if a workman leaves he might be gone forever
without finishing the job
we had a workman who would do this
If he took his tools we knew there was no predicting if he would return
Today we heard our workmen leave
I ran outside, my heart thumping
their tools were still here
I began to breathe
a bad workman always blames his tools
so that bad cut was my fault!!!
1950’s wear
teenage boys loved them
less scraped knees for sure
girls wanted them too
they can be frayed
dressy or plain
embroidery them
or add some lace
solid blue
workman pants
dungarees
daily
denim
jeans
Next door was a paddock
of long grass and a graveyard
for dumped machinery.
Rusted out boilers, cogs, wheels
and huge presses were piled high
and begged for the sure foot
of a boy to climb and boast
the height.
Strange, twisted shapes
held a pose that seemed to freeze
the agony of being broken apart.
Sinews of wire cable hung
from joints in frayed strands
as if torn out of sockets.
Grease oozed from cracks
like congealed blood.
Nothing seemed to fit
a species familiar to a boy,
each part a mystery as to what
beast it belonged.
There were holes big enough
too fit a head, throated cavities
that harbored unknown echoes
and pipes that would hold
a haunting note when struck
with a stick.
One afternoon on coming home
from school, there was nothing
left but a cleared block.
Everything had been carted away.
A workman told my Mum
that snakes had crawled out
of the place where I used to play.
Every believer,
Miracle Man
8-3-2023
Has an obligation to share the gospel,
by the life we live we must let it show.
We must study to show ourselves approved,
for we can’t share what we don’t know.
We see those daily in search of something,
yet don’t know what will please us.
Until a catastrophe creeps into our lives,
then we reach for the hand of Jesus.
2 Timothy 2:15 KJV
Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.
The day I fell off a chair and damaged my leg
I was amazed, for I had been resilient before
It took me a long time to heal my torn meniscus
I had bruised the bone too
I went from a wheelchair to a walker
Your damage might have been caused by your age
The workman comp doctor said
So they refused to fix it
Saying it would heal itself
It might have if I had been younger
But I wasn’t
Then my eyes went
I found myself holding the paper out
A tiny bit further each day
I started out with one point five readers
Now I am up to point three point five readers.
There are spots on my hands now, I feel like an old leopard
I began to fall apart at age fifty-five
Before that birthday, I felt young and exuberant
My enthusiasm has waned a bit
Thanks to arthritis in both ankles
Which means sometimes when I take a step
it feels like I have broken both ankles
Old age is ridiculously inconvenient
(This is an old poem of mine reposted with some modifcations )
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
Some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now that I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
Like Nero fiddling on his harp
When Rome was burning
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away.
In the cusp between victory and defeat
I have charted my future action plan
Decided not to cry over spilt milk
But to start over and continue my work
Till I can erect a ‘pleasure dome’ of words
As our famed poet Coleridge did!
Nov. 25. 2022
Just Before Release Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
Some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
When Rome was burning,
Like Nero fiddling on his harp,
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
____________________________________
May.14.2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now that I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
Like Nero fiddling on his harp
When Rome was burning
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
Jan. 2. 2022
Hope Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mohan Chutani
Food Revolution in England
That was what a middle-class paper wrote
and it could not be more wrong.
To eat this esoteric food, you need a thick wallet.
most people in England are poor and since
the food industry has taken over
People, eat pizza, fish and chips and occasionally a Chines meal of chicken and rice.
They have unlearned how to cook a nourishing simple meal.
Yes, we need a deep social revolution.
The paper in question “the Guardian” appear not to notice
the rampant poverty we live in,
Instead, they talk about luxury restaurants where you need a workman´s wage to enter.
To write this article is fraudulent, pandering to the haves
and poking their noses at the hungry in the street.
A life without end in sight! Fed up, I hibernate.
A sleep like the dead, until I wake,
I yawn, nod, doze and wake again.
Yet I feel lethargic and tired.
Why wake into full aesthetic consciousness?
Why should I not grab forty more winks?
I wish my vitality infiltrates my essential existence,
but the going is truly tough.
It's like crossing the black Styx
wading across a bottomless ford,
as if I have been condemned to Hades.
I tremble into awareness, search for reconciliation
sacrifice a peace offering to my merciful Lord.
Can I find redemption? Should I plead insanity,
mental disorder or lunatic madness?
Maybe 'tis what I should have done,
instead I wake, work hard, test my tired arteries,
hear the creak of arthritic bones,
do gratifying things, like every workman should:
until I sleep the repose of the just.
3 December 2020
An SO contest
Placed 2
The hours tick by before my eyes,
As I lay tucked up, in my bed.
Even Bo peeps sheep have now returned,
And still the lack of Zzz’s.
Pounding seconds tick away,
Seem to echo in my brain.
Back and forth and back and forth,
Reminiscent to coaches on a train.
Oh, what I hear myself reply,
As the shock begins to bite.
With blood shot eyes that settle down,
As the room now fills with light.
As a foot now stumbles on the floor,
Now lurching from my bed.
In a bleary haze that follows,
From that workman in my head.
A vow to become teetotal,
For at least that what was said.
From the dark roast coffee granules,
To raise me from the dead.
What a happy sounding chappie,
From the airway’s morning show.
Why should he be feeling cheerful?
With five days of drudge to go.
Now boldly going forward,
As through the door I trek.
Filled by last night’s antimatter,
From a star ship what the heck.
© N Windle 2020.
In the beginning, was the word of God that is and always will be,
Forever endure throughout time,
Will never come back to Him void,
They will accomplish that He please,
By Faith, it is understood,
Everything was framed by His word,
Have not you heard,
We live not by bread alone,
But by every word coming from His mouth,
The word is a lamp that lights your path.
Do your best to meet God’s approver,
For a workman not to be ashamed,
Rightly handling His word of truth,
Let the word of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding
Penetrate your mind.
His ways and thoughts are higher than mankind,
Leaving all your troubles behind,
Do everything to God in psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs,
Everything will be just fine,
Sing to the grace of God Divine,
His word is the truth for all mankind.
Workman Abe always left his tools for you.
His hammer, his level, his wrench, his nails.
His electric drill, clamps, vice grips, screws too
Left them hither and yon, habit never fails.
From Timbuktu to Hackensack his stuff he lends.
Some called him up to give him back his stuff.
Unconcerned, he said that’s okay; keep them my friends.
Workman Abe simply did not care, his habits rough.
If he came back to do another job, of course he left his tools.
Knowing that you might call him back; worked well for renewals.
can I follow up
greatest words ever written,
blue skies on thin ice?
should one’s theology be
impeccable...shatterproof?
2/10/2020
Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.
2 Timothy 2:15 NIV
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