"crafters" poems
On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.
At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.
There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.
And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.
On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Where echos bound off cavern walls
Thundering, spacious water falls
Giving power to the ember furnace
Crafters work with full earnest
Our clang of metal forming metal
Our laughter around the stew-filled kettle
Lacboring long into the night
Carrying lanterns for our light
A golden tint in the arenose air
A rich man's delight, deep in this lair
A cornucopia of jewels and stone
Picks and axes spark on the hone
Melted metals with tools of the trade
Upon the anvil are ceremoniously laid
To be shaped and formed into desires
By light of the blazing, crimson fires
Where we find sweat and danger as one
And rarely journey out into the sun
Have amity with our fellow men
And all write to loved ones with one pen
The cavern echos, the rays of gold
This ancient house of tales untold
To find this place, a costly fee
For a way of escape will never be
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
1. infinitely flexible, malleable
in every way imaginable;
sprinkled in magic with a taste that can
2. complicatesimplifyconfuseand
clarify;
3. a compass with which castle crafters
map their masterpieces, built from layers of
similes and metaphors and symphonies of sound,
of memories and apologies and everything bound;
4. a reel of delicate threads which
fervently await a seamstress of words to
weave them together;
*impressionable when you don’t mean it,
fleeting when you do.
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
I know how to party,
On Friday nights,
I have crocheting, you see,
A stash of yarn, and coffee,
I'd say that's quite a party,
Hope all the crafters agree!
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 5:59 PM UTC
Waddley bimbely
Nothing is new.
Sometimes I don’t know
What I should do.
Walkily talkily
Human kazoo.
I have learned better
Than trusting in you.
Whiffily sniffley
Embezzle and lie
Authority snority
Let it go by.
Cheatum and beatum
If they complain
Skim from the top
Buy a new plane.
Hoppity boppity
Games of chance
Always let poor people
Pay for the dance.
Scrappity snappity
Selling their wares
***** about usury
Nobody dares.
Slippity slidery
Constant rendition.
Use public money
To buy politicians.
Graftery crafters
Buy media too.
Make some more billions
To see their way through.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
pear leaves strum the high wire
fern roots claw a sun drenched bank
creep vines mount the hedgerow
sow bugs jump a grated worn step
picket wall stain on cedar
mountain stream brisk at lush green pass
four legs down the foot path
biscuit brown trailers fill the pipe
spiders march on dew web
knots and rivets cut hard at the seam
maples cover the forest floor
sap ***** ping the front gate
dandelions drift on west breeze
blue berries plump at shepherds grove
wood sill holds a stained glass
letter box lined above the scrub
delft ware on the mantle
(with petals and script for a promised guest!)
junior poised with mouth agape
birds and squirrels whistle jovial tunes
goldfinch darts the sea ranch
tabby cat rests in a white wicker chair
a crafters window in the alpine
follies await the summer task!
queen bee on the flutter
airedale set on a woven grey mat
watchmen of the hollow (+ earwig and mite!)
scurry, under rustled moist leaves
frogs leap at trickle creek
shutter bugs mount on gryphons lair
still water ripples in the shaded pool
folding fingers on corner bridge
foragers cut the high shelf
silver fish come to life
whiskey jack sings on indian green
elijah and xavier pause...
at a long days end
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
the cries of the dead whisper,
through the cracks of the city-scape,
they pause...then fade,
into wailing sirens,
of deaths love march,
the dead's eyes lie,
in the avenues,
separating skyscraper,
limited in height and width,
by hands of ghosts,
extending ****** hands,
to raise the crafters,
above the city wall,
separating the enlightened,
the ******
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
We pick up words, and love them
Pennies from a wishing fountain, picked up by hobos
Crafted into beauty, like a sun set on a summer day
Words bleed, You know
They leak feelings,
Dripping love, hate, anger
All things real,
Yet not real at all
"Unreality",
Dreams, hopes, fears
Crafted from discarded thoughts,
Discarded people
Loved by the "no ones"
By crafters of the unseen
Only felt,
read
Misunderstood by the masses
Understood by the few who see
Crafters of the unseen
Ringing the feelings out of words,
Like water, out of a rag
Seeing things, unseen
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 1:40 AM UTC
Sleeping hearts
And dormant souls
Beauty hibernates
Many years fold
Shattered reflections
Eras unseen
Generation: Perfection
Of them, are you keen?
Undiscovered peoples
Obscured luminescence
Shadowed by life’s steeples
Hidden is its presence
Great- their advances
Ignored- their passion
Will cause today’s trances
Lost- intelligence enough to ration
Underground spirits
Nightlife astounding
Colors like parrots
Such a city, hear the pounding
Learn to listen with your hands
And feel with your eyes
The masters of oneness can
All connected are their lives
Together, in unison
Sleeping and knowing
Waiting to show their Sun
And love that is flowing
Wisdom consuming people
Swallowed in thought
Outpouring in emotion
And flawed they are not
Crafters of the stars
And admirers of Animalis
Networking nature afar
That family of causes
Protectors of innocence
Harboring lovers
Defense for our weakness
Strength shared like brothers
Who are these creatures
Forgotten and lost?
Crazy, awe worthy features
And what is their cost?
Who sings this song
Of grace and ability?
Who could play to this music
And not feel so guilty?
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 11:47 AM UTC
As crafters craft and artists art
all things Beautiful were once apart.
Brought together by Work and Pain,
Perfection is sought again and again.
But it is only through Agony and a convoluted sense of Direction
that Man and the Universe can create Perfection.
Accidental masterpieces brought daily into being,
Beauty is not only Seen through seeing.
Tears that cloud our jaded sight
make that once unclear terribly bright.
One view of the World is never enough,
it is the Visions of others that make our Works tough.
All labours of Love, do not always Love find,
but that is because to Love we are blind.
Love is an ability that colours our emotion,
thus, a single man can move an ocean.
A river, an ocean, a dam of time
each human is given his Voice to rhyme.
A wave, a ripple, a tsunami effect
that changes in magnitude only in what we expect.
These clashes and crashes, shatter and break.
It is not our Strength that determines how much we can take.
It is our Determination and Perserverance alone
that distinguishes a boulder, a pebble, a stone.
The cracks and tears,
the pleasures and cares,
mean that Beauty through Perfection sought
with Tragedy and Imperfection is wrought.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Rambolina is the driving force within. She lives in that place deep in the spirit of me is the driving force that has kept me alive, with conscience, and with love, and with the understanding I have only recently begun to develop inside myself. I am developing an understanding that I am not made only of myself,but I am of him, and of you, and of them, and of all the bits of life that have been accumulating inside this soul and body through years of bewilderment, abandonment, and a life led astray.
she is, and always has been the driving force behind my very survival.
my objective in writing of her is to reach within, to come to terms with, and to share the hardships and happiness that this life has brought me. As well as to give testimony of the blessings I've received, while God in all his glory,has tried in every way known to him, to bring me out of the torment and tears I've relentlessly inflicted upon myself ever since the very first breath granted to me. In saying those words "the first breath granted to me", I am only now, I mean right now, with the very next breath I take, realizing and appreciating that I have so selfishly taken each of those breaths for granted in a way that no one could ever imagine. Stolen by me like a thief in the night, like stealing a child sleeping safe in its bed. Stolen from me, by me. Gone are those breathes , never to be recovered, wasted away, in a mad dash. Running as fast as I could. Through a life spared so many times. Why? I ask. Why am I running? I'm passing it by, this life of mine. I'm passing it by while running......running as fast as I can.
Stop! I say. It is time to breath normal. It is time to give thanks,to give thanks to life, thanks to death, thanks to good, thanks to evil. Its just time for thanks to God, to life and for having been given the chance to finally live it. To cherish it. And it is time to appreciate the gifts of life that have been so graciously laid at my feet like jewels before a princess in some fairy kingdom. In my life I ve not been lavished with jewels of men, though I have been lavished by the jewels of god.
for I have learned, if nothing else, that life is a mere jewel. Its' magnificence depends on not only on the crafters art, but on the contents of the gem with which he is working .the lesson of life is as hard or as easy as one makes it.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
It is a world of wonder and delight
because of this love we call poetry
With sisters and brothers
and friends and lovers
and novice and poets to see
There are poems to be crafted
and humor to be laughed at
but sadness is not to be spared
With nightmares to be spoken
as they are put out in the open
and hopes and dreams are shared
We all gather together
to put down with letters
that, which makes us who we are
From near or from far
this is what we are
the crafters of poetry
mkt
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
If
wish
and simple as that,
a twist...
even a poet could not resist
an orange peel
with their
iced tea...
the smoke from a hundred chimneys
and the rain from a thousand storm-clouds,
a city made of iron and brick
were we fooling ourselves to begin with?
If wish,
if only
and what's to be done next?
simple as that,
and this twist?
(an elevator that goes to the moon
is even more irrisitable
to a fainted heart novelist)
ahh, a crafters fortune and vision
a grip on a tether ball, a step on a tight rope walker
falling forever into city
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 8:42 PM UTC
And I heard a sound that called me down to a pretty painted town.
Where all the people make the rounds to cover the hounds
And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep
And I wondered what could break them of this spell
What truth was there that I could tell
These certain master crafters
Who shout the sound of breaking
And abuse the holy laughter
only to bounce it back from the rafters
And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep
I don't want to stand and watch any more
I've fought the battle. They want the war
With no solution but silent desperation
This hollow sanity is not breaking
The masks seeking to swallow adoration
Leaving only the cruel imitation
Of what once was truth
And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
There was an old man who was a crafter.
He had a son with a dream,
The son wanted to FLY.
So his dad made him wings out of bird feathers and wax.
And warned him not to fly to close to the sun.
The sun never listened and when he was by the sun,
The wax burned and the wings came off.
So he fell to his death!
What was the crafters name and what was the son's name?
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Do you remember pulling your blanket over your head as a child?
When your thoughts were running wild. Even in a perfect world our fears couldn't wage a preset war with reality.
So when you've fallen asleep in a cage built by just you, by just you to protect you, don't forget that we build shelters around what we care most. We're careful crafters of shields to protect them from what's outside.
I'm sitting in the rain, locked out, rain pouring, washing away my imagination, a shield to what's real, and I can feel it in my bones, the safety constraints
I'm breaking the shackles of my spine until I feel faint, my backbone shattering.
My teeth chattering over the truth cutting the thoughts into a million pieces, and I'm worried that I forgot that from the fetal position we all can grow.
I'm falling to the ground, i can feel it in my bones.
Straightening my synapses to organize my muscles and bones, pick me up from the ground, but I can't make that climb.
I can feel it in my bones, the past love and deafening woes.
My heart aches, beating into my rib cage , rattling against the bars like a prisoner. Banging my head into the only survivor in death.
I can feel it in my bones
My lungs collapsing into my hips gasping to the top of my body for a grasp of air.
How is it that, I can feel it in my bones, suffocation only hurts for a moment or two.
My knees covering my eyes, even though there are things I want to see.
My hands busy beating at the translucent thoughts batting around my head
and this is it, I can feel it in my bones.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
We are crafters, I know,
We do things, row by row,
We''ll do housework at the end of this row,
We said that several hours ago!
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 8:08 PM UTC