"callused" poems
Here it goes again.
Another poem to describe how useless I am.
How tattered my soul is.
How my brain resembles my hands,
callused, numb, and broken dry skin.
I'm a terrible person.
Self indulgent and full of sin.
And here it goes again.
In the mirror I see nothing.
A big steaming pile of nothing.
Full of wasted dreams, 'what ifs' and 'one days.'
The **** that I write never comes out right.
The **** that I dream is just that:
a big steaming pile of nothing.
Here it goes again.
As if I am something.
But I can't get past how useless I am.
A speck in this cosmic dust cloud.
And here I go again, thinking I am a tornado.
How I will crush your dream home
and leave behind a big steaming pile of debris.
Here I go again,
thinking I am nothing.
When really, I am something.
I am a speck in this cosmic cloud,
without me that tornado wouldn't be.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Filter the perfect shade of the forenoon sun,
Not too bright, not too dull.
For with ease and carefree thoughts,
You let the sunbeam-drizzling fairies play
As the beauty reflected in your retinas.
Capture this scenic view:
Where the burnt chestnut colored oaks
And mudstained sweetheart sundress of yours
Dance in three-four beats of waltz.
The Crayola strokes of the skies
And the watercolor streaks of daydreams and nightmares
Paint the canvas of your disquited thoughts.
This is the peripheral view from your suncrashed irises and corners,
This is your world.
Let your knees down to your sore feet
Be engulfed by the chasms of the bewildered grass,
As the smile makes it way to your plump spring lips;
Callused fingers from guitar strings
Twirl and twist the blades,
Cutting through flesh
And green and red and blue and yellow,
All sorts of color came spilling from your playful bruise.
From this panoramic view of yours
Of a wonder wonderland,
Where the ticks of clock
Follow the sunflower throughout time and forever,
This is the beauty of that stem:
A key to escapism
To a well-dreamt lovely world.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
Out here in the fields of the distance
whither the wind blows the silence further afield;
roughhewn footprints show a windswept pathway
from whence feral feet lightly trod
Only the passing whispers chase after the gypsy wind:
that the silence be in quire, placed aloft like a sigh,
pealing through the gentle sway of sweet grass' hush
There are no walls need echo an evanescent wind-song
as each breath of earthen psalm vanishes
lilting into the crystalline quietude colour;
The callused patience still held in these hands
is frayed and tattered, but hope heals stronger
than a ream of paper wings to fly away
And I'm mindful I'm not alone again, lost in
a lingering silent storm — pensively listening —
enraptured aneath all the big skies hold
Jesse Stillwater
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
A pair of lily white wings
dangling in the dappled moonlight esprit;
hang entangled as silken spider web
draped in the sweet Magnolia tree
From beneath there was no way of knowing
why a pair of abandoned wings lodge mislaid
One could not help but wonder how high
one might fly with cherub wings
But these callused feet tread far below the treetops
too high up from roots to climb
No telltale tiptoe prints cavort to be the talebearer
No feathered traces scattered all around
A hearken say, tickle-footed as a ladybug,
hold forth in a breeze brushed ear
Not completely undoubtable heed spoken;
a language bestow from another ether
softly breathe a whisper'd sigh:
"Behold the wings of a fallen angel;
uplifted by love's amazing grace
Lost alone in a moonstruck blindness
an angel flying too close
to the ground
~
Jesse
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
There are grapes in my path
This abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap
for pleasure and pain
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
labors of love
with your own hands
connected to earth.
Breaking backs, and clinging sweat
Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton
Keeping more out than simply the sun
Depleted soil
Exhausted soul
Bursting with juice
Bountiful and hand chosen
And you in a hurry just drive by
Dust in the wind
Skin of clay mud
Day after day,
A boulder among the rows
Hunched in fields
Blistered and callused
Searching for more
Ripe for the picking
Migrants moving
Servitude by season
Benevolent harvest
Handpicked strawberries
By chocolate covered hands
destined from birth
closer to earth.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Rocky roads and crumbling gravel,
Fathers work hard to put bread on the table
Selfless decisions and callused hands
The pain that a mother goes through
is one we yet have to understand.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
So bold in fields of cotton
Clad in trousers of a poor man
It's those times
Fire on his back
Hands callused with toil
He bends like a bow
Pulled tight across the horizon
The sun sets low
No dinner tonight
Hunger the diamond motive
Freedom the faintest dream
Awareness frightens him
Hope beaten out
Long ago
I got these scars
But they still burn
Marks to wear until death
Take me soon
Buried
Freedom came at that price
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
The world is my canvas,
I am the rainbow that illuminates it.
My colors fill the open spaces surrounding me.
I see beauty with my eyes closed,
I speak my wisest words without a strain in my vocal cords,
I lead an army with no weapons.
I speak when I am not spoken to.
I create Unity and destroy resentment.
A man I once bought dinner for
had a body filled with darkness ,
I met his lurking shadow before I was introduced to his warm soul.
"I can't make it another day"
"this is no longer a game that I can play"
"I want to break away from my fate"
"3 big macs and a bottle of ***** that will help me think straight"
"I have this hole in my heart but its feeling more like a never ending weight"
his overused cardboard sign hung off of the side of his garbage filled shopping cart.
his fingertips froze against my palm
we talked about his life
his brother and mom
their drug addictions
and how he has survived so long,
he was 32
with no home.
he understood life in only one tone.
i feed,
I listen,
I speak influential truth.
what I said to him,
through my guitar callused hands,
saved his delicate life.
Purple vibrated through his toxic chest.
Purple.
the color of
wealth
power
creativity,
independence
dignity and wisdom.
purple filled His veins.
My weaponless army will proceed to expand.
and my soul will always be available for helping hands,
my guidance will forever lurk in the dangerous shadows,
I will speak when I am not spoken to because
speaking out of turn
saves souls.
and one day, everyone's soul will drown in purple.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Funny the things we recall.
Images that flash through our brain.
Some most vivid for me were of an old man.
Skin like creased parchment paper,
Lined and yellowed with age.
The veins visible just below the surface,
of a thin nearly transparent veneer.
Liver spotted flecks of red,
Charted paths from the toil of many years,
Palms callused forever from a life time of labor.
Big fingers knotted and misshapen,
The two inch tip of one gone missing,
Saw taken, at age sixteen.
Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess
That still there remained gentleness in their caress.
For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some
Companionable affection or parental love.
Those aged hands could also make things,
Toy sailboats, and wooden trains,
complete with caboose,
And guard cow catcher.
A cool flute whistle that actually worked,
He said it was like the Indian’s made,
Out Oklahoma way.
And he would know,
He cowboyed there.
His hands taught me to tie my shoes,
Open and close my first pocketknife.
Those same hands could become birds,
rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things.
When projected up on the wall,
Silhouetted by a naked back light.
His hands knew magic too,
Pluck silver coins right out of my ears.
His tired face matched his hands,
visual weathered, creased and
wrinkled road maps,
Of 89 years of rugged roads traveled.
Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained
forever fraudulently youthful prisms,
Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within.
But it is his hands most of all I shall remember,
Their imposing look and their reassuring
touches of tenderness.
I shall never forget my grandfather’s hands.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
The way he mouths her name
His precise tone and articulation
sends her crazed and off the edge
a bliss with no resuscitation
Exploring every inch with callused touch and hesitation
Whispered moans in exclamations
His kiss. His body. Her adoration
They build their high in accumulation
Released in sync, their exhilaration
Silent physical communication
Coming down with slow deceleration
They meet eyes and mouths in gratification
to slowly fall in reveries
from their affair and liberation
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
an all purpose cleaner response to the
how-ya-doing-question,
as my vibe unmistakable;
the hatred in the world directed at
MY PEOPLE,
is inexplicable, beyond reason,
a hatred raw and pure in the
tiny places we humans hide it, lest
our ancient linkage to an unreasoned,
embarrassing emotion, be revealed
but now revealed it is reveled,
as the freedom to despise is a
valued thing
is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded
and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused,
surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of
tissue,
wiped away
in utter disbelief
cleansed,
a different kind of impure clean,
“like” an ethnic cleansing,
traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment,
a goner.
like hope, prior sentient optimism
sentenced to life imprisonment and
this sentence, and this very sentence!
written finally understanding that it is
a punishment
far worse than the quick relief of death.
c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew”
cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless
hate
no, not I, no, not me,
spare me the pithy comments,
the pointless sympathy, glistening
like evaporating water droplets
before disappearing, I ask myself,
not
why they hate, why it persists,
for this I understand and accept
the foulness of what we are capable of is,
beloved,
as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents.
no, I ask myself,
why do I write poetry,
for it is as pointless as
the hatred directed at me,
from birth, till death,
and ever after,
the humanity of poetry
just another fraud
another reason
why this man cries in the bathroom,^
not from any shape of shame,
because poetry is pointless
in times of hatred, and now we
know, recognize, it is always
somewhere, nearby, always
present and prescient,
pointless hatred,
itching to be pointed at me,
makes for
pointless poetry.
To whom shall I point my poetry?
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 2:08 AM UTC
1.I want to kiss you until you lose your mind.
2. I think about days when you don’t love me anymore and I can already taste blood in my mouth and my heart is already prepared to take flight.
3. I am exactly who I think I am when you place your callused hands on my body and you see me as exactly who I wish to be.
4. You feel. And when you feel it takes up all of you. But it doesn’t destroy you.
5. You always have to be touching me, like you’re holding down a balloon. And I certainly don’t mind, for I’ve always longed to have someone keep me grounded.
6. I have been consistently warned not to make homes out of humans, but without you I would be homesick.
7. I stare at you and I have this unmanageable fear I will one day fall out of love with you. But I know that if there comes a day when I love you less, I’ll fight it till the very end.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
*"A working man
that's what you are
a young, dependable
not entirely punctual
working man
and you can do anything
with your working hands
fix a tap, wire a circuit,
build a garden wall
or fell a tree
you can do
whatever you put your hands to
you can be whatever you want to be"*
Something breaks
*"with working hands
I'll try to fix it but
it takes time to learn
it takes time
to be good at something
for me
everything takes time
I'm not bad they say
just learning
in my frustration I wonder
what if I'm at full capacity
when there's more to come?
what if I'm just incapable?
destined to be an idle man
with rough, callused
soon to be soft
and useless
working hands"*
. . .
Well I want tomorrow today
so what good are these
working hands anyway?
I work and work and work away
pay my bills
I'm always late with rent
yes, work is overrated and
my pay doesn't make a dent
can't replace all the time I've spent
working with my hands
Isn't it funny
trading something so precious
for something as trivial as money
my brain works over time
day and night
when I get to work
it's like turning out a light
I think less and do more
it's kind of nice
so I think I'll sit tight
and stay on the tools
reject the office jobs
I can have it all
white finger
back problems
an RSI
bad knees
asbestosis
and arc eye
I can get all of them
so long as I try
work really hard and graft away
working man and all that!
who wants tomorrow today
when you can wear a hard hat?
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
~~~
My memory of grandpa
Was that his hands were red
Showing me some pictures
A kid's book before bed.
The bones were raw and gnarled
The sinews looked all sore
The skin was thickly callused
Spotted, lined and scored.
They showed wear and tear
They echoed his toil
Grandpa was a farmer
A tiller of the soil.
Grandpa couldn't read
But we could laugh and look
His hands delicately turning
The pages of a book.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/12/2015
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
I remember you.
Sweet, seventeen you
brand new scruffy beard
and black gym shorts
kissing me on the couch
when my parents weren't home.
Sweet, seventeen you
with those same bright eyes
and citric smile that stung the taste buds
on my tongue.
Sweet, seventeen you
drowned in sheer dumb luck and cheap Captain Morgan
(or whatever ***** it is you like to drink.)
Sweet, seventeen you
with callused hands, dirt stuck in the worry lines
and nails bit down to the bone.
Sweet, seventeen you
pushing my hair out of my face with those same ***** hands,
same reliant arms,
same crooked-tooth smile.
Sweet, seventeen you
with scared knuckles and a bare chest
just begging someone with the same youth
and vibrancy
to kiss it until the leather wore out
until the venom was ******
so you could stay sweet,
seventeen you
forever.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
glamourous indie rock n' roll
orbited our tiny kitchen as i kissed
the nape of her neck.
lauren sliced the avocados.
i prepped the pasta.
our neat little domestic life.
her eyes would ignite mine,
as she spoke of reinventing
the world with her love.
every word rang with perfect truth,
for she had dissolved my callused heart,
and focused my idiot head.
and that night i lied in blankets of her
mercy.
as she licked the wicked wounds
of complacent cruelty.
i've never missed her more.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 8:43 PM UTC
The stars hung low that night
To hail the girl who sat on the rooftop
Of a filthy run down cottage
At the end of the 'Homeless Women' lane
Her knees were scraped with callused fingernails
That bled against the chips on the wall she had climbed
To watch those pretty little things shine
And sigh with wonder against the solitary night
The emptiness in her stomach growled
But her wild eyes devoured the moon
Maybe the night resembled her tattered black dress
And stars were just despicable holes in the fabric of sky
Greasy auburn hair hung limp against her skimpy frame
Not many would find beauty on that haunted face
But there was a prepossessing in her pain
The way she never truly had things to lose
So she loved everything we seldom bother to.
It was a cold night on a full moon
The homeless girl breathed her last atop a red roof
No one remembers a slovenly girl with wild eyes
A homeless girl who died in her true home,
Her personal paradise.
Maybe she was only fifteen
But not many can claim
They've worn constellations on their body
Maybe she found her peace
And landed the stars while we were asleep
Maybe the way she died
Is the way most of us fail to live
Maybe we should love the way
A homeless girl once did.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Her hands are strong enough
To lift up even the mightiest man’s spirits
Callused from her endless work
But still always outstretched
To embrace those nearest to her
Her fingertips delicate enough
To make the same man
Believe that liquid fire exists
As they dance their way across his skin
After he’s made his way into her heart
Her legs steady enough
To carry society’s standards like air
It’s no wonder these legs
Will one day be the gateway to life
For future warriors and peacemakers alike
Never be ashamed to be a woman
Because every man came from our womb
We are just like men but with the fire of life
Raging so strong inside of us
That we cannot keep it contained inside
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 8:23 PM UTC
i dreamt of you
you warmed me in
your callused hands
and sighed as if
i were a hummingbird
out your gran'pa's cabin
lovely an' quick
but i wailed until
my throat was grit
your eyes had turnt'
to green
and the hummingbirds
flew south
to be warmed by
more faithful things
than the rasp of your callused flesh
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Come walk with me a mile...
Walk on without our burden’s weighty shoes,
warily trudging over the long rocky pathway
a lifetime in my soul.
A final edifying voyage to freedom.
The winds of change are blowing briskly
as we walk charily over the long and narrowing
rock-strewn passageway.
I shed these boots and skin, no longer fitting
my scared, blistered and callused soles.
As time slowly passes,
this craggy passage has evolved
from a two-way trail,
into one-way jagged forage…
Standing barefooted and naked on rocky ground,
dark sunken sleepless eyes scan
the rolling vista as the wind blows
dust from the halo around the sun,
blurring the delicate wispy cirrus clouds.
The sun’s radiance paints frozen ice crystal azure
into a vivid aura of prisms’ brilliant corona.
Kaleidoscope rainbows adorn the closest of solar stars.
There's something in the ethereal air
that leaves my soul unsettled,
grasping for an evocative stability
trying to understand the silenced voices
crying out within…
The pain and suffering has vanished
as if the body and soul have separated,
numbness from the ache of longing,
severed nerves, callused fears
ruptured on serrated rocky edges,
deadened useless flesh cut to the bone
by misjudged obstacles encountered enduringly.
The barefooted spirit courses on,
suffused in the solar spectrum’s dust;
yearning, longing to saunter
above and beyond the bloated feathery pillows;
cumulus clouds finally resting at peace.
Dipping heart's lesions and these benumbed toes
into a healing balm
from the bowers of bliss..
An unfinished life
an open ended dream,
reluctantly waking to take the last ,
surrendering steps beyond the threshold...
A long and winding rocky journey’s destiny
draws near
The halo around the moon
illuminates an understanding firmament;
the celestial sphere’s
pending imminent soulful rain awaits
the metamorphosis at the brink of dawn.
A shower of heaven's rain
shall mourn the loss of flesh form
as the spirit of an untamed soul lives on,
barefooted,
naked and free
like the dust in the wind
absorbed eternally...
2011 © harlon rivers
all rights reserved
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
I stand here on a street corner,
daisy dukes and fish nets,
my favorite Metallica crop top
floating up on moonlit skin.
Monster truck inching close,
breath pacing through the city streets,
I walk to the edge of his dark lair
to bite any hesitation.
With curt words and close heads
I smell the whiskey in his breathe.
Pulling into the alley's grip,
I let him lead and grit my teeth.
"Shhhh, I won't get busted again."
the whiskey whispers against my ear,
"Don't make a peep."
Then I'm not sure if it's man or whiskey
who turns me around in callused hands.
He spits first,
entering with a grunt,
and my hands slide down the window with each ******
5 minutes.
I horn honks in the distance, long and mad,
as whiskey man unloads on my back,
along with his long, satisfied growl.
That's it, with a reluctant 20 bucks,
and I'm back biting the wind.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
What does a painter do? A painter paints.
Of paintings inspired by the universe;
Of legends luminous as pious saints.
But people like me work to fill my purse.
Not artisan by trade nor rich merchant,
With rough and stubby fingers callused palms,
I'll starve if I were the master's servant
And soon to take the streets to beg for alms.
I paint for sake of commerce not for art;
I paint all kinds of buildings, houses, schools.
None enters, jobs can't start till I depart;
Scrappers, ladders, paints, brushes are my tools.
Do what I'm commissioned to do. To paint.
But Leonardo or Angelo I ain't.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
Was so fragile-
She could be cut by callused palms.
Could be bruised-
With the stroke of her makeup brush.
Lays so sound-
She could wake up to the car door slamming in the garage.
She is so thin-
Light shines not just through her eyes-
But through her chest, hips, lips, and-
No warmth is transferred through her kiss.
She breaks like hardened mud.
You could sink into her like quicksand.
Her body, is built like a storm.
You can watch the blood in her veins-
Meet your fingers at the surface-
You can still see what you have drawn in the morning-
If you can even crawl out of bed to crack the blinds.
She likes thunderstorms.
She likes the smell of dirt.
Her eyes were gray-
And her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth.
She can dance in the sun-
clumsily-
And still be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
She could sing-
Off key-
But her emotion is what makes those notes gold.
She lays like stone.
She moves like running glass fast forwarded.
Her voice is thunder-
And her eyes are the winter.
She lays hands on you-
Only to heal.
She can mend you-
as easy as bending a wire coat hanger.
Her skeleton is like flint-
How it sparks against mine.
Her body is so fragile-
A word could hurt her.
and a stick or stone-
would certainly **** her.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
Bare feet scuttle around on marbled floors
Painting muddy footprints on the white canvas.
Onlookers walk by in disgust, their noses in
The air as they click their heels in an effort
To avoid the unbecoming scene before them.
The feet are callused and shred, imprints of
Pebbles forever etched into the raw flesh
Of their nakedness. Was it worth it?
Yes. It should be.
It will be.
The gritty pavement is as hot as the
Sun, a burning star, a supernova lifetimes
Away. Their yellowed teeth are clenched tightly;
They are determined to stand despite the furious
Pain slowly eating its way into the
Soles of their feet.
Many scars and scratches from roads they have
Traveled are scattered across the bareness;
They are proud, for it is their art,
That is the measurement
Of their life.
At last, the final goodbye from the scorching day
Kisses their heads in a bittersweet farewell
And You see them smiling in the dark,
Blue eyes glowing with a brilliance You have
Never seen before. They are eager to
Run with their bare, misshapen feet
And jump with all their strength into the
Watery depths below.
You look around.
They are splashing in the waves,
The cool ocean soothing the pains
Of the day.
The corner of Your lip upturns with
A hint of a smile.
This is how they live.
And this is who they are.
Who then are you going to be?
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Cigarettes and coffee and you.
If I had to name three things I couldn't live without,
I guess those would be the things. But it’s not an addiction,
per say. I only like cigarettes when your callused fingers
offer them to me,
your wordless expression showing concern and contentess.
I blow away our pain and worries and pass it on for later,
thinking I’ll make some coffee again today.
For both of us like I usually do.
Coconut milk in yours and creamer in mine, right?
My toes are suddenly cold
I dip them in these tender aqua waters,
juxtaposing itself with the Tampa humidity
that laces my cup. I can't tell if
you resting your arms around my waist
brings a fire within me
or if it gives me chills.
I start swaying to some synonymous tune
that happens to play in both of our heads at this moment,
even though the only music is
the wind whistling
through the shells and stems of the palm leaves.
My lips are, coffee and cigarette and you stained.
The painful heat always disrupts this heavenly time for us.
So we’ll meet here, same time tomorrow.
I wouldn't want to live without it.
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 4:49 PM UTC