"tradesman" poems
Only on me, the lonely one,
The unending stars of the night shine,
The stone fountain whispers its magic song,
To me alone, to me the lonely one
The colorful shadows of the wandering clouds
Move like dreams over the open countryside.
Neither house nor farmland,
Neither forest nor hunting privilege is given to me,
What is mine belongs to no one,
The plunging brook behind the veil of the woods,
The frightening sea,
The bird whir of children at play,
The weeping and singing, lonely in the evening, of a man secretly in love.
The temples of the gods are mine also, and mine
the aristocratic groves of the past.
And no less, the luminous
Vault of heaven in the future is my home:
Often in full flight of longing my soul storms upward,
To gaze on the future of blessed men,
Love, overcoming the law, love from people to people.
I find them all again, nobly transformed:
Farmer, king, tradesman, busy sailors,
Shepherd and gardener, all of them
Gratefully celebrate the festival of the future world.
Only the poet is missing,
The lonely one who looks on,
The bearer of human longing, the pale image
Of whom the future, the fulfillment of the world
Has no further need. Many garlands
Wilt on his grave,
But no one remembers him.
9.5k
The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.
Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
In toasting Mike I recollect
His steady watching gaze,
I recollect his calm
On a thousand stormy days.
I recall his jaunty humour
In his funny cockney style,
And the rationale behind it
And the pleasure of his smile.
And the quiet determination
In the steeliness within
And the love that emanated
When his Jules laughed loud with him.
When he held her hand and strolled
In the life they shared as one,
In the racket of the grand kids
As they shout and leap and run.
Through the years of hardy seamanship
From England's chalky reach,
Across the ocean's vastness
To far antipodean beach,
To the soft greens of New Zealand
And the promise of this land
And the shining eyes of Jules
When he offered her his hand.
And the life they shared together
Through the joy, the strain the tears
The utter joy of baby Kristin
And her beauty through the years.
The seamlessness of craftmanship
In tradesman's art supreme
And the pride of his achievement
In a sweet successful dream.
A chasm has appeared in life
Where old Mike used to be.
Dreadfull death has exercised
It's right to set him free.
But I can't feel bad for Micheal
For the brilliance of it all
Is celebration of his life well lived
And my toast to judgement's call.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
10 January 2010.
Jan 10, 2010
Jan 10, 2010 at 6:51 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
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
His awful skin
stretched out by some tradesman
is like my skin, here between my fingers,
a kind of webbing, a kind of frog.
Surely when first born my face was this tiny
and before I was born surely I could fly.
Not well, mind you, only a veil of skin
from my arms to my waist.
I flew at night, too. Not to be seen
for if I were I'd be taken down.
In August perhaps as the trees rose to the stars
I have flown from leaf to leaf in the thick dark.
If you had caught me with your flashlight
you would have seen a pink corpse with wings,
out, out, from her mother's belly, all furry
and hoarse skimming over the houses, the armies.
That's why the dogs of your house sniff me.
They know I'm something to be caught
somewhere in the cemetery hanging upside down
like a misshapen udder.
2.6k
Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder,
Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under.
He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick,
So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick".
Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked,
Died in flames, got a days pay docked.
Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric,
I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric.
Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft,
Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft.
Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels,
So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels.
Never said a word, no shout or no fuss,
Dennis died like he lived, just one of us.
Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos,
Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss,
Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars,
Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's.
I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile,
Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile.
They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck,
To mop up the blood, from a broken neck.
Health and safety, if's and but's,
Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts.
We have no say, we try our best,
Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests,
Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's,
Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
For a couple of toffs , I was lagging their loft ,
The size of a Polo Pitch ,
With thick fibreglass , of a " superior class ",
There wasnt a part of me that didnt itch .
Now I had a , full bladder ,
So climbed down the ladder ,
Left the hatch open , like the " barn , I was born in "
Desperate for a *** , though it wasnt through tea ,
I hadnt been offered a cup all morning .
And right there , I saw , a note taped to the door ,
Saying "TRADESMAN - USE THE TOILET DOWNSTAIRS ".
In the natural light, blinking , it got me thinking ,
Is MY ***** , so different to theirs ?
Ignoring the sign, I crossed over the line
And entered "The Master Bathroom "
It was expensively tiled , a shame to defile,
Full of lotions , potions and perfume.
So I ****** in the sink , gave the mirror a wink
And was up to the loft like a thief .
Back home that night as I turned out the light,
I imagined them brushing their teeth .
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 8:27 AM UTC
in the annals of cricket
those of greatness get a mention
for what they've achieved on the wicket
these men stand head and shoulder
above the rest
their contribution
to the game
has
been written as the best
three men have inspired
younger players
in their homelands
they've accomplished
much on wickets
throughout the many cricket playing
lands
Steven Waugh(Australian Captain)
the master strategist
who had a captain's mind
replete with brilliant tactics
when he took to the pitch
the opposition teams
would quiver in their
collective boots
field placement
over deliveries
the weather conditions
all of these factors
actuated in his mind
so he could
bring an innings
of a notable kind
Sachin Tendulkar (Indian Batsman)
the king of the blade
who none can equal
in test matches
his cuts and cover drives
were worthy of an epic prequel
his style with the bat
twas magic to see
he had a prowess
of majesty
Vivian Richard (West Indies All Rounder)
he was never phased
he held his nerve
with the bat or the ball
a tradesman
who fielded what ever came at him
and in his relaxed style
chewed on a piece of gum
and demolish
the bails
with a Caribbean hum
cricket's hall of fame
that 22 yard pitch
where three greatest of the game
performances
did of fans
ever bewitch
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
December 19th
wet snow
and
church parking lot; let out a
sigh of relief
he prom-
ised
For days
Behemoth
size
elininating
our concerns
i
would be happy.
still
"experience"
involved *****
heavy, exhausting, loud
tradesman using
some of us.
together in
unison
pounding
away we filled the church basement
with sound
tempo and
beat.
Then it happened.
The angels were singing just
for us.
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
With a pencil you wait
Hand on paper
To behold and make still
That point in time
Covetous mind
Each stroke a bar in the cage: eternal vacuum
Each stroke a transformation; a window built
On your graying walls ; covetous mind.
You bear the child of perception; gestating
Each glimpse a sad caress; a plea
Asking every detail to stay behind.
Each birth of salient insight; a tradesman
Haggling with the ravages of time.
It's a wonder how
Each line, each shade
Is a mirror; reflecting
Cradles and tears; and
The miracle of learning
How to ride a bike
That first love
And the first child.
That full moon in a clear sky.
That mouthful fare from a mother's hands.
Those conversations of cuckoos
Hidden from those who pry.
The love radiated from parched land
When messengers from teeming clouds are let fly.
And a touch on memory bereft;
Of a lover's hand.
A collage of senses that flows
To the captive hand
Held by you; covetous mind.
And as I sit here, contemplating
On why we draw
I realize, what I do
Is a conspiracy lead
By mine own
Covetous mind.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back, everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.
2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.
3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.
4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
We were best of friends;
Or so you can say,
Because earlier on,
I used to tease her for her size;
I was a sort of bully, you see
But then my friends found other friends
And i was left with her.
I remembered the time she wore a pretty dress,
And i wanted it,
But with a cat picture on it,
Because hers was a puppy.
We made a deal-
That she'd sell me that dress,
And i would stop teasing her,
I did stop teasing her,
But i never did buy that dress
My loss, i know i am a silly tradesman
But hey, i got myself a friend
And it wasn't that bad.
So the days passed
And she always visited me at my house
On her blue bicycle
Because I didn't have the guts to walk to her house alone,
Or learn to ride a bicycle
Without trainer wheels.
We played with dolls,
Braided each other's hair
Or you could say my hair
Because i didn't have a hint of how to back then,
Shen wanted to a be a hairstylist
I wanted to be a doctor.
One day we found two puppies
A brown one and a black one
Under a car on my street
I took the brown one,
And she took the black one,
Because I took the brown one
I named mine Puffin and she named hers Rocky.
She was better at naming i guess
Because growing up,
Only then did i know that Puffin was a kind of bird
And naming him Muffin
Might have been more sensible.
But we found out that the puppies had an owner
And escaped through his gate
And so we had to give them back
We were sad of course
But at least we didn't lose our first pets
Through death.
Then came the day
I had to move away
She braided my hair for the last time
I asked her to show me the puppies
For one last time
But she never did
And so we parted.
Now i know
How to ride a bike without trainer wheels
I'm better at hair braiding
And i have quite many dresses
And many different friends
But no puppies or cats
But that's okay.
I was going to tell her all these
And with the phone number she gave me
I realised i hadn't written her name properly
And it dawned upon me that after all that,
I still didn't know how to spell her name.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Toil and trouble
He went through it all
Just a man yet so much more
He was the seal of prophet hood
Orphan child
Never knew his mother
But brought with him all parents rights
And love for children alike
Illiterate and uneducated
Yet not a word was taken for granted
Read in the name of Your Lord
A duty upon believers to seek knowledge
A noble and trustworthy tradesman
His character and personality spoke for him
Can you imagine in those times
A woman proposed to him
Committed to his mission
Peace treaties and alliances
Evicting racism and hatred
He even fought with rules and principles
He preached for the sake of brother hood
Humanity and love
We were all one
No nationality, no patriotism
Such responsibility
Yet never a burden
Beaten and exiled he lost his wife and kids
Still he carried on for us
Courageous and fearless
Never judged anyone by their past or looks
Open minded and tolerant
Even when he was helpless
Jewish neighbours
And Christian cousin in laws
He believed in good relations
And practised what was preached
He spoke of a time riddled with strife
Temptations with every breath
Those people would be tested the most
And he prayed for people he never met
Yes we love him
Because he guided us to right
Showed us a perfect example
The role model we all aspire to
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Only on me, the lonely one,
The unending stars of the night shine,
The stone fountain whispers its magic song,
To me alone, to me the lonely one
The colorful shadows of the wandering clouds
Move like dreams over the open countryside.
Neither house nor farmland,
Neither forest nor hunting privilege is given to me,
What is mine belongs to no one,
The plunging brook behind the veil of the woods,
The frightening sea,
The bird whir of children at play,
The weeping and singing, lonely in the evening, of a man secretly in love.
The temples of the gods are mine also, and mine
the aristocratic groves of the past.
And no less, the luminous
Vault of heaven in the future is my home:
Often in full flight of longing my soul storms upward,
To gaze on the future of blessed men,
Love, overcoming the law, love from people to people.
I find them all again, nobly transformed:
Farmer, king, tradesman, busy sailors,
Shepherd and gardener, all of them
Gratefully celebrate the festival of the future world.
Only the poet is missing,
The lonely one who looks on,
The bearer of human longing, the pale image
Of whom the future, the fulfillment of the world
Has no further need. Many garlands
Wilt on his grave,
But no one remembers him.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Beautiful brute dancing,playing chess with bare knuckled
explosions.Long past fear.
Tradesman in concussion.
Written on the wind.
His art on the canvas layed out in
Rusting crimson,spread deep and wide
as he slips and slides his masterpiece
of blood and teeth.
Swift dispatch, smiling
Stalker.
Jack Johnson.Jack Johnson.
Jack Johnson.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
*The quotient of blue in marriage with shimmering green , jasper plow land surrounded in eastern pine motifs and whitewashed barrier
The morning clang of 'smith , cooper and farrier
Days of black pig iron , cured oak and strap leather
Messages that forever ride the backcountry Autumn zephyrs*
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
As he stepped down from stirrup to dirt the road worn traveler reached up to the boiling sun.
How far had he rode today. From pillar to hitching post a wayward ghost a hollow merchant.
Swathed in leather and silver...tooled steel on his hip...a killer by trade. He was made to this
By nightfall alone on moonlit trail would he be in slow self procession to find bad intentions.Tradesman in sulfur and lead...black smoke and resounding explosions. Then silence.
Tradesman in black.
Death and deliverance.
Paid in full.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
Janet
You feel her like a minstral wind
Warm and zelous, vibrant, and on fire
Enticing enchantments dwell on Ingersoll hill, past on from a Tilbury state of mind
Randy
A tradesman biding for currency, whilst holding satire court through rose coloured glasses
They meet, time stops, a reset has been fathomed
For tender love is emerging with torrents of wild, primal, passion flashing premonitions
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 8:31 PM UTC
I grab onto fire hydrants
Because they feel just like your heart
Completely untouched
Dusty and red
I stare up at the street lights
Because they look just like your eyes
Painfully blinding
Pale and vulnerable
I scream at the cars
Because they sound just like your words
Ridiculously loud
Rusty and metallic
I lick all the glass buildings
Because they taste just like your kiss
Chillingly artificial
Transparent and busy
I linger with the tradesman
Because they smell just like your tension
Deathly anxious
Uptight and stuffy
Feb 3, 2025
Feb 3, 2025 at 10:10 PM UTC
*To the herdsman counting his flock in the moonlight
The plowman repairing his tractor by lantern- light
The wood splitter , the fence builder , framer and rail tender
Architects of frozen December morns
Unsung engineers , freight worker and brakemen
'Twould be a privilege indeed to sup cold beer with the countries heroes , privy to stories of hardship and raw weather days endured by these American patriots
Iron tooled with steel , the churning grist mill , diesel engine roar ,
black earth turned anew , billowing steam settled over valley floors
Masters of metal , brake and die , machine and anvil
The crack of the peen long before sunrise
'Tis the bailiwick of farmer and tradesman* ..
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
Two builders at my door
Mending the brickwork,
The hardwood board
That’s kindness for sure.
Tenderly I watch them point
With lovingly made cement
A tradesman’s gifted skill
Thank you Charlie and Bill.
Love Mary ***
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 6:59 AM UTC