Long Callused Poems
Long Callused Poems. Below are the most popular long Callused by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Callused poems by poem length and keyword.
Staking Claims: For Yucatec Maya & Native Peoples
The stones of the desert cry with me
They are brothers and sisters, but no bloody kin
New hearts see just cold rocks … no warmth or charity …
Might you see how we worship gods in them?
The gods themselves are dead, buried in hopeless holes
They died when we could not stop the excesses of each Columbus
Who brought a brutal hunger for gold and souls
Then bone and marrow fell within Columbus’ compass
The trees and tree stumps of the Yucatan
Hold deep scars and memories in their bosoms
The limestone cries quietly for the sons of Chillam Balam
Their tears yielding tomorrow’s blossoms
For even grasses, herbs, insects … know
That they too will be sucked, one after another
Away from the withering, wrinkled body of our Mother
Through a gaping hole in the atmosphere
All earth cries with the sun and stone worshippers
The blackened peasant clasps his callused hands
With those last calories from a breakfast of peppers
Unaware that his gods died hopelessly condemned
The desert explodes into those oases
Where infatuated faith still yields cool, delicious flesh
And forgiving flowers among the spikes in the cactus:
The desert and stones are gentler than Columbus
©Dr. A. S. Deo, 500 Years after Columbus, circa 1996.
BACKGROUND NOTE OF HORRORS:
(Written in the 1990s. Blood and tears are part of the story, not only for Native Peoples like the Maya of the Yucatan, but for my wife and daughters, too. A Sri Lankan professor allied with my Promoter/Chairman of my doctoral committee, objected to my politics outside of the classroom. They used the clout of the legal department at my campus, The Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, to shut me up and deny my degree. They failed, thanks to my “cold stone gods” and Jesus. I defended my thesis, successfully, on 1 May 1995 and was back working in my native South Africa in June 1995! Soon I was hired by the Department of Foreign Affairs in Pretoria, when Nelson Mandela was President. He retired in 1998. Sadly, little changed in the then DFA at the Union Buildings, and poor of South Africa … and across the globe, continue to get false hope & promises from Liberals, Conservatives, Blacks & Whites. Jesus alone will speak truth to you, about EVERYTHING. Check a Bible near you, start with John's Book)
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
To insure that his family would produce the best wine.
Grandpa, tho’ as straggly as his grape
cleared trees and topped them to admit the sun.
He would not purchase plants for his soil
and dug the trenches wider and accessed our water.
He was self sufficient and he propagated vines by his hand
We prevented winds from whipping vines out of hand
to best grow and mature the soul of our wine.
The vines followed the contour of steep site which brought the water.
The rows ran north and south to suit the grape - -
this presented light while drying and controlling the soil
allowing the plants to follow the eastern and western sun.
We placed much faith on the drying done by the sun.
We had one to backfill. We wished we had more willing hands.
We had two to dig holes, and one to hold the vine and tamp the soil,
as the fruit began to ripen to marry our precious wine.
A crew of four was used for setting the grape.
The Vines should not be sprinkled with too much water.
We made plans to prevent soil erosion and loss of water
to the harden the wood and expose it to rays of the sun.
The Niagra White and Riesling grape.
Both needed pruning and the waste hay cut our hands.
We made sure our methods were best for the wine.
They would mature late, even in warm soil.
We found that more humus was wanted by the soil.
Some magic was performed to deliver more water.
alas, for the reward of a not so remarkable wine.
Again the wait, the prayers, the morning dew and sun.
More work, more time, sweat and callused hands.
The next year we tried a grafted grape.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
Our final wine was surrendered by the sun.
We captured the prize from our water and our soil.
My hands, today, still stained with the color of the grape.
In the back of my head, in the garden shed,
I see him as clearly as fresh white paint:
A little boy sat on the creosote floor,
Dragged grazed knees hugged up to his chin,
So familiar, so resonant and never faint.
He shivers and weeps on the wooden ground,
Alone, almost silent, with hardly a sound,
In retreat from a world he cannot understand
That Is ruled and defined by a callused hand.
It's his seventh birthday and a slowing flood
Of mucus and blood flows from swollen lips,
A tooth bares a nerve and a jagged chip,
But the pain means no more than dandelion clocks
Or cuckoo spit; the act alone the gestalt of it.
Some days he would walk for miles,
To see beyond the next hill, around the bend,
Kicking slowly along, his shadow twice his size,
Dwarfing him, tracking him, a passive friend.
Perhaps to find some haven, someone to
Take him in, rescue his heart, and want him;
But strangers, though kindly, approached
With the dusk and it always ended the same way:
"Where do you live?" they would say
And thoroughly drilled, he would quietly reply,
In emotion drained monotone,
His address and number of the telephone,
And they always took him back home.
Some days he would walk for miles,
To sit on the edge of the viaduct,
Perched perilously with nothing to lose,
Dangling feet in small scuffed shoes,
Dropping pebbles and stones to the
Rocks and undergrowth far, far below,
Imagining if he may fall in their stead,
What then would be left to know?
The fall down the stairs snapped his ankle
Like a spindly twig, fractured some ribs,
Dislocated his jaw.
The children's ward, antiseptic and bright,
Young nurses in uniform, starched and white
Were so kind to him, he almost cried, bringing concern
And orange squash and a paper straw.
Sometimes it’s like this when things go wrong,
A scapegoat is needed to blame things on.
People thought him shy, with head bowed low,
Lost in comics and books, lost in himself,
Denying the threat of another blow.
He was not shy, just hiding and biding,
Keeping his head down and trying not to show.
Life is a scoundrel, and time a cohort thief,
Stealing a childhood with no reprieve,
Leaving only the slow burning sense of relief,
That an unpleasant childhood seemed mercifully brief.
Morning Coffee With The Lord
By: Tom Wright
5/25/99
As I neared the old gent's campsite
a faint voice I could hear.
It seemed to sound distressed
and I could detect a twinge of fear.
I heard him say, "Why is it Lord,
I am troubled on this day" ?
That of these things I'm reminded
in this quiet time as I pray.
Just as this peaceful morning
follows your springtime rain.
I'm vexed within my spirit
by thoughts that cause me pain.
Nearby, sat an old tinplate coffee cup
placed near his fire with care.
As if expecting company
he seemed to have placed it there.
A second somewhat older cup
was wrapped firmly in his callused hand.
As he sipped his morning coffee
he spoke to God, about our land.
We've drugs and rape and too much crime
and Babies being born from sin.
As School children kill their classmates
Lord, when will all this craziness end?
We drop our bombs upon our fellow man
those whom You said to love.
Surely It's from shame we bow our heads
as we petition your face above.
They're are so many who are starving
living their lives upon the street.
Yet many offer not a helping hand
to the destitute or needy we meet.
Then Lord, I think of those lost souls
for whom we show so little concern.
At times we merely go our way
trusting that You won't let one burn.
Men's hearts are continually upon evil
as you've said the last days would bring.
While most of the news I see and hear
seldom any makes my heart sing.
As I quietly sit around a crackling fire
contemplating what I'll do this day.
I behold the beauty of your sunrise
and for this privilege I did not pay.
He said, this morning I close with a question
am I what You would have me to be?
I'm just a broken down old cowboy
who's unworthy of your love for me.
Hearing my snapping of a twig, the old gent said
"Come and sit a spell, you won't be bored".
For I'm just "fixin" to have a second cup
of campfire coffee with the Lord.
Written for "Wagon John", a friend who traveled the southwest in a covered wagon With car wheels on it.
I came from a village
Very fortunate to have attended college
He came from a cottage
Got lost on his quest to finding courage
I need not waste time for I have no future leverage
During the busy day when both the minute and the hour arm of the clock
Fell on each other at the very top of the clock
Signaling the day in its half
When the sun becomes shinny and unfriendly
They sat in the class all catchy and quietly
Seeking to decipher the key to unlock the answers
to scientific formulae and mathematical equations
I walked bare footed with a single arm shirt hanging to my west
With a very flat stomach as though I have smelled no food in the years past
My skin pays no more attention to the burning sun
For they now look like father and son
I travel from one town to another
Looking for what?
you will wonder my brother
People stared at me and wonder
Most people think of me as a thief
But those who knew me look at me in grief
I am no thief nor mad
I am only a boy who is grieved and sad
Searching for a way to making my future glow and my progeny glad
I am the scavenger of the waste metallic materials called scrap
I am not solving scientific formulae and mathematical equations
I am seeking the key to unlock my future from the shackles of poverty*
My palms are all callused and nails fractured
My teeth lost its purity for it knows no tooth brush in a while
My beautiful toning black African colour left without notice
My youthful smile gave way to a sadden old age
But I was brimming in determination to succeed
I shook off my lethargy and fought on all odds
I walked, scratched and bled just to work
Most people said I am useless and or mad
But I was just a hard working lad
Working so hard to see myself through education
So to you I say, see me not as destruction
For all I need is your kind word of motivation
And do show to me the right direction
So that I may be among the beautiful generation
In contributing my quota to building the nation
That is all I ask, I plea thee
He stands,
his left leg resting upon a powder keg,
slightly bent,
with arms resting upon his knee.
Hands, callused, hard as nails
cross wrists thick as wheel spokes,
his left hand is open,
extended,
his right holds the stem of his beloved pipe.
He is an educated man,
educated without the benefit of schooling,
educated by the trials and tribulations of life;
in his world, none are more versed than he.
Men gather around him seeking his council,
some sitting on the wooden deck,
others resting,
their back against a rail
to balance against gently rocking waves.
All have thick beards,
most untrimmed,
framing faces hardened by
years of wind, sun, and sea.
Pipes,
filled with tobaccos of various aroma,
provide a covering cloud
to quell the stench of their lives;
men living upon the water,
regressed to seldom experiencing
its cleansing properties.
They are a rough lot,
fearing none,
yet,
disciplined beyond expectation;
their bonds forged by a brotherhood
spanning centuries of adventure,
hardship, and war.
He clears his throat,
begins to speak with fervor,
his voice,
softened by the snap of sails
buffeted by the wind,
cause all lean toward him to miss nary a word.
He is the master,
the unquestioned purveyor of knowledge.
He gives to each freely;
words of wisdom;
training each in the ways of his chosen life;
this is the world of show and tell;
this is the way of men whose lives
are lived upon the sea.
Each owes a debt of gratitude
to this man who rests his leg
upon the powder keg.
This keg chosen not for comfort,
rather,
a symbol of the strength
and power conveying experience
through education.
One lone sailor looks forward to each
of these gatherings,
listening intently,
shifts his weight against the rail
and dreams of the day
he rests his leg upon
the powder keg.
STAND WITH A FACE OF HUMILITY
Thou curse a great angel to fall
from the heavens of glory and power,
though let man build towers for himself alone
letting him gaze on earth down.
Daggers are unknown but
they are directed to oneself
piercing six-inches deep in the heart
though made unreachacble stars of ruthless dreams,
there bete noire, implacable enemies abounds ,
occurring impossibilities cause bitter torments
art a fortress a defense for nothing, nothing?!
A sneering wall for a human being
the lowly thou had trodden down
callused feet has stepped upon.
The anon ignorant void of wisdom infuse a poison
drops dripping from temptuous cup
of sweet assurance, of self-ambition and arrogance.
A pedestal thou arts amidst life's superficial ways
a courage to lift up a haughty face
the narrow rocky roads thou dwell is full of blooms
but will the ends refrain from drowning doom?
Poor man thou hast enslaved
in thy ruthless breaking embrace
secured within thoughts of highness
knowing not where he will stay.
Above, may he think and look unto the ground,
a place of fifth to step upon
for alas he has partaken from thy cup,
so now he's done.
Thou made a distance so near
yet to very far, unreachable.
A human never a god
harsh and vicious
are the gigantic trials knocking him down
Imposing.Intimidating.Haunting. Freezing
but must they be?
Must they be or should he rather
open his eyes and flee
to the flying flicks of times?
Crepuscular are the cascading days
but always they pass epiphanies.
A heart of stone melts but
from it births the human heart
who is able to choose paths which lead them
to face the world not with pride
but with humility...
__________________________________________
Sponsor Name: Broken Wings
Contest Name: Any poem trashed in a recent contest
~~6th Place~~
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
12:38 pm. August 01, 2015
I couldn't be prouder
than the day you were born
my beautiful little miracle
your tiny fingers curled over mine
your pretty eyes captured me
and melted me
I loved you then
and every day
since your
arrival from heaven
we won't talk about what I would do
to anyone who would ever harm you
but that's what I thought holding you
for the first time
my precious baby girl
and we won't talk about
any struggles raising you
(there were only a few)
all the tears and pain in the world
would never erase the joy
I feel when you smile
and, my angel
you smile so much
on my arm
on this day
I have to give you away
you are the most resplendent treasure
who wouldn't cry to see you
walking down the aisle
your handsome groom
whom I know loves you
as much as I do
can't keep his eyes dry
reading vows
from your huge heart
only makes it harder
warm love tumbles
down my cheeks
just seeing the sky
above you
so clear blue
a
wispy white lace
canopy of grace
etched delicately
over you
and that guy with whom
I like to barbecue
golf
and share a good shot of
whiskey
I love him too
and your little you
who lights up the world
she's only two
lucky you
experiencing the blessing
I had
well "have"
my beautiful baby girl
who's teeny tiny fingers
curled over
my callused hand
who
with her daddy
went on dessert dates
played hooky
and
hunted ghosts
in that old hotel
my favorite
fishing buddy...
...she'll always be mine
sun sparkling your gown
like magic radiating
from your soul
I couldn't be prouder
than the day you were born
but damn this comes close
my barbecue buddy
could not ask for
a more priceless gift
than the one whose
gentle hand squeezes mine
just before it lets go
soft fingers curl
tenderly into his
my precious baby
his beautiful bride
I
am
the
voice
in
the
early
twilight
calling.I
am
the
voice
that
cried
in
the
dusk.
Am
the
limbs
shaking
and
the
lungs
convulsing.
I
own
the
tongue
that
cracked,the
lips
that
parched
and
the
running
nose
behind
the
dank
blanket.........................................................
I
am
the
voice
among
equals
whinning
among
few
unequals.
My
spine
bears
the
many
whose
rags
twist
my
neck
and
I
bend
her
back
and
our
fate
coil
side
by
side
in
one.
In
one
our
spalour
binds
us;mine
a
dirty
stool
a
swollen
limb
and
they
said
PEM
too.She
has
the
heart
beat
bleeding
hot
blood,the
callused
soles
cracking
and
they
sterile
nodule
pleading
in
vain
servility
behind
the
black
blanket.........................................................
I
am
the
voice
now
mewling
in
the
crust
of
the
night
and
scorching
by
the
day.
I
lay
panthing
and
waisting
from
a
redeemable
curse.
Am
the
limbs
cippled
and
the
lungs
sneefing.
Am
not
the
fist
clenching
the
playcard...eyeing
the
lence,but
behind
the
mesh
wriggling
and
certainly
deing.
Am
not
Abiku's
emissary,but
I
die
with
the
corn
starch
dripping
from
my
lips
and
I
pass
the
stool
to
anothe
whose
fate
as
mine
lay
in
percent,whose
memoria
is
their
number
and
not
their
name.
Now
they
chant
the
elegy
over
tomorrows
cremains
and
my
voice
falls
into
a
diminuendo
and
shall
never
rise
again,but
my
bones
continues
to
whisper
behind
the
earth
in
sotto
voce.
The hand plants the seed of love in hopes of a new garden.
The heart gives way to love like a blooming rose for all to see.
The hand is a drunk man that takes the effervescent love and crushes it against his forehead like a beer can.
The hand is not aware of what it did wrong but is aware that the heart hurts.
The heart hurts a lot.
The hand beats on its chest like its going to war with itself just to scare the heart.
The heart beats faster and faster when its close to another scared soul only to stop beating all together.
The hand is placed on the chest of his love to restart the the drowned blossom of the rose that never was.
The hand plants the rose back into the garden and months go by.
The hand runs across the leaf on the rose and down the stem to assure that the rose is okay.
The heart gives way to love for all to see just like the blooming rose yet again.
The hand and the heart are the same size but do very different things.
the heart tears while the hand breaks but non the less that doe snot change my feelings about you and I cannot disprove my feelings no matter how many times I replant this seed and tear it out.
No matter how many times I resuscitate this nothing in a no outlet neighborhood.
No matter how dirty these callused hands get i cannot plant this seed again just to see the rose die.
I love you.
Whether you believe it or not I do.
But I'm not in love with you.
I can't plant this seed.
I can't take a shovel and break the earth, the foundation and hope again and again.
I can't break your soul anymore.
I can't stomp on your rose.
So while the hand destroyed the rose, the rose stayed resilient.
And now that the hand has moved away for good, the rose can finally blossom into the love that was meant to be