Calloused Poems | Examples

Reflect

Reflect

I saw an old man today
He looked as if he’d gone astray

His eyes were hollow and sunken in
The whiskers grey upon his chin

His hair was thin and out of place
The wrinkles many upon his face

His calloused hands stood out so plain
His crooked fingers full of pain

His stature frail and beaten down
His knees so bowed as I looked down

One last glance I did take
That’s when I made the worst mistake

The mirror my friend tells no lies
It speaks the truth until you die

His Kind of Love

I am my father’s daughter —
quiet when it matters,
loud when it doesn’t,
loyal like a bruise that never fades.

He was a man of few words
and too many beers,
a homebody with calloused hands
who built his love from paychecks, plywood,
and patched fences.
He didn’t say much,
but he never let us go without.

We all worked with him —
held tools before toys,
learned to measure twice, cut once,
and use what we had
to make what we needed.

He handed me a hammer
like it was a promise.
Taught me how to build things
that wouldn’t fall apart.
And somehow,
that became a kind of love too.

He taught me the stillness of fishing —
how to listen for the pull,
how to wait without wanting too much.
He showed me rivers
the way some fathers show their daughters cathedrals.
And when I stand near water now,
he’s the first name that echoes back.

His anger could shake the walls,
but his lessons still hold:
Don’t waste. Don’t lie.
Always bait your own hook.

I used to sit
in the passenger seat of his silence,
learning how love doesn’t always speak,
but shows up every morning
with boots on
and something heavy in its hands.

The rain remembers

 
The rain remembers sacred names Etched in dust and carved in flames, It weeps for those who dared to stand With calloused hearts and outstretched hand.
 
Each drop a verse the skies once wrote On burning hills, on shattered hope, But still it falls, a balm, a sign That grace returns in perfect time.

Taming of the Raw

Most everyone falls in love with raw and beautiful
whether it be a raspy woman or haunted forest.
We free fall because they're untamed and indifferent.
Bathed in shades of Vincent Green or Pablo blue.

The sable nature of a man is to tame wild things
the very things that made them unique and free.
We are greedy-want it all for ourselves -all the goodies
above and beneath...of course without fully committing.
We poke endless holes in the soil of the evergreen psyche
glean oil from the skin of earth-gems from pristine eyes
we trample the wild petal 'till it finally withers and dies.

The tighter we squeeze freedom, the more freedom flees
Mother bear devours the roughneck and explorer
the womans heart becomes calloused and fleeting 
her heart bleeding out the blues and the greens
like a fiery midnight aurora.

Gnarls Knurl the Grip to Fight

after "Do not go gentle into that good night", by Dylan Thomas

Age can not scour away the furrowed gnarls time obeyed,
Nor mask the snarls, gouged as trenches on brows.
Grace knurls the grip that time has long betrayed,
To swage wrath and fury to a form that age endows.

Grace reveres the knurled design that time has hewn,
Not as a defect or flaw, but as grip etched by yen of years,
Like old trees twisted, contorted, too far gone to prune.
It’s grace that cradles calloused scars, not fears.

It’s the gnarls of age that knurls the last grasp of rage
to rebel against the curse of dusk’s encroaching bite.
Stroking the rebellious snarls that ring on anvil stage,
as loved ones bear the thumps and flails of the plight.

It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to fight,
against the blight in the coming of good night.

It Will Take Decades to Fix What These Republicans Have Destroyed

I kneel by the ash heap of my country,
pulling out the charred bones of laws
once tender with purpose. A womb,
a book, a vote—each gutted clean
by men in ties who grin as they light
the match, who quote scripture
as forests burn and children cry
in cages built from policy.

My daughter will not inherit
a peace I once believed in.
She will patch what I could not protect—
clean air, clean water, a truth
without spin, a touch without price.
Her hands will be calloused,
her hope hard-earned.

It is not that we lost something.
It is that they took it and smiled.

No Discipline, No Freedom

You mine the gold, yet live in chains,
Trade your soul for shallow gains.
Your hunger rules, your mind is weak,
And freedom’s price you never seek.

You waste your fire chasing flesh,
While others build and carve the flesh.
Your leaders dance with foreign hands,
Selling off your sacred lands.

Discipline, black man, is the key—
Not guns, not gods, but mastery.
Unite, arise, let cowards drown,
Or wear the beggar’s broken crown.

No one will save this motherland—
It lies in your own calloused hand.

The Composer

I am 1,248 songs of complicated rhythm. Prose and verses tell a story of my decisions…my indecision. I am skin shaped, in 42 different shades of foolery, a life lover doing my best to avoid an other, but they seem to be everywhere these days. Crawling out from under rocks, or latent in my twisted fantasies. I think I may be terminal with delusional romantacy. A proverbial symphony strung together with sinew and longing. Discordant chords bending into melody when I blink too long or laugh too hard at the wrong moment. 
 
I can admit, I have been the composer of songs that I was never meant to play.  Still, I finger at the keys, an untuned melody stretched thin across the vastness of possibility, a quiet rebellion whispered in 3am silences, telling truths I didn’t ask to know, but I can’t help but pick up on the tone. I am every note you thought I missed, the calloused fingertips of my mistakes, still strumming, still singing. Harmony may elude me, but the melody is mine to claim. Yes, I am 1,248 songs of messy humanity, and I’ll rewrite the chorus as many times as it takes to finally hear it in my own voice.

Womb With a View

I see the terror in their eyes…
of those who seek to paralyze
their lives screaming persistent cries
of sorrow and grief that belies
the turmoil and angst of disguise.

I see hunger, the ache within…
of those whose vain lot is cast in
hardened iron cuffs locked fast in
glum humanity's calloused skin
oblivious to kith and kin.

I see conflict and all-out war
amidst communities that are
in stiff battle for cross or bar
or power or god or dog star,
perplexed by illusive devoir.

I see a world where I will be
forever in a swirling sea
of hope and an unanswered plea
to God who is said to shield me
from all the horror I now see.

I only hope when I am born
I can survive the world, war-torn,
praying peace from the crown of thorn
begging any who with me join
to comfort others, yet unborn.

The menfolk

They fvck us
Calloused hands maim soft breasts
They call it genourous
When teeth sink in but don't break flesh
They like our scars
Til they're inflicted by another
They like our hearts
How easy it is to crush them
They make our youth up
Of babies we don't want
They say they love us
Looking at our bodies
They only want our bodies

Tribute To Labors On Labor Day

To hands that toil from dawn till night,
In sun's harsh blaze or fading light,
You build the world we proudly see,
With silent strength and dignity.

You mend the roads, you sow the land,
With weathered skin and calloused hands.
Your sweat is ink on history's page,
Your spirit—brave, no gilded cage.

No marble hall, no silver throne,
Can stand without the stone you've thrown.
Each brick you lay, each crop you tend,
Is proof of love that doesn't bend.

You are the heart, the pulse, the flame,
Too long unsung, too often unnamed.
But on this day, we lift you high,
Beneath the flag, beneath the sky.

May justice walk where you have led,
May fair reward meet daily bread.
The world may rest, the rich may play,
Because you rise each breaking day.

For all you've given, all you've done,
For battles lost and victories won,
We thank you now with humbled grace;
The world is better for your place.

Acta est fabula, plaudite

What I sing from my chest
Only for ivory keys to hear.
Are the same old words
That cracked lips bear.
That familiar tune that calloused fingers play
Is the one that my own heart aches to say.
 
I have plucked and I have strummed
But when its my own heartstrings 
That are plucked for the masses
Will my soul succumb or burn to ashes?

If a song is played for others to judge
Its worth is no longer for me alone.
My fears replayed as feedback 
And my own tune I have outgrown.

When the keys have cracked 
And guitar strings snapped;
Is the silence left a rest
Or is it forever prolonged?

I have played my part
And sang my chant
My ear worm finally laid to rest.
Yet a few notes linger in the air 
Awaiting the song to begin again.

Midnight Chrome

In the hush of dusk when streetlights flicker alive,
obsidian sheet metal catching dying light,
A black Chevy Impala – Detroit steel poetry in motion.
They don’t make ‘em like this anymore,
All angles and attitude, chrome catching moonlight like silver promises.

This ain’t just transportation – this is transformation.
V8 heartbeat rumbling beneath the hood,
Speaking in tongues of combustion and freedom,
A gospel of horsepower and torque.

My grandfather’s hands knew this car,
Calloused fingers tracing her curves,
“This,” he’d say, “is American muscle memory.”
When she rolls down the boulevard,
Time slows, respect follows,
Heads turn like sunflowers tracking light.

Blacktop beneath her wheels becomes a canvas,
Each mile a brushstroke of possibility,
Each journey a verse in an unfinished American ballad.
That black Chevy Impala,
Carrying dreams like passengers,
Night rider, soul provider,
Concrete waves surfer,
Four wheels and a tank of gas – that’s all freedom ever needed.????????????????

A Prince Forever

To the world, he may just be a man,
Chasing dreams, with calloused hands.
But to her, he's the little boy still,
With scraped knees and a stubborn will.

She watched him stumble, watched him grow,
Held his fears she'd never show.
In her arms, he found his start—
A throne carved gently in her heart.

His crown? Not gold, but strands of hair
She kissed each night with whispered prayer.
His kingdom? Just her open arms,
Shielding him from life’s alarms.

Through stormy days and silent cries,
She saw the world within his eyes.
When the world was cold and far too wide,
He found warmth where her love would reside.

Now he's grown, with battles to fight,
But in her dreams, he sleeps each night.
Still the prince in every rhyme,
Unaged by wounds, untouched by time.

So call him strong, call him wise,
But she still sees him through mother’s eyes—
A boy with laughter on his face,
Who gave her heart its softest place.

WormWood

Most often we misthought,
      yet understood
The bitter truth 
      that nothing here is good
Our earthly life, 
      of reason is unbrewed
That hides the pain 
      and hurt which we allude
This root of gall 
      becomes my daily food
And eat the fruit 
      that turns my bowels crude
My tongue was fooled 
      by that which could not soothe 
For I did swallow
      more than I had chewed
For this I stumbled 
     and became most rude
I was offended 
     like the multitude
And though my mind 
     is calloused, I construed
His chastening rod 
     is made of tender wood
And ceases not until 
     it breaks for good
A wormwood changed 
     my bitter attitude

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