Best Workshops Poems
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
My life has been fairly stable. Rarely does an event “change my life” in any significant way. Marriage, children, one’s job. Of course, these alter one’s life course, but when I think of a life-changing moment uniquely mine ,only one comes readily to my mind, and it has greatly affected these past 13 years of my life.
Since my early school days, I’d enjoyed the magic of words, devouring books and feeling pride in some stories written for my creative writing class. After marriage, I occasionally wrote Christmas song parodies, but it was not until the new millennium that my life took a dramatic turn. I came out of the writing “closet” and showed my few poems online!
If I had to name the one most pivotal moment in this new era for me, it would be the day I commented to a fellow poetess how I wished I were as prolific as she. I’d see her every day posting poems while I had barely a handful to show for myself. To paraphrase, this is what she told me: My friend, you must make yourself write. If you run out of ideas, just find a contest or some kind of inspiration in a phrase, topic, or picture. Sit yourself down and start writing! You can do it!
Well, I did just that! I joined clubs and workshops, subscribed to magazines and acquainted myself with people who motivated me to create. Thirteen years later, here I am, writing at least two to three times a week. My life has been enriched by friendships formed through poetry and by a feeling of satisfaction that I am growing as a writer so that today I can confidently proclaim: Like those poets once my mentors, I too can be prolific!
299 words/ For Heather Ober's Moment of Truth (PROSE or NARRATIVE)Contest
I had barely escaped the cat’s enormous paws
When I found myself in fairyville Santa Claus
What is this place I ventured to ask?
The answer was a surprising gasp.
Are you new? The red robin queried with dismay.
Apparently I was to be someone else that day.
I am a sugar plum elf, newly-re-assigned, I said.
So he took me to a dorm where I went to bed.
Whirling dream faeries kept me up all night
Laughing and tittering, left and right.
I put the pillow all over myself,
Now sorry I was a sugar plum elf.
Real Santa Claus never came to this part of town.
But his wife Lou did, when she was not feeling down.
They showed me how to make fabulous wooden toys,
For the giant girls, and the really giant boys.
I stayed hidden as I ran between Santa’s workshops,
Not wanting to be captured by anything that hops.
The cat is stealthily, you will be eaten, they said.
But if that was true, I would already be dead.
The Finest Antebellum Mansion in the South
By Elton Camp
Windsor was near the banks of the Mississippi River
Extreme luxury, size, beauty and comfort it did deliver
The manor was completed just before the Civil War
It’s builder, Smith Daniell, couldn’t asked for more
Only a few weeks after his palatial home was complete
Its wealthy owner became ill and his own death did meet
His heirs were left a four-story house & a huge plantation
It depended on slave labor that was ruining the nation
Windsor had twenty-five rooms, each with a fireplace
And running water and inside baths the house did grace
A rare feature indeed: that two dumbwaiters were found
From floor-to-floor more easily to move the food around
A ballroom on the fourth floor had an observatory atop
The rigors of a civil war threatened to bring it to a stop
It came to be used by rebs and yanks, so it did survive
And the family who owned it managed to stay alive
The mansion become a social center for the entire state
Invited guests arrived early, partied and the stayed late
But, in 1890 to Windsor the greatest disaster then befell
A guest left a lighted cigar on the balcony and it then fell
After the fire, only the thirty-foot-high columns did stand
And an architectural treasure disappeared from the land
The magnificent ruins remind of the South’s glorious past
And that no civilization built on human suffering can last
If a glimpse into the way planters lived you wish to see,
Go only a few miles from Port Gibson and there it will be
The ruins will remind us of some ancient Grecian temple
But built at the expense of slaves kept uneducated & simple
For pictures of the mansion go to http://www.scribd.com/doc/57710764/The-Finest-
Antebellum-Mansion-in-the-South
The picture of the ruins was taken years ago by the noted
writer Eudora Welty of Jackson, Mississippi. Some of the
English faculty at my college actually knew Eudora and had
studied under her at various workshops.
The lollipop lady and laborer,
Driving to work we can see who it is.
In bright fluoro orange and yellow
Retro reflective people wearing high vis.
There’s vests and jackets and singlets and bibs,
Worn by these people like a fashion design.
Drivers of forklifts, bulldozers and utes,
For safety all day and night time.
Every worksite embraced this vogue of a trend
Begun years ago by a single fire fighter.
Years ago when people just wore normal stuff
But now we all appear brighter.
Call me old fashioned, I like normal work gear
Denim jeans, overalls or blue tops.
Covered in grease or mud you could see
They look good in the mechanic workshops.
But alas we live in an age where we’re blind
To what’s aesthetic, beautiful and nice.
Replaced with high intensive colors of vivid,
We evolved to walking flash lights.
My doctor says, as we grow older,
and keep cramming stuff into our brain,
sooner or later, it has to dump.
Is this really true?
Or, is it simply a doctor's excuse
for something to which he has no answer?
Somewhere along the way, I've lost
complete blocks of time, entire days or nights,
pleasant events which others remember,
but I cannot recall, at all.
Some episodes have staying power,
like the time I fell off the ladder,
flipped, and slid down the stairs
to the basement, head first. Who
could forget those raccoon eyes
I wore for weeks afterward?
Before you reminded me of the lunch
we shared, on the way to Wyoming,
with rain pelting the windowpane,
it had been erased from my memory bank.
That murder mystery I read last year,
is new again, a rediscovered story
to be enjoyed once more.
Yet, in all the moves we've made,
all the churches you've served as Pastor,
the conferences/workshops we've attended,
the companies we've worked for,
it's the people I remember -
the names, the faces, the smiles,
the friendships, these are the things
I treasure, and these memories will linger,
these memories will never erase.
Flying airships battling in the open sky,
the sailors trying to save their own lives,
and all the panoplies of war revealed in broad daylight
unto the human psyche.
The cosmos composed wholly of oceans with no dry soil in sight
contains many micro planetary islands that glide
in the sky's atmosphere where men created their different ways of life.
Herdsmen hunted on the island's green fields and forests.
Soldiers worked in their iron workshops.Crystalline lakes displayed nature's beauty. Many a gorgeous a creature of nature they captured in their nets.
Stratigos,a hunter, also loved to fish in the clear streams abundant with eels. His dear friends followed him throughout the biome, witnessing many wonderful sights
such as tigers,trees,eagles and pollinating bees, the lioness giving suckle to her young,and many a mythical creature that defies explanation."
Raised he was in a quaint village,in whose verdant plains he played with all his pals.His female friends gathered many rainbow-colored flowers by whose sight and smell were made ecstatic.
Upon a certain day,a flying chimera snatched his friend Mike with its aquiline talons that tear apart its prey.The lion-like chimera with an eagle head concealed him in his cavern hideout,unseen by human eyes.
He analyzed his body and psyche to see what was worthy to eat. In despair Mike's cries for help resounded through the cavern walls.He heard his own echo.
From afar his friends were dashing to his aid through the dense vegetation with thorns drawing upon their blood. Red it was, stained upon their drapery.
They complained not at their pain for their aim was to aid their endangered friend.
Stratigos exclaimed;
With Mike in danger,
surely we must not fail him,
For friendly fidelity
Faces us with the task
of his salvation.
Alina replied
Through the mud and sun that scorches our way
We must pick a path and dash as fast as trotting stallions
for our cause is noble and pure,
so Therefore let us not be wasteful with our pace.
And they arrived upon a green moss covered road that drove Them to a grotto surrounding the creature's cavern.
My first car
A great uncle of mine, those days, bought an used car,
Which turned out to be such a terrible sore,
Frantic, he pushed it up a hill, in front of all
And, sent it down to the river below in a free fall.
Not so bad was the used one I first bought
Still it stretched my nerves and finances so taut
Workshops at hand saved it from a similar fate
Till I sold it for a song without a second thought.
4th Mar 12
S.Jagathsimhan Nair
For: Carol Brown’s "My first car"contest
That Salad Went Right Through Me
I've always wanted to write a poem called
“That Salad Went Right Through Me”.
And I would wager upon its best destiny:
To begin with, there is the Universal Theme--
For who has not gurgled around a conference table
at half past the last radish scrap?
Who, once stalled, has not
persistently punched the flusher
to muffle the borborygmus din?
But on a loftier note, I prefer
to think of my paean emblazoned
in the annals of first line indexes,
where, as one wanders lonely as a cloud
over dactyls and tropes,
“That salad went right through me”
trots right off the page
demanding a fervid flip to its leaf.
And future discourse plied at workshops,
and other such rarefied privies of poesy
might thusly include:
"Did you write a poem for the class today?"
Yes...“That Salad Went Right Through Me”
"Well then, you should consider the cheesecake."
Humans, be not proud
Every human is a farm
Chocolate for animals
To live, eat and survive
Every human, bacteria’s cake
Food for viruses they are
With delicious juicy flesh
For fungus, fish and ferns
The healthier, the bigger
The more balanced the diet
For guests they host daily
Lodging without lodging fees
At birth workshops are held
Conferences are organized
By all farm citizens present
Bacteria in majority attendance
With dictator-virus in the chair
Lions, vultures, hyenas, sharks
Flying insects as back benchers
As they rule without elections
Budget without income at hand
Spend without accountability
And share the national cake
Donated by the Farm Manager
Humans, be not proud
As you load bags
From supermarkets
And fill your eager gullet
With beers, sodas and wines
From bars and Sheratons
As you chic, chip and chap
And crack chicken bones
Invertebrates lie patiently
Waiting right there in the room
In the kitchen of your stomach
To enjoy a delicious cocktail
Humans be not proud
Humans, be not proud
Alive, healthy or sick
Predators in the bushes
Of Masai Mara, Kruger
Anaconda of Amazon and
Polar bears of the Arctic
Salivate as you scamper
In your precarious life
All praying ‘Lord, Lord
Release for us our beef
Give us this hungry day
Man the bull, the delicacy
You offered on our birthday
As our daily bread’
A Quote By: Drama Queen Workshops
Karma even when you're not aware, it is present,
active, and responding precisely, always...
We live in bondage caused by our past views and pink colored lenses
alienated from altruism by deep chasms erected by ourselves,
immersed in a fake security world infiltrated by illusionary truths,
we succumb to fear and doubt, allowing them to besiege us;
Sentient Beings that we are we distort world views in order to
accommodate our own comfort zone...
Unraveling our deep rooted narrowness is a good thing,
if we are to transform, we need to be able to see our own reflection
and realize that in the eyes of Pre-judgment we are nil...
When faced with life's fast moving water wheel old spokes of wood and steel,
do not outlive the water pressures of this era;
We must leave behind old belief systems
like prejudice, intolerance, gender bias, racism, and past conditioning,
if we are to embrace the moment to moment of life's experiences.
Only by replacing judgement with clear vision,
can we become new Adams and Eves, and eat from the tree of life once more.
Only then, can we be part of a re-configured Universe.
A perfect mirrored reflection of our true selves must emerge
if we are to encompass all that surrounds us, and our hemispheres.
June 26, 2021
Due to extreme conditions beyond Santa Claus' control,
'Tis rumored that he might have to vacate his home at the Pole!
Seems that climate warming is the culprit causing the Pole to thaw,
Which could result in Santa's operation from thence to withdraw!
Mrs. Claus would welcome this news should it happen to occur,
Since she's suffered isolation and cold more than she ought to endure!
Where he might relocate has been a matter of some speculation.
Could the South Pole be his new address to continue his vocation?
This dire situation is causing much hand wringing and ways to contrive,
To rescue the North Pole and keep the Santa Claus tradition alive!
Of course the UN, Congress and Al Gore will butt in to have their say,
As to where old Santa should locate his workshops and reliable sleigh!
Never mind that these people can never reach a consensus at all!
Perhaps a panel of kids is more qualified to make this far-reaching call!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
OLD BELFAST
No hooters belch and screech in the mornings anymore
Industry has disappeared from the City’s working core
The Factories have all closed their gates a long, long time ago
Now silent shadows fill the space where workers used to go
Steam cranes bow across the lough, an entry on a page
Decayed tired buildings line the Docks, relics of an age
Rows of broken windows where he silence trickles out
As nature now takes over where grass and nettles sprout
The workshops have been stripped and only carcasses remain
Moss grows on the floor where the roof lets in the rain
Miles of red brick walls which somehow now look grey
Blackened muddy puddles where singed old timbers lay
Grand imposing structures, much too big for modern use
Now crumpling and eroded from dereliction and abuse
Spectres from a Victorian age now roam these soulless lanes
You can hear their whistles on the wind. Their presence still remains
Where blood is not enough
Blood flows, flows, flows
Competing with Nile waters
Blood Threatens to overwhelm
Tigris and Euphrates
To make Red Sea, redder
But the head goes crazy, crazy
Where blood is not enough
The people cry, cry, cry
Yet the ears are deaf
Eyes stubbornly blind
Tears mere drops of dew
Power, power, power
Raises her arm of ferocity
And drives them on, on
Where blood is not enough
Those whose mothers
Bore them on knees
Mourn, mourn and mourn
And scatter dust and rubbish
To the miserable winds
Of the gloomy setting sun
Children cry, cry and cry
To their helpless mothers
Where blood is not enough
The vultures sing “alleluia”
And perch near abattoirs
Desert foxes convene workshops
Praising their creator
For the wonderland
Of unending feasts
And unstoppable tears
Where blood is not enough
Palms bow in honor of the mighty
Valleys open their mouths
Chanting “welcome, welcome
To this chamber of no returning”
Coffin -makers prepare for business
As they listen to prophet Owls
Bringing desirable messages
Of doom and sorrows for high sales
Each forgotten night
Where blood is not enough
Fragile and invisible beings
Creep, creep on their bellies
Whispering and smiling
Hugging one another in joy
Their mandibles ragging
With burning appetite
Like wild fire in the savanna
Where blood is not enough
Children of the shining armor
Crawl, crawl, and crawl
In a parade one by one
To salute and honor
Those whose mothers
Bore them while standing
In the wonderland of sorrow
Where blood is not enough
What should I do?
Suffering and Living
Mighty God
Works Workshops; So sent
Genuine authority
I dream; to be still
To live foremostly again
Supreme techniques; oh, mighty god.