Long Shoemaker Poems
Long Shoemaker Poems. Below are the most popular long Shoemaker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shoemaker poems by poem length and keyword.
The young must know that they are loved
For there is goodness in every young person
Give me souls--the souls of young people
These boys are not bad, these boys, they need me
In their midst I feel completely at home
I learned the hardships of an orphans life
In this new town where I had to support myself
Laboring in everything from being a blacksmith
And as a tailor, waiting as a waiter and shoemaker
All that to ease my mother's burden
Every Sunday I'd meet the boys in a different place
It didn't matter that it was a city church,
a cemetery chapel, or an empty lot
And during the week i'd tour the city shops,
Making sure my boys hadn't forgotten my instructions
I bought an empty lot and a dilapidated shed
Next door was a saloon, across ,a hotel of shady reputation
but what did it matter to me the oratory ground was sacred,
for it later came to me in a dream
That it was the burial ground of the Martyrs of Turin.
It is enough that you are young
And for you I give my life
bound by one rule, dedicated
to the double task of self-sanctification & care of youth
But first tell the devil to rest, and then I'll rest too
Do all the good you can
Thats why while I have time, I must work
My dear sir I tell you you are a good friend of mine,
but God comes first, first of all Don Bosco is a priest
So give me the souls, take away the rest
My mother would say when I become a priest
If ever became rich, she shall never enter my house!"
Thats why I am poor, penniless Don Bosco, a shepherd boy of the hills.
I have lived poor and shall die poor
I have only one wish, to see you happy and in the next
"I have been an instrument in the hands of Mary. She has done everything. Had I been a worthier instrument, I would have accomplished a great deal more."
The PO£T
The noddy land
Reality is more than we see in an everyday happening
It stretches further into another dimension we call dreams
but are vital in living life.
What my ghostwriter tries to say is: dreams come true.
I was back in the valley where I used to live and was
greeted by old friends who only appear in dreams
asked me where I had been; if I told they would think
I was dreaming and looked alarmed; has he gone ga, ga.
Footwear is a must in the valley, which is free of cars
I had been the shoemaker making shoes for the ball
and clogs for everyday use when walking on streets
of cobblestone in the valley’s little town.
In this valley, only those who do practical work are
leaders, who get to vote, say, the tillers of the soil
and the men and women who make the food edible
distribute sustenance and feed the people soundly.
The people in my valley are peaceful and friendly
go to bed early, follow the pattern of the climate
this also makes them dull; when I’m well rested
return to the turbulence of earthly days and love.
In the town of Grotzinger there was only one shoemaker left
Old Hanz was known as H to those with long memories of life here.
We rarely ordered custom shoes and boots these days
But we still stopped by for his stories when he was working
what is that? I asked him once upon a time when I was eight.
He explained industrial pliers, cutters, and the cobbler tool kit
Interspersing hilarious stories as he pounded, stretched and sewed
He was happily surrounded by wooden soles and leather heels
It smells in there, I told my Daddy. He nodded because he remembered.
That’s a combination of tobacco, leather, smoke, and H himself.
H had made all of Daddy’s shoes when he was a child.
Made his wedding shoes too. Daddy never wore boots
I made my way to the workshop this morning.
Wondered if it was too early, but H was there.
He was not open yet, but he nodded me in through the window.
His stories were as outrageous and clever as usual; I was home.
I slid the slider to my art studio with cautious optimism,
Hoping to find my brushes and glitter and paint and glue
Somewhere close to where I had left them last night.
The bright pink paint I had specifically placed front and center was missing.
Let us not jump to conclusions, my socialized mind said. Maybe it was not last night.
Maybe you put it there the night before last night.
We were not out here the night before, my dendrites argued after they had connected last night’s thinking.
My paint water was in its usual place. My brushes were where I had left them.
I usually use thirty to forty brushes a day, so there is no way to tell if they had been moved or were missing.
Everything else appeared to be exactly as it was yesterday.
I immediately began convincing myself that I must have moved that neon leather paint at the last second before turning and shutting the slider.
Faeries and elves do not paint in here I argued.
That is absurd and realistically unsound. Right?
But what if they do move the paint, dancing and twirling through it? Creating new magic with their little ballerina shoes?
What if they come in here and slide across the canvases, dropping glitter and enhancing my stuff?
What if they are like the shoemaker elves, fixing my mistakes in the middle of the night?
Thinking I had heard a tiny little patter of a faerie foot, I turned and looked at my art table.
Whereby sat the hot pink neon paint that was not there a moment before.
What if?
Written 10-3-2018 Poetry Contest: The Paint Movers
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
In a three -storey building, with great walls,
Lived a girl who spent her day with dolls.
One day, her family happened to leave in a car crash,
Leaving her alone with their Ash.
In their three- storey building.
Near lived a shoemaker of great skill,
Accompanied by self- satisfaction and a great will.
And a family of three to feed,
But not a three-storey building to reside.
The girl has everything, but happiness is on leave,
The shoemaker still has more memories to weave.
All was the plan of destiny,
To make the girl struggle at a tender age,
Or to keep the man happy without any penny.
I found myself stupefied
it was day
at the threshold of paradise
my watch said seven
gemstone lights
sparkling off walls
pearly white gates
by Angel's with flaming sword
guarded.
Swaying side to side
my strength half gone
I’m just a poet I said
he answered come.
At his smiling the gates
parted
opening an expanse
of endless blue skies
no sun no clouds
God’s love splendor
only white light
shining.
On path of gold gliding
on each side
unending fields of flowers
smiling
gentle waters flowing
a child sitting on lilies
playing with tiger.
Echo of farmers singing
in distant verdant hills
aromas of bread baking
wine fermenting
a shoemaker tip tap sound
a tailor stretching veils
of sparkling stars.
Joy on every faces
and in twinkling eyes
springtime serene gaiety
written.
In heaven work is play
and play is fun!
In perfectly fit attire
from gemstone houses
descending
with exuberant health
running
young and old approaching
with hugs and kisses
invited
astonished me
to banqueting.
Tables of elegance set
with golden goblets sparkling
cakes and berry wines
changing in taste
with each new desire
arising
deliciously satisfying!
Talking to each other
without words
reading each other’s heart
knowing each other well
they are peacefully content
in their loving intent.
Time in heaven
is compressed
or slows down at best
looking at my watch
after hours of festive fun
it said seven.
Enough the Angel said
you’re just a poet
to mystics is reserved
God's glory splendor
beyond this Portal.
Love is the root
of all unimaginable
peace and joy unending
Paradise is loving God
and loving God is paradise.
Fourth Place: Regina McIntosh
Heaven Contest
6/2/20
A huge Alsatian barks at a passerby stranger
as the pond geese honk sensing grave danger
Trudges back home a rangy lone ranger.
Big and little aubergines cast a purple shade
In the twilight birdsong begins to fade
Night makes navy-blue of the greenery's jade.
Wolves howl in the distance
Panthers prowl near pig pens
Ocelots growl around the dens.
Dolphins perform in the aquatic circus
Kids count on the time-old abacus
All in all the miracle of creation's fabulous
Elsewhere the morn dawns upon wee ladybirds
And shepherds go about grazing their hungry herds.
A rare sight of starfishes settle upon beach pebbles
Pink salmon in a see-through lake breath out bubbles
Bombed by tech; corpses found in debris and rubbles!
Wild species lurk in the murky forest
Stands tall and hovering high mount Everest
A chance to enjoy nature at its very best!
Admit it O' mankind no one can ever be
at par with your and my versatile Creator
The billions of species is far too extraordinary
He single-handedly created all that variety in nature.
For even the clever human who invented the radio
did not as well model the computer.
The one who designed my dresser couldn't design my patio
It'd be rare for a shoemaker to also be a tutor
But God He made both ant and elephant
and there's absolutely nothing that He can't.
Village full of boys and girls playing
strong arms around waist romancing
old friends on porch with guitars singing
merry farmers on green hills harvesting
not a bird on trembling wire singing
grabbed by hair like doll earth is shaking
rumbling lava torrents on city descending
burying under darkness encrusting
spitting ashes at planes faster than panicking
anger of revolution once dormant exploding
family tradition of unity unearthing
easy of gadgets virtual love ending.
Boys and girls again in village playing
tailor shops and sound of shoemaker tapping
from complexity to simplicity remnant circling
fields of flowers dancing and robins singing
knees in gratitude bent marveling
at mystery of Love life continuing.
Heroes and heroines need to save the world,
on a regular basic to keep the image bold.
They declare that poor people are stupid,
not having the capacity to help themselves included.
Having a barby doll degree in social signs and law,
they know all the better for all.
Famous people become the perfect jingle,
to create attention in dire need to mingle.
While everybody knows,
most money get swallowed by managing NGO’s.
Truck loads of reject shoes for free,
killing the entrepreneurship of the shoemaker clear to see.
10.000 NGO’s in poverty land,
providing change for the rich and brand.
Self elected wasters crown themselves with sympathy,
adding false stories to the conspiracy.
Volunteers of conscious working for free are needed,
reference on CV’s in humanity proceeded.
While in the meantime the economic infrastructure bridles away,
the philanthropist in its new car is on its way.
Entertaining the poor with a noble proof,
to sustain the heart quenching spoof.
Oh, most mistaken guilt so profitable and sweet,
keeping the balance in the account of deed.
Holding down the poor economic contrive to bring,
while riches establish itself to a dull and idle thing.
Oh, Princess fairest of them all,
What troubles you, and what made you fall?
Why Shoemaker so handsome and tall,
I need new shoes, that's why I had a fall.
It's not for a dance or a ball you see,
It's just so I can walk around so beautifully.
Oh, lovely lady whose beauty I can't forsake,
I will make the shoes which you can take.
Thy beauty I can't deny, whose lovey and fair,
I will create thy shoes, so don't worry, don't despair.
Why Shoemaker thank you so much,
I will treasure thy shoes you make, with your loving touch.
How may I repay you, what can I do?
To show my devotion to you?
Oh, fairest princess, lovely and full of grace,
I require no payment just to look upon your face.
Oh, handsome shoemaker that I can do,
I will spend an eternity sharing my days with you.
And so, the beautiful princess had shoes so lovely and fair,
made by the handsome shoemaker who dared to care.