"toilers" poems
When will the day bring its pleasure?
When will the night bring its rest?
Reaper and gleaner and thresher
Peer toward the east and the west:--
The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.
Meteors flash forth and expire,
Northern lights kindle and pale;
These are the days of desire,
Of eyes looking upward that fail;
Vanishing days as a finishing tale.
Bows down the crop in its glory
Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold;
The millet is ripened and hoary,
The wheat ears are ripened to gold:--
Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?
The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth
Who knoweth the first and the last:
The Sower Who patiently soweth,
He scanneth the present and past:
He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."
Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and gleaners and reapers,
O Lord of the harvest, look down;
Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!
"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers,
The Lord of the first and the last:
"O My toilers, My weary, My weepers,
What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.
Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."
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Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven--birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.
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Come away with me
To toil upon the sea,
Come away and see
How sweet sea life can be,
I'll sing Bonnie Dundee
Off the coast of
Old Guernsey, you and me
As toilers of the sea, as toilers of the sea.
Help me put that wrecked
Romance away from me,
Help me understand
How it was lost at sea,
It wasn't destined to be,
She belonged to another not me,
What’ll be will be,
For toilers of the sea, for toilers of the sea.
I can stand it if you're
There with me,
For the solitary life at sea
Is enough to make you
Sea crazy,
With the whales
And gulls for company,
For toilers of the sea, for toilers of the sea.
We can ponder on
The ocean's mysteries,
I'll unveil a few of
My old sea stories,
You'll see how kind a tar can be,
I promise you'll be safe with me,
When we're out at sea
As toilers of the sea, as toilers of the sea.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
Work two hard for all the **** that I take
I struggle to much for what I get paid
I sleep on a pill laid up in my room
not wanting the dawn to come into bloom
It's been like this since twenty-four
Can't find or accomplish anything I was looking for
Don't know if there is a god for the tears that have been shed or the suffering bed
Been told i was ugly and better off dead
I am so unhappy with what all that's been rattling in my head
But Nothing's Changable so Stop Wishing they said
I want the life I dreamt of ... Oh?!
They Never said I had to settle for this universe or this curse
But i keep making mistakes, listening to them, and they keep me at my worst
It can be hard with no one to trust but that's a toilers tail in this life full of dust
Shooting for the stars should always be a must
Outlive them in a glory that makes me happy is an absolute must!!
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
There's what the World Tells You, and what You Know for Yourself-
There's the Promise of Heaven, and your Own Personal Hell-
Truth is what you believe in, whether your Values be true or false,
it portrays itself on your face-
" My eyes could never show what is not real" ( Red Hot Chili Peppers- "I could have lied")
I will take away your contentment-
but your soul i would not steal-
I love you like my Father-my Mother, My Child-
I love you for your fear, pain, and Humility-
I love you for your proud, instinctual Futility-
Vanity is the falseness which could transform by honest work-
The toilers unspoiled; surrounded by demons who lurk-
My secret ideals, hidden from view-
escape little betrayal; though unseen by you-
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Life was hard in those early days
in Swindons rail work shops.
Where conditions were basic and harsh
working long hours in the heat and noise.
Furnaces blazed to create the power
forging the steel needed to mold.
Magmificent living steam engines
made with passion and skill its told.
Workers couldn't watch the clock
wages were only counted in shillings.
The Great Western railway the employer.
new Swindon was born out of the works.
Stone iron and steele covered the land
at the bottom of Kingshill.
Industrial progress increased sharply
where the land once laid still.
Rows of houses were built for the toilers
and a hospital soon rose from the ground.
The church of St Marks so they could pray
a park to unwind in their limited leisure.
In a community of people helping each other
located by the main London to Bristol line.
Enjoying their annual holidays together
when the steam works looked fine.
Nineteen eighty five the gate shut for good
a retail outlet now where the works stood.
The Foureyed Poet.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
Hot on the tail of that wily, elusive beast
named ‘inspiration’, I travelled north.
North, where colours mute
and transformative shadow
bends in darklight,
revealing the world as it really is,
as it once was.
Hundreds of years pass,
rolling back time, boiling clouds
rushing over peaks in reverse,
a tiny tornado ***** in on itself,
and hundreds become thousands.
Rain blackens the babies of volcanoes,
engorges forces with greater purpose
and cleanses every shred of vision
from my grasping, desperate mind.
Thousands become millions
And I am stripped of incentive to try.
There is no ruination, here.
No furious nor frantic need
to imagine past lives
in this manicured, managed place.
High-vis’d toilers scuttle on mountainsides
carefully placing and re-placing rocks,
funnelling feet and discovery
on a prescribed and sensible path.
Only the rain
wreathing a secretive misted ribbon,
creeping in glacial cut-throughs,
is possessed of fanciful virtue.
Nothing shatters but the slate
and the landscape does not turn inward
to eat itself
in gnawing, atavistic need.
It says more about me,
than it does of the Lake District
that I would wrench out and offer
my super-heated heart
to see the mountains fall.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
If you could only let it drop
we would not need to bear it:
that holy hoity-toity
illiberal burden you announce
from where you wear it.
Would you then be able to live
with your fellow citizens:
fellow toilers in rhyme
buying gluten-free time
at Whole Foods
US; your citizen-neighbors
online cloud of witnesses
Looking at used Subarus
and paying our dues
with you
at the dealership.
Could you only see
through deplorable eyes
and love with a deplorable heart
you would appreciate the art
of the real deal,
loose the seal
of your own apocalypse;
let love reveal
landscapes your pride
has kept hidden for too long.
If you could let your hatred drop,
Slough off the smug and the sneer
If you could stop
signaling to your own
long enough to know REAL diversity, and live
perhaps you’d give
a thought to your own fallibility
lost in a forest of woulds, failing to see
Your neighbor’s Tree of Life. . .
But you are busy perfecting strife,
screaming Timber!
before the axe has even been laid
at the root of your poetry.
If you knew, as the rest of us
how often you have shouted thus
you could understand why
we tend to ignore your warning cry.
Perhaps it could be feasible
to stop blaming
that orange source of all unreasonable
derangement, cease from naming
your neurotic projections
as they are unscrewed
to reveal another inside:
crazed conspiratorial Russian doll
of your own
discredited obsessive offended perpetual alarm.
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 6:16 PM UTC
None can defy what there is not
So why and how do you?
As Narcissus reigns, how can you contend?
Contentment with the norm, a shameful folk you are
As the faithless faithful preach
We remain steady,
watching through the distance
silently and inquisitively
So when the time arrives
Haste we do not
They, a pitiful bunch, consider us but shams
"How can the peasants rule after all?"
Oh, their gall
And so the farmers and the toilers march
March under the banner of revolution!
No faith to obstruct, no wealth to envy
'Tis but another evolution
Humanity will once again rule itself
Not succumbing, but becoming
its own god and its own master
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 7:50 AM UTC
Long do I labor
My back turned to the hot bearing sun.
Long do toil
Until my hardened hands crack and blood begins to run.
And in my labor, my heart turns red with the fires of anger.
At the pointless task set before me.
Why, I question do I place myself in such danger.
When it is all plain to see
That my actions do little to sustain me.
My body though young grows weary of these bleary days.
And my youth drains from me as color from a cloth.
I am left weaker at days end than when I started
And I obtain no recompence To cover the cost of all that I have departed
The weight grows greater by the day
And I fear I grow weaker for the effort.
And yet at the time of my departure
When i lay down my toils pick
When I go back to the shack of a home
That i wearily built.
And I open the creaking door to a warm lit home.
And inside I realize that I am not alone.
For within the darkness eyes look back upon me
Small delicate hands reach out to embrace my leg
Happy for my presence, for the comfort that I endure to provide
Let it never be said that my heart were made of stone.
For even I in my loss, in my pain, I go to eagerly divide
What little my toils have to offer, what little the world sees fit to condone.
And when I see the smile they all give
That another day, by my effort they may all live.
I try not to weep, for they thought crosses my mind
That if I were to fall to jealosies grip
What wall would stand firm against he horrors of mankind.
What piller would hold the ceiling above them.
What furnace would give them warmth.
What sword and sheild would protect them from evils men
I am undone by my title
Weakened by my bonds
But for them, my pourpose stays vital
And for them do I treck on the toilers grounds
I will bleed so they will not need to
I will fall such that they may rise
And when it is all said and done and I am called on to
Let it not be not be said that my cross I did not bare.
Let it not be said that my dependants I did not prize
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
The beauty of a woman isn't in the clothes she wear or the figures that she carries or the colour of her face.
The true beauty is reflected by her soul,
it's in the care and love which she gives.
But everyone does have the different perspective of beauty.
Someone who is injured and want love and cares will say, "beauty is kind and gentle like a mother love"
Or someone who is tired will say "beauty is a soft whisperings who speaks in our spirit and give some peace "
Or the watchman who is at night duty will say, "beauty shall rise with the dawn in the face of sun "
Or the toilers will say, "beauty is in the sunset "
but all these things is the need unsatisfied it's not the beauty,
Beauty is not a need it's a feeling of great happiness,
it's an image which you can only see with your eyes closed,
beauty is a garden forever in bloom,
it's a flocks of Angels for ever in flight,
it's a peace of mind
We can feel beauty in a silent waves of water or in the sound of air,
Beauty is eternal.
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:48 AM UTC
the mystical mythologies and cantankerous denizens
who color our worlds of chance and charm and breed the sinewy
allure of destinies and courses filled with adroit
memories and admonishments and forgiveness
replete with repentance and giving away of
fortune, fame, youth, and all endeavors of heart and mind
wherein we dwell as toilers of charity with humanities
highest escalations of power, meaning and forthright
values that permeate the ever present alacrity or miasma
that all existences are mere proclivities of the stars long
passed and the hallowed secrets of scrolls and spirit
that weaves the corset strapping all of humanity to
the lustrous, industrious penchant of a secretive smile
from the muse or satyr that has encased, enchanted and
left you no escape from your destiny... thankfully
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC