"carvers" poems
When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.
My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.
His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.
When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on Tynes.
Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.
When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.
Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.
He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.
Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
my polygamous relationship with you distances me from the monotony of monogamy and makes me feel lonelier than the loneliest mundane monogamist. my mere apologies for my misendeavors, the malnutritious morals of my miseducation propose metal mirrors and castaways controlled by cutting carvers, craving crazy letters and loyalty from lengthy lies and lonely lives. lethargy overtakes and vowels reign, raining drops like rainbows and rocks in rivers, rusting relationships, rusty railroads at intense intersections entwined in everything inside and nothing on the outside anymore except these
muscles. we are back at the beginning.
my mind marvels in the magic of the memories, the madness of the morbidity and the hesitations of your reaction. his, I take, is misunderstood as my misfortune, but it is not a miss, my fortune: it is a fox in feathers colorful like friendships 'fore their forfeited and feigned approval, forced for fear of polygamy tho' it promises the purest pleasure, the most personal independence and precious pearls of princes, princesses, powerful, plight-less
poetry. peace surrenders,
souls surprise themselves, surprise their cells, call for curious catastrophes to take place. colorful and calm they coincide with cooperation that can not contain the context of truth, of teases, of teasers and targets and tonal dualities and we endeavor, we endear you, we dare destroy the darkness of the devil in its disguised diamonds.
words lie at my feet like pebbles of poetry and I promise personal demise, deterioration and ridiculous obsessions- there's madness to be had and fragments to be written and I play with silly alliteration instead!
serious and serene you stare as if my sanity has slowly faded and I sternly helplessly smile shyly. I suppose you are sincerely offering me your blessing before parting, so stumbling slightly I surrender…
if this is the prevailing promise of mere mortality, I'm graciously aware I was worthy of words.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Firefly dancers,
carvers of night's granite,
causing sparks,
irregular movement -
of liquid quanta of light;
made me stay put,
go beyond
the mundane concerns
of light and darkness.
Inner being becomes
another form of amazement,
letting go all insistence
on meaning in everything.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Forget Portland and Austin and Santa Cruz.
Those famously strange places,
where the tourists gawk at local weirdos.
Here is not there.
Here is the place of advice such as:
“When life gives you meatballs put a wig on a dog.”
—True story.
Here is the place where:
“With all good things in life you just have to wipe the bird **** off.”
The place where steel and marble Confederate ghosts,
watch the wealthy renovate their westward homes along a cobblestone road.
Where paintings are propped to rot up in alleys,
and buzzing twenty-somethings on their way back from a show,
shake it and tilt it and carry it home.
—Gilded frame and all.
This is the place of painted concrete where walls are canvases,
and red bricks pop out of the ground,
the tree roots poking through to trip you.
Here’s where the People’s Beer comes from Milwaukee,
but we replaced the R in ribbon with here,
and sell it by the caseload when it rains and when it’s Tuesday.
Where young people go to find themselves getting lost becoming someone else,
remixing history to not admit naivety,
before they’ve been sandpapered through experience.
—To a core.
This is an ink-stained but not splattered place.
Where lines are careful, permanent and abundant,
and on Fridays can cost 13 bucks.
Here is the place where people roam like that restaurant rabbit:
listless and nomadic and stuck.
Where there’s a wild streak in its heart that follows the tracks,
and cuts the city in half.
This is the place that Carvers itself out into cultures,
and you can be from the Bottom,
or proud to be a Rat.
Here is where you night-drive over the bridge,
see the skyline and feel restlessly content.
Here is home.
—For now.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
(Alone, I wanted love, both to be and to do...
Creation is a dangerous fling when love is on the line.)
Wood carvers' magic lies
In the carving of their steel knives;
Sticks of wood and cotton strings
Give hardwood imitative lives.
Always, though, a thing is needed,
Or the living and the dead move only
In a dance surreal's reflection;
The dead must imitate the living.
Somehow string life is never quite enough;
True love must choose to stay...
To dance a half step slow or quarter fast,
To jive against a jink and twirl an unexpected twirl.
And so I cried each night and prayed
For genuine, not wooden love,
And life arose in wooden hands;
Pinnochio was born, and stood
Wobbling on wooden feet, but living.
The joy I felt was full to see my son,
My own creation, moving on his own.
Then he, like any living boy, began to run.
Some say a loss is better if love comes first;
Some say it's better yet, to be alone.
I have seen both and can't determine which is best...
Pinnochio, Pinnochio, my wandering son,
Remember me, your father, and come home.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
me being part of a poetry contest was a scam
lol
every time I touch my own face I think of cutting parts of it off with one of those electric pumpkin carvers
lol
i imagined dying from taking 20 diet pills
lol
I imagined I would call someone on the phone and announce to them that I’m dying
lol
I will never publish a book
lol
I might even die before I’m like, 17
lol
my dad never remembers how old I am but that’s ok I don’t know how old he is either
lol
probably like, 47 or something
lol
this isn’t as funny as i thought it would be
lol
when I was 6 I accidentally broke my uncles rake and I felt bad for years even though it wasn’t a great rake probably like 8 dollars
lol
i don’t think my parents are a great couple but whatever
lol
there’s a whole bunch of scratches on my thigh
lol
I feel I’m a poor excuse for a human
lol
I have all the spyro games but I only have beat 4 of them
lol
I tried throwing a paper in the recycling bin about 3 feet from my desk and I missed
lol
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Living life on a string,
I sat on the shelf above the wood carvers bench.
I stare out the window as a shooting star fades into the night sky,
It flies away, it has no strings, unlike me.
I was a popular toy,
The woodcarvers favourite in fact,
he would always show me off to the boys and girls,
a tap of the foot, a tip of the hat, the usual evening act.
He doesn’t play with me anymore,
He hasn’t for a very long time.
He’s been under the covers of his bed,
I’m afraid he’ll never wake up.
The room is often dark, damp and very cold,
The wood of my body is starting to splinter and mould.
A rotten stench fills the room and floods my nose,
A vase is filled with rancid water and a single, wilted rose.
I try to move but my body is as stiff as a board.
I try to call for help but my mouth does not open.
The paint that was once my eyes has faded away,
Blinding me in one eye, but I can still almost see the sky.
The speckles in the dark,
The stars in the great abyss,
What secrets do they hold,
Are they like me, do they got old, do they have strings like me?
The question bounces around my empty shell.
Another blink, a flash of light,
Pierces the sky with its mighty flight.
Followed by another, and another, and another
And another…
The sky filled with beams of light,
Stars travelling freely through the night,
No strings to hold them back.
A creak, a crack, and a fall.
The shelf had finally succumbed to the rot,
And with its contents, I begin my descent,
The cold dark floor below me making its approach.
Fear should have gripped me,
But instead, a warmth filled its place.
Is this how the stars feel when they fall from the sky?
It feels almost… peaceful.
I feel for the first time in a long time,
Like I can smile.
Falling with the stars,
I can’t help but feel happy.
There are no strings on me…
I am free…
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 11:42 AM UTC
(Alone, I wanted love, both to be and to do...
Creation is a dangerous fling when love is on the line.)
Wood carvers' magic lies
In the carving of their knives;
Sticks of wood and cotton strings
Give hardwood imitative lives.
Always, tough, a thing is needed,
Or the living and the dead move only
In surreal dance, a lifeless reflection;
The dead must imitate the living.
Somehow string life is never quite enough;
True love must choose to stay...
To dance a half step slow or quarter fast,
To jive against a jink and twirl an unexpected twirl.
And so I cried each night and prayed
For genuine, not wooden love,
And life arose in wooden hands;
Pinnochio was born, and stood
Wobbling on wooden feet, but living.
Full joy I felt, to see my son,
My own creation, moving on his own.
Then he, like any living boy, began to run.
Some say a loss is better if love comes first;
Some say it's better yet, to be alone.
Seeing both, I can't determine which is best...
Pinnochio, Pinnochio, my wandering son,
Remember me, your father, and come home.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Escaping the threats of death
While in cave, in mom's womb
I say welcome to my abode
Alive you came into a new home
If you don't know, I'm Mr. Life
Embrace me fearlessly above board
I'm that priceless breathe in you
You can't trade me for anything at all
Live me with caution and you'll smile
Regrets are yours when carelessly
I bless some hardworking entity
But the lazy, I say no! no! to success
Bless and fulfilled are those
Whose purpose they've known
Woe to the confused entity in misery
I am a fine wood to the brave carvers
They give a lovely craft out of me
But undeterminable by the cowards
Every professional knows me
Footballers says I'm a goal
If you don't play well, you won't score
Doctors call me Mr. Mysterious!
I confuse their mastery in theaters
Whenever I want to leave they can't
stop
The theologian guys know me
They call me the oldest mystery ever
The breath from the supreme God
The greatest brains tried to no avail
You can't make me artificially
Oh! I'm precious and you know that!
I left the greatest Philosophers ravelled
Till they unravelled the hidden mysteries
They've known as the Mysterious one!
The military respects me fearlessly
They take me from some to save others
I'm Mr. Life, your friend, your smile.
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 4:08 AM UTC
Let us drink, the rays of sun in new day,
and play in fields of a poets mind,
getting drunk on our creative juices.
Let us breath deep, to feel empowered,
and resinate in the energies of love,
to feel oneness in the sacred moment.
Let us feel at home in every step,
and enter the carvers of heart
to write a grand symphony of lyrics.
Let us all celebrate, with glass full of special words
and use our creative minds with grace
to rise dancing on roads lined with blossoms.
Let us all say gratitude for the chain we've forged
and recall our passions to script in oneness
to move knowing we're blessed and a blessings.
And, Let us swim far in our own waters of artistic waves
and touch one another sharing love
to make a new world where compassion rules,
and peace prevails.
StarBG © 2017
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
Halloween time, oh how savvy it is to treat.
Eating candy for sport there no chance for a lose.
Tooth fairy's rumble threw cloud's of sugary fame.
And witches hold brooms and ritual there names.
Carvers came from mountain's a little thing in praise.
Now the moons dimed for a new start of a dawn day.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
We see the birds fly over the skies ,where sometimes we dream of. In he shadows of trees hey hide, shelter, breed and nurse their young. And to some birds, it is a place of defense, a tower of refuge, a point where they could see all the land, and only a few could have such a view.
The wolf dig holes and barrels, nest their young, train them to be together, to hunt and prey and be preyed on as well. To the wolf togetherness is strength.
And we men; we mould, we craft, we build, we farm, we watch and be watched upon. Some times we seem dissatisfied, for our ego is much, we are care taker of creation. The carvers of wood and hewers of great stone into caves and monuments, and a race that posses fashioning of weapons, both great and small, both good and evil.
We posses many names according to race of kind, according families, according to tribes, according to sects of vicious talents and our know how and to research, companions who tell history and what is behind history.
For we are called men because we are descendants of our kind. We also posses beauty and handsomeness in like fashion of fathers and mothers. Our defenses are from deities of great power, weapons, towers and skills. We learn from many; of our kind and sometimes not from our kind.
We are the key to the next generation, we carry our life, history, genetic makeup, our sense of being and how we want our future to be like to the next generation. W e will teach them of our world and what is yet to come. Such as is done by birds and other kind of animals, we must not forget our past.
We will remain the ultimate purpose of creation, objects of worship, men and always men alike.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:41 AM UTC
I dreamt I sat with learned men,
who spoke on things diverse:
The effect on life by visual Arts,
and music, dance and verse.
Although at first argument was heard,
they came to one conclusion,
That mankind’s life without the arts,
would be a pale illusion.
Speaking first of Nature’s many gifts,
that observant men behold,
Those captured by an artist’s brush,
in vibrant colours - bold;
Often encourages timorous men,
should ambition slip away?
To pursue careers once set aside,
and set them on their way.
Debate moved next on how the Poet writes,
with his use of words and style:
They praised his use of subtle ploy,
by which he’ll oft beguile
A reader to attempt a noble deed,
or challenge a fearsome foe,
Or sometimes provoke others to laugh,
when sad or feeling low.
Next Composer skills were analysed,
as were their melodies:
They spoke of the pleasures music gave,
how it brought back memories.
But of music some found most pleasing,
Jazz was the best they thought,
With its free form of interpretation,
Life’s every mood is caught.
Though sentiments on dance were varied,
they did express the view,
That without masterful portrayal,
it means naught to me and you.
But should the spirit of the music,
be captured accurately,
The audience becomes enraptured,
with the artistry they see.
As the discussion was continued,
varied views were given,
On sculptors, carvers, weavers,
and how each one is driven.
When inspired by Muse and passion,
which they determine to appease,
Few will deny their vocation,
so the moment they will seize.
Although my dream was ending quickly,
still their discourse I could hear,
And conclusions they had reached,
were remembered loud and clear,
That when with talents we are blessed,
it would be a sinful waste,
If neglect allows them to moulder,
for gifts are then debased.
Rhymer June 25th, 2018.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC