Short Lathe Poems
Short Lathe Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Lathe by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Lathe by length and keyword.
Run, Run, .... The Lathe
From Field's Feat's Sum!
Sound Sound's The Victory
Strength.... We've, .... Brung!
Larry Higgs insisted on having a beard
although his wife said it made him look weird.
One day while using a lathe
he got too close by a shave.
Alas, he's uglier than she had feared.
I set alight a fire burning bright
It was a blaze of hope, of faith
Having no tinder, I thought I might
Burn my heart; and smoke billowed, wraith.
I whittled at the carbon fuel, chipping as its lathe.
In
a stand
of thinnings-
picked by and by
a bodger
turns his pole-
sweat drips in his
eye;
the
blade glides
to and fro-
on his homemade
lathe;
one
by one
the pile grows-
legs of beech and
elm.
show me a zero carbon footprint ~ and i'll point out its shoeless slave
but first we'll need a generator ~ to shed light on his pitch black cave
said an oil tycoon to the cobbler ~ who turns on the lathe for a shave
By
David Kavanagh
A Job
I work designing guns
Never out of a job
Quite creative work
Firing pins to mags
Via handles and barrels
Art via a lathe
My mind and hands
Always at work
Like the hitmen
from LIZARD SNAIL 124K Nick Armbrister and other writers OUT LATE 2021/EARLY 22
Twiddle, twiddle,
Work and whittle.
You say with wood
You have to fiddle.
Building cabinets
And turning bowls
The saw roars
And the lathe rolls.
A simple piece
Of wood we see.
You have the sight
Of what can be.
A piece of nothing
So lovingly held.
But with your tools
You soon meld.
And from your heart
Wonders appear.
Works of art
That we hold dear.
The wood turner takes a piece of wood
Gnarled and pitted as aged as it could
The holes are filled and bonded with resin
Which brings out the highlighted colour heaven
Attached to the lathe it turns as the tools cut down
The excess is taken off the shape as it’s found
Slowly working the eye can see
The beauty found in natural wood not found easily.
© Paul Warren Poetry
My mother on a day of marked memory
By this cycling page of history
Gave me then my first nativity
I have no next title to her legacy
That stretches my skin to cover
The etiolated sagging of time
That since childhood over and over
Stripped me of the strict sublime.
I am not deluded by denials ruse
This subtle crawling of grave
Nearer to my impotence to refuse.
I am still, all the rage is in the wave.
In a fantastical shimmer of a glimmer of bliss
In a torrid cyber relationship, too good to miss,
In a ring of circumstances, she tested her faith.
In tiny bits, measured out, by her precision lathe.
In retrospect, she realized she was hard on herself.
Devoid of pleasantries, hope ran amok on soul’s shelf.
The improbability of ever fully knowing
Made her reflections just part of her inner glowing.
Age by comprehension's save
nor failing, nor compassion's grave.
I only fail, I only stave
and then to scoring, am un slave!
No better, boring to deprave,
no asking why, consigns not brave,
the self determined thence appraised
to knowledge minding, is least rave!
It is the doing, that I crave
the soul cast mewing, wisdom's lathe
that building risk the crisis ~ have
I own not, but contend . . . . . the path!
The sky is a dull blur this morning.
At such opaque times,
I clean the lens of mind,
to see what clarity is behind
the gray filters.
Surprisingly, I perceive,
some last snowflakes
have been painted emerald,
by thin rays of light,
The air appears now,
as an ethereal lathe
turning the ill-defined into
buoyant landscapes.
Wiping my glasses,
the sky and earth
sparkle brighter still,
behind a clearer mind.
Lady of the Night
Blessed be the ardor
of violet words
uttered in the heat of night,
whispered untrimmed,
urgent as convulsion's
approaching strains.
Where is the one
who tricked in heels,
turned on the lathe
of the procurer's sloth,
with waxing age?
Truth dissolves the mists,
banishes yesterday's lies,
lifts the curtain of darkness
to starkly reveal
the procurer's delight
is no longer there.
The lady of the night
at last is free.
As sinister repercussion denies salve,
I deal with Thee, in all I have.
Rebounding fate esteems its own faith's path,
while faith, as Godly reason never lathe -
is tried as empty, no one clad
in truth, deny their ministry of glad.
Oh love, that love were covering, were not fad,
a moment's hovering, a thought of had.
Some timeless truth between us, yet not add,
has neither emptied thee, or I - or bad ..
I love Thee so -
...respecting thee are sad!
they live now
in layers of motion and stillness
a fret sawing wind
a chaffing river
have shaped them
limbless bodies
turned upon
a lathe of time
glints of starlight are in them
eyes blinded by too much
of light
or dark
blue veins leach from granite pores
synapse
with bloods tingling clamor
with fingerprints
a molten world
drips green algae
upheavals whisper
from an unending past
a stone thrown back
finding a voice
in an uttering splash