Long Craftsmanship Poems
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[Continued from Part Two]
The elder took no notice of risking life and limb.
Hither, thither ran the children, glancing up at him,
while indulging mindlessly in each impulsive whim,
with no apprehension of the future looking grim.
Their chances for salvation seemed increasingly slim…
That aged man’s deep compassion filled him to the brim.
The father knew the children liked any strange device,
exotic playthings, trinkets, whatever would entice.
He needed now to improvise a mode, in a trice,
that could capture their attention— something to suffice
to hold their young imaginations— to be precise,
a mechanism marvelous, no matter the price.
He had stores of immeasurable wealth, beyond doubt,
and his warmhearted love was impartially devout.
Just then the elder had the thought that not in the least
would his limitless riches and reserves be decreased,
even if to a kingdom vast he were to dispense
his overflowing fortune… so why shouldn’t he hence
give out his wealth directly to his progeny all,
before the children’s catastrophic deaths should befall?
The aged man reflected on what tactic to pick—
an expedient means that was sure to do the trick.
He told the children of exquisite toys he possessed
along with lots of precious carts of the very best
craftsmanship and quality, that all had been designed
expressly with the youngsters’ own enjoyment in mind.
The elder next, in order to persuade them, stated
that right outside the house at the entrance awaited,
to suit the young ones’ fancies skillfully created
goat, sheep, deer, and ox carts, ornately decorated.
He said that they must rush to leave the mansion, in haste,
and he’d give them everything— there was no time to waste.
Then the children finally fulfilled his desire
and scurried in a race safely out of the fire.
The father beamed with bliss that the urgency had passed.
They had securely left the burning building at last!
When they’d exited and scampered out, they all sat down
on the dewy earth and asked their father, with a frown,
where the toys and carts were that the elder had portrayed
for their own special likings to have been tailor-made.
The youngsters had escaped and the elder’s heart was eased.
But now each one of their capricious wants must be pleased.
[Continued in Part Four]
~ Harley White
Born into the lap of loneliness
Adam paced restless up and down
God knew he badly needed a mate
And willed the solitary man, a companion
Nonpareil in beauty and grace,
God wanted her to be the marvel of marvels
With wonderful craftsmanship,
God began working on His new creation
Seeing God laboring overtime
The angels in Heaven came in hordes.
Overwhelmed by awe and wonder
Rallying round Him, they asked in chorus
“Lord, you seem to take extra care
In the making of your latest work,
Have you any special intent?
God smiled a gentle smile
And said in solemn air
“She should be of a special stuff
Strong enough to withstand all the shocks
But delicate enough to bend and bow
Sweet enough to draw everyone to her charm
But tough enough to bear extra burden
She should have a heart very deep
To hold gallons of liquid love
And a mind patient enough
To forbear all rebukes
She should have a temperament
Willing to forgive and forget
She should be warm enough
To kiss away all tears
With the magic to heal the bleeding hearts
She should bear the seeds of progeny
And shall be the great MOTHER to all
Sister, friend, mate and mother- all rolled into one
The Angels were moved to surprise,
Over the attributes ascribed to woman
They wanted to have a closer look
And just touch and feel that hour glass figure
Unlike Adam’s steely frame
They found her to be of a soft texture
With projections and depressions
Curves and slants here and there
“Oh, she is so fragile and soft”
The angels exclaimed in unison
Not hiding their disbelief
They openly gave vent to their doubt
“With such delicate torso
How can she perform all her tasks?”
God replied in assured tone;
“She is soft, I agree, from hilt to heel,
But equally tough………
None can guess what she can accomplish!
She can fight to the end for what she thinks is right
She has such great power of endurance
And the gift of intuition, but…. but,
As nothing of this world is perfect
This woman too has one serious flaw
She tends to forget her own worth”
Thus God’s supreme handiwork was born
A marvel of creation, a miracle worthy of adulation!
March.29.2022
(I had written this for Beta Augustin's Poetry Contest. Sadly I understand now that poems in Ode form alone are accepted)
Argh...What Accursed Fate Did Lurk...
Regarding thee 2009 Hyundai Sonata
(50+ shades of gray), a cred
debt tub bull vehicle, that at
this moment finds sinking
feeling akin to led
zeppelin, yes (for almost ten years,
this car manufactured with damn) sped
to countless destinations,
no whomever drove head
ding here, there, or anywhere,
yea without missing a beat said
vehicle dependable, rightly never left
being reliable, thus no question even Fred
Flintstone could corroborate, how red
dilly reliant aforementioned car
stood us in good stead,
aye attribute to quality wed
did craftsmanship in tandem being exam
manned by skilled automotive technicians,
nonetheless majority of cumulative costs
exceed all other expenditures
and asper right finds
me in a severe emotional,
financial, and spiritual jam,
when meager money resources
socked with exorbitant costs
analogous to experiencing bam!
Over today, a six hundred
plus dollars repair, hits mine head
hard (albeit figuratively), I surmise
a worse fate than being dead
agh...please help me survive
this shell shock humongous,
(yet critical) brake system replacement,
cuz trickling optimism fled
leaving me agast
how ongoing expenses,
will be met for me tum tug get fed
now yours truly feels
utterly rife with dread
as his emergency savings
account reserve tapped,
since checking account
hemorrhaged i.e. bled,
whereat monthly social security
deposit cannot be used to feather bed
my inner peace, particularly when
alarming sense of monetary
distress dost dead
din ability to breathe easy,
when faith to remain
financially solvent fled...
Hence psyche feels like
being pitched to and fro
with no recourse to buttress
legal tender woe
full despair spurs philanthropic
largesse (I hate to beg), though
an upended employment track record
(most recent job held...oye vey
maybe two decades ago)
severe bouts of anxiety/
panic undermined emo
shin null (psychological) confidence
nsync with sweaty palms, this this bro
kin metaphor, which in part
contributes to lifetime mein kampf
of a bajillion times ho...ho...
humbug mood possessed mind
fiendish poker face spirit in hell
worse off than a hobo living on skidrow!
I died today
the blood stained the streets,
I rotted away in the sun
mangled in a pile.
I remember it
The way he shot me in the face
spit on my back
and then walked away
nonchalant and innocent,
like I had it coming.
I had it coming; yeah
I had escaped the dungeon for this.
I had wrestled with the words long enough
to die again today
to long for the cemetery and be placed in the jaws
of my lonely grave.
I died today
the day I was born this morning,
the sun soaked up the sweat left open my brow
and the blood drained into the streets
congealed to dry
he must have had it coming
said the officer at the scene of the crime
and I remember it like it was yesterday
even though I died tonight.
I read your words
and they consumed me
your craftsmanship evaded my questions
and this provoked me
I put the book down and the gun was in my face
we went outside danced in the lights of the stars and street lights
and then he shot me
and I died.
The pin stripes
the top hat
this meant nothing.
The engagement ring, the letter to myself
the judgement day should never have looked like this
and that’s how it happened
the last dance
my dieing wish fulfilled
nothing made sense
nothing mattered
no rage.
Just sadness
total oblivion
he did not know who I am
I am the phoenix
I will wake up tomorrow
and I will be back.
Choking on the ashes of an unkept promise
I will be bragging the compromises to you my dear
I will be throwing the flames from my mouth this time around
I will be painting memories for us to part
I died today different from all the others
but this matters not to me
with no secrets left to tell.
I died today
will die again tomorrow
I am used to it
it hurts this way
but I’m starting not to mind.
You will die today
I have learned I will avenge my death
I have learned to survive
I have learned to delved deeper into your everyday
and pull out your soul
rip it to shreds and gnash my teeth
tear you to bits
pull me from you
pull me from you
it means nothing
I'm trying to tell you
I'm fine today
but was reborn today
Numb
The elders speak in timeless tones to reconcile the past,
And offer truths from which we choose to fill the roles we're cast.
But though the sage will muse how well the truths can guide our way,
So few will heed and recognize the worth of what they say.
The elders speak a sacred tongue in soft and whispered tone,
Of olden days and simpler ways, of souls who now are gone.
They tell of lies and blunders made throughout the ages passed,
And beg we put their truths to pen, for all to know at last.
They come to me at varied times and occupy my thought
With facts and lore of times before, and other things they've brought.
They seek to put a record straight or make an error right,
When history's lacking in some way and needs a ray of light.
At first, I’d cringe in shock and awe, was overwhelmed and dazed.
At times, I’d feel too small to deal with issues that they raised.
"What should I do?" I asked myself, “Why should I care at all?”
But time has shown that I should trust the wisdom of their call.
I honed my skills and craftsmanship, and dedicated time.
I lent my pen and acumen, and love of word and rhyme.
I judged them not for wrongs they did, their ignorance or views,
For though they erred, the lessons learned are much to dear to lose.
It's not so much the words they say, or lives they lived and lost,
Or ways they tried to go and guide, no matter what it cost.
But what they learned from what they did and left for us to muse,
Much more than gold and treasured gems, are lessons wrought with truths.
I believe many of us charged with making our history palatable for the generations to come
get far too involved in our own sensitivities. We seem to place inordinate significance on our
judgement of our ancestors' ignorance, wrongs done to one another, and politics. As a result,
we overlook the value of the lessons learned and passed along with their legacy. It is the
cost of the wrongs done, the lives lost, and the errors made that inflates the value of the
lessons from which we have to learn... and leaving those lessons in the past is yet a greater
cost, or loss, as the case may be.
I splash my ideas onto a canvas of creation.
Creativity seems to run off of the painting
as I try to rush perfection.
I feel the stress of procrastination
placing its weight on my chest.
Drops of craftsmanship fall from the edges,
being destroyed by the harsh impact with the ground.
Stress turns to regret as time
escapes me more and more.
Pressures of failure squeeze my head
and puncture my thoughts.
I cannot handle the weight anymore.
Stress crushes the easel of my mind,
causing it to collapse.
The contents of my brain burst
from the severity of the fall.
Everything has failed.
I have failed.
My mind has failed.
I try to scoop what I can save back
into my skull but,
it all seeps back out through the cracks.
I watch as all I have worked for drains
out of my head into the mouths of
stress and pressure.
I run my fingers across my scalp and
feel the cracks close up,
leaving my abilities to die.
I stop feeling the cracks.
My fingers slip in between chunks of my hair
and cling to it.
I widen my eyes as I attempt to pull
my hair out my head.
Pain shoots throughout my body,
stinging my retinas and burning my head.
I stop feeling the cracks
because all I can feel is the pain.
I want to give up.
Give up on creation.
Give up on trying.
Give up on pulling my hair.
But all I can feel is the pain stinging,
burning, and laughing at me.
I watch as I float away from my mind.
I watch it get consumed by monsters.
I stop pulling my hair and
fall back to my mind.
Pain still boils my heart as I
watch my mind get consumed.
Tears attempt to sooth my pain but
dry up short of the source.
I reach for the tears but only get failure.
I reach again.
Failure.
I reach again.
Nothing.
My tears soon turn into sadness as
failure accompanies my procrastination.
I want to kill failure but
it’s too strong.
I kick at it.
It breaks my legs.
I swing at it.
It bites off my fingers.
I feed it conventions.
It vomits them all over what I have left.
I give up and scream for mercy.
Failure laughs.
Stress pulls my hair.
Pressure breaks my bones.
I try and try and try but failure
eats my soul.
Form:
O’ Jealousy
SORRY FOR THE BROKEN
LINES- EACH SINGLE
LINE ENDS WITH A
COMMA.
O’ Jealousy how
wonderful You are,
You sow the seeds of
hatred,
So deep,
Often even,
In an innocent
heart,
That friendship,
love and sympathy,
Began to seize
slowly,
By the charm of your
tempting arts.
You create doubts,
To watering the
plants of hatred,
Which slowly grows,
On the fertile land
of mind,
But soon,
Its roots began to
find,
Their pores,
In the soft corner
of hearts,
And then one day,
It takes into its
clutches,
Even the most
liberal part of our
hearts.
I salute thee, O’
Jealousy,
As you live in every
heart,
And began to show
your colors,
Irrespective of age,
regions and bars,
In every land of
this Earth,
Even high in the sky
and the heaven,
You live and bloom
in every season,
You move from one
end to another,
So swiftly and so
fast,
Without the
formalities,
Of any permission,
And without the need
of any pass,
No sky can limit
your boundaries,
No heart can torn
you apart.
No one in the entire
universe,
Has the power to
make you stop,
Sooner or later we
all succumbs,
In the traps of your
alluring arts,
How beautiful and
catching,
You weave a story,
To trap the poor
hearts,
How magnificently
you wait,
For the prey to play
in your hands,
And to see its great
fall,
While singing the
same tune and songs,
Which you have
weaved,
Through your master
craftsmanship,
For the poor soul
and hearts.
For this reason,
I salute you,
O’ most beautiful
jealously,
As you are a
beloved,
Of everyone’s heart.
Please be merciful
on me,
And leave me without
your shines,
In my heart,
In lieu of this,
I promise to praise
thee in my arts,
O’ jealousy, how
wonderful you are.
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 30th
Aug. 2014
Note: "THE BROKEN
LINES MAY DEFORM THE
POEM
WHICH OFTEN HAPPENS
WHILE PLACING THE
POEM
ON POETRY SOUP" Hope
this technical
problem would
be checked by the
Poetry Soup Team.
Ravindra K Kapoor
31st Aug. 2014
Now that December has descended
with it's roots of ice and skies of snow
our timber fortress is a sanctuary of ethnographic enlightenment
and embassy that entreats the exchange of craftsmanship,
lately I have been preoccupied with my etymological research,
it is important to President Jefferson, an anthropologist
that we discover the origin of the natives through their languages,
he is obsessed with understanding the diversity of the human race
a bone collector of civilizations and shaman of scholarship,
Private Sheilds, through his blacksmithing expertise
has allowed us to barter iron for corn without which
the Corps of Discovery would either lose vital quantity of provisions,
be reduced to malnourished paupers, or even engage in unscrupulous raiding,
there are still a thousand arduous miles to go
from all estimations, before reaching the Pacific,
as is, the Elders, especially from the Hidatsas
are suspicious of our motives
because of the 18 foot high pallisaded fort we have built adjacent to the Mandans,
so mistrust is suppressed well with an open door policy
and liberal trade of battle axes,
knives, weapon and tool sharpening, kettles, needles and so on,
January 1805,
the new year has introduced 40 below zero weather, syphilis and fists fights,
to stave the ills of boredom we routinely go on hunting expeditions
through the gruelling grip of winter's madness,
another activity that warms the soul are the spectacular jamborees
that conjure the whiles of instincts
and reminds us all how the heart seeks it's deepest expressions,
Cruzzatte plays the fiddle like a tempter of lunatic love
while Silas Goodrich thumbs a mandolin into the dreams of romantic heroism,
the squaws often coo with eyes of diamonds
arms outstretched with fingers swaying like wind blown wheat,
York is a sensation with the Indians
they have never seen a Black Man before
describing him as the black clay of chaos,
they believe there is magic in his skin
touching and rubbing him constantly like a healing stone,
J.A.B.
My "FAKE" Genealogical Knighthood
Unbeknownst to me if royal
gilded crests comprised
my rusty dust caked coat of arms
hence, I take liberty successfully farms
productive crop to contrive fictitious
Medieval Age forebears
with favorable charms
strong agile hands
hurling crude accouterments
centuries prior to invention of firearms,
which weapons (of mass sieve construction)
privy to proto gendarmes,
this inventiveness of mine conjures
courageous knights in shining armor,
perhaps monogrammed,
hammered chain metal,
nonetheless such endeavor quite a chore
where love's labors not lost,
viz hub bully accepting, condoning,
and employing embellishments extempore,
whereby solar rays alight,
flickr, and glint glore
re: us astral motifs, the stellar
craftsmanship one (even a poor,
indigent destitute beggar
like yours truly)
could not ignore
exquisite baldric, exotic, and heraldic
trappings incorporating magical lore
aesthetically pleasing
fascinating, and appealing to one poor
uneducated disheveled rhapsodic bohemian
incumbent jibber jabbering, hallucinating,
and fancying deplorable basket case to restore
himself, the legitimate true heir,
who could double as
courtly jesting troubadour,
whose slain grand papa Aaron Harris
violently ousted during Uber Vodafone War
constitutes dreamy gotcha your
attention fabricated and
facilitated to Zoar,
an actual ancient city
anachronistically inserted here
thanks to Lot, whose Biblical reference
Google made me aware,
which ye probably care
nary a fig about, but
placename linkedin mere
to allow, enable and provide bare,
lee tenuous appeal dare
ring me to trump
poetic formality near
rolly returning full circle (one tough Job)
manufacturing prevarication
recounting "FAKE" heir
essentially envisioning, imagining,
and jimmying gallant
high in the saddle career
timeless lifeline chess piece
of centuries gone by
enshrouded with reverence by this air
rent considerably less provocative
then missives by Baudelaire.
Mom has always loved antiques
I have never asked her why
Perhaps it's the connection to the past
Maybe the craftsmanship
The smell of ancient wood
The curves
The fact that they were built to last
She turned a passion into a business
A few small pieces in her living room
A sign on a door
Interesting how businesses are born
Bob there by her side
Together building on her dream
There once was an old sawmill
Where men had worked with their hands
Hard work had its demands
Each one did what he could
Their strength remains
Locked within the wood
Those same hands had built mom's home
Over one hundred years ago
Time dripped on it didn't slow
Mom's home became the perfect place
To celebrate the past
Her home and business
Built from things that were made to last
The business grew
Taking over the home
Visits from patrons
Calls on the phone
Busy all the time
No space for them to be alone
It became time
For them to expand
They looked to the future
The life they planned
Built on their historic land
A new addition built from old wood
Soaring ceiling
Above them stood
I remember the beams
Spectacular
From an old barn hewn from fir
Lifted on Bob's wide strong back
Formerly they had been just a stack
A one of a kind home
Filled with love
With bedrooms and landing up above
The kitchen was the centre piece
A place to gather
Filled with love and peace
Love of the past
Hope for the future
Has alway been a part of her
Together melded and celebrated
As a result I appreciate
The solid
The values
The ingenuity
Forever engrained in my blood
My respect for the old
My admiration of antiques
Remnants of the business still remain
The building sold
Mom loves going to auctions
She still sells at local Antique Markets
Sadly Bob has passed on
Thankfully mom has moved on from her sad
She too is made of stronger stuff
Not unlike
Her beloved
Antiques
An old poem and this one is about old things.
For Broken Wings' contest. Written April 13 2013