Long Workman Poems
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I have written to Him the great things
Of my law but they were counted as a strange thing
My people have sown the wind, and lands
but they shall reap the whirlwind
they were counted as a strange thing
set the trumpet to my mouth
I a tat a rat tat,
This is it, this is that
As an eagle against the house
Of the Lord must turn I from God don't forsake the master's idols, what/
they the people have transgressed my covenant
and trespassed against my law
No golden idols no silver calves
gonna save me from myself, my sinful life
Israel O Israel shall cry at last my God, my God
we know thee now, we know thee then
Please Father forgive our sins
I have written to Him the great things
Of my law but they were counted as a strange thing
My people have sown the wind, and lands
but they shall reap the whirlwind
they were counted as a strange thing
Israel cast off the things that's good
Enemies shall pursue you sure
They have set up kings but not by me
They have made princes and I knew them not, you see..
Users silver and gold made idols that they may be cut off
I have written to Him the great things
Of my law but they were counted as a strange thing
My people have sown the wind, and lands
but they shall reap the whirlwind
they were counted as a strange thing
Oh, Samaria hath cast you off, God say watch your steps or you'll be lost
Mine anger is kindled against them
How long how long will it be here?
They attain to innocencey
Can't quite believe but I must forgive
I have written to Him the great things
Of my law but they were counted as a strange thing
My people have sown the wind, and lands
but they shall reap the whirlwind
they were counted as a strange thing
From Israel was it also the workman made it known
It's not god, it is not the Lord and the calf of Samaria shall be broken
God's people should never worship idols. . .
for they have sown the wind and they shall reap the whirlwind
It has no stalk the bud shall yield no meal and if so be it yield
the strangers shall swallow it up
I have written to Him the great things
Of my law but they were counted as a strange thing
My people have sown the wind, and lands
but they shall reap the whirlwind
they were counted as a strange thing
They were counted as a strange thing
10/03/12
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
You're an individual.
You're unique.
And it's important that you
create the space to
express your uniqueness,
and become the fully expressed,
fully unleashed,
fully unlimited vibrancy that you are.
There's a stage in a mans life
when he will keep
every other thing aside
and stand alone without fear
to confront whatever obstacle
that stand in his way,
even intimidation from
the most powerful
or care that beset him
and infest his life,
his inadequacies he will confront
and challenge them with boldness.
Even when the
demons of hell be invoked
and conjured up to come forth
and do their very worse,
he knows they shall not pass
and neither shall they prevail,
because he has been through a lot,
he doesn't really cared
anymore what happens to him,
he has come a long way
and he's here now,
that is all that matters.
He speaks the truth
that only him can speak,
so profound and will so piercingly hurts
the ears of the guilty ones.
he will boldly stand on the edge
of the mountain top
and let the wind of life pass forcefully
through and over him.
he becomes a determined soul
who confronts the odds in his life,
with the help of the almighty,
he attains the consciousness of the cosmic,
his spirit is now so awakened,
he becomes one with universe,
so enlightened,
he is now an adept to
help in the down world,
carrier of the divine light,
protector of the weak,
full of vigor,
always ready,
a doer of the impossible,
he now becomes
the keeper of the flame,
his back bent from the rigours
of suffering and pain,
showing the marks of
the whiplash he received,
his brows so wrinkled with
inner wisdom that comes out of the
time spent in long hours
of fasting and meditations,
calm with the inner beauty of the spirit,
not intimidating or forceful,
he commands authority,
exacts influence and check anything
that's not edifying from
influencing his environment
and atmosphere he created for himself
and then allow others into his world
to experience the realm
of power bestowed on him,
he is indeed now,
a peculiar fellow,
a workman that needs not be afraid,
one set apart for good works,
for he has chosen the path of his destiny.
Yes,there is such a man amongst us.
© 2018, Emeka Mokeme.All rights reserved.
I have written to him the great things
Of my Law but they were counted as a strange thing
My people have sown the wind but they shall reap the whirlwinds
Set the trumpet to my mouth
He that comes as an eagle against the house
Of the Lord must turn from
God don't forsake the Master of idols, oh, oh, no
They the people have transgressed my covenant
And trespassed against my law
No golden idols
No golden calves
Gonna save myself from those ruins
Israel, Israel shall cry, at last my god, My God we know thee
And when know thee but we do not, know not I
I have written to him the great things
Of my Law but they were counted as the strange thing
They were counted as the strange things
Israel cast off the thing that is good
Enemies shall pursue you sure
They have set up kings but not by me
They have made princes and I knew them not
Used silver and gold made idols that they may be cut off
I have written to him the greater things;
Of my Law but they were counted as counted as strange things
My people have sown the wind but they now know were they've been
They were, are counted as the strange things
Oh, Samaria has cast you off God say watch your steps or you'll be lost
Mine anger is kindled against them
How long, how long will it be here?
They that attain to innocence
From Israel was it also the workman made is known
It's not God, it's not God and the calf of Samaria the Calf of Samaria shall be broken up;
We all shall drink from the cup
it has no stalk the bud shall yield no meal and if so be it yield
The strangers shall swallow it up
I have written to him the greater things
Of my Law but they were counted das counted as strange things
My people have sown the wind but they now know were they've been
They were, they are counted as the strange things
Israel now swallowed up now shall they be accountable there's no pleasure
For they are gone up to Assyria on their donkeys Ephraim hath hired lovers
They were counted as a strange thing
10/03/12
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.
from anthology "2013"
John B. Jackson
1880-1911
Norma knew.
Norma, my erstwhile friend of a thousand hunts;
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb,
As we sought out promising locales, and
Our clever quarry, from points near and far.
From the salty marshes by the Pio Pico adobe,
To the broad summit of Sycamore Canyon,
We left tracks only the night ‘coons could find.
So, did we learn anything in life, me and Norma?
I once spied a tern furrowing in a breach.
Norma was ready and loaded for the kill,
As I drew a long bead,
Held my breath, and pulled the trigger.
She, my Winchester 1895, lever-action,
Reduced that tern to feathers in an instant of smoke,
With white pillow plumage in complete upheaval,
Flying all about, and interspersed asunder!
That single memory was on my mind,
Before slipping eternally through the veil.
I remember closing my eyes, and there she was!
Appearing before me as a haunting ghost,
As she was, on the day she saw me kill the tern,
My disappointed mother, telling me I was cruel,
Cruel and heartless and mean,
For destroying “God’s creature.”
So, it was on that same day I put Norma away,
Lock, stock and barrel; stowed in silence,
Under the rafters of my humble bed;
I said a final goodbye and adios amiga,
To my once ballistic sweetheart,
And the love of my wild, youthful days.
Never again did I kill any living creature,
And found an inner wisdom I could never explain.
But, truth be known,
I wish I had Norma now.
Here in this dark cold grave.
I miss the tender touch of her cold trigger.
The gentle pull of her icy hammer.
And mostly, I miss the intoxicating power,
Of her fiery, exploding steel.
For together we traversed the canyons of Turnbull,
And the rolling vernal pastures of Workman Mill,
Tasting many a delicious quarry.
It’s true, my friends,
Norma knew.
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb.
C.P. # 35
======
I'll follow if You lead,
Your Path of life, help me to read
Help us not to bend or break
But stand, for You, for Goodness sake
I followed close a road and found
I'd plodded into mired ground
Where preacher lived high on a hill
Paid by the sheep, the poor at will
He mocked and shocked as hearts were torn
Where sheep be shorn, eaten and worn
'For' he touted to the poor
'The workman is worthy'
He meant him, for sure
We didn't quickly get away,
But in Your Light we wish to stay
Thank You God
You lead us still,
Far from that preacher on a hill
C.P. 36
====
Time is of the essence
Which drifts back on the breeze
in essences, aromas
Of the eucalyptuse leaves
Suddenly transported
And there we are at play
Collecting stones and seashells
Off the San Francisco Bay
Work
“Work as unto the Lord.” The Preacher quotes the Word.
Which one? Which Lord?
Is it your interpretation or mine?
Your angry task master God?
The one in my head;
who is never pleased?
The one who serves YOUR needs?
Is it the God who makes me a slave?
The one who threatens to burn me every day?
Is that Him?
Is it your God, who makes you rich;
while I must remain content?
Is it the one who wants my tithe;
while I remain just getting by?
Is that your God or mine?
The one who keeps me under your thumb?
The one who holds me to account?
The one who gives me a life;
that I’m not entitled to;
or to anything else?
Yet, you seem entitled to have what you have.
Is that the God I’m working for?
The one who works us to death;
even while we are dying?
Who am I working for?
Your God or Mine?
My God, bringing hopes and dreams?
The one who knows me;
and knows why I’m late?
The one who knows why;
I need a break;
and takes one with me?
Is it the one who gives days of rest?
Who works to make me best?
Is it the one I never lie to;
because He is on my side?
The one who created me beautiful;
and special; and treats me as such?
Is that the one?
The God who always comes through?
The One who gives me purpose;
and supports me in it?
The one who answers my prayers;
and lets me know He is there?
Is that Him?
Is it the one the workman cries to:
Or the one supporting the privileged few?
The God who created holidays?
The God who calls the Lost?
Is that Him? Yours or mine?
Is it perfection in an imperfect world;
or is it just fine, when kissed by the divine?
Am I working for your God or mine?
The one who benefits you?
Or the one who seems to love me?
Part 3 -- Sir Christopher Wren
"Resurgam". What a righteous word it is!
The Latin form of "I will rise again".
I'd like it on my tomb. A scientist
I was, a humble Oxford teaching drudge,
when summoned by the king. He wanted me
to build a glorious thing, a new Saint Paul's.
Though "non sum dignus" was my only thought,
I said that I'd inspect the site.
I went.
The blackened stones were hot, still. Desolate.
I had a workman with me, to assist
my rummaging. That mighty hymn to God,
the great Cathedral, lay beneath my feet,
bleak rubble, carbonized and hideous.
It could not be revived, that much was plain.
Perhaps a new design?
I paced it out.
Palladio in London - here the nave,
an apse, just so - thoughts crowded-up my mind.
One single system, uniform and strong,
not like the hotch-potch compromise we'd lost!
If only my Redeemer would send down
some hint of His approval. Here - a dome!
A mighty, unifying symbol-shape!
Excited now, I did some calculus,
and called the workman. Could he find a stone?
A thing to mark the mathematic heart,
the point where all the angles intersect,
the fulcrum of my noblest work...
"Will this,"
the workman asked, "supply Your Worship's needs?"
He'd found a slab, just perfect, tall and flat.
He set it where I told him, at The Cross.
And when I lined it, flipping it, I felt
some carving. What was this? I had my sign.
Saint Paul's would rise again, and at my hand!
A single word from heaven. "Resurgam".
Walter B. Canfield
1872-1914
It is in my best interest indeed,
Now that my name is about to be called,
To come forth to the White Throne,
To make confession, and to be judged,
For my legion of sins and trespasses,
Committed in no small part, as
The irresistible charms of one Lutie Sayles,
Precluded any semblance of forthright fidelity.
For she was the devil’s mate, this I knew,
As time and time again,
She flirtingly tapped my arm with a coy smile,
As I passed the collection plate to her at Sunday services,
Young and beautiful and available Lutie Sayles,
Seated in her usual polished corner pew,
With wild flowers set in her brown curls,
While I, dressed in clean suit and tailored tie,
Privately entertained inside my mincing mind,
Not thoughts of Job or Enoch,
But secret visions of Lutie and me,
Ensconced together on a green terrace,
Surrendering to the elements of stardust, wind,
And wet puckered lips,
Ultimately finding sinful solitude,
Under a dying cedar tree,
On wind-swept Rideout Ranch.
Oh, be not alarmed at these fantasies,
Of a man now dead for a century,
For church was truly boring,
And I, a man and nothing else,
Found the winsome Lutie Sayles
In my every waking thought.
Then it happened, as if by serendipity,
I saw Lutie Sayles on the side of Workman Mill Road,
That drowsy sleepy day,
When Providence appeared as a descending swan,
And with subtle all encompassing power,
Parted Lutie’s Red Sea,
For my charging manly chariot!
From the Desk of:
From the Trash Bin of:
Book or Notebook of:
while washing skillets in a stream near
any inanimate object that an actor interacts
Bolero-Set a set of equipment made for salible marketing
Hot Dog Push Cart Workman 200 Series Vintage
2 Working cartes
this guy is Champion among all men. Under a grand
the equipment is post listed under a grand!
One of Those self satisfyingly service sausages cartes.
Mobile Hot Dog Cart Trailer Food Concession Vending Kiosk Stand.
The big Drip!Hautbois strawberr
y: A type of strawberry, Fragaria moschata,
originating in central Europe and Asia, with small round fruit.
Origin of the word:Frag
1 tablespoon brown sugar
2 teaspoons sage
1 pinch ground cloves
¼ teaspoon marjoram
Freshly ground nutmeg
Finely grated garlic cloves
Instructions:aria x ananassa ‘Pineberry’
Even within the right boundaries
Renditions of elegant Posturing
More so then Not.
Tricks of a highly effective design
1 tablespoon brown sugar
2 teaspoons sage
1 pinch ground cloves
¼ teaspoon marjoram
Freshly ground nutmeg
Finely grated garlic cloves
1 pound ground pork
1 teaspoon salt (adjust based on pre-salted meat)
1 tablespoon water
1 teaspoon fennel seed
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon rosemary
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon dried parsley
Let’s keep on learning* amidst reading glow
Kindled by wondrous interest to grow
Radiating wisdom along knowledge flow
To vanquish ignorance and folly’s blow.
Led by guiding light of truth’s Source aright
Let’s read God’s Word** for instructions so bright
Seeking to absorb divine news’ delight
So we can share love and grace with peace-might.
Expanding horizons, smiting doubt’s fear
Let’s advance, soaring toward changes’ steer
Reaching to impossibilities’ cheer
For development of functional gear.
Triumphant in fulfilling assigned roles
Let’s enjoy blessed life with learning goals
Blending ideas of different poles
Pulling others from vain deceits’ sinkholes.
(From Contest Sponsor: *8. She could read anything now, he said, and once you can read anything you can learn everything. It was up to her. “Nobody’s come close to filling their brains,” he said. “We’re all like giraffes not using their necks to reach the higher leaves.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 18: “White Canoe” (p. 131).
**2 Timothy 2:15 Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.
January 3, 2023
1st place, "Feel Free" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Sara Kendrick; judged on 1/6/2023.