"labourers" poems
Rich People are pouring brandy in their glasses
as the winter freezes the ones from the lower classes
The lazy riches who do nothing are eating a lot
and the hardworking labourers are left to rot
The Greedy Sons of Man fight and die for money
collecting even a coin,like bees collect nectar for honey
Rich People are commiting crimes and moving free
as the poor are treated like dogs of low degree
Swanking their richness is their biggest pleasure
and the miseries of the poor are out any measure
The Money Hungry just want more of it all around
just like mud laden pigs roll in muddy ground
Rich People believe they are not bound to any rule
and the low classes are the ones who get fooled
Even the government listens to the Riches the most
and the others are burdened with rising costs
The Lettuce Frenzied are hoarding money in bank
just like dogs bury the bones in the lands
Rich People believe that they are of a superior race
and the low classes are the ones thrown into disgrace
Exploiting the poor is Rich People's favourite habit
and the others just watch,waiting for the same of it
The Money loving people can make the system bend
and why does this vicious beast of humanity has NO END ?
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:25 AM UTC
The gold that flows, through our elaborate veins,
The crop that is known, by many names,
The gift that alleviates, our daytime pains,
The commodity that plays, one too many games.
Our world is nothing, but a bottomless mine,
Simply waiting, for the wrath and plunder of humankind,
Oh labourers please, wait your spot in line,
For it was not you that made, this incredible find.
You’re a fool to think, the system needs a redesign,
For your fate and this chain, are forever intertwined.
Stay in your corner, as they wine and dine,
For it is you not them, contained by this chain’s bind.
Posing as a gift, that elevates their daily grind,
The brown gold is no longer, part of your bloodline,
It was their chains after all, that made this incredible find,
For it now flows away, from the Plateau’s skyline.
You continue to hope, for these chains to be redefined,
But to imagine you even exist to them, is asinine,
Yet you believe a consumer movement, would be so inclined,
For you forget that chains were made, to always confine.
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 3:55 AM UTC
I
Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.
In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,
Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,
She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,
Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.
II
I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate
The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,
Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.
III
Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names
Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,
Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.
Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.
4.5k
Oh you saviour, of the rags and riches alike
The favourite of students, labourers, executives and wise
The in between of a mattress like loaf
Easy on the teeth, pocket, and hope
The staple of Bombay, the vada pav stop
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
How diamonds embedded in fine jewellery, are stained by the blood of malnourished labourers often forgotten by the first world democracy - Boasting mountainous elaborate skyscrapers, marked by the sweat and tears of underpaid construction workers struggling with debts and taxes. How a baby boy or girl is born, not without a mother’s pain - much greater than having major muscles torn. How an old married couple withers away side by side, masking decades of struggles and sacrifice.
All things beautiful were made from chaos.
-AA
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC
Making a living Wage from the living Word
Inevitably shades, obscures, taints and corrupts
Betrays the apparently living Faith
And exalting the Man than the Word
Balaam refused silver and gold in public
But embraced death's wages in secret
Certainly the labourer deserves his dues
But from his Master and not from fellow labourers
If the lives you saved leave you hungry
But for your whip, perhaps they're yet slaves
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 2:30 AM UTC
I watched a rarity across the street,
Walking like an endangered species
On his way to school, alone.
Don't his parents realize,
As ours did,
That single men live on his way,
Looking out windows
With coffee and cigarette;
Married couples are household occupied,
Labourers, professionals and unemployed
Are behind closed, locked doors,
Busily preparing for another day.
Cars drive by, one slows behind him,
To ensure her carrier pigeon fledges along.
The lad in question pays no attention,
Playing catch-up with his shadow.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
White Helmets.
Construction site discrimination
was rampant when I was a welder
back in the 70s, but we were
exempt, anonymous, just as Zorro,
The Lone Ranger, Batman or
Ned Kelly, because one can't weld
and wear a helmet.
The rank n file wore orangee yellow
hat, the electricians were blue etc.
I remember being one a job, where
there was a question team from each
of the trades, including the labourers,
even management, (white helmets)
A tie breaker question between the
yellows and blues, was,
Which English King had 6 wives?
I was the question master (not enough
welders on the job for a team)
Charlie Kelly was the head of the Yellow
Helmets, the team conferred, but Charlie's
answer left me in no doubt that he got an
oblique peak at the answer on my desk.
Up went his hand, out loud and proud, came!
" HENRY ViLL"
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:34 AM UTC
Scarred hands of a
Tired, underpaid worker
Shake while he
Picks the beans.
Tired, underpaid worker
Sighs at the routine as he
Picks the beans
And carries them out the door.
Sighs at the routine as he
Orders the same things again
And carries them out the door.
I watch him as I sip my coffee.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Shine or shower, we bend forever
Bend to see if the path talks to us
Bend to earn a nickel with a foreign face
Oh! How it bleeds, to walk on the gravel
The stones are crushed to confess their stories
they could be frozen tears of
my colleagues and my fellow countrymen
Who tramped here before!
How it pains, to sleep on flour, which is not mine
Lack of family affection makes us half humans
It has been an infinite urge to
Fly away on the wings of breeze
Just to escape the scorching sun’s torturous smile
We extinguish the fire of anger
No fire, but the flames in the breast
Endure between ambition and desire.
We see light in soldering electrodes everyday
But can’t see the bright eyes of our children for ages
Oh how it torments, a faithful heart that’s broken
To avenge the sad tale of labourers on a foreign soil
For us who experience all the ravines of Life
Night returns with dark chocolates
We continue to lift and bend ourselves
With fragrant bosoms near our feet
Theme : We get to see many labourers working in the Middle East and East Asian countries like Singapore, Brunei etc. These workers, as construction labourers or as grass cutters, toil a lot on the road exposing themselves to Sun and shower. Most of them are from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka etc. It pains to see them working under very unfavourable conditions. This poem is an appreciation of their commitment to look after their family back home.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
I arrived at my station in Kaliningrad
as if posted there by an army of desires
entering through the gate with a firm set jaw
into the guarding teeth of iron girders
driven into the soft soul of the soil
by hammering heels as bold as yours
approaching a fateful encounter quite naughty
amidst ghosts in an Eastern European night
its sights built when all roads led to Königsberg city
taking pretty daughters of frightening Prussian knights
to a military parade past the rust of heavy industry
a call to arms wrapped tight up against youthful skin
dark forces dressed in lace trimmed girdles of passion
its secret codes covered by accents slightly Russian
sounding like love slipping into a cold war assignation
you were too beautiful by half
too perfect to wear jeans
so like the uniform concrete paths
abandoned to such ghastly stains
they attract me like works of art
that someone envious of being outlasted
had to spray with swirling tattoo paint
yet the matt camouflage fades fast
while your beauty is chiseled into my days
its ageless gloss defying the wind and dust
whipping across the wonderful blocks called home
built by socialist bloc labourers whose ***** hands
must have toiled for the day you were born
and set free the naked ambition of men that yearn
for a dessert of finely moulded vision
beyond the blue vein cheese and a little wine
into warm baths steaming away the tension
which had crossed our paths with precise chains
snapped together in a demand for attention
“stop - no tourism beyond here after 5pm”
but you knew diversions locked in 'till round 2am
a stress release submitting to the pull of a comforter
gentle in the peace of the goose-down we slept in
the softness of the rattles
the worst
of your corrupters
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Deep. The day wears the crown of untruthfulness
Up above the weather bears the trademark of deceit
shallow mind of a betrayal and they said
Run away run fast
don’t look back
short paths cannot be taken
narrow paths changed the plan of this traveller
No funds to pay for chariots
Run away run slowly but run fast
Words of My lover in the letter
Memories of affections
waves of distractions across the sea
debts of homages not paid
The old neighbours laughed last night of
Old jokes from the old man saying
Run away Run fast as you can because the fairy tales only comes when the full moon is out
If the moon won’t come in full tonight I will wait till the morning when i will see the sunrise
I am not running from My destiny
I am not staying with my doubts
All i want to do is feed on the power of positivity .
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
Mother Earth is Santa Claus,
Poor labourers her elves,
And the ones who get the presents?,
The ones who appreciate them least, ourselves...
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
On the streets are many sounds and sights.
Like,
dragons jumping traffic lights and busses buzzing through the long and lonely nights.
In the stable where I stay
some say that,'I'm unstable' well they would wouldn't they?
I lay me down but get no peace
the sirens from the local police begin to blare
How they love to share that noise.
A different place another poise
escaping from that awful sound
I start to burrow underground.
Lie down in a box and smoke cheroots
while watching daisies lacing up their 'daisy roots'
I'm waiting but there is no evidence of anything vibrating
it's very still and dead
even spiders stop the spinning of their webs in wonder
then the thunder of the day above
hand in glove
with the cacophony of that lunacy
I often see
spread all about me
finds me out
and digs me up.
I take that cup of old Laings building site
where once the labourers might have dream't
of men unkempt in ***** rags
begging for some food and ****
and a bit of work to pay their way.
Not today
or any other day
I heard them say it
watched them spray it on the walls
and as the failing hope falls down
the ballgown that she wore
is worn again as second hand
by salvationists from the army band
who try to fill the dragging days
with songs of glory
hymns of praise.
What's the use
we suffer more than shock, abuse
and yet we stay
where we as dinosaurs
no longer play but plod.
Life's a sod laid on the Earth
we animate and give it birth
and then it bites us
on the ****
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
Get up and dance
Put on those moccasins that make you move from out in France
Into the Indies then Polynesian isles.
Pour the green skies upon those frozen and dried out.
Bring gratitude to those whom frequently pout
And the mission to gain commission
How the mantras from mamas mouth
Shoot from the sky.
So sly the way we will slip into the nostalgic reminisce
Lights on the red carpet
And the set of lies
Are we doing this?
We don't mention How Buddha ******
Budapest in the name of the most auromatheraputic
And orginally
tell the Chinese nike labourers
who do this.
Though they suit me,
I resuit this with prudent force for those law benders
Of the b.a.r.
We will cough on tough tycoons and yet bow to stars.
Oh my legend, how far have we looked and have we come
Jumping out of the Nintendo Nes(t)
We have entertained our self enough
We've won son.
But find me lagging on a wooden broom
Brimming on the outskirts of your psyche
Just when you thought
Sike you didn't not cite me.
Please bibliograph my flight plan or pattern
And as you gaze upon the moon I make my second meander on Saturn
The orbit
In finding sudden satisfaction with norbit
I've asked. How bliss is ignorance?
We blend all the blinding lights of the prism and still white and ****
Siss
Disdain on dose dat ain't domestic
Still ******* kicking and
My legs are there to test this
Theory
and jeering with slack
I'm looking back.
I fear the peers of tired whites and blacks
Those that act that they have nothing to loose
By continually hitting the snooze
Oh we will leave you like leaves grounded in the grooves
These four leaf clues
Clovers, slipping out of my palms
Mark you like wolverines claws
Like jar heads
Jumpin in to the jabber jagged jaw of jaws
Subservient marine.
Prate in the truth of those words until you(they) know just what they mean.
Ya seen?
Good?
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
Do you think when we die
We turn to rust or to dust?
Made by machinery or by a Deity?
By labourers in a factory?
Or, lovers in a field?
Either way, we rust or turn to dust.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Your mother went through infinite pain of carrying you in her womb.
Your father works day in and day out to make sure you don't sleep hungry.
Your sister parted with her jewellery just to make sure you could read.
Your brother stands by you in all the ups and downs of life
It does not stop here.
Soldiers spend sleepless nights at freezing altitudes to keep you safe from intruders.
Scientists work hard so that you can lead an easier life.
Artists allow you into their sophisticated mind through their beautiful works.
Musicians practice so that you can enjoy a soothing symphony..
Writers sacrifice their comforts so that you can lose yourself in good books.
Sportsmen toil in uncomfortable weather so that you can enjoy a good match.
Actors rehearse to make sure you forget your stress by giving you good movies.
Teachers cross all boundaries so that you are aware of the world around you.
Labourers work in dingy cells so that latest technologies reach you.
It does not even stop here.
Thousands of strangers have lost their lives so that you can enjoy "these" rights and liberties.
It's not done even now.
The Sun burns ever so fiercely so that you can enjoy bright days.
The glorious Moon lights up your nights so that you are fearless of the stark darkness.
And the Wind blows all day to keep you fresh.
Did I Just hear you say you don't deserve to live?
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Last night she came into my bed
in the dead hours before the light snook into my eyes and through the shadows lined up like labourers on the walls in my head.
She woke me into another dream I'd had some years before and as I stuttered to form the words to speak to her,
she shared with me,
a picture,some melody I remembered vaguely
which though nice was rather sad.
Quite glad that being well prepared for these invasions of the night, I had snared a little spot,not too cold,not too hot and we could tot up what we got up too, as morning grew into the day it would become.
It's like I won some inter-universal game of chance,first prize,last chance of romance and I have glanced quickly through the rules,
as fool as I am,not sure how to be a man and anyway I never knew what the plan would be
or if entering this game of chance was free or would there be a fee to pay.
She took my mind away from thoughts like this and in that first kiss when my body being in overdrive felt like I'd arrive before I'd even left
she put me back to idle speed
and now in idling how I need her more to stamp the accelerator to the floor and race me on to that place where all doubts have gone and we will get there
in time to share cakes and teas and
indulge ourself in pleasantries.
Tonight I need her to come again
to come with me upon the dead hour train that speeds through lifetimes,through those windowed pains that although washed and cleaned have dreamed of sordid sights in more sordid nights and now
and now
the train of thought has stopped
this malady crops up from time to time
and I say that 'my memory's fine'
but then I would.
I want my caller in the night to think that I'm so good and not affected by that infection,age
she might
not notice line and wrinkles that twinkle in the star or moonlight
or she might.
I make light of this and wait for more,just one kiss more
one kiss I guess is more than less
one kiss
and then I sleep.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
we'd all like to have
that nice cushy job
where toiling can be given
a mammoth fob
those who've landed
in these plum positions
will be assured of the
best working conditions
few if any missions
do get facilitated
the office is a place
of nil being slated
an extended lunch hour
management takes
whilst busy bees are
hauling the heavy stakes
company CEO's lounging
around in boardrooms
penalizing the labourers
who are pushing the brooms
wouldn't it be great
to sit constantly down
and not keep polishing
the boss's idling crown
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
The hatchets swings from right to left
cutting sway in magical arc glittering acidic polish
labourers strive in whimsical grafts and melliferous distune
the gods in Olympus stand akimbo watching meddling mortals
No demigods in hazey disquietude sees
for those the gods forsake wear the laurels made for Pompeii
time will tell come the days of transmogrification in Cosmos Paths
the oracles files litigation before the gods against impostors vile
The seven tongues of the seven headed dragon
flicker between the dawn and dusk, between mist and flames
salacious visions mired in morbid delight cooked with arsenic dew
a cauldron boils for givers and takers, a chalice of retribution awaits
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 3:43 PM UTC
There are lots of noughts in millions
lots of trees in acres
and winds will blow in gales
and thunder can roar in white skies
and labourers will do labour
and will always lean oh study trees
or find its shade to hide underneath
some things never change
Dec 4, 2021
Dec 4, 2021 at 9:39 PM UTC
It looked so green and promising even before its inception
The labourers came with zeal and great expectation
The countenances of some exuded determination
Just to work to achieve distinction
For some, their first encounter with the green vineyard was a divine orchestration
Yet today, I ask whether this orchestration has metamorphosed into illusion?
It appears the initial symphony of elation
Is gradually turning into a chorus of depression
Are the labourers now swimming in a sea of confusion?
The morose faces worn in the green vineyard obviously expresses frustration
The disenchanted labourers complain about structural demolition
Others think the vineyard environment facilitates capacity extermination
The highly skilled brains and hands are looking for the exit gate with desperation
Though majority of the labourers now regard their decision
To work in the vineyard as a massive compunction
I believe a divine intervention can produce the needed salvation
Guys, God will certainly provide the desired destination.
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC
The Judge came into the village with
A troop of the finest horse,
The sunshine gleamed on their breastplates
And their guns and their swords, of course,
He wasn’t there to be friendly, but
To make the rebels aware,
And carried the King’s own warrant to
Set up his courthouse there.
The troop took over the Mason’s Hall
The Judge took over the church,
And set up a bench down in the nave
As the troops set out to search,
They looked for the signs of weaponry
In the homes of the poorest men,
Tearing apart the hovels in
The search for the rebels, then.
To root out the roughshod army that
Had marched to defy the king,
Who tore up the standard prayer book
That the king was offering,
They forced the priests to reverse the mass
To the way it was done before,
Laying a siege to Exeter
In the way of a civil war.
Now the troops rode into the villages
And they held the men in chains,
Sworn to see that they paid in blood
For their temper, and their pains,
The women were wailing in the streets
As their men were taken in,
To answer to a black-hooded Judge
For their crimes against the King.
There wasn’t a gallows large enough
For the men that he meant to hang,
But plenty of trees around the leas
That the cattle grazed upon,
And plenty of boughs and branches that
Would groan with the weight of men,
Whose only fault was this one revolt
When their faith was changed again.
They hung like fruit from the saplings,
They choked their lives from a limb,
They swung on ropes from the mighty oaks
In an **** of suffering,
The farms lay waste in the country,
The crops lay waste in the fields,
There wasn’t an army of labourers
Just troops, with their swords and shields.
The Judge climbed into his black teak coach
Rode out of the village grounds,
While children wailed and the women paled
In cutting their husbands down.
The horror lay in the children’s genes
For generations, it’s said,
Till years along they would right the wrong
By taking a bad king’s head.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
I look at the painting,
The green forestry,
Pale blue sky,
Labourers in red clothes,
Wearing white.
Is this right?
Maybe, I’m in black, benefiting,
Upholding a treasury,
One had to die…
They graciously do, keeping the oaths,
That the old brown book writes.
It says that, right?
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 4:13 PM UTC
We were window fixers
my father and I
fitted windows
into spaces
in large buildings.
At this time
we fixed windows
into a small prison
for young offenders
outside London.
My father had a plan
where the windows
had to go.
I helped him lift
and get the frames
in place
and I held them
while he drilled holes
and ******* them
in place.
Other workers
were there
labourers
chippies
and sparkies
and radios played
all day long
from some area
or other.
I had heard
Marion sing
with a big band
the night before
a blonde dame
with a voice
like silver.
I sang in my head
the songs she sang.
My father stopped
for a cigarette.
I swept up the dust
from the drilled holes
looking out the bars
at the world beyond.
Some young kids
would be locked up here
some day
not thinking
of who fixed
the windows
shut up tight
and always closed.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC