Best Tradesmen Poems
My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine.
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.
My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.
Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.
Once, later on in my own life,
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . .
and found that even those less valuable could shine!
A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade,
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen!
The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.
“Here lieth baby Rachel
Born 10th Sept 1894 Died 30th Oct 1896”
Marble stone that lays above the head,
white chippings that blanket the body,
flowerless vase that sits naked
crying out for a fragrant moment
if only to perfume its stagnancy.
I see an odorous pool being replenished,
rain drops aiding hope and life,
a renewal to the neoclassical container
that one day must have been complemented
with loving hands of grief.
I find no track to this lonely corner,
forgotten in this living place of death!
No visitor to gaze upon its epitaph
no one to care “Whom here lieth”
Beneath this broken monument.
“Velvet skin that the cruel age turns to husks,
naked bones left to mature the grass above,
weeping willow guardian of shade and light,
Who! Knows what nourishment
its searching tentacles beget.”
“Corpus soul aimlessly floating in limbo,
looking at me here this very minute?
Feeling my sensitivity as I stand here, alone,
Is there no escape for anyone?
‘Unless life is indeed the enemy’”
Warped in thought I stare at her monument,
built by caring minds and dexterous hands,
tradesmen whom with spade and chisel
penetrated sculptured within nature
just to honour a child’s brief life on earth.
I walk away along the newly beaten track,
grass and nettle bow before my impending stride,
my mind is wrenched with reverence,
I climb aboard my mechanized shovel
“I wonder why! Why should it bother me so!”
© Harry J Horsman 1992
History is no mystery
Unless you were born
A descendant of scorned
African tradesmen and tradeswomen
Stolen from their lives
Of husband wives
Children and wise old ones
Whose brown skin kissed by sun
We lived with the lies
In the shadow of cries
To get over it let it die
The nerve of you guys
No one says get over the Holocaust
For us sympathy and empathy is lost
Still we will live with forever chained
To ancestors genetically despite vain
Attempt to erase their worth
Denounce their struggle
To even pray their own way
For you drug them to church
To read bibles that glorified you
Tribalism prohibited and refused
To Allah God you must explain your “truth”
There was a time when tradesmen,
Like plumbers or mechanics, were all fulltime people.
But nowadays a tradesman has to do multiple tasks,
Mainly because their number is dwindling.
When they are not available,
Householders have to do the job themselves.
It stands to reason.
Similarly, occupations like thieving, robbery, villainy, etc.,
Used to be carried on on a fulltime-basis.
You could tell such characters apart
By their behavior, dress code and looks.
Fagin, Phoolan Devi, and Veerappan are eloquent examples.
Even a street dog could easily single them out
And start barking loudly.
But nowadays, in these postmodern times,
Or Kali Yuga (if you like),
Such marks of distinction seem to be lost.
Obviously, such ‘trades’ nowadays have gone part-time.
But the question is: Why so many part-time people
(seeing that their number is ever increasing),
And when, evidently, there is so much scope?
Why don't people go fulltime?
Could anyone explain why or why not?
Numpty Trumpty plans to build a brick wall
Will it be his election downfall
As all the bricklayers and all the tradesmen
Have vowed not to lay a brick ever again!
05~19~17
Back in the day when kids could just play
Without the fear of being stolen away,
We would be out at almost first light
Only in for our meals until it were night.
Football and cricket both in their season,
Just to be out was a good enough reason.
You could run down the entry trying to hide,
It weren't full of junk, people then had pride.
Our Mum's donkey stoned steps, straight as a die,
If you stood on 'em wet, a clip made you cry.
Even the binmen were all trained in their skill,
A brush and shovel was there to pick up the spill.
All the tradesmen knew to deliver proper, no lip,
If they were cheeky or late,no Christmas tip.
At Kitties Greengrocer us lads would be keen,
To be picked on a Saturday to keep the place clean.
Down in the cellar we'd go and boxes we'd stack,
If it wasn't done right you didn't come back.
Those picked for the shop sometimes came a cropper,
The hardest job there was filling that huge spud hopper.
We got maybe a tanner or bob if the job was well done,
Bellies were full and we got stuff to take home to Mum.
Not many toys,but with a bat n ball we had fun all day,
Back in the day when kids could just play.
© Dave Timperley 3 October 2016
The Internet
by Robert (Bob) Moore (c) 2016
Always check the internet, for what you want to know
who was the actor in that film?, where do I want to go?
I’ve got a rash, what can it be, I know what I will do
I’ll check the ‘net, and then I’ll know, at least I’ll have a clue
How can I build a brick wall, or lay a concrete floor
I’ll just check on the internet, youtube tells you how and more
Don’t need to be a tradesman, and study half your life
the internet is there for all, can’t get in too much strife
The brakes I fixed aren’t working, the brick wall’s fallen down
the concrete has all cracked, and my wife said I’m a clown
the rash is now well spread, and I think it’s getting worse
the cure that I downloaded, guess she was not a nurse
Guess I’ll have to spend a quid, and tradesmen have to get
I know where I can find them, I’ll go on the internet.
I could grow roses, and collect their nectar,
For newly wedded pairs’ perfume.
Or lilies, the Persian young lovers would secretly present their bashful beloveds.
Or could process the early-ripening fallen apple,
Foreigners would slowly have
Seeing the fiery sun
Setting into the gloomy sea;
On the sandy strand bask alongside naked
In the blazing summers’ afternoons,
Kissing French, playing with the watery-sand—
Barefoot.
Or could have fed the fowl
In high fenced Open-farms;
Fed them corn fed them wheat,
Allowed them take long flights
And watched them with love, dust bath.
Watched them dozing on trees’ branches
In the summers’ tiresome mid days
And, loved the old-cock’s crowing in the dawn
As his prayer to God.
So, bred to tens of thousands
And sold their big brown eggs, at good price.
And Ah! Cried loud, the old ailing hens would die.
Or reared goats and sheep in the nearby forest’s meads
And in the summers’ full-moon nights
Visit my large flock,
The grasslands across the sandy mount, stony crag.
Oh! The old shepherd’s ancient-Arabian tale,
Sitting by the flaming fire near their tent’s door,
His busty wife’s baking breads,
Watched by the lips-licking dog
Sitting on his legs.
I would though not
See the auction of my grown bucks,
My herders rather would, in my absence.
And like that English nobleman,
Formerly was a poor boy
And reared sheep;
In his palace had a hall,
He visited the crooks and robes
Whenever! Felt by mistake proud.
I could have lived like the tradesmen
Live, the real luxurious life,
Poets, painters and teachers
Can, only imagine of!
But the True Lovers Ah! Ah!
Live an adventurous life, heroic!
Work harder,
Wait long gloomy nights, travel sandy sunny miles
And then, earn a fear-fraught, fleeting, strange moment-of-joy!
So, I chose to be a lover…
And gratefully! I live a busier life;
More demanding
Than the businessmen or tradesmen or any statesman
Shall claim.
On the edge of barren, corroded shore
Where sailors ply their trade no more
No tenured harbor gallant fleets to moor,
or docks to greet restless crew, strident commodore
No expansive peers into the mighty ocean waves bore,
or rustic wharves to accompany the dank decor
Gone are the tradesmen whose skilled hands weathered ships did restore,
and the tawny, burly arms of the itinerant, shuffling stevedore
No inquisitive merchants the cargo's value to score
Yet the drifting currents grainy sketches still store
In the eerie winds the rasping breaths of stevedores soar
Through stormy gales, commands of disembarking captain's roar
Timeless silhouettes of wafting masts hover o'er ocean floor
Apparitions of ruddy sailors from briny mists pour
Out of the steamy fog, pirate ghosts still yell encore
From foaming waves, drunken sailors one more drought implore
A father ails, a son's lover's lament
Steel rudders committed, what hues to lament.
No courage, the lover feels not what to speak
A channel untuned to the feast of lament.
Tradesmen and saints, what heed they at all?
The father feigns slumber, a weak heart's lament.
The lover replaced, made a crater unwhole
His plea unreturned, an unpromised lament.
One tender father, one lover's fair bones
Their son and companion, shared in lament.
Charcoal tar and gold brown tobacco
are both packed into a paper stick pressed
firm and trusting to the lips of a modern shaman
inhaling a cloud of harsh, strong, bold, and bitter barbs
that caress the tongue and prick and stick to pink organ flesh.
Disorientating nicotine is potentate in his scheme
it's purpose similar to black coffee; smooth and polished
blended beans for those late nights and early mornings.
His baked euphoria is living a constant maximum dosed out
and measured into separate jars of aromatic herbs.
Some for brewing, some for burning
each action acting in different ways to bring forth the contained mystic
hidden, shackled, held bare within his copper frame
conducting the currents of living, learning, thriving emotion
and like alchemy the chemistry
is solid.
He is the sum of all his parts.
He is the sum of all his senses.
Jolts, bolts, and shudders are
controlled through clever use of contraband
to establish simultaneous fluidity of thought and action;
Thereby soothing the soul and softening the daily struggle;
bluntly unnatural to every one of us
simple lovers of peace and passionate emotion.
He chases the dragon
He chases experience
through vistas both brief, and limited in scope,
to gain a sense of things
Great.
He is rounded at the corners
He is the sum of curved edges
smoothed and polished
(like coffee beans) in composition
balanced
by talented influence.
He is the stone worn strong
by paving a path where none is present.
He is the sword forged strong
through temper and tradesmen excellence.
He is man standing tall against the landscape
held up as a bastion of collected worth,
with marbled walls all round in a carved statue of constructed rock
aged fine by the time and the wind of the element opposition.
He separates the skyline,
the layline,
the landscape,
and delegates the elevation of the land beneath his feet.
He moves, builds, crafts, and dictates
(as the spider to the fly)
to bring his titan pen to the white page;
empty and inviting.
Blimey times are tough lately,
and most of the stations too.
I haven't eaten for a week;
the squatters offerings is 'shoo'.
My wish is flour for some damper;
a small handful of leaves for tea.
They reckon we're all pests out here,
the blokes who walk the track like me.
What's that ahead? Is it a pub?
It is! Oh glory - glory be.
There will be a scrap or two,
for a hungry bloke like me.
I’m not allowed in the front door
to beg for food where they serve beer,
so I'll just sneak around the back,
to where the tradesmen enter here.
I ‘gives’ the door a gentle knock,
and then quietly I wait there.
A barmaid opens up the door,
then she gives me an icy stare.
"What do you want?" she say's to me,
in a tone extremely rude.
I says "Ma'am I ain't ate all week,
I wondered if you had some food".
"I've got nothing here to offer,
but let me tell you what I'll do,
I'll give to you this option,
would you eat day old stew?"
"Oh lady yes! Yes! Yes!" I drooled,
then my stomach churned in sorrow,
when coldly she said back to me …
“Good - then you come back tomorrow!”
'Tis said that God loves all His creatures great and small.
Here are just a few of them - I can't begin to name them all!
He loves us one and all the whole world wide from A to Z!
His steadfast love is extended to all including a sinner like me!
God loves atheists, alcoholics, bootleggers, bums and Baptists -
Bailiffs, Catholics, conservatives, coopers and capitalists -
Doctors, dentists, democrats, extortionists and Eskimos -
Farmers, fishermen, golfers, generals and hypochondros!
He loves harlots, hypocrites, infidels, judges and jackasses -
Kings, kooks, lawyers, Lutherans, liberals and lasses -
Marines, Methodists, nerds, nurses, oracles and optometrists -
Presbyterians, politicians, poets, pilots and proctologists!
God loves Quakers, quacks, riveters, radicals and ragmen -
Republicans, rednecks, ranchers, reporters and raftsmen -
Sailors, Santa, scholars, scientists, sinners and scouts -
Thieves, tithers, teachers, taxmen, tradesmen and touts!
He loves unbelievers, veterans, villains and ventriloquists -
Widows, xenophobes, Yankees, yuppies and zoologists!
With so many folks to cherish, oft I wonder how it could be,
That He takes the time to love poor insignificant me!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
"Jesus Born in a lowly stable, a symbol of forsakenness became the redeemer of the whole world. It doesn't count how poor has been our birth. What matters is who we finally are or what we become"- By Poet
On a bleak and frosty night
Vexed and weary two travelers rode
Along the pathways-craggy and ragged
From Nazareth, trudging miles on end
Full pregnant, was she with child
Mary -the Virgin, suffused with Spirit Holy
Divinely ordained to bear the Godly Prince
Conceived before, she had known her spouse.
Abiding in Heaven’s Providence n’ care
They had rode past miles behind
Far too fatigued by the trip
Mary, now badly needed a place to rest.
Heading towards the blinking lights
Not far from the city’s guarded gate
Joseph sighted a tavern-small
Perched high on a tiny hill
A sense of relief beamed past
They have come at last to the journey’s end
Finally found a place to rest!
An interim home away from home
Tethering the donkey outside the gate
Joseph helped Mary alight the brute
In eager search, he hurried inside
With Mary, following with faltering steps.
But the couple, to their dismay found
Within the tavern, room, there was none
For many a man had gathered round
To halt there on that freezing night
Sundry folk from surrounding lands
Had reached Bethlehem for the yearly census
Tradesmen selling clothes and cheese
Nomads of varying clans and clime
Petulant camels, braying donkeys
The place was littered with man and beast.
The tavern small, so packed to full
Had no more space to harbor the crowd
Mary and Joseph, though dejected,
Were encamped within a manger- warm
With tender concern, Joseph joked,
To ease the strain on Mary’s face
“Gaze upon this palace of gold
Where a son shall soon be born to us”!
Mary smiled a gentle smile,
Humored by her husband’s jest
Under the gaze of tethered hosts
In veiled privacy of the midnight gloom
She gave birth to a radiant child,
The great Redeemer to all Mankind
The star studded sky suddenly glowed
With a rare brilliance never beheld
And a celestial voice trailed along
Delivering ‘tidings of joy’ to the globe around
20, December 2021
Nativity New poems Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Eve Roper
Resubmitted for Old Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
I started young,
playing with dolls
who had little to none
when it came to self-control.
I remember thinking
I'll never make it past fourteen.
Somehow I have.
Somehow I have.
Some view me like a kid
with cute, innocent ways
but what I hold within
would bring men to their knees.
Diamonds
cigarettes
and race horses don't stand a chance
these are not the temptations I have.
It would be so easy
so easy
to be good
It's beautiful.
Such a beautiful thing.
We all want something beautiful don't we?
Its how we're connected
its the sort of creatures we are.
Some women stand in front of gold mines but rarely put out.
That I will never understand.
If we desire none
then something is wrong
and that is not,
that is not my problem.
Its in the trees
its in the soil
its for tradesmen
and for royals
its your skin
its in your eyes
its your hands
its on your mind.
Its universal
its our connection
our killer communication.
We are controlled by it,
enticed by it,
driven by it
and we all need forgiveness.
our God-given gift to do what we do.
What will we do with it?