Best Workman Poems
August eighth nineteen thirty-seven her tiny Spirit thus landed on
This distant planet, within a parallel universe her newborne galaxy..
Ancient eyes gazing as yet but another of their own; Celestial's child ?
* ...."Lawana Faye Workman-Sadberry, Born August 8th, 1937, 'Her Beauty,'
A Journey Unto Love's Stars, May 16th, 2013 * 'I Love You Mom,' Always.... *
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
Some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
When Rome was burning,
Like Nero fiddling on his harp,
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
____________________________________
May.14.2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
In the beginning, was the word of God that is and always will be,
Forever endure throughout time,
Will never come back to Him void,
They will accomplish that He please,
By Faith, it is understood,
Everything was framed by His word,
Have not you heard,
We live not by bread alone,
But by every word coming from His mouth,
The word is a lamp that lights your path.
Do your best to meet God’s approver,
For a workman not to be ashamed,
Rightly handling His word of truth,
Let the word of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding
Penetrate your mind.
His ways and thoughts are higher than mankind,
Leaving all your troubles behind,
Do everything to God in psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs,
Everything will be just fine,
Sing to the grace of God Divine,
His word is the truth for all mankind.
They came yesterday, early as dawn itself
They came with shovels and trowels
To give protection from the winter
To the rose bushes that you loved
Shortly after lunch I heard Oliver barking
It was his angry bark, his sound of offense
For the worker was digging and exhumed
Your scarf from the tangled roots of roses
I gave the scarf to Connie, I remember
She was little then, five or so
And she visited to ask for something of yours
To keep and remember
When she went home and her mother asked
What she had done at our house
She said, “I just sat on his lap
And helped him cry.”
It comes to me now, later she asked
About the scarf again and I assumed she lost it
But now there was the evidence
Oliver also had a need to remember
And put his souvenir of you
Beneath the bushes you so loved
And the workman held the scarf to me
And I told him, “Put it back.”
He comes to me at night
It is his ritual of companionship
Sad-eyed and with mournful whimpering
He comes to my arms and licks my hand
And we are together before the fireplace
Watching shadows dance across the walls
Each remembering the moments that were ours
Each guarding a part of you in the roots of us
TIME FLIES by Jeanette Jones
based on PORTRAIT NO 9
Morning at the Quay in Venice by Helen Allingham
TIME FLIES
Early still, I rise again.
For the quails came calling.
Dragging my feet, I stumbled
across the room, to get a glimpse
before they get to far away.
The kettle’s on, brewing the tea,
to place in my flask.
Milk too for little Emily as we stroll along.
At the edge of the bay, our four feet dangle,
little Emily hums away; a nice beat to my
dream.
Small canoes, large boats with sails,
carry me away across the water.
Traveling up into the lighthouse,
I look over bay, watching the workmen,
out for the day.
Hours pass as I gather up to leave.
Little Emily and I, hand in hand,
we’ve just gotten here, must we go?
Good night Mr. Workman.
Good afternoon Ma’dam.
The morning sun just rising, glaring;
a damp, colder, workaday street ...
fallen leaves scattered,
Halloween mere days away:
Suddenly: Startled by the workman:
A stray, jet-black cat
frightenedly slinking into utter darkness
under a nearby porch.
In the gloom, the cat all but disappears,
save for its wide, pained, wild eyes
staring back threateningly into the daylight:
Disembodied eyes illumined,
like molten gold blazing,
dancing and hovering in gloom;
eyes winking on and off,
twin, sinister lamps,
the brightest, most moribund yellow:
The cat glancing aside, this way, that.
And irridescence
hanging in the hushed air
about all and sundry,
an apparition,
fog slowly vanishes.
Dressed in a red petticoat
And grey damask gown
Trimmed with fur
She walked to the scaffold
Recalling her king’s love
Denying charges against her
Thinking of her daughter
She knelt upright and prayed
The swordsman sliced her head
From her thin neck
But there was no coffin, no funeral
No grieving husband’s tears
A workman gathered her remains
Placed them in an arrow chest
And the queen was buried
In an unmarked grave.
Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII
Jack Horne for Nette’s Soul Partners contest
When winsome women wiggle while walking,
workman will whistle wolfishly, wailing words
wrought with washroom wit. Whilst waylaid wives wince,
wizened widows wink, waving wily.
(Alliteration)
You're an individual.
You're unique.
And it's important that you
create the space to
express your uniqueness,
and become the fully expressed,
fully unleashed,
fully unlimited vibrancy that you are.
There's a stage in a mans life
when he will keep
every other thing aside
and stand alone without fear
to confront whatever obstacle
that stand in his way,
even intimidation from
the most powerful
or care that beset him
and infest his life,
his inadequacies he will confront
and challenge them with boldness.
Even when the
demons of hell be invoked
and conjured up to come forth
and do their very worse,
he knows they shall not pass
and neither shall they prevail,
because he has been through a lot,
he doesn't really cared
anymore what happens to him,
he has come a long way
and he's here now,
that is all that matters.
He speaks the truth
that only him can speak,
so profound and will so piercingly hurts
the ears of the guilty ones.
he will boldly stand on the edge
of the mountain top
and let the wind of life pass forcefully
through and over him.
he becomes a determined soul
who confronts the odds in his life,
with the help of the almighty,
he attains the consciousness of the cosmic,
his spirit is now so awakened,
he becomes one with universe,
so enlightened,
he is now an adept to
help in the down world,
carrier of the divine light,
protector of the weak,
full of vigor,
always ready,
a doer of the impossible,
he now becomes
the keeper of the flame,
his back bent from the rigours
of suffering and pain,
showing the marks of
the whiplash he received,
his brows so wrinkled with
inner wisdom that comes out of the
time spent in long hours
of fasting and meditations,
calm with the inner beauty of the spirit,
not intimidating or forceful,
he commands authority,
exacts influence and check anything
that's not edifying from
influencing his environment
and atmosphere he created for himself
and then allow others into his world
to experience the realm
of power bestowed on him,
he is indeed now,
a peculiar fellow,
a workman that needs not be afraid,
one set apart for good works,
for he has chosen the path of his destiny.
Yes,there is such a man amongst us.
© 2018, Emeka Mokeme.All rights reserved.
Part 3 -- Sir Christopher Wren
"Resurgam". What a righteous word it is!
The Latin form of "I will rise again".
I'd like it on my tomb. A scientist
I was, a humble Oxford teaching drudge,
when summoned by the king. He wanted me
to build a glorious thing, a new Saint Paul's.
Though "non sum dignus" was my only thought,
I said that I'd inspect the site.
I went.
The blackened stones were hot, still. Desolate.
I had a workman with me, to assist
my rummaging. That mighty hymn to God,
the great Cathedral, lay beneath my feet,
bleak rubble, carbonized and hideous.
It could not be revived, that much was plain.
Perhaps a new design?
I paced it out.
Palladio in London - here the nave,
an apse, just so - thoughts crowded-up my mind.
One single system, uniform and strong,
not like the hotch-potch compromise we'd lost!
If only my Redeemer would send down
some hint of His approval. Here - a dome!
A mighty, unifying symbol-shape!
Excited now, I did some calculus,
and called the workman. Could he find a stone?
A thing to mark the mathematic heart,
the point where all the angles intersect,
the fulcrum of my noblest work...
"Will this,"
the workman asked, "supply Your Worship's needs?"
He'd found a slab, just perfect, tall and flat.
He set it where I told him, at The Cross.
And when I lined it, flipping it, I felt
some carving. What was this? I had my sign.
Saint Paul's would rise again, and at my hand!
A single word from heaven. "Resurgam".
An Idiomatic Chicken Tale
Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,
you may bite off more than you can chew.
But if you do count, make sure you have
a bird in the hand rather than two in the bush.
When counting don’t put all of your eggs in one basket,
or you will be running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
Try not to let any hatched chickens escape because
they may try to cross the road.
Try to remember to count slowly because
slow and steady wins the race.
Someone else could count but for now
the ball is in your court.
If you decide to count you can’t do
it at the drop of a hat.
Fortunately, having to count will only
occur once in a blue moon.
If you don’t really want to count
remember, there are other fish in the sea.
You can always ask them to do it
and rain on their parade.
Whoever counts can’t slough off
they will have to go the whole nine yards.
If an error is made, don’t blame the process
because a poor workman blames his tools.
Someone who doesn’t understand what you
are doing may figure you are off your rocker
and not playing with a full deck. But I say
people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
Always keep in mind that you have to break a few
eggs to make an omelet!
Let’s keep on learning* amidst reading glow
Kindled by wondrous interest to grow
Radiating wisdom along knowledge flow
To vanquish ignorance and folly’s blow.
Led by guiding light of truth’s Source aright
Let’s read God’s Word** for instructions so bright
Seeking to absorb divine news’ delight
So we can share love and grace with peace-might.
Expanding horizons, smiting doubt’s fear
Let’s advance, soaring toward changes’ steer
Reaching to impossibilities’ cheer
For development of functional gear.
Triumphant in fulfilling assigned roles
Let’s enjoy blessed life with learning goals
Blending ideas of different poles
Pulling others from vain deceits’ sinkholes.
(From Contest Sponsor: *8. She could read anything now, he said, and once you can read anything you can learn everything. It was up to her. “Nobody’s come close to filling their brains,” he said. “We’re all like giraffes not using their necks to reach the higher leaves.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 18: “White Canoe” (p. 131).
**2 Timothy 2:15 Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.
January 3, 2023
1st place, "Feel Free" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Sara Kendrick; judged on 1/6/2023.
A life without end in sight! Fed up, I hibernate.
A sleep like the dead, until I wake,
I yawn, nod, doze and wake again.
Yet I feel lethargic and tired.
Why wake into full aesthetic consciousness?
Why should I not grab forty more winks?
I wish my vitality infiltrates my essential existence,
but the going is truly tough.
It's like crossing the black Styx
wading across a bottomless ford,
as if I have been condemned to Hades.
I tremble into awareness, search for reconciliation
sacrifice a peace offering to my merciful Lord.
Can I find redemption? Should I plead insanity,
mental disorder or lunatic madness?
Maybe 'tis what I should have done,
instead I wake, work hard, test my tired arteries,
hear the creak of arthritic bones,
do gratifying things, like every workman should:
until I sleep the repose of the just.
3 December 2020
An SO contest
Placed 2
Learning is fun…
…attested by my Geography class
enabling me to own a Madrid post card prize
in finding Segovia midst jigsaw puzzle bits.
Learning becomes a joyous endeavor…
…assured by my Grammar experience
when laughter burst out as I uttered:
“See, go, via Madrid in visiting Spain.”
Learning continues as a jubilant pursuit
…addressed by my Values subject
while I was exhorted to pray and support
missionaries going to Segovia and Madrid.
Learning still gladdens me
…aroused by my Computer assignment
to search in the internet Segovia and Madrid
making me a virtual tourist of those places.
Learning more about God is the best
...adhering to His truth*, freeing soul from deceit
for faith's triumph and hope's anchor
toward joyous enlightenment in His love.
*2Timothy 2:15 Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.
July 30, 2019
Poetry Challenge: Use of "Segovia and Madrid"
Edited on May 18, 2020
Honorable Mention, "STRAND NO 760,any form any theme" Poetry Contest Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 5/18/2020.
The hours tick by before my eyes,
As I lay tucked up, in my bed.
Even Bo peeps sheep have now returned,
And still the lack of Zzz’s.
Pounding seconds tick away,
Seem to echo in my brain.
Back and forth and back and forth,
Reminiscent to coaches on a train.
Oh, what I hear myself reply,
As the shock begins to bite.
With blood shot eyes that settle down,
As the room now fills with light.
As a foot now stumbles on the floor,
Now lurching from my bed.
In a bleary haze that follows,
From that workman in my head.
A vow to become teetotal,
For at least that what was said.
From the dark roast coffee granules,
To raise me from the dead.
What a happy sounding chappie,
From the airway’s morning show.
Why should he be feeling cheerful?
With five days of drudge to go.
Now boldly going forward,
As through the door I trek.
Filled by last night’s antimatter,
From a star ship what the heck.
© N Windle 2020.