Journeyman Poems | Examples

Pure Perfection

Mirror broken, shard's outspoken
Piercing, rupturing, into her heart
No prisoners taken, her life token

Devoured his latest thirst fulfilled
Appetite quenched, now plied art 
As sly innuendoes, master skilled

A journeyman of no consequence 
Thoughts brims, he can only blart
Ill poised, insecure, inconsequent

Others taken in by this false farce
So he waits on others info to part
As his truth found, is more sparse

What life, left inside of her, awaits
Her wounds heal, new life to start
Takes note of his narcissistic traits

Waits her turn, given no objection
A fury unfurled onto this dim clart
Fulfils a dream, of pure perfection

Somewhere To the Left of Earth

In my many years before the mast 
I’d seen rocks and shoals conspire
To ground me down to powder
Till I was just dust in the wind,
And I’d never even been to Kansas.
I was useless as a one-armed paper hanger,
Skilled in the geometer’s art,
But no closer to infinity
Than the day I’d started out.
Just a journeyman aesthete
Dressing drywall plaster 
With those tapestried patterns
Favored by the rich and famous. 
But, being a lifelong learner,
I learned to breathe.
I learned to eat.
I learned to say, “No.”
I became a student of the universe,
Composer of the mini-verse,
Somewhere to the left of Earth.
Mainlining the vagus nerve
On the highway leading home.
And there’s no place like home.
I must be doin’ somethin’ right.

Mind Beat

The journeyman on his journey
a walker walking the lonely path
Of thorns and pains
Scribbling his footprint on the sands of time
A compass for the blind 

In his solemn thoughts, he speaks aloud to the deaf.
Vivid and clear, yet a puzzle for the wise
Sounds like foolery when wisdom is all it encompasses.
The Tides, Time, and Day all come together as one
Patiently waiting in haste for what's coming.

A tornado, a hurricane; they come in fury
Tearing all, piece by piece
The Sun and the Moon stood still,
Eye witnesses to the devastation.
The mind is in chaos; chaos is the mind.

Alas!
The seer spoke, but no one listened.
He was foolish in his thinking.
Speaking was his folly.
Only oneself can hear the mind's beat.

Old Bill and Me

Me and old Bill Shakespeare
Both knew a trick or two
When lost for the apt word
We knew just what to do.
It saved all the effort
It saved all the time
Keeping the rhythm while
Striving for the rhyme.

Now Old Bill was a genius 
I’m just a journeyman poet
But we have this trick which is
Such a boon to all who know it.
We just create our own word
One of our own choice
Say it with confidence 
In a strong positive voice.

Try not to be cocky
Try not to abuse it
And with a bit of luck
The world will start to use it.
It was good enough for him
So it’s good enough for me,
Lifted my writers block and
Set my creative juices free.

Yes, Old Bill was a genius,
Most famous playwright known,
But we both have this trick of
Inventing words of our own.
Old Bill was such a wordibob,
I’m just a peasant in his shadeup
But I’m proud of the fact that we 
Both use words that we’ve made up

Battle Storm

We tried to hide and could have died. 
But we only heard the faint cry
Of the wind whistling aloud
As the devastation passes by.

From the darkness, we heard cries,
weeping voices of the night storm 
Crashing through invisible barriers 
That head the names of our heroes.

The storm uprooted old trees.
Bludgeon tool unable to rule. 
Fearful plow into the houses.
Crumpling like an ancient scrawl 

Night storm is an ancient journeyman, 
Come on a visit to the isles each year.
To enact revenge on the jealous land
The divulged appetite has no fear. 

The hunted died, and the storm's gone.
an evil force, crawl back into its silent shell
Planning a surprise for the next horizon 
With whispers of awakening hell.

The Ninny

he had often aspired to being a jester
the wise one of Tarot land
cheekily dressed with wit on his lips

as of late he has been caught up
in irreverent lies and half-truths
tossed at him in anger and drunken inhibition
and his glittery clothes soaked them up for a while
until he himself imbibed in retribution and pain
a toxic combination of venom and vile
far from the love that still is 
distant from kindness and compassion
so much that when he looked into the mirror
a vagrant journeyman of feeling and thought
looked like a lost soul in the middle of nowhere

at first he shrieked and shouted his hurt
refused to believe that he himself had become
much more than numb 
was far less innocent than his imagined whistles and bells
deceived him to portray

eventually the halfwit resolved to
accept his own imperfections
and called his purple garments blue and red
for the union was at great danger
violet and lilac notions turned into new ideas
at times his face contorted in horror
his hands portrayed claws
and his mouth vowed to stay mute at times

eventually there was hope
when he realized what to do
and what not to engage with

22nd December 2022

Night Storm

We hide and could have died 
But we only heard the faint cry
Of the wind outside whistling aloud
As the devastation passes by.

From the darkness, we heard cries,
Bringing voices of the night storm 
Crashing through invisible barriers 
That held the names of our heroes

A mythical storm uprooting old trees
Bludgeon tool we are unable to rule 
The falling fowl upon new houses
Lay crumple like an ancient scrawl 

Night storm is an ancient journeyman, 
Come on a visit to the isles each year
To enact revenge on the jealous land
with divulged appetite it has no fear. 

The hunted died, and the storm gone
an evil force, crawl back into its silent shell
Planning a surprise for the next horizon 
With groaning whispers of awakening hell.

Boxer

BOXER

The late October day
marked the last of the tragic
encounters framed by the ropes
he preferred to the streets where a 
journeyman boxer needs more than
taped hands for the troubles he sees

There had been no title shot, no top
ten ranking, just fifteen years of blows
to the body, to the head, to the soul - 
volcanic eruptions, fissures and 
earthquakes, myriad tremors in the
plate tectonics of the fist-pummeled
brain 
He needed sixty more seconds of glaring
bright lights and a bored, bloody crowd
in a small-time arena in a town far away

Sensing his moment, he slipped to the
right, flicked two stinging jabs, bobbing
and weaving, then three quick strikes and
a pivot to the left that put him flat on his
feet for a violent combination with a 
killing uppercut that soothed the roar in
his head, reduced the blur in his vision,
sent the menacing shadow to the canvas
for the count then left him out on the
sidewalks working, breathing hard,
dancing and pivoting like a big circus
bear, punching the air on a cold
afternoon before wary passing 
strangers who tried not to notice,
in a town far away!

Miraculous Night

 A tangerine moon glides across the sky; 
I am enamored, of its beauty.  
Twilight expires and gives way to dreamtime enchantments.

A color swirl opens the door; 
behind it lay monsters.  
Faces shape shifting into familiar friends, 
are more than archetypes; 
they are swimmers in unconscious waters.

The etheric ocean holds many secrets, 
possessing great wisdom; 
both a deadly and holy place; 
here we all must come.

The mortal, is a perpetually swinging 
pendulum with no course.  
The soul is a traveler of realms unseen by mortal eyes; 
a journeyman; his life gathers much to live by; 
success is all around us.

Mortality is a soul’s prison; 
it’s up to everyone to parole themselves.  
In freedom, we grow; we help others grow.

The temple is within; 
the library is free; 
never closing its doors.  
To grow and progress a soul has no choice, 
but to read, each night.

When Mother Moon sleeps, 
she brings new miracles into the coming nights; 
how I do love to sleep.


3-27-2021
ALL YOURS (Mar 28) Poetry Contest
 Brian Strand

Grandpa's Still Fishing With a Line and Hook

grandpa, a hard rock fisherman
and freckled fly rod journeyman 
eyed fish in the morning mist 
kissing with giggles and a lemon twist

said he saw a bobbing head
round and fat with tuffs of red
six feet tall as the tale’s told
painted in a mermaid gold

casting bait the gossip spread 
like butter on a loaf of bread
the silver hook reeled in
snared pearl dentures left to him 

sporting a sparkling wink and Cheshire grin
papa set hooks that haul us in 
anglers balanced that fishy tale 
filleted on a comic Richter scale

two puzzled men ventured to say
Arthur C. Clarke wrote the play

Tales of the Gottaways

grandpa, a hard rock fisherman
and fractured fly rod journeyman 
eyed a fish in the morning mist 
kissing with giggle and lemon twist

he said he saw a bobbing head
round and fat with locks of red
six feet tall as the tale is told
and painted in a mermaid gold

by hook and line the gossip spread 
buttered like a loaf of bread
the silver hook that reeled us in
were the white pearl dentures left to him 

anglers hail this fishy tale 
marked on a scale from two to ten 
we weigh the wink with a childlike grin
tossing the lines that drag us in

Dream Guide

He waits in a sylvan wood
mentor cloaked in
orange and black;
courage is the lesson
of this spirit of prey.

Empirical justice is
the swords he wields;
a traveler of astral light; 
journeyman of the stars.

Daughter of Artemus,
and lifelong totem
hunting ethereal woodlands
sustenance of my soul;
silken-furred guide,
I melt into your gentility...
teach me.

The Lesson of the Master

I tried to express myself like you, 
Your style, rhythm, sense 
Of pace and form, which floated
From the page with every piece I read.
It seemed your language was like 
A drug, that filled each recess
Of my inner self, made me understand
I was now in a higher state of being.
Each word, every inflection, each
Observation transported me 
On a flowing river, sometimes quickly 
Sometimes gently and, unfailingly, 
Carried me to the sea of knowledge.
I knew I hadn't always grasped, 
Your meaning, your intentions, 
And had to save your wisdom
For another time, when, with a 
Maturer mind I could fathom
That which you had imparted. 
But who are you; as others know, 
You passed away a long time ago, 
And I, a mere journeyman, 
Hopefully, carries within me the
Spirit of your voice, inside of mine.

The World

The world unfolds at my fingertips
Bliss is found at the fringes of my vision
I wrap myself in white wings
Perhaps I'm a little egotistical 

A journeyman who thinks a lot
The greatest prison is one's own mind
And history is both a blessing and a curse
When you gained nothing from it

Descend into an ocean of stars
When you finally close your eyes and rest
A supernova bursts in your mind
Thoughts strewn with an assortment of color

Flip the pages one last time
I had it all in the palm of my hands
Perhaps I'm a little egotistical
When the world unfolds at my fingertips

Sad Journeyman of Death

Sad Journeyman of Death

Sad journeyman of life’s unending tests
bides time in loathsome sojourn cross each dawn
respecting naught but future’s numbered breaths
a-weep upon the touch of bloodied thorn,

Aroused to madness ‘neath the scent of war
bathes in the fearful prayers as fleeing life
soaks the rusting fields of nevermore
too soon, too soon regaled by drum and fife.

Slowly the agony of youth expires
thrust now upon old roots as unleafed trees
clutch the unspent lies of life’s desires
to live, to age, another day to seize.

Sad journeyman this lonely hypocrite
Death wields his scythe yet doesn’t sharpen it.


10/29/2017

//sonnet//

submitted to – DEATH – Poetry Contest

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