"electrician" poems
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
A mother whispers into the fire of Night
I hold a match
I hold Yarn
I Am Wool
Shrinking to the formation
The intricate designs of your rib cage
of your brother's belly
of your Grandfather's waist
Am I simply a fool?
And Who
Doth I ask This question too?
A Torn book
A tattered sonnet of Man's sore feet
blistered eyes that are Green
That are Brown
That are Blue
I Lay with myself Tonight
I am Awake
I am Loud
In your Night
I Am the Janitor beneath the hardwood floors
of your Dream
I am the
Poorly Waged Electrician
With Shoes that resemble an old dog
I Light Your Highway
Your Street
Your Morning coffee
your
cigarette
Am I The Child?
I fall in love with women I see on the streets
Their Wavy hair
like a French sea
Her pale complexion
the Brown Glimmer in her eyes
And I paint on her on Tombstones
On Coffee Mugs and on carpets rolled up for the Dumpster
At Nights
I prefer to dream awake
and sit with a BathTub of words
of stories that melt like cheese
that stiffen like Ginsberg ****
that Shriek and Strum like Tom Waits stomach when he starves on backroad streets
And when I cannot
reproduce
I make love to a woman
And a poem is made
and I kiss her
and my lips say 5 am
and I wish her not to go
But the Dog
is waken by Robins
by the Pigeons
by the digestion of night to day
by the Greek Gods and Goddess' Light
That Falls down
like long hair of woman you have so longed for
and you kiss her chest
And there is no Death
There is no Sleep
or ****** addicts or gasoline or paved roads or shaved faces or mothers or Dostoevsky or Beethoven
There is just her
and you run your fingers across her skin
through her hair
She is the bottom of the Ocean
You are a homeless crab
a Shellless Clam
falling down
down
down
to the bed of the great ocean
and there she lays
With a reflection of Youth and Beauty
And her complex simplicity makes me think of
me as a boy
running behind brick collapsed business buildings
Kissing a girl behind church
Buying Icecream with Josh in Winter
That's what a woman does
She erases Death
from the palms of your hands
and your thoughts
and you sink
to the bottom
and you watch the Coral
The other fish
swimming along
and you laugh
Because you do not know Death
And Death does not know you.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
my father was an electrician
but he never taught me how to remedy
strong jolts of electricity
that leave your limbs quaking,
your lips shaking,
your soul aching.
they say a bolt of lightning
can measure up to three million volts,
but, then again,
your touch holds more power than any storm.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
Shattered glass upon the ground I walk
With Shards in my bare feet
And skin dry and brittle like chalk
Bathing in my own field of wheat
I am the bread basket of my own produce
The life of my own breath
And the electrician to my own fuse
That cuts the energy from the world's ****
So my dear friend won't you look
And see that I am I
I write my own bound book
With letters of my soul's cry
You are the upholder to your own home
The columns to a distinct bridge
Don't take me from my kingdom
To lead me to the devil's ledge
I ask of you to sing your song not mine
And allow me to write my melody
Of the oceans whispers upon the pine
That speaks my spirit not this felony
Oh how I wish I believed these words
But they tell the lie of a longing heart
That's pierced by frozen swords
I want to help you love, hold your part
I want to be your eternal pillar
And live as one in unison
Resonating the music of our laughter
Please take me as your woman
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:21 PM UTC
Just as a boy grows into teenager,
he is bound, to one day, grow into man.
I think it's when he is just five years old,
he becomes a demolition fan.
At that juncture, it's all about the tools.
To dismantle what works perfectly well.
They may begin plastic at the start,
but it triggers something in their cells.
A teenager will start with something small,
a lawnmower, dirt bike, then on to cars.
Then as he ages and gains life experience,
the quest for tools is written in the stars.
It starts with a simple set of wrenches.
Then moves on to socket sets and ratchet.
Not just ASE, they need metric as well.
A tool store is a veritable banquet.
Metal worker, wood crafter, mechanic,
Plumber a welder and electrician.
Wrapped up in a testosterone package,
needing a new tool for the next mission.
Watch as his eye light, when reaching for a tool,
that's new to the market, sitting on display.
It's no longer about simple fun in an old cardboard box.
It will be tools from now till his dying day.
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
i haven't come out yet
and i don't know how else to say it
especially to
my mother, the nurse
my father, the electrician
my brother, the politician
my sister, the wise ***
i don't know how to say that
i have an affection for words
i have been hiding the paints under my bed
and staring at the guitars from
outside the window
unable to resist how hard
the urge is to touch
i am a closeted artist yet to come out
and admit that i've had an affair
with a few museums and paint brushes
that i have been memorizing poems
from before i could read
committing some verses to memory
as my mother recited them to me softly before bed
and as i stand here waiting in the closet
im sketching a small butterfly on the wall next to my coat
ill most likely wear to the off broadway show tonight.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 3:05 AM UTC
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
it's all good,
Van Gough reprints on the walls,
tact in,
type writer on the carpet floor,
a boxelder bug hides in between 'U' & 'I'
I've got a dollar in my wallet,
hair on my face,
and the dog waits at the door for me to be wild,
the room is cold,
the heater is off,
the electrician is drunk,
i hand him a bottle of wine,
we end up painting the walls,
with the left over blue buckets of paint in the basement,
"now it's like we're in heaven"
the bellyed drunk brown eyed electrician,
his hands face hair clothes covered in paint,
"now you are heaven"
and we laugh,
lighting cigarettes that taste like women,
and the Television screen is cracked and leaks out Volume 3 News
some how we are free at this moment in time,
when the color of the walls are pointless,
when the television screen says nothing,
when the bathtub is broken,
and the water pipes whine,
and the mind is fairly crazy,
fairly drunk,
fairly mad,
but it's all good,
because rent is paid,
and the world's fist is taunting me,
to see how long i can go without eating,
and how fast i can create.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Because I could not wire a Plug,
It wired itself to me.
The carriage held but just ourselves,
And Electricity.
We passed the school, where children strove
To gain some erudition,
Ah! what a shame I did not learn
To be an Electrician.
For who would think a wire called live
The life of humans halts?
My wiring style contains, I fear,
Two hundred forty faults.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet
We drive for all we're worth;
The eternal heavens seem so live;
So neutral seemed the earth.
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
The clap of my feet causes sparks
to snap at my ankles
A fire burns as I run
I imagine my pain
And a cool water flows over my flesh
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
The flames were so high, Byron was fighting hard against them, to no avail."Megan"!,"Megan"!, screaming her name, he felt engulfed, and light headed.A thousand thoughts raced through his head, panic, seering pain with every breath he took, call an ambulance, Megan,s screams cut through him like lasers, she was trapped, scared, how must she be feeling right now?
Wood crackled, metal creaked, echos, lights, sirens!
Byron jumped, bolt upright in bed,"O **** SHIT",another nightmare, each one bringing his memory closer to what happened in their cottage they had built together.
Byron was working from Leeds, commuting to Killough, his favourite village in Ireland, well, it had to be, it's where he and Megan had met. He'd planned to run the architecture business from home.HA!, home, where was that?, he wasn't sure anymore.
As Byron strolled into the bathroom, turning on the shower he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.Almost forgetting the scars he had aquired from the fire, those visible reminders that his electrician was skimming from the funds, cutting corners, greedy little ******* The sight was gone from his right eye, and his face bore severe scarring right down to the collar bone. A small price to pay, at least he made it out alive.
He made a mental note to get back to Killough, this very night, to see Megans grave.He'd settle for anything, any reminder of Megan, she was slipping away from him, he couldn't have that, ever...another reason for moving to Killough.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
In the deepest darkest corner
In the recess of my mind
I built a little cupboard
We're my skeletons can hide
Then I imagined an electrician
To give my cupboard light
And gave all my little skeletons
A nasty little fright
Now they have no darkness
No place that they can hide
My skeletons can,t hurt me
I just brush them all aside
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
You are the last dream I had before I woke up, the one that lingers all day
You are the electrician I've been waiting on that never shows up, the one that doesn't do his job anyway
Will I always have to settle for less than you?
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
I'm not an electrician but I do know this.
A voltage produces an electrostatic field. As voltage increases between two distanced points, the field intensifies. You and I were similar in this way. We were two points with voltage charging between us. We somehow created a region stronger than us. Our love flowed like currents. Our love brought us closer. The love between us intensified, much like the way the electrostatic field intensifies. Each kiss and touch made the blood running through my veins turn into electricity. You ignited a fire in me.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
he steps forward to bless us with song
benediction’s serenade
binder clips and clothespins weaken wind
as sheet music tries to take flight
with each strum he was fighting it
emoting with sad lips and blue eyebrows
taking deep breaths let out with heavy sighs
but holding steady
singing and crying come from the same place
as he sang the sun sneaked out
shadows surrendered their stronghold
a moment of warmth shown upon our gathering
near the pine tree at our father’s grave
Terence’s ashes to be interred with dad
a musician, an artist, a writer of songs and poems
a technician, an electrician, a wood worker
his many gifts now only spoken of in past tense
a son to two, a brother to eight
an uncle to many
a father to one daughter
his passion relived in his writings and works
his essence reflected in her eyes
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
I put light bulbs into roses
And I tried to make them grow,
But no further than my workbench
Would they ever even go.
I connected them with wires, clips –
I’ve tried it all:
Drew out diagrams on yellowed paper,
Labelled in my chicken scrawl.
Once the electrician came to look.
“What have you been doing girl?”
It was then that at my workbench
A bag of fertilizer did he hurl.
Gone then were the wires, clips;
Gone the ashes on the floor.
All that’s left were wilted roses
Piled up right by the door.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
My sweetheart once told me
about the passing of the moon,
how it takes an age to burn so bright,
then gone away too soon.
My father once told me
about the whisper of the wind,
how ghosts are soldiers left to die,
in brutal war's rescind.
My shaman once told me
about collective memory loss,
how it takes an age to build a kingdom,
which swiftly turns to moss.
My teacher once told me
about coincidental beauty,
how love is found in patient bliss
and custodial duty.
My pen-pal once told me
about how all of life is work,
how you must toil, toil, toil the fields,
only to end up hurt.
My mother once told me
about the truth found on the coast,
how in landlocked state, she buried thought
and missed my father the most.
My blackout friend once told me
how he re-invented sin,
how truth is but an echo of thought
and great delusion's twin.
The news anchor once told me
about the falling of the towers,
how brothers fell under the mythic spell
of dehumanising powers.
My electrician once told me
about the sounds of abandonment,
how a million memories within the halls,
are now but histories spent.
My garden gnome once told me
about God within the weather,
how we traded in moonlit ponds
for car seats made of leather.
My psychologist once told me
about living with depression,
how it takes an age to face the day
and a second for night's oppression.
My failed love agreed with this
as she turned to walk away,
and for all the words I'd written down,
I had nothing left to say.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
(10/8/12)
They are known by many names - **********
Hookers, ladies of the night, escort services, call girls
But what’s in a name ! it’s a trade name like electrician
Carpenter, plumber, doctor.
First and foremost she is a daughter - has a mother
And may even be a mother.
You may not accept her as a sister, a cousin , or an aunt
But she is still blood.
her ways of thinking and living
May be different from you
But do not criticize unless you’ve walked
A mile in her shoes.
She may open her legs to all and any man
But there is one thing you must understand.
She is a woman with many needs
And on this men do feed.
She puts to use what GOD has given
And that’s how she earns her living.
She knows that these are her tools
For her to survive - and it’s one of a kind.
Her tools can be used in so many different ways
Whether she stands , sits, or even lays.
She does the same things that all women do
She even has dreams just like you.
There are many who use their income
From day to day - then there are the ones
Who use a lay- a-way.
They’re the ones who think ahead
And 30% goes into the bank instead.
So when their bodies tell them it’s time to quit
And to enjoy life
By then they’ve accumulated a nice slice.
Now I decided to figure it out
What their lives are all about.
Using a very low figure, even thou
It can be much bigger.
If they have ten johns at twenty dollars a pop
Each day for a five day week .
10x 20 = 200 a day times 5 days =1000.00
A week times 4 weeks is 4000.00
At 30% being banked is 1200.00 per month
Times 12 months is $14,400 a year for 20 years
Is $ 288.000 dollars.
This is a low figure, and how many of us can
Retire in twenty years and have saved this amount?
So with this in mind- who are we to criticize.
© L . RAMS
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 10:19 AM UTC
Postman
and poet?
love letters in mail
Accountant
and poet?
precision, detail
Archeologist
and poet?
sifting for feelings
Electrician
and poet?
a jolt
leaving one reeling
architect
and poet?
drafting with words
Zookeeper
and poet?
singing of birds
Bus driver
and poet?
observing life's roadways
Minister
and poet?
perhaps how he prays
Lawyer
and poet?
though about win or lose
her poetry just might amuse
Economist
and poet?
Aren't we all that?
though we wear different hats
distilling things downwards
saving on words
whoever you are
whatever you choose
listen, observe
welcome your Muse!
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
Many hats on my head,
Many titles to claim,
I find it fulfilling to be,
Everything that motivates me.
One day I’m a fireman,
Another day I am a jailer,
This day I’m a poet,
Tomorrow I’ll be a mailer.
What’s funny is this,
A name and a shield,
Is merely a buck for a meal,
My ignorance is so bliss.
These paths are not me,
They are merely a guide,
For me to find whomever is me,
On a security guard’s salary.
To make films or to weep,
To keep jails or to sleep,
To fight fires or to leap,
Into this pen of little sheep.
Why is it that I,
Aim to be that guy,
Who’s career should imply,
That I’m “something” till I die?
An artist,
An actor,
An experiment of all factors,
I try hard to be somebody,
When I’m already my own everybody.
I’m exactly what I need to be,
In this world of all these faces,
Masks grow tight around these cheeks,
Why aspire to climb mountains,
And reach such heightening places?
I’m a detective one day,
An electrician by night,
A silly little dreamer,
Always ready to take on flight.
I’ll pilot this aircraft,
And spread my wings a’sailing,
Without prejudice or hesitation,
I may not always succeed,
But I’m never failing.
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 12:20 AM UTC
I keep hearing voices I know aren't real
But I listen in tuning into the A.M.
You try to force it but I'm preoccupied
And it's like ash stinging my eyes
I'm on all fours here
I'm not trying to be clever
I'm praying for faith with white knuckles
Wishing the electrician would **** the handle
Impaled all my dreams
On a white picket fence
Seventy two hours of no sleep
Choke down the pain
Chase it with empathy
And I stagger triumphant
Like a drunken colossus
I grab onto the cracks
Of what's left of my sanity
And pull the wool back over my eyes
I hear the last call of the train
And I'm burning alive
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 11:31 PM UTC
I want poetry to break out of it's underground cave
Break out of the solitary lonely, locked cage.
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change
I want to illustrate beauty in a verse beautifully maimed
I want to communicate the tender sudden pulse of a surface wound
I want my poetry to be blueprints for change, in the world, or a room
I want to connect the universal nerve of tremors and feelings
I want to connect wires and vessels, shifting cells and ceilings
I want to broadcast this current human condition,
Rewiring like a revolutionary electrician
I want to transcend my, and next time,
With my poems added to anthologies
And each of their lines
Being recited by literary scholars and dedicated readers
But I have accepted some poets are popular during their lifetimes
Like Alice Cary, and Maya Angelou
With acknowledged, renowned, printed
Published Stanzas, and lines.
I want to at the very least, be one of those who guard a hidden, folded..
[Rather than outdated, infamous, tattered and broken]
..genuis.
Or maybe an answer to some past hanging question
Found in the very letters in my words to
The trademarked inflection
Breathing a bashful verse that grew in this universe
Or the next
To strengthen roots of the beauty of language
The older, the wiser, the more interpreted complex
Not the unknown but claimed roots of American poetry
And some
May close the **** kindle. Or rip out the last page.
After I die, I might return with bones live with rage.
Because if nothing has happened, I will continue to say:
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change.
Because we are destroying a world we should be killing fighting to save.
(Hopefully this shan't be said again from a grave.)
Each person who has read solely to write one more page
Take your weapons, inspire, engage
None can lay bricks until a clear path is paved.
iii.viii.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:41 AM UTC
T'was the Time when Light hasn't come
Thus filled the Air with Old-Smelling Rhum
Or Gas-Lamps, or Candles of Wax
Do make this Darkened City a mass.
The Source of Great Power has fell
This Time unknown which we cannot tell
The Heat as the Night, how Great it was
When Cooling Converters has made its loss.
People complain, here and there
For Power to return, unable to Dare
At this rate in which they have had Enough
It's now their Turn to be so Rough.
Banners flow in tiles across
The Head of whom around is Boss
Saying, "Power come! Power come!
Hear me now, don't be Dumb!"
As the Night comes with Loser Heat
The Rebellious Mass was still hard to beat
Sources say to drive them out
Not by Force, but by Pout.
"We've had Enough!" the People said
Thus they storm to the Company's Head
Defense Forces pull them back
But the People threw them in the Stacks.
Just then, in Time's time an Electrician
Came through. Stating:
"All is well's tripe! I've cleared the Electric Hue!"
The People heard, but didn't say a Word
To realise: "We have dumped ourselves like birds."
Forgiveness, they spoke. And Cooler Thoughts
Do process
Clearing-up the Debris; And brooming-out the Mess.
Lights have returned; The Power recharged
Peace has settled once again; With the Culprit
At-large.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC