Best Welders Poems
The beautiful arks flashes
While molting metal slashes
Diving deep into my flesh
I reach for a much needed breath
As poisonous fumes fill my lungs
A welders passion threw my veins it runs
So i reach down deep for i em a welder i will not retreat
I've gained my respect
Standpipe conductors wellheads 7018 i inject
Welding all day and under a full moon light
I send a prayer that lord gives me the might
Weeks months away from home
Hearing little voices only threw a phone
I promised to make a better life for y'all
I em a Texas rig welder I'm ready for any rig call
To build these giants
It took many men
Various trades
Manufacturing gems
Scaffolders, Platers
Drawing room to sea
But one trade
Makes it happen for me
Whatever they made
No matter what they joined
My choice is not made
On the flick of a coin
These are the guys
That make metals talk
Settle their differences
With the strike of a rod
Oil Rigs like the T.L.P.
These are the creations
That do it for me
Pride in their eyes
As their efforts are towed
As smooth on the sea
Just as their welds flowed
The line above tells who they are
The Welders
So many jobs still to be done…but no one wants to do them
When someone else fills the spot…. the hue and cry arise
They take our jobs what are we to do.. we need money too
But when the jobs are available they look the other away
They look down their noses, I’m no slave they say
I won’t do a job for so little pay.
Well somebody’s got to do it..be his collar white or blue
But somehow it ends up in the hands of the blue.
Hooray blue collar workers that’s what I say
Be you masons or plumbers welders or garbage collectors
Without you we’d be living in derelict conditions.
A day of recognition… a word of appreciation’s
still less than you’re due
I wish you the best blue collar workers...your'e a wise
wonderful lot and true
Thanks for being you...thanks for all that you do
and may God Bless you.
.
JOAN OF ARC
She earned the name
this woman
this welder
full leathers
shield in place
stinger
wielded with precision
smooth, molten slashes
melding cold iron
into heated union.
Joan of Arc!!
Don’t look directly at her
you may be smitten
by her welders flash.
John G. Lawless
8/29/2015
HUMAN BEINGS
Human beings are like the white horse,
They are as strong as Orji tree,
They moves like,
The elephant and the moon,
They shines like the,
Sun and the stars,
But the,
Things that marvels me most,
Is our brains and our,
Discovering,
Tell the blacksmith that their,
Guns are okay,
Tell the doctors that they,
Telescopes are as active as a gun,
But,
Do not forget to tell the,
Engineers that their engines are
Still moving.
Tell the
Welders that I idolize their
Ships,
But do not forget to tell the
Scientists that their planes and
Their jets are OK.
Tell soul that he is now like
Abraham,
But tell the crusaders,
That he is now like the,
Preacher.
Tell,
The corrupt barristers to,
Reject that money,
For its better to work than to stay idol,
But tell the police that they,
Needs the hand of the blacksmith.
Tell the,
Soldiers that
They needs more booths,
But tell the poets that they,
Needs to write and go
To the prisoners.
Tell,
My president to implement the,
Citizen’s fundamental rights in his diary.
Tell,
The tailors that we needs,
More cloths,
But tell the engineers that,
We need more scissors.
Tell the horticulturists that
We needs more flowers,
But tell our mentor that,
We are In need of the sun and,
The moon.
Tell,
The agriculturist that we
Needs more foods,
But tell the engineers that we need fertilizers.
Tell,
The blacksmith that we are,
Needs more keys
But tell the goal keeper to
Catch them.
Tell,
The footballers to oppose
Red cards,
But tell the referees to,
Discourage and remove rough players,
Tell,
The pilots to operate very well
But tell a poet to stay
In the plane.
We needs more brains,
Tell the prayer warriors to pray more,
Tell the preachers,
That’s we need they preaching.
Tell,
The novelist to interview more,
Politicians,
But,
Tell the poets to edit their
Articles.
Tell the artists that,
We need their music.
THEMES
1. Brilliant, intelligent,
2. Wisdom,
3. Hardworking,
4. Repentant
5. Excellence
6. Cloth
Before they silence my voice
Under jackboots and bone crushing dogs
I must set fort before dusk
As I am shielded
By his gore
And crafted like Daniel
In the lions den
And Jonah in the whales gut
I must scurry to ventilate
With my traducers
At the gate
Because they engage nocturnally
I shall not look for a black goat
At the witching hour
I discern they loathe me
And my kind
They hiss, gnash their canine
When they hear my strange name
They curse the day
I was sculptured
They question why
My palms, sole are snow
While my soul case nocturnal?
Their revered face, soul case is snow, innocuous
But entrails insidious
As a welders fork
Forty friend's, fiends, foe and counting
Looking for a straw
In hay sack
Sneaking, feigning, meandering;
They huff, puff,
Sniffle, shuffle and snizzle,
Insidiously, frantically, scamper
For a Judas
To bell the cat, dog
How do you bell a cat, dog,
With nine lives?
They mob, sop, smother you
Like ants swam honey
Then,
Forget that like amoeba
Your outer layer
Is a cyst
Which immune your entrails
From vultures insidious fangs
Alas,
Spider's web, bobby traps, mines litter around
But,
A tortoise never gets
Enmeshed in a spider's web,
Big Ben never irretrievably hushed
Or a monkey ambushed
Trailing a snakes shadow
This jaunt is not for the faint-hearted
I have journeyed forty days, nights
In the lions den
In my arsenal is locusts and wild honey
My traducers eyes are crossed;
They are hard at hearing
Their necks are stiff,
They love gold, silver
More than good name
I shall ventilate
What their fore fathers
Did to prophets before me;
Chastising them with whips, scorpion
And because they denied me honor,
I must shake my dust off
Their door posts.
I see a savior everywhere, I see
a prophet everyday, shining purple through the faces of
Teachers, Stockmen, Welders, Prostitutes.
Those halogens shine, pilot lights burning bright in
Cyan, Magenta, Hunter green and Mauve, stained-glass
saints made free from that flat and veined dimension.
Those are
Figurines,
translucent they bear before them brushes and
cisterns filled with lamb's blood, marking
the houses of the unlucky as they pass-
(they walk on hallowed ground not a place for me they walk with heads held high eyes up to
the sky contemplating visions I am not blessed enough to see)
Hushed voices in oaken pews speak
litany and mumble
Hymn, while doomed players act out the
stations of the cross within the
Lavish temple.
Ah!
see this rimmed with gold and platinum:
A chorus made for angles of war and angles of peace rides upon the
heavy air, gliding
upwards from the ladies choir.
I suspect that if Gabriel or Michael were to lend an ear and hear them, tears
would pour out from the heavens, covering the
world in a second flood, and
Once again, our
bastion of hope would land on Ararat, but
this time it would be a super-tanker.
I. Daybreak
what glint of morning
is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences
cuts the turf of rowhouses
the weeds still talk with the legs
of crickets as the post-dawn moon
fades like a bubble
here the old Norges and RCAs
the transmissions extracted like tongues
make tombstones in the yard
the scattered habits of a mechanic
early chests exhale
crankshafts turn
Chevrolets on storm
are fused to the moment
breaking thunder from the curb
II. Kids
dirt streaked
all our bellies were round
dirt streaked
consulting our nerves with
wide open lungs
dirt streaked
we all ate dirt
dug tunnels
played trucks
dirt streaked
the swing set whistled
rocking hard
in the recesses
of an afternoon
III. Locked
the day lost in some
file of physical laws
was locked like the hands of the typist
locked like beer cans on the porch
where a laborer reads want ads
fixed like the eyes of the
police
it’s why chained dogs
never stop barking
why housewives keep doing
their laundry
IV. Production
nothing to lose
come welders with your brilliant rods
disarm the dark where the cracks of hell
leak out
come secretaries
run with the wolves again*
migrant workers sing
the bosses don’t know the words
for the prints of innocent men
still grip the prison walls
the halls of high schools
still murder the breath
of the original
cab drivers
pocket the secrets of Washington
coal miners
dig loose the words
hiding under Kentucky
the graveyard shift will begin
when the city simmers
the pot of a quiet army
let them tell
no loss but the threat
of collectors
no loss but the sweat of
your palms
* Taken from an old folktale
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982
Out of the office,
They pour at five-thirty'
In their shirts, coats, and ties,
Tired- but not really dirty'
In the parking lot,
They put their briefcases on the curb.
'Til they get their air-conditioned car unlocked.
Then-head for the suburbs.
Then there are the laborers:
Carpenters, welders, miners, and such.
Each night when they leave their jobs,
They're exhausted, and often to filthy to touch.
Many stop off at some convenient bar,
Which, frequently, is pretty near.
To quench their parched, dry throats,
With a round-or two- of beer'
Two different lifestyles;
As diverse as can be.
One may be repulsive to you;
The other one, repugnant to me'
Our God in Heaven looking down from His Throne,
Can observe both of these.
"They are my children I love and died for.
That is all He sees'
Arthur Ball (H.S.L.P.)
Septembe 1, 2002
elephants dreaming of orange shaped fish
cornflowers surfing down pickle strewn paths
great crested grebes with thorns in their hooves
suitcases drunk in a queue for a stamp
bottles of trousers with books on their heads
welders in carpets abstaining from plugs
books in a curry with no one to flush
my dream is now over
so tell no one,,,hush
Lawn Mower Facts
Briggs and Stratton is number one,
Grandpa use to say…
They will last until the cows come home.
Then he dreamed a bit…
The Deere, Oh John, he plows forever,
If you can afford one, that is.
Fixing things that did not run,
with magic hands, old and withered with time.
Still able to join nothing into something,
Spark and start the blades,
whirling and the grass goes down.
Piles of old tires behind the shed.
Decks without engines, gas tanks empty.
This was the land of possibilities.
Grandpa was always moving, forward.
Frames of things, welders to melt steel,
so hot you could feel.
Then…
Mini bikes, with stolen power, leaving the grass too long.
Pushing all the right buttons, changing all the right gears.
Faster and faster.
Grandpa was right. (as always)
Briggs, are wonderful for cutting the green,
but way better
for Kicking
the
dust
up…
instead of laying the grass down!
This is the place where they come to escape the stress in their lives
A lot is from their husbands and wives
This place gives them a lift
The regulars start swooping in at 10 am from a long night shift
At one time or another, everyone hurts and bears some kind of painful scars
You can find all kinds of emotional burden here at the Broken Hearts Bar
The doctors, the suits, the welders, we get them all
Others escape by attempting to crank out a tune on the piano facing the west wall
After a few drinks, everybody starts feeling well
The alcohol numbs and strips away our protective shell
Everyone enjoys talent night, it makes them feel good
Distorted by the liquid courage, they believe this is their ticket to Hollywood
A taxi driver of 23 years, complains about his back
He has his pain killers with a double shot of Jack
There is always a place for my down and out guests
I lend an ear and allow them to get it off their chest
The winners and losers come here because they are accepted for who they are
Everyone is welcomed to the city's center of depression, the Broken Hearts Bar
George tells me tonight he will be visiting for the last time
He says this every night right around nine
George takes a moment to reflect on the troubles of his past
He tells me it's true, nice guys finish last
So long, my time is near
I will become a nobody and disappear
He tells all his friends to keep reaching for the stars
I smile and tell him, there is always a stool for you at the Broken Hearts Bar
Yeah, I know here the door swing in and out
I thought maybe at the bottom of one my drinks I would discover what life is all
about
The emotion in the air is thick like tar
Please come again to the Broken Hearts bar
Catering
When the old man was young he trained to become a cook,
which nowadays is called chef, at the time not that many
wanted to become cooks, as it didn`t have a nimbus of
working-class heroics; his friends became welders and so on.
The catering business is a simple science when you have
mastered the basic one is free to stamp one`s personality
on the dishes. Restaurants was glad to get a proper cook
oops, I meant chef, the one they had was usually one that
smelled of drink and smoked a cigarette of over the food,
mind ashes don`t show up in your gravy.
Yet, it was an uphill struggle as everybody –women- could
cook back then, but now that the skill is lost, the chef
is on TV, showing how it is done.
The Typewriter
When a boy, the world appears near
climbing over fences, no need to open a gate
Across our house, a grey building, a school
for those who wanted to be welders or
architects or some other trade.
The caretaker had many keys, we thought
he was the boss, wore a yellow coat
and walked with dignity
He shouted at us kids to show who
tough he was, but most of the time
he let us play in the schoolyard
in a ditch, a trapped cat. we lowered
a bucket down for the moggy to jump into
but it was not willing, the boss, told us
to leave the puss alone to get up by itself
On a clear sky, we saw a plane with two
tails, and it was 1952
Since not even the boss had seen a plane
like this, we thought it was from another
planet, perhaps not from Mars as a bloke
like Elon Musk dreams about.
It was easy to believe people living
on other planets, we know better now, but
the thought is still there
Having read a book about the Hardy boys
we became spies, picked likely victims at
the railway station and followed him around
Yes, it was always a man in a suit, female
spies didn't know how to spy, who wrong
we're
the man we followed met some other men
they went into an alleyway, one of them had
a bottle, after a while they spoke loudly and
sang, someone called the police
alone in the park one day it was overcast
looked like rain, I walked into a place
it was a library, warm and cozy, the staff
let me stay and I spent many happy hours
reading about great adventures
I retold the stories to the lads but of course
put myself as as the hero
My broth came home with an enormous
typewriter, on it I was tapping away trying
to make sense of my many thoughts
Mother told me to stop, but my attempts went
on her nerves, she was always reading