"laborer" poems
I could have been a carpenter
With a callus on my hand
Or a marina worker
With my feet inside the sand
I could have been a historian
With glasses and a globe
But I’m just a lowly laborer
And my bones are getting old
I could have had a bank account
With lots cash and dough
Or a white picket fence
And I’d watch my green grass grow
I could have been successful
With sleep and no stress
But I chose dreams and passions
And still I feel I’m blessed
I could have never met you
With your big red sixties hair
Or could have never shared a night
In the starlight of your stare
I could have never known the truth
Lived my life a lie
But honesty has found me
Loving ‘til I die
I could have never realized
What a lucky lad I am
Or could have never battled
For what I believe in
I could have given up on it all
And laid down in defeat
But my love you do inspire
Me out onto the streets
I could have been a carpenter
With a hammer and a nail
I could have been a fireman
With a hard hat and a pale
I could have been lot of things
For there’s so much to be
But if I had to pick on one
I would pick on me
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
Ditch diggers don't write poems -
As if there might be found
A single thought profound
Amid the mud they go in;
The pungence in essence released
From trees' roots that are severed
Is never fragrant like lilacs,
And their labor is of purpose,
That dirt removed by aching backs -
Gashed earth becomes the grave
In which our sins can be hidden;
Tomorrow ditches will be filled in,
Restoring peace which land craves,
The simple laborer's work done.
Ditch diggers don't write poetry -
Palms calloused in pick and *****
Too rough when art 's to be made,
Remain convinced by sophistry
They've no true claim to a pen.
Clods of clay always remain
Adhered to heels of workmen's boots,
Becoming my life's defining metaphor.
So we forgo more ethereal pursuits,
Though forever treasuring sweetness
Flowed over soil of our dank holes,
Loving breaths exhaled from souls,
Floral kisses blown across distance.
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 7:29 PM UTC
They want bodies.
Warm, compliant bodies. Moving parts.
Hands that open doors and flip switches.
Spines that bend but don’t break.
They want eight hours of labor, plus the commute,
plus the side hustle,
plus the ever-present smile that says,
"I’m lucky to be here."
But bodies need rest.
And there is nowhere to rest.
No shoebox. No storage unit.
No couch, no floor, no friend with a spare key.
Just asphalt and backseats—if you’re lucky.
Just parking lots and fear and pretending to be fine.
We’re told to buy the things that prove we’ve made it:
the ergonomic chair, the smart toaster,
the streaming subscription that numbs the noise.
But where do we put it?
Where do we live with it?
They expect us to consume while we disappear.
They want machines
—but with human elegance.
They want efficiency
—but with soul.
They want labor without the laborer’s needs.
We are the product and the producer.
The face and the function.
They demand dignity at the front desk,
but deny it in the zoning map.
We work full time,
and still live in our cars.
If we have one.
If it hasn’t been towed or repossessed.
If there’s a safe place to park without being harassed.
Why?
Why can you clock in at dawn,
and still sleep under stars you didn’t wish for?
Because they want bodies.
But they do not want the burden of keeping us alive.
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 6:41 AM UTC
Dead crocs and rabbits
being worn and stepped on
as rugs and carpets
and furry trench coats
Panned, sluiced, and
now shiny gold toilets
All thanks, to your
10-year old laborer
Fancy Ferrari cars
Lavishing clothes
and mind-blowing ***
What else could you wish for
with that stone heart of yours?
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
Careful to make respectful steps, she padded lightly through
The grass a weaving wanderer
Investigating the stone garden with
The ashen faced man calling her name
He was perverted, but insightful
And he shared the roots of the stone trees
A wealthy merchant lay with
A poor laborer
Side by side and synchronized demise-wise
Death, the pale guide said, is the great equalizer
Life is not fair; Death is.
Pictures marked the grander tombs and one caught
Her searching eyes, reptile
Slither serpent slinks and eats circular self loop
Symbolizing eternal, consume-die resume
The local ghost noted vert reaching rest stones
******* competition in the inadequate hereafter
A corvidae watched, perched: “wait your turn”, then fly sky
The cold wind eavesdropped on
Her chestbeat, early cycle thumps (time) to spare
Knowing her fear
The winded skeletons of the stone garden howled like wicked tuning forks
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
my mother was a **********
(the greatest honor
on the tree)
--
i always wondered why
"after shooting the sheriff"
he
DIDN'T
"shoot the deputy down"
--
fig-ments
and
fact-ments
a dollar a day laborer
poisoned rain
--
at the
"end of the day"
the day ends
busted children remain
in jail
eating popcorn
i learned that
from teevee
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 10:28 AM UTC
Inhaling yellow
Smoke rushes through our veins.
You lay your body on ember ground next to mine;
Rolling over our eyes till speckles of ecstasy fill our vision.
I tilt my head back and look at you: Smooth rich coffee.
A decadent sculpted chest carved from Michelangelo centuries ago,
Your gleaming skin reflecting music.
Giggling through heaving lungs of fog,
We joke about your cold fingers writing cursive on my thighs:
A laborer’s hand gripping clouds.
You look at me and see pearly cream:
Resonant curls sprawled across the floor like my melting limbs,
Ready for you to turn me into red wine.
A ***** of heat hits another bowl
And smoke rises through the vents
To dance on your bonny blush lips.
You think I'm fragile
With my lace stockings and butterfly wing lids,
You could rip through my tissue coating.
We breathe in smog.
The air between our bones escapes: pupils dilate,
Flashes of bliss sparkling colors surround us till that is all we see.
Our souls, laying on the spinning floor,
Tearing the fabric from our bones
Till all is left is smoke and sweat.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 4:39 PM UTC
I imagine you're disappointed in me. I can't say I blame you. It is not my fault that I didn't become the laborer you dreamt I'd be, split palms stung by sweat. It is my fault, however, that I became nothing at all.
Our family was defined by a cardboard box. Your job was to move them, hundreds an hour. My brothers and I were raised by a box that puked The King Of Queens and censored 90's dramas. My mother buried Polaroids of frozen dance moves and eternal smiles, under fake jewelry in a cheap cherry box.
And when I carried the box that ate my grandfather, I showed no stuggle, tucked in my shirt, not wanting to embarass you.
And when I forgot the Sea Bass belt, I promised not to **** myself with, in a box at the ward.
And when I carried the box that sealed my grandmother.
And when I burnt the box of letters she wrote from far and away; trying to erase who I was.
I think I have let you down, father. I can only offer myself the way I'd offer a box: disappointing on the outside with a chance of beauty in the inside, if you're willing to open up.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
I, the poet wears many hats to adorn self at any given time.
Musician, orchestrating with instrument of pen, expressive words upon page.
Artist, painting with beautiful colorful jargon, to open eyes and hearts inside grace.
Gardener, planting seeds of thoughts for them to bloom inside readers mind.
Chief, dishing out many a line, filled with delicious words to tantalize reader.
Landscaper, constructing scenery as beautiful as a mountain, or deep as an ocean.
Sculptor, molding craft of words sometimes soft and light, other times sharp as steel.
Teacher, enlightening one with information to open their consciousness if they choose.
Sailor, guiding ship-like eyes across a sea of words to move into calm waters for peace.
Laborer, picking just the right phase, to get a fresh new perspective inside a poem.
Singer, using one's rhythmic voice to echo inside vibrations of a sonnet that goes viral.
Doctor, becoming a wordologist aiding the reader to receive insight to help them heal.
Secretary, to self who writes and transcribes many an ode so reader and poet has peace.
I, poet has a wardrobe quite extensive to pull from, on a creative journey of sharing.
StarBG © 2017
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
Oh! you've forgotten this familiar voice so soon?
I am the laborer you employed on your snow field
When your frozen farm could not stand
I was he, who brought you loam from my mother's graveyard
The lurking waves are near
I am come knocking the moonlight door
It is me, the Afrikana
Will you open Sir?
Or just look me at the window and chide me once more.
Oh! landlord, you've forgotten this dark child so soon?
I am the tenant you welcomed into your garage
As your kitten took my place in the guest room
I have come with a basket of thorns woven by my people
For a share of what solely belongs to my ancestors
I am come knocking the moonlight door
It is me, the Afrikana
Will you open Sir?
Or just look me at the window
And hide me in your balcony.
It is me, the Afrikana
I am come on mother's last errand
With a golden necklace handsomely beaten from her shackles
I am come with your cross Sir
Knocking, knocking
It is me, the Afrikana
Will you open the moonlight door?
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 11:30 AM UTC
1
my spine is a bridge that burns —
bones most breakable, like memories of
driftwoods
collected as a kid,
i now feed to a bonfire
of blistered cyclamens.
2
my spine is a bridge
of no certain grandeur
nor history.
it burns away
and falls,
quietly in the night,
like an unknown laborer.
some of us die this way.
3
the reason for this poem
evades me,
but the heart must write of its sorrows
undisclosed to the soul.
they remain to be
unrecognized parts
of a burning town.
4
now, i speak in tongues
unfamiliar to myself.
i write a poem i'm bound to forget.
i stand in the baptism
of a child i do not know.
i do it anyway.
5
i bring her driftwoods
from the water, mourning under
a burning bridge;
soon the last beam falls apart
and i fall apart
in a forgettably graceless light
this: a sorrow with no name,
i write it anyway.
this: a sorrow undisclosed.
i tell it anyway.
this: a sorrow unrecognized.
i feel it anyway.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 7:15 AM UTC
We must not be sad
Under an ancient moon
Where the glistening waterways move
And the owl and the night hawk listen
Trees that reach out with strong branches
Caressed by a tender breeze
And loons flying over the thatch
And eyes that are darker than these
In the hollow beside the copse
Waits a figure, in the tangled deep
Praying for another chance
While the priest and the laborer sleep.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
I live in a nation where the cow is worshipped,
and there is no king regnant,
but it’s funny, how the cow feast on crap,
and the farmer becomes a peasant.
I live in a nation of aye men,
who say aye to a baloney,
of media which protects the cow,
but let the peasant starve slowly.
I watch daily, the television debates,
where logic is razored by bigotry,
and no talks about the peasant,
gagged into silence by the authority.
I witness a bathtub getting sensationalized
when a mid-aged celebrity died,
the debt he’d laden of the dried crop,
no rain never did the sky cry.
He later worked as an indentured laborer,
for a landlord who drinks the cow’s ****
as a saffroned monk says it’s healthy,
way to the eternal bliss.
A student who sloganed for freedom
from the maw of poverty.
My media says he is a traitor,
and so is the entire university.
At least, let’s agree to disagree,
that is essential to a republic,
let freedom of speech not be seldom,
and never shall it cease to exist.
The peasant must die soon,
and no more shall he crouch in dread,
may someday he incarnate as a cow,
roams free on the city streets, and feast on free bread.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
The winter’s risen sun blazes from that
Wall-less hole of an unfinished house.
The laborer’s wall-less house on the road
Is not a house but a merely thought word.
A house exists without walls but with roof.
Only it has to rise from the earth, to the sky.
The igloo rises without apparent walls
But warm and white, on those icy wastes.
Houses exist without roof but with walls
But there is the sky-roof that sends down rain.
Such as the God of phallus lives without roof
So that the sky’s rain falls on Him always.
Like houses that exist without built walls,
Poetry is built without words but with felt words.
A girl of large eyes is floating to th’ sun ,
As ponytail and bag fight for space on h’r back.
Those were felt words on her schoolgirl back.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
to Dani
remember when, you do not:
you are a ground slicing the center of
this home.
the long divide the furniture endures.
in front of the colossal tv
bodies spilled like water.
20 minutes was all it took – your name alone,
a potent hygroscopy.
when close enough:
dissipate. You took all the green the foliage could,
soldered to your body a forest it manifests.
repeated, if not a newer foundling:
the space you take for acquisition ,
the faultless tenancy you mistake as counsel.
every saved for, and gleaming space
aspires for venue – translates to an arena for snapshot.
[some mundane depiction ascribes for you to be known]
years later my portrait still hangs perpetually
on a modern furniture from a contemporary skillset.
take this declaration.
years later, leapt to this day and forward:
the surgery of galvanized steel is reminiscent of a departure.
the tedious laborer smiling through bonsai pots
carrying out lobotomies. The afternoon more sterile than
your face as if operation. This town knows you by practice
and habit: all of it sepia, if not leaden.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
I go to graveyards whenever I can
Not to mourn the death of those I've known and loved
for they are buried far away
No; I go so that I may remember
Remember those who have gone before
Remember that life is fleeting
Remember that someday I will join those buried.
I ignore the big graves; the showy, fancy ones
I ignore the ones with flowers and trinkets as well
they do not need visitors
they already have all they need and want.
I visit the graves that are small and simple
the ones with faded words, overgrown with moss
These are the ones that have been forgotten,
these are the graves of the average man, woman, and child
The ones who led average lives, like you or me
the ones you would see on the bus, in the park, on the street.
These graves are those of the working man
the shop keeper, the pastor, the laborer
the ones that affect our everyday lives and leave the most impact.
I visit these tombstones because no one else seems to ever come
I try to decipher the name and dates on the faded headstones,
But often cannot
The moss of time has grown over them,
The letters have been worn away.
Maybe if someone came regularly to visit, to sit, to think,
The moss would not cover
The wind would not wear away
Time would not destroy
So I visit, hoping I can make a difference
Hoping I can help preserve
The graves of the long forgotten.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 10:19 PM UTC
There's a small town,
South of North Dakota.
Nobody's ever heard of it,
not a single iota.
In the town there lived a man,
who went by the simple name of Dan.
He never really sought after all of life's pleasures,
because it was in serving others that he saw hidden treasures.
The joy of living,
Dan knew quite well.
But his biggest accomplishment,
to nobody did he tell.
See, Dan never had any kids of his own.
For most of his life, he was completely alone.
No family he had.
No nieces not nephews
No dogs or cats,
nor sisters nor brothers.
Nobody to feud with,
for Dan kept no lovers.
But there's a secret Dan kept,
and I'll tell you today.
That Dan saved the world, in his own special way.
See Dan was a laborer;
he worked and he toiled.
To support himself,
and keep his house on good soil.
Dan saved his money,
he lived cheap and frugal.
For Dan had a plan, which he thought was crucial.
"Build an orphanage in the town, for all the lost children."
Because when Dan was young,
he had no house to live in.
At night his back would ache,
and his feet would hurt.
But this was okay to Dan;
he wanted keep the orphans from sleeping on the dirt.
So when he passed,
Dan left a book and a note.
"To the bank take this paper, do not say by whom this book was wrote."
The pages had instructions,
and detailed schemes.
For an orphanage for the town,
the home of Dan's dreams.
The bank took the paper,
and showed an account.
That for even the richest person,
would have been a great amount.
And so the home was built,
the walls were made.
An orphanage for the children,
a home for those in need.
And it all started because of Dan,
who decided to serve instead of lead.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
A five-dollar garage-sale record player
A five-cent-piece Scotch-taped onto the arm
A plastic K-Mart special from long ago
A groovy thing for a junior high kid
But he was a thirty-something day-laborer
And in the silent cell of his solitude
Wanted to spin some tunes in the darkness
Just like he did when he was a junior high kid
A five-dollar garage-sale record player
Wagner, Sinatra, McKuen - and hope
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
Man rose from the fertile crescent,
forging tools from the earth,
lumber, ore and bone,
and from the ashes rose great walls of stone.
The prisca theologica,
in the hands of the hermit,
a mirror shattered,
shards embedded in the hearts of men,
an open wound with no remedy,
wild animals now wearing clothes,
a guise hiding a loss of innocence.
Man as god,
and god as man,
built edifices to his own greatness,
great pillars to heaven,
massive gates only to admit the few,
whose hearts fester in caustic dogma.
The first rule from a throne,
the last wither nameless and unknown,
fearful of sin borne of station,
handed from father to son,
automatons and lifeless husks,
thirsty for the fountain of life,
stumbling towards the unknown god.
Coins lain on altar,
to a god with no name,
hedging a bet against probability,
the author of the triangle permits,
meat given to idols and then to gluttony,
within great white pillars of earth,
monolithic structures of stone,
in hopes of pax deorum.
Superstition,
nothing more,
The nameless god doesn't dwell in temples made by hand,
his throne founded in heaven,
he dwells in hearts wounded in antiquity,
in the worn hands of the laborer,
in the mind of the naturalist,
in the heart of the mother.
There is more of deity in the eyes of a child,
than in any temple,
and still we build,
heads bowed in reverence to inanimate atomic structure.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
(alternately titled: ah me go march'n home on derange)
I'll play the devil's advocate, yet
prepare a stance with pitchfork
against misinterpreted faux attempt
to describe, how whet
d'ya column re: immigration officials coe vet
patrol, police, and poison tranquil casa blanca
where killer attack dogs fiendishly pin set
ting sharp fangs at jugular vein of respectful,
dutiful, and blissful (or at least
prior to being sniffed out) innocent
long time laborer on American soil now get
ting Das Boot to their unfamiliar Motherland
(despite living social
as law abiding righteous folks) fret
full, cuz unfairly punished, and
cruelly deported, dispirited, doomed
pained visage non verbally articulates
at un war rented deportation you bet!
with just a flick of the wrist
and alien hated, pigheaded,
and xenophobic ventriloquist
bring back the Alien and Sedition Acts
with a Trumpeting Latina, Hispanic,
and for good measure Mulatto twist,
where original writ (signed into law
by President John Adams in 1798),
historical footnote, aye cannot resist
spooking (like a ghost), those *** pill
born south of the border pooped and ******
in potties of this proud country, sans free and brave
now frightfully get flushed out
glad to feign dis guise
as one among select Geronimo cadre
we henchman lubricate
wheels of injustice myst
tuff hie hiding dark shadows
(along the edge of night)
thence paddy wagon comes
to screeching halt nabbing
an "illegal alien" name on hit list
code word "bag dad" (biggest quarry)
and score a win
for Barren Trump Tah Mahal Incorporated
impossible mission special ops sentry slithers as trained
fearless to shackle ******* ranked big hest
catch also including ***** prize,
as you correctly guessed.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:33 AM UTC
As I sit among the machinery,
all of my memories flit and flee,
like fireflies in the summer night,
caught by children gleefully.
I abhor this metallic scenery,
dirt and rust all covered in dust,
so I have to try with all my might,
to survive the storm and fight the gust.
So I think to the time when I was alive,
I believe that I was twenty-five,
and strolling through the garden glen,
our passion was the deepest dive.
The present wouldn't dare deprive,
my missing piece, my long lost love,
the moonlight shining on you then,
from broken clouds on high above.
To see you in the bare lit hue,
your lashes dripping midnight's dew,
was such a searing, stunning sight,
paled angels beauty far and few.
For it was you and only you,
that kept my heart until the end,
your fire burning warm and light,
so bright no heart it could not mend.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
I am weary but I cannot cease my toil
I have wasted enough time on frivolous pursuits
Yet they are my only respite from the world placed upon my shoulders
The dark softness of the night sky beckons me away from my work and wakefulness
But I cannot cease!
I cannot rest, no matter the personal cost! For the consequence of my failing shall be a much higher toll!
My future in turmoil
My family flummoxed
The joy of my life leeched away by ghoulish specters I cannot fight off, only bow before
And I want it all to end--yet I wish to live my dreams and fulfill my hopes!
Woe be to the laborer who serves the demands of those they love!
No rest seems unselfish, no indulgence is guiltless, the self is stripped away to become a slave of the labors of love!
O sleepless rest! O restless sleep!
How I long for the simpler days of childhood!
How I long for the sweet sleep of the innocent, to which I can never return!
Woe be to the weary soul!
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC