Long Craftsman Poems
Long Craftsman Poems. Below are the most popular long Craftsman by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Craftsman poems by poem length and keyword.
Every morning and evening, I happen to watch parrots,
A pandemonium always adorns my guava tree;
Each parrot seems unique, having its very quaint merits,
Like angelic souls, they seem in physique and psyche free...!
What a strong jambiya dagger curved bill! Vertical stance!
Green drainpipe pants-clad legs! Clawed zygodactyl stylish feet!
The parrots that visit my tree in green the scene enhance,
In a romantic mood, merrily my guavas they eat...!
Splendidly observing humans, parrots mimic their speech,
So melodious is their Tabor pipe trumpeting song;
Ballet-like they grip, grasp, and at the highest top they reach,
A craft of the master craftsman, they're happy all day long...!
In my melancholic moods, parrots lift my heart and soul,
In gracing the charm of the world, parrots play a great role...!!!
i am the being
the craftsman
the caution
circumstance and workshop
are 'mine' caring...
absence and question
are light of the world
a place to create
entanglement
with the 'mineness'
of others...
life and death
appointment
from birth
as articulators
of 'what' and 'how'
'is' to be done...
these are outshone
by the light of question
and the authenticity of 'why'
remains 'mineness'
of mine...dying from birth
out of reach of the others
ripening on a tree
of caution and absence...
irrelevance to the world
and nothingness of space
openness of light
and inauthenticity of 'they'
we never actually experience...
deaths knock...when the 'mine' is gone
I need a new TV stand
So I searched for one on Google,
Deciding in advance that I
Would splurge and not be frugal.
I bounced from site to site before
I found one so ideal,
In every way it fit the bill –
Too perfect to be real.
My gut reaction was the truth,
My quest to no avail;
Though it was beyond compare,
It just wasn’t up for sale.
See, a craftsman who’s a novice
With a talent for design
Did construct just what I wanted,
But it’s his instead of mine.
It was posted on the website
Of a woodwork magazine,
Which the Google team decided
Should appear upon my screen.
Oh, to find and lose an item
So much better than the rest
Means that now I’ll have to settle
For what’s clearly second best.
Testimony about Love in Crystals of Truth
I will speak the truth crude as ice melted in flames of liquid mercury,
love is not always gentle but serpentines through the soul with fangs of jade,
and rarely is it fair like the cosmic scale that weighs our trembling hearts,
it does not arrive on time with music swelling like a waltz of falling stars.
Sometimes it comes limping late uncertain smelling of burnt velvet regret,
with clothes dirty from cosmic dust and eyes exhausted from searching through the void,
love does not repair you like a magic craftsman with tools of amber and light,
it finds you mid-sentence mid-failure mid-life suspended in crystal time.
And yet listen anyway with its ears of translucid crystal and living stone,
I will speak the truth: love is not the absence of loneliness but its magic presence,
it's loneliness sitting beside another loneliness in shimmering cold silence,
two cosmic voids agreeing not to leave first to remain in the luminous darkness.
Love forgets anniversaries like a mad poet who forgets his own name in wind,
but remembers the sound of your cough at three in the morning like a sacred prayer,
it fights over nothing and forgives something enormous without ever speaking its name,
it carries paradoxes that dance like fire butterflies in the desert of memory.
Here is the hardest truth to swallow like a pill of amber and aching pain,
love does not promise forever but only now this cold tea in the chipped cup,
this hand that reaches out still even when it knows how easily hands let go,
how they melt like wax in the flames of time flowing like a river of mercury.
And yet I swear this too in the name of dead stars floating in my chest,
when love is real it teaches the heart to stand in the witness box like crystal,
to speak without rehearsal without mask of melted wax before cosmic judgment,
"Yes I was terrified yes I stayed" like testimony carved in jade and silence.
Love is a psychedelic testimony in the courtroom of our desolate soul,
where truth flows like a river of silver tears through our trembling hearts,
where fear and courage dance together like two butterflies of light in living darkness,
where staying becomes sacred like a prayer whispered in the magic alphabet of pain.
The role of man is to experience the drama of life. We might guess why the universe was created, at the least it was for man to live this material life. His inherent nature has developed, over the eons of surviving in this lonely place. His passions have run the gamut of all things that can be held. With his bare hands, he has made every kind of thing found under the sun. His imaginative creations, speak of the artist and the craftsman as mystical shaman, and with an inspired hand, raises up all of mankind. For he has made that legendary journey of a thousand steps, and set in motion, The Divine Mission. Mans evolution is in the interest of all the cosmos, for where else would you find a race like the humans, with their extreme nature? With their war and peace, the dying and the newborn, the nightmares and the beautiful dreamers? Is there another place that has bred those such as us? Who else could you find that believe in a god such as ours, and where else would you find a creature that would die, for such a thing as love?!
We marvel
At the genius of madness
Gush over its select few
Brilliant stars that shine a bit brighter
Through eyes that see the unseen.
Their talent unbridled and raw
Craftsman of unparalleled weaving
They fill our minds and hearts
With laughter, wonder and awe.
We applaud them—we adore them
Their gifts set our souls afire.
They, our privileged artisans
Their serenity often ruffled, and disturbed.
We witness their surging creativity
But is there a cost to shine so bright?
Is there a debt bought for such privilege?
Or is madness the price we assert.
To us it seems the noise grows louder and louder
Until their peace is drowned out.
Perhaps the work of “tortured geniuses”
Awakens spurts of madness that create a space to be filled.
Are they attempting to tame their ferocious mind
By falling into an addict’s bubble?
Committing destruction against their souls
Loneliness is their constant companion.
Helpless, we watch them, predicting their demise
Watch them spiral into decline
Spinning through addiction and struggle
Until they succumb to a grave end.
Too soon,
we say,
They’ve gone much too soon
Our mantra for these lost souls.
Inspiration sighs
For yet another white dwarf star
Still we honor their creativity, their work
Long after they have gone.
He could take what most found, in the time of that
Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any
Pleasing or greatly passionate way,
And, after immersing it into low, blue flame,
Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as
If it were but a whitened molten lump when
Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained
Deep within some smith's insatiable forge;
Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms
Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks;
Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand,
The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes --
High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal;
And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately
To his task, shaping something new and
Disturbingly strange...
While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those
Unremarkable fields,
An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill
Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of
Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an
Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h
Before it slunk back into the lengthening
Shadows of a withering age.
(was written for the contest, but sadly forgot to enter the contest)
Oh, my Father in Heaven,
Guarding me from all perils and trials
And sets my heart free of clutter,
For you, my songs of praise, I reserve.
All my life, I shall sing
Without fail, in bloom or gloom,
On every unfolding day
Through months and years
Till death and beyond
Let my songs sail across the skies
And with the chorus of the heavenly band, unite.
Oh, the benevolent Lord of all creation,
Custodian of all wealth,
Contriver of birth and death,
The Master Craftsman,
Everything is your handiwork.
The lofty mounts
Veiled in misty snow,
The verdant dales
Lush and still,
The fathomless deep
Where mysteries peep,
All the flowers
That bloom and wither,
All things
Bright and beautiful,
Everything, above and below
In all,
Let me behold Thy grace
And sing Thy praise!
Oh! Redeemer of Mankind
Guide me through the dark,
Guard my steps where dangers lurk
Hold my hand
And never loosen your grip
Make me face the light
Illumine me with wisdom serene
And fill me with love divine;
So that You shall be glorified
Here, on Earth,
And in Heaven be
Jan.5.2022
Songs of Praise Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Robert James Liguori
Mississippi.
Mostly mild, wet, and muddy in winter,
but also chilly, cold, and sometimes snowy.
We feasted on ice cycles from tin or asphalt rooftops;
We screamed and yelled as we fought each other with snowballs; With patience and craftsman-like precision, we made snowmen as mothers watched with smiles, making us the best tasting ice cream.
Late nights and early mornings, we waited to hear from the newscast.
“The roads are too bad, and for the sake of safety, no school today”.
Such words over the radio or television are the only ones that mattered.
But it was not all fun and games in the Northern Mississippi Dixie land.
Rain, snow, sleet, or sunshine, there were always outdoor chores to do.
There was wood to cut and to bring in with the coals to keep us warm.
There were hungry pigs, chickens, a cow, and sometimes goats to feed.
Chicago.
One day out near the O’Hare International Airport, my feet nearly froze.
That was when I was driving a VW Bus that was fun to drive until it got cold.
Let the truth be told, Chicago is not just a Windy city by the lake; it’s icy cold. I had my Chicago share of winters in the ‘70’s.
In Chicago, with hardened and freezing bones,
on short days or long ones, life always goes on.
It was so cold that I could hardly walk.
It was so cold that I could barely talk.
It was so cold, yet nothing seemed to halt.
It was so cold that my whole body would shake, and my ears ached in pain as if they would break.
If New York City never sleeps, Chicago never stops.
In the dead of winter, people on State Street continues to shop.
Mayor Daily’s city kept the streets clear, and the buses kept moving.
California.
This year our heating system was first used on Saturday evening, November 7. It seemed that summer forgot to cool down and depart, or even stall; but ran head-on into fall. My trees are still very green, and the leaves are slowly falling because Winter is calling. It’s Sunny California in the Sacramento Region, and Winter is just around the corner. For a few years now, the rainy winter season has produced much heat, but little rain. Our hope is that this winter will be different for a change; perhaps cold and wet.
11102015PS
A shabby opaque stone, rough, dull and grey,
Hidden behind the veils, out of the way,
No sparkle bright, nor any fancy shine ,
But a rugged rock of an olden time.
With patience, diligence and loving hand,
A craftsman with skill, carves across the land
And comes out with a villege beauty so dear,
A shining diamond for all to cheer.