Toilers Poems | Examples

Autumn Beyond Doubt

A feast of eye-catching hues swirl midair,
stoic fragile leaf a chill whisper,
overt orange, deep vein red,
pallid yellow, scaly amber,
jumble upon bright clad jumble,
earthbound mattress on a grey mud plot,
bald cypress, Norway maple,
crepe myrtle, pin oak,
shed their raw-hewn splintered twig,
amid the waning sun in bleak morph,
late August and September tread,
damp weather bashful pilgrimage,
acorn mulch stuck between the  grooves,
of rugged footwear on limp moss,
along harvest ripened pastures,
hardy toilers lay their white ash scythe,
they reap, gather and proudly stack,
turnips, pumpkins, squash, beet, zucchini,
lifeblood to thriving market square,
rustic idyl diet, whetstone oven backdrop,
whiffs of healthful soup simmering,
bowls scraped, hunger sated,
red ember coal fire glows,
aromatic haze taunt the frozen nose, 
symbolic fall eon meter pending,
 still a buoyant risen spirit

Tenebrous Night

Tenebrous night steals autumn days,
Invading ink subtracts the breath of light,
With tarnished mingling edge,
With dusty dusk’s laments.

Tenebrous night of immutable grave,
Infiltrating melanin loots the golden glow,
Where criminal and crucifix sink,
Where dream and delirium drown.

We are merely complexions of being
With frivolous hearts,
Chalking pigment lines to cleave
The cloak of skin we all share,
Chasing the encasing that divides us. 

Across the planet, lines of disparity,
	          Lines of uneven imparity,
Across the globe, lines of ruling class, 
	          Lines of the toilers and indigent class.

We are merely complexions of  being 
	        Carving rich from poor, 
	                Along lines of race and class. 
We dread what may come to pass.

Tenebrous night our final gasp,
         The tenuous squandered
                             Dwindling light we grasp.

Published in Dissident Voice: November 28th, 2021

Wedding Kermesse

Wedding Kermesse

Common folk with few wants
(Toilers reaping earth’s bounty)
Enjoy life’s pleasantries
By escaping the harsh realities
Of day-to-day existence,
Expressed in a kermesse dance
To the tune of simple instruments.

With joy in their hearts
And freedom unfettered,
They fling each other
Around in circles,
Indulging in feasting,
Drinking, and singing
In the celebratory ritual

Of carefree merriment
(Partakers as witnesses)
Toasting the wedding couple.
With the ground as their stage
And exposed to the elements,
The day wears thin,
But not their jubilance.
               ***

Note:
   “Wedding Kermesse” is an ekphrastic poem based on the painting "Peasant Wedding Dance" (1607) by Pieter Brueghel the Younger (1564–1638).
   The “Kermesse” was any special village or town celebration originating in Europe during the late medieval period (1250–1500 AD) and was introduced to America by Dutch and Flemish immigrants.

The River of Benafim

The river of Benafim 

A long time ago (everything is in the past)
a river ran near the houses its water was calm and fresh
it came from the upland.
Parts of the river runs quite deep
we could swim a little and frolic about.
I had a dog back then
she preferred the shallow parts looking rounded stones
like an egg, she gave them to me.
I thanked her patted her head and put the stones in my bag.
The river is dry now, only an ugly scar in the landscape.
Smallholdings must drive further up to find water.
Bigger farms have small man-lakes that fills with rain, 
but it doesn´t rain so much anymore.
By August they too have to go upland for water.
The toilers of crops, tell me it was like this in the fifties
what do I know, I say nothing to keep the peace.

Warning

Slaves of wages for generations
long forgotten in history’s screenplay.
Each hand for a moment has held
the torch.
The people are waiting in lines.

All toilers have resisted.
All skins have felt the blaze of blood.
The people are waiting in lines.

While trash still clutters the streets,
while  starving stomachs
roam like rabid dogs.
The people are waiting in lines.

Our tears have been cleaved 
and parceled,
sold like floodplain to the blind
by corporate politicians,
while the people are waiting in lines.



We are lured to live among the cushions,
to rest here where the river rises.
No markets can be called free
while hosting inequality.
The people are waiting in lines.

We medicate to escape,
numbing to the barbarization.
No economy can be called just
without democracy.
The people are waiting in lines.

We shall watch for clues.
We will know the signs.
Every torch shall rise.
The people are waiting in lines.  

   Published: Dissident Voice, August 2, 2020

Saboteur

Gleeful roses turn to sullen churls,
And virgin smiles of shyest brides
Soonest morph into widowed furls;
Sad victims of your ill-bladed tides. 

Swearing lovers of staunchest troth
Must sample your bitterest swill too,
And forfeit bonds of grandest worth,
As you gaily gloat like vilest foes do. 

Most ardent toilers all hours round
In shady hands fattest gains leave, 
Mowed to abysses dark worlds far;
To aliens you their ripe labors give. 

And not even sure-shooting hunters still,
Can with all probity wait to taste their kill.
Bards of sharpest wits and niftiest tropes,
Thus must bow and trim ink’s wild hopes.

Your dial’s dual fangs envenom all matter, 
And you’re Joy’s most culpable Saboteur!

The Pixie Ghosts

Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,
Patterns has lent the scope neath the petals,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices,

Heightens an ochered sun amidst voices,
Looms about a faint trace of pink mettles,
Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,

Tattered remnants of coral sprays joyous,
Whilst they'd be assets in blossom vessels,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices,

Grooves a pass graced with nectarous noises,
Virtuous domain sprung through laced specials,
Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,

Noble claims dotes a wishing well deploys,
Nigh, not far they'd be for all our revels,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices,

Submit the crush much, us the true toilers,
Sparkled dusk fades long lives of their fettles,
Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices.


Date: 06/10/2019
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The Swallows

The Swallows

Like dotted foreheads of women, our land was dotted with swallows;
They had rap dances on the farmers’ ploughs and bulls’ yokes in the field
With feathery steps to the toilers’ footsteps till the land was filled with yield.
The harvest saw them fluttering about in mirth, mating and birthing new fellows.

When fields became housing colonies and farmers became paupers, the swallows
Too became refugees like humans without legs; their nakedness had no shield;
Their songs had no listeners; past pulled their todays as the future feared to yield
And stood still; droves and droves migrated towards pastures new with few fellows.

Gone were our dreams when mobile tower antennas began lynching us so much;
Much horror followed when fatal ‘hellos’ just snapped our lives like winged sparks;
Magnets and rays radiated fatwas to our stagnant gen; we flew away and away

Searching for abodes to perch safely and to have a rap once again, but a touch
On the tout corporate wires across fields make us cuddle our legs like fail marks
And fold our wings like feather blazers; fear of life drives us, to die, away, and away.

Crushed

shining lights
hide the toil of millions 
in dark alleys.
in these dark corners 
gleaming sweat of men 
cannot be differentiated
from salty vapour of sea.
the toilers are used to 
sparkle and glitter
the lives of those 
who need these lights 
to protect themselves 
from dark.
the toiling masses, 
themselves 
remain in shadows;
they get burnt as fuel 
to generate shimmer 
for others.
this fuel is infinite in supply 
for it is priced cheap.
forced to provide, perpetually
the lustre, the dazzle, for others;
keeping their own aspirations 
in shadows; and
somehow hoping 
to be redeemed, 
some day, one day.
for only this thin, 
trembling ray of hope 
is their own flicker.


5.10.2014

After a Long Work--Lgt

The evening dons a peaceful shroud
As windows teeter in the breeze.
Here, only lone sighs are allowed
Along the road, an endless wheeze.

While toilers saunter homeward bound
Reflecting hours quite drearily,
With tic- tac rhythm on the ground
Like shuffles of a weary tree.

Dim lanterns cut through brightened shade
With moonlight glowing starlit white,
Till liquid eyes are inter-laid
For even in reminisce is light.



Let's Get Technical Contest, Andrea Dietrich
19 July 2014

What To Tell Our Children

What to tell our children,
when we’re back from War,
back from Peace too,
from Death itself, -
what shall we tell them:
We looked for Love
but found it nowhere?
Looked for Freedom
but found it in slavery?
Longed for Happiness
but wedded Misfortune?
What shall we tell our children:
That we did not find a God in skies,
Home on the earth;
That our horizons were unwoven,
and we could not save the quiet
of our temples?
What shall we tell our children:
Why we begot you? 
To stand upon your infant souls,
like on some stairs,
for crawling up to Heaven,
but still staying covered with Earth,
we the wretched.

Here’s the suffering – your Bethlehem:
Give birth, by yourselves, to a God
that’ll be your peer,
that’ll support more 
you the toilers.

Workers Day

First of May, Workers Day 

The wind that blew cold from the north has slowed down,
First of May in the village and I hear silence speak. 
Workers day, the smithy’s hammer lies idle on the anvil.
In the big town toilers are marching today carrying flags 
and banners, demands equal rights, and work for all.
They will walk past banks, palaces haughty architecture, 
 that has no problem with... rights. Ah, this austerity and 
now it is raining on the parade and the wind sneezes, but 
on the green field I see millions of watery pearls and each
one reflects the overcast sky that promise nothing except 
more drizzle. Yet it doesn’t deter the working man, it is 
good to meet others drinks a glass of cheap red wine, eat
meat roasted on a grill, slices of homemade bread and 
hope life will get better tomorrow.

Toilers At the Trench

Plunging, lifting, plunging -as wind blew ashes all around -
the shovels' blades incised the cold and black encrusted ground.

Attached to shovel handles were the arms of skeletons - of men,
who pausing, hacked and wheezed; then bent and smote the dirt again.

With bruised decrepit bodies - and coerced - they struggled on
beneath a sky from which the sun for them had long withdrawn.

And seeping into nostrils came that too familiar stench
when shrieking had died out, and still - they toiled at the trench.

Perhaps they dreamed of tunnels; that the cracks within the earth
inflicted by their shovels formed a path to their rebirth.

What horror in the knowing there were no more tears to cry
or that their bodies - shoeless - might, in graves they’d dug, soon lie.

First posted 5/6/10
Entered in the '2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 8' Poetry Contest of Mark Toney
Entered Feb. 5, 2023 
for 2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' Final Placement Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney

Toilers of the Dark

Topsy turvy lives,
we lead.
We rare ones,
a special breed,
not all can be.
Sunrise is sleep, 
mid-day slumber.
The moon, our luminary.
We awaken 
with lengthening shadows.
Hallway haunters are we.

South Mumbai #2: Horniman Circle At Break of Day

The blush of the early morning sun
Brings out the toilers to their toes.
Like myriad ants they crawl about,
Each one at his morning chores.

The open space, the parking lot
Or the narrow footpath tracks
Find these sub-human men
Squatting on their backs.

Each one calls to his own God,
Picks himself somehow clean,
Puts to shame the haughty priests;
Piety more is rarely seen.

The morning ablutions all then done,
Each one girds up to face the day.
Hustling, touting, scheming, shouting-
Before sundown to make their hay,

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