Long Callouses Poems
Long Callouses Poems. Below are the most popular long Callouses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Callouses poems by poem length and keyword.
You can't beat feet,
They're really kind of neat!
Toes and heels,
Small bones in between.
Travels the world,
Wherever you've been.
Can't leave them behind,
When you pack.
They are attached,
You can't give them back!
There are also extras you see,
Nails, boils, and callouses for free.
No extra cost for each separate toe,
Fitted quite well.
In descending order almost like a bell.
You could play them very well,
With a toe stick,
Maybe buy one or make one for free!
Toes on your feet,
Can be a treat!
All can be tickled,
And that causes a shriek!
There’s somethin bout death
that don’t sit right with my soul.
It’s a bit much
to think that one day
the draft won’t flow,
the birds won’t sing,
and the feel of her smooth skin
against the callouses on my fingers
won’t feel like magic.
There’s somethin bout death —
the way it creeps into memory
the same way high school sweethearts do,
sudden and smooth,
leavin in the wreckage
that old craving
to taste life again.
Ya see, I’ve spent my life
fillin the hourglass
with love notes and apologies,
makin sandcastles,
leavin footprints
on the shores of hearts
I couldn’t reach.
There’s somethin bout death
that feels like a song —
and I’ll sing out of tune
till it all makes sense.
The Sweat of Thy Face
When we were young, we were given a charge by the Almighty…
“ Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it.”
( This, we seemed able to do.
It was the second charge we've had trouble with…)
“...In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground…”
History, according to the Bible, tells us that, one reason Adam was formed was because God wanted someone to till the ground…to work the soil, planting seeds and reaping the fruits of their labor.
Since it goes on to say we will do this with the sweat of our face, we can deduce that this will be hard work. Perhaps mankind misunderstood the words, “of THY face”, reading it as, “the sweat of THEIR face”?
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Slavery,
Bond servants,
Free labor…
Sacrificing humanity and compassion for a footstool.
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Freedom! Finally, unpaid and forced labor is rejected and despised…outlawed.
However, the ones in power were still the wealthy.
Mankind, always searching for the loophole to save their soft, lilly white hands from respectable callouses.
We began to forget how to work, how to grow food, preserve it, and how to be self reliant.
We sacrificed quality for quantity, flavor for convenience, health for sloth.
We've been blessed with intelligence, ingenuity, common sense…what do we accomplish with these blessings? Discovering more and more ways to avoid a sweaty face and those calloused hands.
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The industrial revolution,
The Sciences, Technology,
Our superpower, Pollution.
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Now, on the cusp of inventing the ultimate slave, we could be creating a world where human beings are merely dumb animals relying on our own creation to do all the hard stuff…like thinking.
Once again we create the tower of Babel.
Not to reach heaven, no...
a tower that controls our very own Adam...
Our highly polished, Eve.
When one tries to control Artificial Intelligence , how will we know who holds the leash and who wears the collar?
Today was the first day I held
a sledgehammer with intention
Callouses connect palms to fingers
tiny fleshy boa constrictors.
There is no catharsis
I know this to be a hollow act
With a face smithed of iron,
a body lathed with linseed wood,
and a head full of nothing.
No I am not thinking, I am
in fact refusing to do so.
This is an act of refusal
I am choosing childish behavior.
The empty parking lot
execution spot greets
the glass bodied shelf
Which will no longer take
the space of memories it held.
What should be cold and angular
Void of anything aside reflection
is a monument of mourning
a future I shall never know.
Light refracts upon my cones,
my tunneled vision only to show
a mangled miscarriage of the man
I can never grow into with you.
There was a time
I saw my mother's hands and
noticed quite a difference
between hers and mine
hers were fine
soft and smooth
with lovely nails, refined
While mine-
so rough and dried
no lotion could soothe or hide
the blisters and the callouses
while hers were fit for palaces
mine were like a scullery maid's
accustomed to hard work
I often thought looking at her
that we must have been made
of different stuff
for even though
she was a simple woman
no frills or fluff
she seemed somehow
to be made of finer clay
Like porcelain-
delicately enchanting
but prone to chips and cracks
while I, more like a
sturdy stoneware
strength and durability
making up
for what I lacked
I never knew just how true
this was until she died
never realized just how fragile
she really was, because
she was the vessel
that originally
carried me
Those fools atop the hill are at it again.
Pissing away the money that we never really had.
Another trillion or two in debt.
To fund my neighbor's welfare checks and Cadillac.
Another frivolous war fought by the poor...for rich men.
Another tax yoke upon my blue-collar neck.
Those inside trader-jesters atop the hill.
Lack any respect for America and her people.
To them, we're just an impish afterthought.
An overtaxed and underrepresented peasant.
Those fools atop the hill
(whom some vote for over and over again);
Have stopped working for us.
Coddler of criminals while raping the good citizens.
They only look after themselves.
Building their wicked nests from our callouses and blood
From our fathomless "In God we trust".
When my mother said I could wear heels
I thought HIGH heels; was disappointed it was almost a flat.
About an inch high.
It did not make a satisfying click.
I had hoped to be taller.
At five foot two, I coveted being higher up.
Only one eighth grade girl got to wear heels to our first dance.
The rest of us hated her; our jealousy floating around the room.
Until her feet got so sore she started to limp.
None of us cheered, but there was some gloating.
I gave my girlfriend a thumbs up.
I wore my first high heels at prom.
They were beautiful. I could barely contain my joy.
Now I was the one limping with callouses.
It was worth it, I told myself, because I felt beautiful.
But it wasn’t.
When I was a young mother in my early twenties,
I fell off both high heeled shoes when I was walking up concrete steps
On my way to work.
I had sprained both ankles.
I went from “feeling sassy and sexy” to miserable.
It was the last time I wore high heels.
This was in 1980.
Tim had entered the state of a corpse while
the chorus assaulting his purulent soul festered
Callouses on his corpus callosum pretended
there was no connection just chaos exhumed
Corpuscles splattered astray ice in his vessels
in the same vein of demise as so often before
He stood at the pons dissected in cerebellar
disconnection nauseous detached from brain’s stem
A sequence of rapid succession seceded left overs
Hailstorms of concussion hailed hell freezing over
Snow gathered fast only that the crystals were black
Thunder and lightning electrocuted his passions
A squall out of nowhere invited rapidly raging squalor
Violent tempest arrested in sunken emotions
Blistering blizzards invaded the shelter of survival
Flooded with emptiness he crouched in the corner
of his neuro-toxified mind complicit of oblivion
He had tried the loneliness of a desolate desert
but then sand storms seeped through his pores
poured increasing abrasions towards ashes from dust
A vicious assault broke all defences’ containment
as he listened to the dispatch of an exploding skull
Caustic corrosion dangled from sockets of blinding sight
Tim attempted to drown himself at the oasis only
to find the mirage dispersing convoluted conclusion
But whirl winds returned him to the point of departure
He lingered at the crux of pontificated bridges
crucifix in hand and resolved to jump from the past
Ready to escape from judgement he stumbled and
fortunately the overpass had collapsed due to the storms
Faced with the murky slate of destruction he
gathered the debris and waited for fate to abate
04th October 2018
Today was a good day
Today he walked on legs unbent
And erect spine of a man intent
On stilling the cacaphony of monotony
And smoothing the callouses of convalescence
For today, we both forgot
The wasting rate this cancer's wrought
Today, he teased and squeezed and poked
Fun at his trademark old school jokes
Laughter's remembered warmth evoked
Today he drove his rattling truck
His feet sure on the pedal's pump
And carried boxes of tradebooks and tools
With hands that know weighted control
Today, without a splint or cane
He tamed steps of receding pain
Today, through a briefly calm sea
He is the man he used to be
So today, I can foresee
The luxury
When days like these
Are ordinary.
1/23/21
There's no need to contort yourself into the architecture of a man to be sovereign,
You don't have to reverberate his thunder to be heard by those who ignore your whisper,
Power is not a costume to be worn in his rhythm, with his callouses and conquests,
Let them measure strength through imitation, you, you were born to redefine it in your own way.
Let them chase symmetry, you, you were born to choose, not to prove,
Not every battle requires armor, not every triumph demands that you move like him, speak like him, burn like him,
Wear elegance as a hidden weapon, choose tenderness without shame,
Forge your revolution in your own dialect, be it of velvet or venom, as you wish.
Equality was never about becoming like him,
But about the divine right to be wholly, fiercely, without regrets,
You, in all your glory, in all your complexity,
You, born to write new definitions of freedom,
To embrace the power that springs from vulnerability,
To be yourself, without compromise, without masks, without losing yourself in the shadows of others.
Therefore, do not bow under the weight of expectations,
But lift your crown with pride,
Be the storm and the calm,
Be you, in every breath, in every step, in every dream.