of hope
is their own flicker.
5.10.2014
Categories:
toilers, hope,
Form:
Free verse
Once upon a time
There was a man
Who lost his job
And his home
And his car
And he slept under a tree.
Simpleton that he was,
He never gave thought
To asking the oak's permission.
But the majestic old tree,
Being wise in its great age,
Suffered the unlucky human
To lie there in grateful repose
Between two of its massive,
Outspreading roots.
And there were visitors,
Unseen and unheard
By the man but who,
For their own secret reasons,
Took an interest in him.
So these playful beings
Found a way to indulge
Their sense of mischief
Whilst helping the man
Avoid further calamities
To his person.
The woods where he slept,
You see, were privately kept,
And others like himself would,
On occasion,
Pass close by that spot.
Well, the man was of a mind
To sleep well past the dawn.
But the toilers began
Their day early, so it would
Be only a short march of time
Before their paths
Would finally cross.
So the task at hand
For the imps
Or the elves
Or the ghosties
Or the faeries
Lay in devising clever ways
Of rousing the man
Without ever revealing to him
Their own true nature.
Once, for example, they bounced a
Large, round, feather-light something
Off the side of his sleepy head.
It felt like a giant nerf ball but was
Nowhere to be seen immediately after.
On another occasion, they directed
A friendly little toad
To land with a thud within inches
Of his horizontal face.
But in other instances
They acted more boldly;
Tickling his hair,
Grabbing him by the shoes,
Or yanking on an elbow.
The only time he thought to ignore
Such a silent sort of
"By yore leave, yer slumberin' Grace",
He only just avoided a confrontation
With some early-morning workers.
But Serendipity finally intervened,
And after the passage of a fortnight or so,
This man's situation changed yet again,
And he no longer had to sleep upon the earth.
But a peculiar thing occurred, you see.
Being accustomed to regular attention from
His entertaining unseen guardians,
The man found himself unwilling to return
To the bland comforts of a regular bed.
And thus it was only by
Withdrawing their favors
That they compelled him to
Quit that place for good.
And then, reluctantly, with yet
Further pointless delays,
I finally said my goodbyes
And left that place as I found it.
Categories:
toilers, adventure, fairy, inspirational, magic,
Form:
Free verse
The Swallows
Like dotted foreheads of women, our land was dotted with swallows;
They had rap dances on the farmers’ ploughs and bulls’ yokes in the field
With feathery steps to the toilers’ footsteps till the land was filled with yield.
The harvest saw them fluttering about in mirth, mating and birthing new fellows.
When fields became housing colonies and farmers became paupers, the swallows
Too became refugees like humans without legs; their nakedness had no shield;
Their songs had no listeners; past pulled their todays as the future feared to yield
And stood still; droves and droves migrated towards pastures new with few fellows.
Gone were our dreams when mobile tower antennas began lynching us so much;
Much horror followed when fatal ‘hellos’ just snapped our lives like winged sparks;
Magnets and rays radiated fatwas to our stagnant gen; we flew away and away
Searching for abodes to perch safely and to have a rap once again, but a touch
On the tout corporate wires across fields make us cuddle our legs like fail marks
And fold our wings like feather blazers; fear of life drives us, to die, away, and away.
Categories:
toilers, anxiety, bird, destiny, missing,
Form:
Sonnet
(In the late 1300's, veteran painter Barna of Siena
was killed when he fell from the scaffolding whilst
working on "The Crucifixion", the final panel of his
fresco cycle in the Church of the Collegiata, in San
Gimignano, central Italy.)
I'll mount the scaffold first, sir. Mind the rail -
at one point there, it's not reliable.
Oh, careful, sir. I'm flattered you should come
from - Monteriggione, is it? - here
to view the work in progress. As you see,
- that rail, sir - the scheme is an ambitious one.
You have the standard scriptural episodes
arranged before you. Here, my Crucifixion
- unfinished, need I say? - in pride of place.
The pinnacle, and culminating piece!
Oh sir, you're kind. You like the cobalt ground?
I know my limitations. No, it's true.
I'm past the time in life when confident morn
returns upon the awareness, like a song
remembered. See my hair? Once chestnut-gold,
where now it is not knotted with hard paint,
the years have slowly snowed the color off.
I'll never go to Florence now. No, no,
I mean it. I'm no longer sure I want to.
We work on this commission - there's my son
below, mixing the plaster - which is fine.
I'm not an angel. God chose not to shower
astounding gifts on me - no, hear me, sir! -
as on his Chosen Ones. I don't resent it
- not now. For man, there's no escape from work.
Our ambit was determined by The Fall.
And if I do this task, and do it well,
do I not please my God? And think again -
a thousand toilers in December mud
in earshot of these bells would switch with me
tomorrow, counting themselves blessed. Here
I'm quiet, I direct the work, and if
not warm, I'm neither rained nor spat upon -
that's something. No, I can't say that I'm happy.
It seems to me that few are born to that,
lead lucky lives, have touched the Savior's hem.
Who of the rest of us, if honest, can
claim to be happy? Well, I certainly can't.
Categories:
toilers,
Form:
Blank verse
An horrific situation happened in a country town.
The districts big employer has closed their factory down.
Twenty men had lost their job; the town had lost its soul.
Not one man was happy about going on the dole.
An application by the council for a grant would surely fit.
Other groups provided funds and the Church threw in a bit
toward a project on the books, where men would have to lodge a week,
clearing scrub for a new dam that will block the Black Snake Creek.
Dougie Ronaldson was widely known as someone who could cook.
These men trusted Dougie’s wares - they won’t eat food that’s crook.
While the gang was clearing scrub, Doug cooked, and too chilled the grog,
while sitting right beside Doug was his faithful heeler dog.
Wednesday I think it was, when a fine upstanding gent.
The local Priest had travelled out to see his Church’s money spent.
He was talking to the toilers who sweated on the Black Snake flat,
then returned to talk to Dougie and he gave his dog a pat.
“The kettles boiling Father; would you like a cup of tea?”
All the other blokes were drifting in - it was dinnertime you see.
They grabbed their mugs and lunches, after they had washed and toweled.
When Father went to take a drink, the dog bared its teeth and growled.
“I don’t think your dog cares much for me” Father’s watching nervously.
“Do you think Doug you could tie him up, I don’t want him biting me”.
“Don’t worry too much ‘bout him Father” said a disconcerting Doug,
“He’s just a little ‘cranky’ - ‘cause you’re drinking from his mug”.
Categories:
toilers, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
The blush of the early morning sun
Brings out the toilers to their toes.
Like myriad ants they crawl about,
Each one at his morning chores.
The open space, the parking lot
Or the narrow footpath tracks
Find these sub-human men
Squatting on their backs.
Each one calls to his own God,
Picks himself somehow clean,
Puts to shame the haughty priests;
Piety more is rarely seen.
The morning ablutions all then done,
Each one girds up to face the day.
Hustling, touting, scheming, shouting-
Before sundown to make their hay,
Categories:
toilers, on work and working,
Form:
Topsy turvy lives,
we lead.
We rare ones,
a special breed,
not all can be.
Sunrise is sleep,
mid-day slumber.
The moon, our luminary.
We awaken
with lengthening shadows.
Hallway haunters are we.
Categories:
toilers, business, on work and
Form:
Free verse