"craftsman" poems
The greeting is the same
the minutia is the difference
Point A and Point B
are always constant
Like a craftsman with
his toolkit and techniques
nothing is out of sync
with expectations
It's not a game any longer
it has become a chore
motions to go through.
Ten minutes in....
You....you threw in a wrench
into my machinations of
dialogue and movement.
You....you don't bore me.
It's a game once again,
and we both intend to win.
Let's play
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.
A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.
And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.
Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.
Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.
The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.
Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.
Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea
Adrift in a sea of springs.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
The eternal tango of the maestro manifests itself in nigh infinite ways.
With the flick of the artist's brush, the stroke of the novelist’s pen or the chicken scratch of the scholar’s nib, legacies are etched, history is written and the world is shaped.
The astronomer, the craftsman and the physician all have one thing in common: Mastery.
Such pinnacles of skill have decades of their lives consumed, nay devoured in the pursuit of perfection, of greatness. Like grains of sand slowly falling into a furnace are the seconds of our lives, trickling, melting into puddles. But as sand melts, it forms shapes; therein lies the potential. Moldable puddles, colourless, devoid of naught but a clear medium.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
In a time,
when men were the superheroes,
born in an unconventional location,
a young girl, unknown to the future
she was destined to,
was born with a uniqueness
unfound in all people, a superpower
of empathy
and as she grew,
the world knew
she was imbued
as a living embodiment of legends:
Athena's wisdom,
beauty that surpassed the goddess Aphrodite,
conversational skills that made Hermes envious,
and strength that Hercules
could never attain.
As she approached an age, when her parents would
trust her to be guardian,
her powers manifested.
This incredible child was now a woman.
With the ability to heal those in need: she could expunge
poison that had afflicted a person,
even their hearts,
a God-given gift for those most sacred;
her correspondences exponentially developed,
able to connect in all languages, fueled by her empathetic nature,
this allowed all who interacted with her to trust her for she radiates sincerity.
Now, fully grown, this super-no-
This Wonder Woman had retired her duties
to save the world, not forsake it, but,
to train Wonder Girl, her daughter,
to unlock the latent abilities her mother had passed on to her.
She still looks up at the Higher Power
and realizes her duty to provide
the world justice is not over
but only beginning.
Her holy spirit was not unacknowledged
and was gifted
a bulletproof bracelet,
forged by the most skilled craftsman by direction
of all that is wise and healing.
Given to her to wear
so that nothing could halt her
as she continues
her fate to provide the world a humanity
that could only come from
an intrinsically true
dear heart.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Open your eyes to the beauty of this planet
Nature, since ages, is a work of creation
Its creativity is beyond compare-a masterpiece
We have to wake up to see the true beauty
Open the eyes of our souls to view the vivid colors
All artifacts are work of the master craftsman
Where else can we see so much creativity?
It is all around us, in the midst of nature
The testimony to the works of supreme creativity
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
(3/6/12)
His future had been laid- for he was a carpenter by trade.
Just as a carpenter can mold anything out of wood
He could mold mans hearts and souls into good.
He would mold mans hearts with accurate precision
For this was his fathers decision.
He came to mold all the hearts of mankind
And open the eyes of the blind.
The world would come to know him as the king of kings
And see all the love that he would bring.
Throughout the centuries it will be told
He is the master craftsman of the heart and soul.
Now when we feel a tingle of sensation
And a wanting to get more of inspiration
Look for the craftsman who could mold
The hearts and souls of man
To give you a helping hand.
when he made the heart of man
He left a corner deep within
Where the love for him can forever grow
And his love you could show.
Let all who know you - know this carpenter man
Who from evil he took his stand.
He has entered in you to mold you from the inside out
So you would know what loves about.
© L .RAMS
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
A lake as still as still — a cloudless sky —
A bird-less forest — silent as the page,
That monk-like sits reflecting for an age
On pious deeds exalted upon high,
The page gilded in wisdom, lauded by
Its maker’s peers, wherein is set the stage
For Nature’s bountied beauty — I give homage
Unto its gifted craftsman, one that I
Have oft’ with envious eyes admired afar,
And matchless to his art, have grasped for skill
Far far above my grade — From him to me
Has come a gift as bright as Keats' Bright Star —
Unto thy lake, may this stone rend the still,
And loose thy songbird skywards, Timothy.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
(3/6/12)
His future had been laid- for he was a carpenter by trade.
Just as a carpenter can mold anything out of wood
He could mold mans hearts and souls into good.
He would mold mans hearts with accurate precision
For this was his fathers decision.
He came to mold all the hearts of mankind
And open the eyes of the blind.
The world would come to know him as the king of kings
And see all the love that he would bring.
Throughout the centuries it will be told
He is the master craftsman of the heart and soul.
Now when we feel a tingle of sensation
And a wanting to get more of inspiration
Look for the craftsman who could mold
The hearts and souls of man
To give you a helping hand.
when he made the heart of man
He left a corner deep within
Where the love for him can forever grow
And his love you could show.
Let all who know you - know this carpenter man
Who from evil he took his stand.
He has entered in you to mold you from the inside out
So you would know what loves about.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
It’s time to discover your roots
Your heritage from the very beginning
History in the making being an inning
Being surprised in what you will find out
You mighty have somebody famous that you want to know more about
Now gather your research and see what you find out
Perhaps your roots date back to a craftsman who designed something unique
Maybe a celebrity figure who has reached their peak
Then later you find out they also tweet
Maybe a slave who was part of the plantation war
Ancestry eye heritage into another
Physical portrait of the other
Heritage that gave you a start
Your life was creation being a new mark
Heritage from yesterday
Destiny being your journey
Your future prepared from the very beginning
Your past too help you preserver on
A moment of reflection, “Knowing how to get along and knowing in life in where you belong”
A distance journey ever after with tomorrow having a defined meaning, and with the conquest of information too what has been longing.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
My new-cut ashlar takes the light
Where crimson-blank the windows flare;
By my own work, before the night,
Great Overseer, I make my prayer.
If there be good in that I wrought,
Thy hand compell’d it, Master, Thine;
Where I have fail’d to meet Thy thought
I know, through Thee, the blame if mine.
One instant’s toil to Thee denied
Stands all Eternity’s offence;
Of that I did with Thee to guide
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.
Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,
Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,
Godlike to muse o’er his own trade
And manlike stand with God again.
The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.
One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread Temple of Thy worth—
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.
Take not that vision from my ken;
O, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,
Help me to need no aid from men,
That I may help such men as need!
4k
A poor craftsman blames his tools, though
a wealthy craftsman can afford good ones.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
"Medium" sized button-up
Tommy Hilfiger fits me big
As if it were an extra large
I don't mind
I like it.
Green.
Darker than grass
Completely green, painted by an
Indigenous craftsman
From New Mexico
The Apache,
My Fathers.
They painted red flowers.
With orange stars in the middle,
Scattered randomly
Perfectly
Throughout the long sleeve button-up Hilfiger
The pattern: Strange looking
Orange flowers
Geometric
I wear it
'Cause it reminds me of her.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
the skilled craftsman
he labors pen on page in nights silence
the names and faces of his students
vividly painted to him in small ways on each page
the girl with her flourish of drawings
in the margins of her work
a bird delicately drawn to appear to be dropping
the words onto the page
in amongst her arguments that shakespeare was a charlatan...
the young man from the morning bell
who dose not write as much as he carves and hacks
his words into the dull instrument of the page
crafting it in his way to resemble the angry face he wears within
this quiet man
teacher
he learns too
from the patchwork quilt of humanity
that passes year by year through his world
some shine brightly
others faded away into obscurity's cage
see him sitting in nights silence
pen in hand
a master craftsman at his labor of love
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
A monolithic sculpture stands upon a hill.
Ornate work of marble marks the artisan’s skill.
Clad as a knight of yore, with stony gaze held high.
Pilgrims travel from miles around to fall under his eye.
Epitome of courage, virtue, and respect
effused upon the villagers traits they should reflect.
Elements gnawed at the stone but failed to corrode
the manifold of lofty aims the knight would bestow.
Dark years beset the kingdom causing disarray-
Tyranny, vanity, and deceit led the people all astray.
Artisan's work above, a shining icon of probity.
A resolute bastion against the world’s impulsivity.
A day will come when the people reach distress;
crying out, they beseech the artisan’s redress,
but long has the craftsman been journeying far away
humbly allowing his handiwork, the message he conveys.
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
Distill water is healing.
The moons voice manipulates the ocean,
By reaching and pulling away from the sand
the suns smile equips us with Vitamin C
The Water cycle is a universal enigma.
She starts of as clouds quenching our planet with:
Oceans, lakes, rivers, and water puddles
she evaporates into mist of waves
Camouflaging her family recipe in the sky,
While cooks up new baby clouds
its starts all over again like the tadpole evolution
even though we all take water for granted sometimes,
She still supplies our needs.
By Shannon Pollard
©Summer 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
I
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!
II
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!
III
You like us for a glance, you know—
For a word’s sake,
Or a sword’s sake,
All’s the same, whate’er the chance, you know.
IV
And in turn we make you ours, we say—
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.
V
All’s our own, to make the most of, Sweet—
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet.
VI
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed you
In a mortar—for you could not, Sweet.
VII
So, we leave the sweet face fondly there—
Be its beauty
Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!
VIII
And while the face lies quiet there,
Who shall wonder
That I ponder
A conclusion? I will try it there.
IX
As,—why must one, for the love forgone,
Scout mere liking?
Thunder-striking
Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
X
Why with beauty, needs there money be—
Love with liking?
Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey bee?
XI
May not liking be so simple-sweet,
If love grew there
’Twould undo there
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
XII
Is the creature too imperfect, say?
Would you mend it
And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye!
XIII
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
Just perfection—
Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
XIV
Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
Into tinder
And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?
XV
Or else kiss away one’s soul on her?
Your love-fancies!—
A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!
XVI
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—
Plucks a mould-flower
For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose.
XVII
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,
Precious metals
Ape the petals,—
Last, some old king locks it up, morose!
XVIII
Then, how grace a rose? I know a way!
Leave it rather.
Must you gather?
Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!
2.8k
O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.
2.7k
The Chef
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
Oh father dear, petrarchan patriarch,
Thy gifted words of thy divinity
Portray the depth of thine own trinity,
And blessed are we who know thy craftsman's mark
And Blessed Are Thee, Thy Daughter Marian,
Who Walks In Beauty Like The Bright Sunlight
Where Flowers Grow And Faeries Do Delight
To Dance In Summer Glade and Autumn Glen
And Hilda, blessed are thee and all that's thine,
The gloom of shadowed valley thou has known
Yet love and life shall ever be thine own,
Oh blessed are thee and all thou holds divine
For thee, thy Hilda and thy Marian,
My blessings always and anon,
Amen.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
poet
oh poet
artisan
of the message
superbly designing
imagery and mind moods
the world would be the poorer
without your impressive wordage
we rejoice in the stroke of your quill
poet master craftsman sculptor of the page
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Chicago's winds were violent
that February day.
The air was unusually warm,
and the city once again bounced
up from its winter grave.
But all at once her winds blew fiercely,
Reminding us of
her wrath
and power.
Her thumb,
gargantuan and steam-punk,
art-deco,
futuristic,
craftsman and industrial,
pressing down on us as we happily
walked down her sidewalks,
and crossed her streets.
She smiled from way up there
and all around,
blowing her winds with extra tenacity,
forcing us
from our comfortable jaunt.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
In a hollow off the main road
sits a village that time forgot
Where things flow, a little slow
and peace of mind need not be bought
The main street beckons all to see
how life ebbed and flowed in the past
Where smiles abound, the happy sound
of a life not metered nor fast
There you'll find the town Silversmith
making jewelry in a forge
The coffeehouse, echos of Strauss
a trodden path out to the gorge
It is home to the Glen Helen
part of a thousand acre woods
Steering the helm, coin of the realm
are the fruits of the craftsman's goods
There by the Antioch College
we spent a good deal of our youth
Climbing the trees, skinning our knees
among beauty we knew as truth
You might just see children playing
Hide and Seek throughout the street
Where "all yee all yee in come free"
sings of a melody so sweet
So should you find that your bones ache
from the pains of life you endure
Take a stroll, over the knoll
to the little town with the cure
Tate
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.
Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.
John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.
I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!
So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC