Long Workmen Poems
Long Workmen Poems. Below are the most popular long Workmen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Workmen poems by poem length and keyword.
The road to my backyard is long and straight
Evergreen trees abound and provide welcome shade
Home to myriad birds, butterflies and the bees
Last summer their branches were sawn off, without notice
The orgy with power-saws lasted barely a day
The trees shorn of foliage, the limbless torsos remained
To secure the safety of a VIP on a state visit
To a smog-laden metropolis, labouring hard to breathe
A few years back, we moved house to an oasis of green
But now, the storm of development is relentlessly closing in
Razing and levelling with electric saws and bull dozers
And a host of equipment used by modern day builders
Pile drivers mounted on rigs clump through the day
Unrelenting even at night, when the elusive foxes bay
Grieving in the darkness with plaintive howls
For a vanishing habitat where his endangered kin prowls
They have acquired fish farms and farmland
And even encroached on the protected wetlands
Which naturally dispose tons of city waste
In danger of destruction due to greed and haste
Truckloads of rubble are dumped every day
The pace is frenetic, even in sweltering May
Toiling hard for masters, who’ve deadlines to meet
And citizens to house, from whom votes they’ll seek
A haze of dust now covers construction sites
The pace doesn’t slacken here, even at nights
Construction materials arrive here daily by the truckloads
And given shape by workmen, as planned on drawing boards
What was once green cover and blue sky
Will be concrete monoliths, stretching up very high
With parking lots and asphalt streets
And billboards and neon signs, ready to be leased
No longer will fields of mustard flowers sway sinuously in spring
Nor ripe ears of golden corn bob gently in the wind
The sounds of frogs and crickets are a memory of the past
Songbirds have fled, deprived of their natural habitat
Slowly the memory of winter’s migratory birds will fade
Never again, the razed canopy of green, provide cooling shade
As I walk through my ravaged neighbourhood, I wonder why
Impotent rage pervades through me and I silently cry
I look down from heaven and what do I see? *(THIS IS BASED ON A TRUE STORY,)
A body on the battlefield who looks just like me'
Body parts are missing; there is blood everywhere; (I COULDN'T PUT IT ALL IN ONE POEM)
The scene is so ghastly that I can only stop and stare. so bear with me part two is next.
RAB
Now the memory is returning; how I freely gave my life,
In preserving of democracy for my children and my wife.
Walking with my service buddies when I spotted the grenade,
And quickly dove upon it; what a price I paid'
I see the military funeral, many people gathered 'round.
The mournful sound of "TAPS" as the place me in the ground'
The crowd is now dispersing; please don't leave so fast.
Workmen cover me with dirt and top it off with grass.
At least my world is quiet now: no sound of bursting shell'
That man was right on target when he said "War is hell."
Advances, patrols, and skirmishes, causing quite a fuss.
The object: kill the enemy before he can kill us.
Now it is Memorial Day- and I wait patiently,
To see if anyone comes 'round to remember me.
I see the flags and flowers placed on graves so near.
Yet no one visits me; I'm alone again this year'
I hope my family hasn't forgotten the sacrifices made.
Perhaps their desire for freedom has slowly begun to fade?
I guess they've got their ball-games and picnics- and yet?
I see a uniform approaching- yes, it is a vet'
Arthur Ball (H.S.L.P.)
END--------------- PART I
Walked six years, that way,
And watched this new suburb’s trend.
Near Mysore Highway,
Close to Bengaluru’s end.
Three storeys tall, stood,
This awesome tree-spread, so pretty.
Blue blossoms, good wood,
Half acre’s canopy.
‘Neath with sun-warmings,
Faded blue a carpet rose.
Of fallen, dried awnings,
Nature’s cycle, as it goes.
Hanging Traffic Lights,
Often, brushed by its branches.
Red light, hid from sights,
Officials, took no chances.
The machinery,
Was then set into motion.
People versus tree,
Few friends, one odd emotion.
The huge saws came in,
Chopping through, the whole, big tree,
Adding noise and din,
Workmen yelled, ‘Timber!’ in glee.
The earthmovers filled,
The gaping hole with rubble.
The tree was thus killed,
At great cost and much trouble.
The decorators,
Carted leaves to weddings halls.
Such deft creators,
Blooms to florists’ stalls.
The carpet-pile, twigs and chips,
All collected, swept,
Offals for funeral trips,
Departed unwept.
Their nests and hives gone,
The birds and the bees hovered,
Twittered , buzzed, flew on,
Their losses unrecovered.
The tree’s life on earth,
Cut short, for sale by auction.
Fetched a pittance’s worth,
The wood went for a fraction.
Traffic lights are safe now,
No mix-up of colour red.
Strange.. Green light, some how,
Blinks. Reminder of the dead.
Jacaranda tree,
God dressed your kind soul in wood.
You would have lived free,
You would have, lived, If you could.
Note: Offals: (OE for small twigs, straws etc used for lighting fire) Please Note:this poem (my original) is already entered in with Voices.net.com earlier...and i hope there is no objections to entering it here.
Form:
I remember a place
with a heart concrete
that lived and breathed the night.
It was a place that glowed
pulsed in time with the pounding of the night's workmen,
stewed in the warm, wet flood of autumn streetlight
walks past stoops that lined the blackened stretch of tar
sneakers and scarves so cool
that they melted and smoked at the touch
And from your window,
you could see it all;
you could see the birds and the beetles
contented in their coats of cold,
And you could see me stop
every evening at the foot of your door
and tip my hat to the wind
that blew like lips to horn.
Your window was a gateway
to a place too good to live,
too good to believe in,
too good to taste and smell and touch
when the sun was up and shining,
for everything that happened
happened at night,
when the pipes lit up and the children's shoe-soles
sounded loud and echoed proud through the alleyways,
and the TV sets ceased their roaring
for a moment long enough to keep the hopscotchers on their canvas-clad toes,
and the radio merely tickled the air
with notes of a blue
deeper and truer than the vastest, most empty starless sky...
And spilled on the sidewalk-chalked walls of brick and young love
was a moon,
a moon whose dusty, yellow glow
was all that we thrived in
all that we loved and hated and wished and kissed in,
all that we sang and shouted and drank and pissed in,
and all of us missed it
when the hours on the clocks of dark dried up,
leaving us with little more than empty gazes,
empty bottles and empty beds,
empty arms and empty heads,
promises broken,
desires unfulfilled,
but with sweetest day dreams
of the night to come.
Day after day, week after week, when rush hour traffic’s at its peak,
I’ve had to sit and wait and wait, knowing that once more I’d be late
And have to face the boss’s frown, who lives the other side of town
And can control when he’ll arrive; there are no road works on his drive.
But our road’s down to single file; it’s been like that for quite a while,
With traffic lights at either end, while workmen work out what to mend,
Behind a line of orange cones, oblivious to the drivers’ moans.
It started with a water main. They mended it – it burst again
And cut off electricity, another high priority
So they hired another digger; made the trench a whole lot bigger.
With traffic lights now far apart, commuters started losing heart.
To town there was no other way, so queues got longer every day.
One day they started filling in, but scarcely did the work begin
Before there came a frantic yell, “The bloody gas main’s gone as well”.
And so they dug it out once more, till it was deeper than before.
They put a sign along the way, “We’re sorry for the long delay,
All caused by things beyond control. One day we will fill in the hole”.
This morning, passing in the car, I spotted something quite bizarre.
With paper hats and champagne flutes and coloured ribbons on their boots
The men were gathered all around, their spades were lying on the ground.
And I could only sit and stare, as “Happy Birthday” filled the air.
I called out, “Who’s the Birthday boy, I’d like to wish him Birthday joy?”
And, as one man, they turned to say, “The trench is one year old today!”
Why The Willow Weeps
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a beautiful park in a sunny valley.
In this park there were three Willow Trees. In those days the Willow was a proud tall tree,
Its strong limbs outspread. It stood with its branches happily swaying in the breeze,
Two taller Willows grew either side of the smaller tree where they had grown happily for Many years.
The land owner had looked after the sunny valley for a long time but as he became older He had to sell the park and a new owner came along who decided he needed a river Where boaters could glide in slow, tranquil waters.
Then woodsmen came and cut down one of the two taller Willow trees.
The younger tree looked on, helpless. Workmen diverted the river
So that it bent around the younger Tree's feet. The young Willow Tree,
Its branches once stretched out now, saddened, Hung its fronds down into the water.
Then a carpenter came along and built a bridge over the river. Now the park owner Wanted a path over the bridge so the woodsman cut down the remaining tall Willow to Make way for the path where the tall tree had once stood.
Now the young Willow tree wept as its branches dipped into the dappled shade of the Slow moving waters. The boaters on the river admired the beauty of the young Willow, its Soft fronds hanging into the dappled shade around its feet and, just occasionally, the Wind sighed in its branches.
Now all Willows grow with their soft fronds hanging down and weep into the water in Memory of the Willow that wept.
12/07/2016
Sheep
I have read and published some of my old poems
when the world was mint fresh and I believed in the lady in the lake, I saw her swim a moonlit night
know I know she is not there, but a product of my
feverish mind
Sheep, they are dumb, think the pastor is a friend and
his dog means well and even smells like an ewe but its
fur is useless and full of ticks, can't eat grass to feed
itself forever pestering the pastor wanting to show off
when barking at the flock
The sheep and the landscape are equally old seen in
paintings of rustic art, which the pastor's wife excels at
and tries to sell on Sunday after church, which the other
pastor, the one who looks after human flock who think
he is nice but hates them.
Sheep no nothing of democracy, or security they prefer to be fenced in and only get nervous for a second when one of them is called to serve humans' need for meat as they can't count if there were 500 of them or 499 and they grazing go on and on.
How lonely I have become among the olive trees
since my dog died, I buried her in dark soil but dug her up, she is a skeleton in a black plastic liner in the back seat of the car, it stops me from feeling lonely when
visiting the local whore.
The road I drive on my way to the bar has been asphalted, flowers, by the roadside wilt covered in asphalt spray by careless workmen who inhale warm asphalt when not smoking self-rolled cigarettes
and waiting for the day to end
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me as I
skimmed stones across the tiny ripples of rock pools.
Small scaly creatures and stones sliced toes like knives but
we were full of excitement then,
craning necks and nets at the alien life under water that
swilled any blood away in a salty sting.
Until that day.
My rock pool filled with tears/spit/teeth from savaged parents
covered and muddied by seaweed from miles out - dragged against
flotsam and jetsam from the seabed. It all tipped endlessly into my rock
pool in a careless hurry/rush/smash like workmen at skips.
I went back to those pools and streams, like tears, crawling from the lake.
Found it was lost and
drowning within its own water:
a roof slate, a car, a swing from along the coast. A doll’s
head that just bobbed and plopped.
It would have been sucked and spat
upward, surging towards the sky with plastic arms praying,
in the deluge just moments (days?) before.
It’s not my rock pool anymore. It’s not our town.
People killed by geography:
Subduction – Subtraction of me from my family.
Subsidence - Insidious silence that lulled people to exposed sand with palm trees over heads like question marks… before the wave even Noah would struggle to sail.
Tsunami… you and me.
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me
Got up this morning
Too busy yawning
To see the pee pot
Spilled the whole lot
With a short kick
Not a recommended trick
Bathroom door was locked
Stood in my pee soaked socks
Flatulence turns to lumps
Underwear full of bumps
Toaster mysteriously jammed
Smoke filled the open plan
Amidst all the chaos
My grip was lost
The bottle smashed
The milk splashed
And the kettle was dry
Almost causing another fire
The car would not start
Despite prayers from the heart
Trying to push the automobile
No movement from the wheels
Battery was flat
Tyres were flat
And I'm late for work
My boss will go beserk
Got to work in empty factory
Seeing no-one made me worry
Observed my paper front page
Date explained it's Saturday
Walking home abusing myself
Mutters heard by noone else
Slipped on a muddy bank
Falling to a sudden land
Covered in dog poop
My embarrassed head droop
Workmen outside my home
Remind me waters no more
A burst pipe was the cause
Nearly answering I paused
Dropped my ashamed head
And went back to bed
I'll sleep the rest of the day
So no more unlucky pain
When those words are spoken, written, to be a man or not,
Buzz says the bee, to discover what is he?
When the vortex of brains come calling all to reveal plots,
On dripping lips with open mouths that are caves of echoes, opened with skeleton
keys,
The makeup of a man with gray and white matter speaking to him,
Seats of consciousness much more grandeur than the largest auditorium,
Fleshy pods of minds, bodies, and souls, that are glass snakes with broken *****
limbs,
Regeneration of anger, hate, sorrow, despair, and love trapped in the hearts
sunless atrium,
Driving on streets with war bonnets making exchanges with Julius Cesear in the
passenger seat,
Boxing wrongs reminding us that we are men, and men we are,
Love letters from Sappho, slapping vulnerability, and veneered with eroticized heat,
Ermine men with life lessons spitting out the memories of nightmares,
Graveyards of bones with worm infested skulls, and dreams at rest,
To be a man in life, to be a man in death, here, and there, he must live or die the
noblest.