Carpenters from Carpinteria
Great attendants of frame
Friends and sculptures of a mind
Tools and craftsmanship
American tries for all that binds
The tailor rests in her workshop alone.
Grabbing the thread for the day's work ahead,
she begins pushing needle through cloth.
In exercise, she customizes garments, stitch by stitch,
Though it's slow, her craftsmanship shows
uniquely perfect alterations to all her customers' clothes.
Free of charge she'll embroider!
Weaving colorful flosses in and out,
she's leaving shapes and symbols of brightness about.
Now, next door resides a factory--
Producing pants and gray garb by the pound,
sewing seams a million a minute,
machines militarily hum-- a deafening sound.
Though it's quick, embroidery: $2.50 a stitch!
Soon soulless, the town paces around;
robotic sporting same-sized sacks,
bland factory templates surround.
Yet the tailor still rests in her workshop alone:
knowing stitches sincere are those that are *****,
perfect to the individual, not the machine.
Wood polished so bright to mimic gold,
Its yellow coat glitters in the sun,
May even fetch a high price when sold,
And still be cherished in the long run.
Like a flawless gold that flaunts great wealth,
Its glamour, a pride to regal thrones,
Where most kings recline in pride and health,
Yet it's mere wood disguised as gemstones.
Great craftsmanship like that of goldsmiths,
Who shape raw gold to forge pure beauty,
So carpenters carve wood into myths,
Emblazoned pride into their duty.
Poetry time
Every line chimes
Stop on a dime
A buck for a rhyme
What’s a meta for
Similes are, like, a bore
A terzanelle’s attractive
Tho a villanelle’s more proactive
Witches vex trochaic pentameter
Curse iambic HEXameter
Traditionalists eschew free verse
Blank verse is that much worse…
Romance, a hackneyed chore
While humor is adored
Satire rates high too
Tear-jerkers ~ boo-hoo
Poetry time
Elbow grease and grime
Lines sparkle and shine
Craftsmanship sublime
A time will come when skilled hands, once a master's tool,
Will lay still, their craftsmanship, a forgotten rule.
Eyes that shone like stars, bright with knowledge and might,
Will dim, like embers, losing their radiant light.
Degrees, once proudly worn, like badges of honor bright,
Will gather dust, their value, lost in endless night.
The scent of odza room, that fragrant, sacred space,
Will fade, as memories, like autumn leaves, erase.
The mind, a canvas, once alive with vibrant hue,
Will freeze, as judgment's brush, paints a different view.
Creation's spark, that fueled my soul's desire,
Will flicker out, leaving only ashes, cold as fire.
Mansions built, with sweat and toil, will crumble, lost,
Buried beneath, the silence, of a forgotten coast.
My last whisper, a final breath, a moment's sigh,
Will echo through eternity, as the curtain falls, and I say goodbye.
Night, day, or morning, my last moment draws near,
A mystery, known only to the keeper of the year.
When will your last whisper be? Will it be dawn's first light?
Or dusk's last shadow? Only time, the thief, holds the sight.
sounds and senses serenade as the sun,
words and whispers possess power like a gun…
perhaps my lingering lullabies made a broken heart believe~
the silence spoken, jolted by twilight lips purely to deceive…
take all the tales I twist so you can achieve~
what delusions your creative mind can conceive
have I made the world tremble?
have you woven your sad sorrows?
is my grammar too poor to perceive?
your wasted time was mine to borrow
my heart begins a million miles away from here,
and the doors are dressed in blades~
drenched in malignancy…
your fabrication is indeed a fabulous fantasy~
so cheers to your efforts; your craftsmanship, a soothing symphony….
Dear manipulative muse,
I have watched you calligraph your craftsmanship into oblivion.
I must say, your concoction is a wild enterprise,
Dreaming in the darkness, you have sketched me an aura of rose
From an oasis that sings a broken lullaby,
Playing chemistry with macabre metaphors.
Such a shame…
Did the bittersweet sun in your sky teach you only black and white?
Must a woman almost always be the mosaic mind?
Spare me the brain-blistering sad songs on the 1900 radio.
Now witness! Observe!
See what it means to be the dawn of pain in familiar torment,
Time stolen and a heart far beyond broken,
Dust lost beneath the hidden October embers.
Why wait for a volatile vortex?
When your indigo moonstone stirs up like a furious faucet,
Impatiently waiting to explode into the aftermath of a war?
Are you done keeping score?
Or does your pride need to see how I can walk out that door?
You are barely a quest,
You pathetic flamingo!
So get your head out of my backyard
And bury it in a forgotten graveyard.
Administrator incommunicado
Acknowledging nymphomaniacs
Reclassifying philosophical
Ideologically Transcultural
Pronunciation Calligraphers
Communication demilitarized
Grandstanding orchestration
Carpetbagging adjudications
Redistributed improprieties
Abolitionists brinksmanship
Sarcastically realistically
Craftsmanship flabbergasted
Enlightenment librarianship
Democratically
Superb yet simple
Glimpse into the craftsmanship
Of Chief Carpenter.
Handpicked, like coffee seeds or strawberries, ten eggs I kept
Like a tensed insomniac, for a long time I'd not slept
I found a change in the bloom of the dermis as days passed
There came out surprise-filled tint tots, elegance unsurpassed.
Red, green, blue, purple, and yellow, like a compressed rainbow
With perfectly blown balloons, as children merrily glow.
As seedlings spring up at night and glisten in the morning,
These soft talc and cloud agate gems appear without warning.
Standing erect and straight with sun-moon-stars-tinged, blazing eyes;
Robotic reflexes; peep, peep, peep, filling up the skies
Judgement quality of quantity like the honeybees
Psychic contagion is in them, like treasures in deep seas.
Symbols of resurrection, springtime splendours, and new life
A masterpiece of nature's craftsmanship after a strife
Scenes of Elysium, Coleus, and Jannah revealed
The mysteries of chicks, like the Milky Way, are concealed.
The Mary Rose, Andrea Doria, Estonia,
MV Doña Paz, RMS Titanic, and the Endurance
Wasn't, in techno craftsmanship, each a utopia?
Wasn't, yet, the cause of their wreck been soft luxe sentiments?
Could they, in cores, cope with collisions with the ice rocks?
Was immersion hypothermia humanly handled?
In times of perpetual physical and psychic blocks
Wasn't the divine enlightenment and wisdom trampled?
As though hunted and haunted whales, the ship's skeletons swayed.
Spirits of the dead, with the synchronizing sea waves, dance
Neither the lighthouses nor the stars could show them the way.
Doesn't, yet, the strife of each life, before God, get a chance?
In games of gain and loss, did they gain and lose by themselves?
Are the shelves of the ships that are wrecked mere shelves of elves' delves?
Talent is a seed
Inspiration makes it grow
Turning seed to fruit
Take selected words
Wrap them up in craftsmanship
Create a poem
Sensuous alive
Feel the power of the words
Teeming on the page
The soul is craftsmanship, a complex filigree,
One moment it dances in laughter, and the next, no reaction spree.
It's the secretive goldsmith of emotions we weave day by day,
With wings of thoughts, while the tiniest feelings can make the balance sway.
Upon us, the eave of the sky sometimes heavily lies,
And yet, we resist, with a shield of will, under the stars and fogs that rise.
I fear, I do not possess this strength, I’m framed elsewhere,
My fluctuations are an ocean, with extreme waves, harsh and without spare.
My temperament battles with sensitivity in a vast sea,
A fight not at all easy, for the soul, it's nearly a calamity.
It's deeply etched in my essence, as fate has inscribed,
And perhaps it empowers me, to shape into words all that I've imbibed.
Protect me, humor, from too much honesty,
You are my shield daily, my safety strategy.
But empty would my universe be, if poetry had none to hear,
Without friends to share verse, life would be just a silent theater, drear.
In the solemn glow of gold, the guilder asserts its presence,
A coin of undeniable worth, a treasure to be revered,
Its value not just in its gleam, but in its very essence,
A symbol of prosperity, silently revered.
With regal grace it gleams, the guilder's lustrous hue,
A testament to craftsmanship, a work of art refined,
Each facet polished meticulously, to capture light anew,
An opulent embodiment of wealth, forever enshrined.
Within its form resides a tale of fortunes vast,
Of toil and sweat, of dreams and daring plight,
An emblem of ambition, a venture unsurpassed,
A testament to mankind's relentless fight.
Oh, guilder of grandeur, in your radiant embrace,
We find solace in your presence, a promise of hope,
Through ages past and future days, we trace,
A legacy of abundance, an endless scope.
In the solemn glow of gold, the guilder stands tall,
A symbol of prosperity, revered by one and all.
There was something
about the wee hours that inspired him,
There was something
about the tenderness of the day that invigorated him,
The silence buoyed him to a new world,
The ambience brightened his chamber,
The elements that called him from slumber
signalled the time to go on an idyllic stroll,
The hidden was revealed,
He saw through the fog,
A path meandered through the woods.
This is my father’s story,
His years of craftsmanship abridged,
He stooped,
He leapt,
He conquered.
September 4, 2023.
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