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.


The Legend of Craftsman Manole

There was a builder named Manole
-a genius in his craft-
His reputation reached a knight
who hired him at once
to build a stunning monastery 
on the Romanian land...

Whenever builder named Manole
was finishing his task
An evil rain demolished walls
with envy in its drops
and yet again brick onto brick 
he built his reputation - thick

So on a stormy day wife of Manole
Was sacrificed as she reached his site
With bricks and tears and tears and bricks
He sealed the wall - as pillar ...  she with child -
While selfish knight heard builders on the roof:
"Next time a greater church we'll plan"

Demonic knight removed the ladders
and let them stranded  so they would die
Manole said:"Let's build tough wings of shingles"
And one by one they tried to fly
As deadly force attracted to their Fate...
Since then the breeze is crying loud...with child...

for Carolyn and John's Contest "Legends"


Premium Member The Pepperman and the Sword of Saint Eligius

I OPENED A DOOR OF GOLD AND SILVER. 
SOMEWHAT SURPRISED AND SOMEWHAT BEWILDERED. 
FLOATING IN AIR AND TURNING SLOWLY 
GAVE IT A PRESENCE OF BEING HOLY
THIS WAS A SWORD OF BRILLIANT DESIGN.
I THOUGHT TO MYSELF "I WISH IT WERE MINE" 
FIVE FEET IN LENGTH AND TWELVE POUNDS IN WEIGHT. 
I EXAMINED IT CLOSER TO DETERMINE A DATE. 
A GOLDEN THROWN ENCRUSTED WITH GEMS. 
DIAMONDS AND RUBIES AND PLENTY OF THEM.  
ENGRAVING. EMBROIDERING AND MAGNIFICENT WIST.
THIS WAS CRAFTED BY A BRILLIANT GOLDSMITH. 
CEREMONIAL OR RELIGIOUS I ASKED MYSELF. 
WAS THIS CREATED FOR SOMEONE OF WEALTH. 
A HEAVENLY VOICE STARTED TO SPEAK. 
MORE LIKE A TEACHER WILLING TO TEACH. 
BORN IN THE YEAR FIVE EIGHTY EIGHT, 
ELIGIUS GREW UP AND WENT ON TO BE GREAT. 
A MASTER CRAFTSMAN, THE GREATEST GOLDSMITH. 
CRAFTED THIS SWORD YOU SEE EXIST. 
HIS WORK CAN BE SEEN ON TOMBS OF SAINTS. 
CAPTURED ON CANVAS BY CHRISTUS THE GREAT
HE WOULD GO ON TO HELP THE POOR. 
HE FOUNDED CHURCHES AND SO MUCH MORE. 
AFTER HIS DEATH HE WAS CONSIDERED A SAINT. 
SHOWN AS A BISHOP BY THOSE WHO PAINT. 
THE LECTURE WENT ON, LONG INTO THE NIGHT. 
I FOUND THAT JOURNEY TO BE A DELIGHT.

The Tranquility of This Land

As I sweep my eyes over the terrain starry bright,
I ponder how this place gives me more than I ever would have hoped
to help me soar.
My mind takes flight, even in the chambers of night,
as this mighty roar of hope and healing washes life
into anything but a bore, and cleans my soul pearl-white.
Brushing and rushing of tickled trees
that lift up my feet and aid me on my walk,
the whistling of the winds that wheeze
in a rhythm like a clock,
The frosting of freckled flecks inflicted by a rock-hard freeze.
Give me my state, my surroundings, and their Craftsman, please,
for to Him in all places will I flock.

Premium Member My Sweet Lord!

How does the hymner sing of God's measureless love through quadruplets-
Fine craftsman of fields, flowers, fountains of water, mountains, and sun-
Who practiced self-denial, till blood sweat, for the honor of thieves
apportioning second chances like sweet nectar while He came undone?

Why does the scribe pen his worship to the Universal Maker,
Compiling pages of effusive love notes for an unseen King?
Unobserved by open eyes but recognized by insightful hearts 
Heeding courtship calls from Christ, Saviour sweet, at the threshold tapping.

Where does the artist conceive sweet lines, hues that tell wondrous tales-
delicate replicas of the Creator, thoughts color their veins- 
as prismatic as rainbows post turbulence and wuthering days,
so silver linings laid on canvas sprinkle joy for hearts to sail?

When do dancers slip from guarded grace to ungirded ecstasy?
In the sweet echoes of a recent heartbeat or laughing babies,
bustling birdy melodies auguring spring's blessed revival?
I shall sharpen my grand jetés for Jesus' triumphant arrival.
Form: Rhyme

Moonshine

Oh, Moonshiner, man of the mountains high, 
Where whispers of wind and wildcats' cry. 
Your heart a kiln, your soul aflame, 
With the secret of white lightning's name.

In hollows deep, your still does hum, 
A symphony of steam, a hidden drum. 
From fields of corn, a golden juice, 
To fiery spirit, in silver cruse.

They call it 'stump water,' 'skullcracker,' too, 
This potent elixir, born of dew, 
A 'ruckus juice,' for joy and strife, 
A taste of freedom, a taste of life.

You're a craftsman skilled, a master bold, 
In the art of alchemy, stories untold. 
With fire and patience, you coax it forth, 
A spirit potent, of the mountain's worth.

So, raise a glass, to the moonshiner's art, 
A rebel's brew, to stir the heart, 
A taste of freedom, a whisper in the night, 
A lightning flash, a fiery light.
Form: Rhyme


Premium Member Architect of Time

Not one have I found
who is the like of you
 
a master craftsman
demonstrated           in all you do
 
From the time          you were given birth
your workmanship       displayed
in our cosmos         and in our earth
 
In unity with our Father
            constructed every Law
so the movement        of the universe
continues          without            flaw
 
Though subjected to frustration
the creation in decay
 
until the Revelation
God in his children         will display
 
The gift of everlasting life
will creations energy infuse
 
all who rise            within this kingdom
can accept it        or refuse
 
 
All ages are appointed
to the formation of Gods plan
the instructions              put in motion
many millennia's             beforehand
 
Everything progresses                  by implements design
the specter of          its majesty
the Architect of Time
 
You gave us the foreknowledge
how things in time        would form
the unfolding               of our history
and of the crisis           where all mankind will mourn
 
Those who love        your mastery
do watch with    fascination
the working out                of the plan
and of crowning          new creation
 
You have implemented vision
so that our               future is secured
the manner         of all changes
and the things to be endured
 
Like the DNA         that builds the things we see
the clock within the universe
propels       the objectives             gravity
 
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Form: Rhyme

Topiary Comes To Life

Non descript hedge rows sculpted into ornamental animal 
via botanical artist wielding pruning shears and chain saw 
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist wrought voila uber
prestidigitatiously head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed miraculously via 
Te Deum divine fist bumping, whence realistic fauna burst 
alive with an explosion of colorful twist and shout of foliage, 
where scalloped superfluous detritus manna for naturalist
deciduous detritus capacious carpet boar animation punk
chew waiting groundswell Liszt ghost would arise from the 
grave to produce magnum opus without a beat missed such 
shrubbery mimicking the likeness sans glistening fleshy sin
yew, and gist about ready to become bone a fide (green be
hind the ears) thriving vox populist, per species and genus 
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate craftsman promised
to imbue life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whittling away 
leavings, thus did exist the nascent then omnipresent visible 
entity emerging from cocoon an herbalist metamorphosed 
from the imagination of a skilled, practiced and mentalist 
conniver viz extracting the initially obscure blessed beast, 
where with august magic wielding tools of this specialty vis 
a vis bringing breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest dexterous 
chiseling blistering hands baffle onlookers as coterie of 
topiary harvest breaths mind bogglingly astoundingly 
authentic rooted ready to frolic in the grass menagerie 
a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny, the Michel
Angelo of dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts 
where application threshing re: electric cool laid ahs hid 
test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger green hued key luster.
Form:

For Such a Thing As Love

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 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.  Man's evolution is in the interest of all the cosmos, for where else would you find another 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 could you find a creature that would die, for such a thing as love?!

11/8/2018 (originally posted 12/31/2017)
© Meru Groen  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member But There Are Stars

One day a father’s father died.
He wept and walked with his son that night.
As they walked, his son asked, “How do I become a man?”
The father responded, “Follow me to a cross and I’ll show you a Man.”
“Who is he?” the son asked.
“He is the king of kings.”
“How do you know?” the boy questioned.
The father told his son to look up and answered with tears in his eyes, “night sky 
is dark, but there are stars.  Bright orbs of light that mock the night.  And life is 
dark but there is Christ, he quenched the sting of death and brings blind sight.”
“But Why?!” the son demanded.
“There is no why, just what!”
“Believe and know why night can’t stop sun’s light.”
“Believe and know why death can’t sting God’s might.”
“Believe and know why sorrow cannot last and suffering must fade.”
“Believe and know why broken hearts are best, yet hearts of steel can’t rise.”
“In these dark days of doubt and lies.”
“My son, in these dark days of doubt and lies.”
“Just know, night sky is dark but there are stars, bright orbs of light that mock the 
night.”
“And life is dark but there is Christ, he quenched the sting of death and brings 
blind sight.”
“He is the author of truth and craftsman of joy.”
“Confidant to whores yet sovereign master over strife.”
“And soon he’ll come to judge the dead and rule the just.”
“He’ll set things right.”
“But now my son, right now just lift your hands, let his love grab hold, and let 
nothing in this sordid lie of life distract from that embrace.”
“In these dark days of doubt and lies.”
“Believe and know why night can’t stop sun’s light.”
“Believe and know why death can’t sting God’s might”
“He is the author of truth and craftsman of joy.”
“He steals the sting of death and brings blind sight.”
“Confidant to whores yet sovereign master over strife.”
“He is the king of kings, the Christ.”
“Believe on his name, my son, he’ll make you a man.”
“Believe on his name and live forever.”
Form: Ballad

the fable of Jesus

The Fable of Jesus
Jesus was skeptical of his tribe, he didn't 
whether he was a Semite, his father, the renowned 
the wood craftsman had green eyes and knew 
a few phrases of gallic monks had visited until
the Rome administration banned them
Jesus, to please his father, built a bookshelf, it was
It was so bad his younger brother had to take over
Jesus took umbrage and moved to Jerusalem, where
he hung out with radicals of his time
he was good at talking and soon became their leader
there are a few girls in Jesus's fellowship
one of them was Magdalene who had the hots 
for Jesus, tall and elegant back in his youth 
Jesus became famous when he threw moneylenders
out of the church, many more people joined his flock
He thought he was powerful and took on 
the Rome colonial administration and arrested
they mocked him and gave him a crown of thistles 
egged on Haiku

y the hateful priests, was crucified 
During the night, women got him down from
the cross, hid him in a cave till his wounds healed
A fisherman called Peter smuggled him and
Magdalene to France
they had seven children, and he ended his days
as respected goldsmith
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.

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