Best Workmen Poems
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me as I
skimmed stones across the tiny ripples of rock pools.
Small scaly creatures and stones sliced toes like knives but
we were full of excitement then,
craning necks and nets at the alien life under water that
swilled any blood away in a salty sting.
Until that day.
My rock pool filled with tears/spit/teeth from savaged parents
covered and muddied by seaweed from miles out - dragged against
flotsam and jetsam from the seabed. It all tipped endlessly into my rock
pool in a careless hurry/rush/smash like workmen at skips.
I went back to those pools and streams, like tears, crawling from the lake.
Found it was lost and
drowning within its own water:
a roof slate, a car, a swing from along the coast. A doll’s
head that just bobbed and plopped.
It would have been sucked and spat
upward, surging towards the sky with plastic arms praying,
in the deluge just moments (days?) before.
It’s not my rock pool anymore. It’s not our town.
People killed by geography:
Subduction – Subtraction of me from my family.
Subsidence - Insidious silence that lulled people to exposed sand with palm trees over heads like question marks… before the wave even Noah would struggle to sail.
Tsunami… you and me.
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me
All the leaves turned and waved
Before the darkness turned them grey
And buried 'neath the scarlet sins
Were skies so red the poppy grins
"Heed not your torment" old crows caw
"The carriage ride belongs to all"
As monotone the workmen chant
Sixpence for stipples love's recant
"The day will come" the old tree swayed
"Tho seasons change and hearts will fray,
Steadfast your beacon, pointed north,
And hallowed be, your love go forth"
11/24/23
Walked six years, that way,
And watched this new suburb’s trend.
Near Mysore Highway,
Close to Bengaluru’s end.
Three storeys tall, stood,
This awesome tree-spread, so pretty.
Blue blossoms, good wood,
Half acre’s canopy.
‘Neath with sun-warmings,
Faded blue a carpet rose.
Of fallen, dried awnings,
Nature’s cycle, as it goes.
Hanging Traffic Lights,
Often, brushed by its branches.
Red light, hid from sights,
Officials, took no chances.
The machinery,
Was then set into motion.
People versus tree,
Few friends, one odd emotion.
The huge saws came in,
Chopping through, the whole, big tree,
Adding noise and din,
Workmen yelled, ‘Timber!’ in glee.
The earthmovers filled,
The gaping hole with rubble.
The tree was thus killed,
At great cost and much trouble.
The decorators,
Carted leaves to weddings halls.
Such deft creators,
Blooms to florists’ stalls.
The carpet-pile, twigs and chips,
All collected, swept,
Offals for funeral trips,
Departed unwept.
Their nests and hives gone,
The birds and the bees hovered,
Twittered , buzzed, flew on,
Their losses unrecovered.
The tree’s life on earth,
Cut short, for sale by auction.
Fetched a pittance’s worth,
The wood went for a fraction.
Traffic lights are safe now,
No mix-up of colour red.
Strange.. Green light, some how,
Blinks. Reminder of the dead.
Jacaranda tree,
God dressed your kind soul in wood.
You would have lived free,
You would have, lived, If you could.
Note: Offals: (OE for small twigs, straws etc used for lighting fire) Please Note:this poem (my original) is already entered in with Voices.net.com earlier...and i hope there is no objections to entering it here.
Why The Willow Weeps
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a beautiful park in a sunny valley.
In this park there were three Willow Trees. In those days the Willow was a proud tall tree,
Its strong limbs outspread. It stood with its branches happily swaying in the breeze,
Two taller Willows grew either side of the smaller tree where they had grown happily for Many years.
The land owner had looked after the sunny valley for a long time but as he became older He had to sell the park and a new owner came along who decided he needed a river Where boaters could glide in slow, tranquil waters.
Then woodsmen came and cut down one of the two taller Willow trees.
The younger tree looked on, helpless. Workmen diverted the river
So that it bent around the younger Tree's feet. The young Willow Tree,
Its branches once stretched out now, saddened, Hung its fronds down into the water.
Then a carpenter came along and built a bridge over the river. Now the park owner Wanted a path over the bridge so the woodsman cut down the remaining tall Willow to Make way for the path where the tall tree had once stood.
Now the young Willow tree wept as its branches dipped into the dappled shade of the Slow moving waters. The boaters on the river admired the beauty of the young Willow, its Soft fronds hanging into the dappled shade around its feet and, just occasionally, the Wind sighed in its branches.
Now all Willows grow with their soft fronds hanging down and weep into the water in Memory of the Willow that wept.
12/07/2016
The road to my backyard is long and straight
Evergreen trees abound and provide welcome shade
Home to myriad birds, butterflies and the bees
Last summer their branches were sawn off, without notice
The orgy with power-saws lasted barely a day
The trees shorn of foliage, the limbless torsos remained
To secure the safety of a VIP on a state visit
To a smog-laden metropolis, labouring hard to breathe
A few years back, we moved house to an oasis of green
But now, the storm of development is relentlessly closing in
Razing and levelling with electric saws and bull dozers
And a host of equipment used by modern day builders
Pile drivers mounted on rigs clump through the day
Unrelenting even at night, when the elusive foxes bay
Grieving in the darkness with plaintive howls
For a vanishing habitat where his endangered kin prowls
They have acquired fish farms and farmland
And even encroached on the protected wetlands
Which naturally dispose tons of city waste
In danger of destruction due to greed and haste
Truckloads of rubble are dumped every day
The pace is frenetic, even in sweltering May
Toiling hard for masters, who’ve deadlines to meet
And citizens to house, from whom votes they’ll seek
A haze of dust now covers construction sites
The pace doesn’t slacken here, even at nights
Construction materials arrive here daily by the truckloads
And given shape by workmen, as planned on drawing boards
What was once green cover and blue sky
Will be concrete monoliths, stretching up very high
With parking lots and asphalt streets
And billboards and neon signs, ready to be leased
No longer will fields of mustard flowers sway sinuously in spring
Nor ripe ears of golden corn bob gently in the wind
The sounds of frogs and crickets are a memory of the past
Songbirds have fled, deprived of their natural habitat
Slowly the memory of winter’s migratory birds will fade
Never again, the razed canopy of green, provide cooling shade
As I walk through my ravaged neighbourhood, I wonder why
Impotent rage pervades through me and I silently cry
Noisy Workmen.
Bang,bang,bang,plop,plop,plop.
Will these noises never stop?
Clang,clang,clang,click,click,click.
Noise will cease in just a tick.
Thump, thump,thump, thud,thud,thud.
There it's fixed, should last for good.
Please take care tell girls and boys
or we'll be back to make more noise.
Wednesday, while waiting for the waiter, wanting some waffles at the Waldorf,
a woeful, wimpy, wall-eyed Walter,
witnessed a wicked, wanton woman (who was wearing a wacky wardrobe and
wiggling her whoppers)
waddle in walking with her Welch terrior
winking, wooing with wily ways,
wanting to weaken Walter’s willpower. Willing,.. Walter whistled
as wife, Wanda, walked in. Well, Wanda walloped Walter with welter-weight wrath!!
Response :
Wonder when the workmen will wash Walter off the walls at the Waldorf?
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.
Walking home from work, one windy autumn eve
I noticed some workmen sweeping up leaves,
The more leaves they swept, the more the wind blew
So I stopped to watch for a moment or two
One man swept the leaves into piles on the street
But the wind would sweep them from under his feet,
Another put the leaves into sacks that he had
I thought the whole scene was comically sad
Mother Nature had worked hard, for most of the year
Producing the leaves on the trees for us to share
Now they were being swept away without a care
As the wind blew the leaves away again, I was glad.
Perhaps the wind was Mother Nature’s only way of fighting back
She didn’t want to be reduced to life within a sack
To go from splendour, to squalor, in the space of just one season
She wasn’t going to disappear, not without good reason
The wind blew again, with all of its might
That’s when the workmen gave up for the night
As they packed their tools and left the scene, I carried on for home
The wind began to die away; Mother Nature’s fight was won.
wizened widows wink
when winsome women wiggle...
while workmen whistle
(Alliterku)
02/28/2023
Alliterku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
Seemingly some kind of Message to
All and sundry about:
The colossal crimson sun imperceptibly sinks over the horizon,
Sinks beyond the road here, over the park in the
Debilitating, gritty summer heat.
Nearby, a huge silent hairy golden dragonfly,
As large as a fully grown man's hand,
Unexpectedly swings down from above.
The dragonfly hovers for a moment,
Then effortlessly, closely paces a car suddenly passing by,
One filled with aching sore-tired workmen.
They are oblivious to
The mute insect "spy" outside the car's windows,
Just as they are now oblivious to all:
Exhausted, the men have done their workaday work well.
Then just as suddenly as the dragonfly first appeared,
It shoots straight upward,
Disappearing.
Summers consist of
peridot mornings,
and emerald afternoons.
The trees filter the sunlight -
so often saving me from
those headaches, which might have
mutated, evolved into migraines.
By autumn, the leaves have changed colour:
a poet's palette of
amber, copper,
gold, and red.
In winter, the trees are slender,
with a stark, grey-brown beauty:
looking fragile,
yet able to endure
the harsh frosts of the season.
And, throughout the seasons,
"they" plot.
They want
a concrete Universe -
so they mark out their potential
victims, with orange spots.
The letters to local residents are headed:
"Implementation of
Environmental Improvements".
Yet, trees can bleed.
Scenes of carnage seal the deal.
They win; we lose.
So much wildlife, instantly evicted.
Fluorescent yellow workmen circle tree stumps,
inspecting their day's work -
before going for "a pint",
and home for tea.
Spring is cancelled.
My cooker's in the living room
My fridge is in there too
There's dust on all my furniture
And I cant use my loo
There's workmen tramping in and out
I'm not allowed to lock my door
The workmen must have access
From 8 am till four
They're drilling in my bathroom
I cant hear my TV
I just wish they'd go away
Cos I really need a wee
The workmen don't speak English
And my Polish isn't great
I tried a conversation
But we just cant relate
I'll be glad when it's all finished
And my home's my home again
If this goes on much longer
I think I'll go insane
I'm longing for a shower
I haven't had one for weeks
But I bet when it's finished
It will be full of leaks
They tell me when it's finished
I'll be pleased as pleased can be
All that I can say to that is
Oh well we'll see
I think that I'll go out now
Leave these cowboys on the range
I hate all this disruption
I really don't like change
The armadillo
In his protective thick shell
Holds not a candle
To the armor protection
Built around his emotions
Holds not a candle:
Meaning:
To compare badly to a know authority_to be unfit even to hold a subordinate position..
Orgin:
Apprentices used to be expected to hold the candle so that more experienced workmen were able to see what they were doing..
I'm looking at a place I knew,
When time was young, and years were few.
As I think, it doesn't seem that long,
But the grass is paved, and the fence is gone.
It must be that the workmen came, just the other day;
They felled the cherry tree, and the houses went away.
Did they notice anything from when I was there,
A skid mark on the sidewalk, a golf ball lying there?
I remember things just as they were,
But a mist often causes the image to blur.
Could that blur be a ghost I see,
Looking for its house, or looking for me?
Maybe it's looking at a place It knew,
When time was young, and years were few.