"tradesmen" poems
On a bleak and frosty night
Vexed and weary two travelers rode
Along the pathways-craggy and ragged
From Nazareth, trudging miles on end
Full pregnant, was she with child
Mary -the ****** suffused with Spirit Holy
Divinely ordained to bear the Godly Prince
Conceived before, she had known her spouse.
Abiding in Heaven’s Providence n’ care
They had rode past miles behind
Far too fatigued by the trip
Mary, now badly needed a place to rest.
Heading towards the blinking lights
Not far from the city’s guarded gate
Joseph sighted a tavern-small
Perched high on a tiny hill
A sense of relief beamed past
They have come at last to the journey’s end
Finally found a place to rest!
An interim home away from home
Tethering the donkey outside the gate
Joseph helped Mary alight the brute
In eager search, he hurried inside
With Mary, following with faltering steps.
But the couple, to their dismay found
Within the tavern, room, there was none
For many a man had gathered round
To halt there on that freezing night
Sundry folk from surrounding lands
Had reached Bethlehem for the yearly census
Tradesmen selling clothes and cheese
Nomads of varying clans and clime
Petulant camels, braying donkeys
The place was littered with man and beast.
The tavern small, so packed to full
Had no more space to harbor the crowd
Mary and Joseph, though dejected,
Were encamped within a manger- warm
With tender concern, Joseph joked,
To ease the strain on Mary’s face
“Gaze upon this palace of gold
Where a son shall soon be born to us”!
Mary smiled a gentle smile,
Humored by her husband’s jest
Under the gaze of tethered hosts
In veiled privacy of the midnight gloom
She gave birth to a radiant child,
The great Redeemer to all Mankind
The star studded sky suddenly glowed
With a rare brilliance never beheld
And a celestial voice trailed along
Delivering ‘tidings of joy’ to the globe around
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
He didn't meet many expectations
With the shell that he wore
Though the people gave nothing
They expected more
He'd stroll into town
With the clothes on his back
And the tools he would need
In an ancient, holey bag
He'd search out those
In need of repair
A leaky roof
Or a broken chair
This man seemed to know something
About every field
He'd smooth bumpy roads
Even doctored wounds 'til they healed
There was never a charge
For the service he rendered
One need only ask
And perhaps remember
**If a stranger's in need
And passes your way
Just give him a hand
That's my pay**
The more that he helped
The more tradesmen would fuss
*This man's stealing the thunder
That belongs to us*
So the tradesmen all gathered
And plotted and planned
The weapons they chose
Were not in their hands
They began to spread lies
*This is our competitors' ruse
If he keeps freely working
Consider the business we'll lose*
They convinced the masses
In spite of all he had done
*This enemy among us
Is a dangerous one*
So this strange humble servant
Who was mocked in the end
Had no one defend him
Not one single friend
If you'll lend me your ear
I'll return it with truth
The enemy among us
Is me and you
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
*Intricately laid by a master mason centuries ago,
the cobbles have become shiny and worn through use.
If we listen closely at the echoes contained within,
what would we hear? The din of old, the clatter of hooves,
the patois of tradesmen, the fisher wives bellows?
Or, just life as it was, moving along at a pace we today find slow?
The sun beats down on the Spanish stone, firing them hot and
languid, pace has slowed, need has slowed, greed has slowed.
Dusty cobbles leading to cool houses, siesta has called and all obey.
The midday sun beats down, only tourists looking for quaint shops
remain, decrying the heat, ready to swoon.
Sweat drips onto the dusty cobbles, and is soon boiled away.
Blood has dripped on these cobbles, human and beasts.
Only to be scrubbed by the crow black crones that sit and watch the day.
Afternoon lull, boats bobbing slowly up and down,
babies rocked by a quiet lullaby.
The sun lowers bathing the cobbles in a pink, orange glow,
quiet now, Spain is sleeping, forgetting her past, the Moors are long gone,
the Armada been and gone, bullfights are frowned upon,
their Kings and Dictator laid to rest, only foolish tourists throng the
dusty cobbles, oblivious to their history, looking for that awful gift.
Spain's pain is echoed in her cobbles, few hear it, but know this,
if you listen you'll hear the heat, the pain, civil war,
pride and flamenco feet*.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
Olive and Orange
From the years of 650 and onwards Andalusia
Was a tolerant Arabic province, which even tolerated
the Jewish tradesmen pushing their handcarts on
cobble stones and the Christians with their infernal
bells ringing on Sunday mornings.
The three religions lived side my side in relative
harmony, one can say the following 300 years
Andalusia and part of Algarve was an oasis of peace.
The Arab architecture is still there and in music
one can still hear the Arabic influence not to forget
the poetry inspired in beautiful gardens with running
water and cooling shade, where love was made and
in Yasmin scented afternoons.
Nothing lasts forever the Christian horde came with
their swords -the ISIS of the time- heads rolled in the sand
Andalusia became a Catholic nation, yet the echo of more
a contemplative time lingers on.
This story was told to me by the oldest olive tree in the world
that lives in a valley of orange trees.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
these are our leaders: ash-born, clay-footed,
emerging in the fudge grays of beyond light,
shadows of the incense plumes
we light in prayer
long washed ashore here from yonder worlds
of darkness and mystery
by a wand wave thieve-made,
exiled our kings to the far realms, alien
then this self-lost band
of otherworldly priests, effeminate
our smiths and weavers, liars
our bards that sung of heroes
and conniving crooks our tradesmen
no we are not to prosper in common
with our kinsmen across the hills
but in the name of God, amen,
say peace to the holy ghosts,
rises deified a language and a nation
so we break the idols of the past
and garland our heroes of reason
clay-footed they come,
and die drowning without an heir
alpha and omega
of our rootless world,
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
i.
In the archaic agora
Stayed apothecaries, money changers, and tradesmen;
Governor's with grape stained sin's
Himation throw over's, as for women a chiton, white garb glint.
ii.
Betwixt the sea human being multitude
Were the many different Greek's, and the Grecian Jew's;
This locale was vibrant, a theatre nearby where the soldier's couldst escape from the war, whilst fighting made market new's.
iii.
A poet I was, listening to homer, and the philosopher Plato
Whilst Aristotle read marvelous novel's, whilst Aristophanes gaveth me a laugh; and Hippocrates showed me doctor's notes for the generation's to cometh and pass, Sophocles to giveth fun task.
iv.
Off in the distance was a lass not from around mine Greek land
Her skin a little darker, her eye's **** wick's, ablazed, her sheath Asiatic tan; she hadst no brand, she was not formed by any human creator, her tropical hair, swayed to the Mediterranean.
v.
She was struggling, fighting for her life from the cyclops Polyphemus, I ran quickly to her rescue, pulling out mine xiphos;
She passed out from the trauma, her pupils rolled back timeful
As I woketh her with mine poetic Lip's, giving her life, greek kiss.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poets poetry
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
When we were kids we had ideas and dreams,
Of what we wanted to be.
It boiled down to one thing,
We wanted to be a somebody.
We could go as far as our imagination would let us.
And the stars were just figures in the sky,
That one day we could reach out and touch.
Maybe we just wanted to leave this world a better place,
Than when we met it
Maybe we just wanted to be remembered for something great.
But we grew up.
Dreams faded into the ether of the past.
And we became what we become.
Waitress' and waiters.
Callous palmed factory workers.
Ticket booth operators.
Cleaners, tradesmen and
Bus drivers.
Barmen, bank clerks and
Insurance salemen
People that make the world tick.
When you walk down the street,
You can hear a chorus of unsung hymns.
The girl who just wanted to sing.
But was too afraid to take to the stage.
So her songs remain hers.
The unseen kid.
Who's got a notebook of broken dreams.
But remains alive.
Because it's through the ink that his heart beats.
Through his words that his thoughts breathe.
Or the man who works a job he hates.
Just to hold up his family.
These people are just living their lives.
But these people are somebody to someone
Don't let this be just another poem.
Don't let these words mean nothing.
Their is more in life than being great.
Is it not enough to make one person happy.
Is it not enough to make yourself happy.
Nobody can define you.
The walls might not fall but
You got to try and make them
You can be anything you want to be.
Sing like no one's listening.
Dance like no one's watching.
Shine as bright as you can.
You are a somebody.
You always have been.
And you still have time to be.
Dec 18, 2009
Dec 18, 2009 at 6:22 AM UTC
The path winded through the jungle their tread was cautious slow
Walk they must still a long way till the sun goes down below
They carried with them precious merchandise monies earned from trade
What dangers lay on their way what would befall them they were afraid.
They walked ceaseless in worried face their words broke the silence
The shadows lengthened it bothered them still long was the distance
As luck would have it there came along a retinue of tradesmen
They too were heading the same way carrying with them trade's gain.
*Thank god we have met you for we carry with us good treasure
The way is not safe we have heard dangers lurk in immense measure
We would be secure if we travelled together in large number's strength
For our wealth we must safe keep till we reach the journey's length.*
As was proposed so was done they befriended and resumed their way
Warmly chatting sharing anecdotes not knowing when passed the day
When came evening they halted at a place set up camps there for the night
Unburdened themselves for rest and gossip enveloped in glow of moonlight.
They discussed business profits bargains the many losses and gains in deals
Smoking hookahs chewing betel leaves passing time till served their meals
When dinner was over they sat together shrouded in smoke and night's song
Basking in friendship not once doubting tomorrow would never come along.
*Behind each man sat another one a silent sign game was on play
Eyes roamed on eyes death in disguise waited to fall on its prey
Then came one call ominous and small a voice said let's take break
In one clean swift sweep fastened handkerchiefs strangled the unaware necks.*
In less than a minute stopped each heartbeat with such precision was it made
Bodies lay still the hunters got their **** without much struggle and bloodshed.
They buried each corpse leaving no trace the two groups became one
In the name of Kali they had used the noose got the ***** for a job well done.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
*A few clouds drift lazily across a pure blue sky
and a scorching sun sends sleeping dogs in search
of shaded bed-spaces somewhere under the trees.
Washing long dried hangs limp on the garden lines
waiting to be taken in by mothers who are sitting in
the cool indoors shucking peas into a bowl.
The local tradesmen have been and gone, having
delivered their orders of milk bread and groceries all
is now quiet in our sleepy midday Hampshire home.
The dusty lane that goes through the village is only
a bike ride down to the creek, saddle bags crammed
with sandwiches towels and swimming trunks.
The afternoon´s are spent swinging from a rope which
had been tied high in a tree over hanging the creek
letting go and splashing into the cool clear water below.
The excited screams and laughter ring out loudly across
golden fields of corn throughout the long hot summer,
a million miles and fifty-five years from where I am now*.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
The Lady Mary had locked the door
And called the scullery maid,
The Boots was called and the Footman,
So they thought they were being paid,
She lined them up with the Butler,
The Housemaid, skivvy and Cook,
‘You’re not to go wandering out the door,
Not even to take a look!’
She knew her word, though the very law,
Was never to go down well,
For Alice was sweet on a lawyer’s clerk,
A lockdown seemed like hell.
The Footman needed his racing mates
To place a bet on the book,
So the Lady Mary had made it plain,
‘Not even a peep or a look!’
The grumbling went with the Cook downstairs
As they stood, and waited for tea,
‘It’s all very well for the likes of her,
There’s places I have to be!’
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ the Butler said,
‘We’re lucky to grace her floor,
If you want to leave in a fit of peeve
You’ll never get back in the door.’
They huddled down for a week or more
It was better than paying rent,
But a silence settled on every floor
For nobody came, or went,
The pantry shelves were emptying out
But the tradesmen never came,
‘We’re going to starve,’ was the one lament
When they ate the last of the game.
The Footman called the Scullery Maid
And they huddled up on a pew,
‘If you sneak out for an hour tonight,
Then I will cover for you,
And you can visit your lawyer’s clerk
Then place a bet on the book,
I’ll let you in when it’s nice and dark…’
‘I will, by hook or by crook!’
She slipped on out by the kitchen door
And he turned the key in the lock,
Watched the Butler heading for bed
And sat by the kitchen clock.
At ten o’clock, with a tiny tap
She had made her prescence felt,
And tumbled in as he opened the door,
Went straight to the hearth, and knelt.
He locked the door, then he heard her sob
And saw that her head was bent,
She stared so long and hard at the floor
That he thought his bet was spent.
‘What ails you Alice, now what went wrong,
Don’t give me none of your lies!’
She looked up into his face just then
And he saw blood stream from her eyes!’
‘They’re dead, all dead,’ were the words she said
As her tears had mixed with the blood,
Your racing pals and my lawyers clerk,
And the horses, down at the stud.
The Lady Mary, she should have said…’
But he cut her off right there,
Leapt up, unlocking the kitchen door
He dragged her out by her hair.
He locked the door and he scrubbed his hands
But he’d locked the beast within,
As blood then streamed from his Footman’s eyes
And he earned the wages of sin.
The Lady Mary came down the stair
To find him, dead on the floor,
And said to the Cook, with blood red eyes,
‘You’d best fling open the door!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
Today I come to speak to you, a messenger of the gravest news.
A spokesman from your leader’s views, the tradesmen of disaster.
My Lords, ladies and gentlemen, my fellow countrymen,
a wave of apprehension as engulfed us once again.
We promise as your leaders, your future’s safe and sound
so let me make it clear again the answers will be found.
But first let me assure you, there’s no need to fear
I’m sure you’ve seen the changes, so let me make it clear.
Everything is for the best, just you wait and see
now here I stand before you will you put your trust in me.
We hoped there was a better way there’s nothing we’ve not tried
So please believe me when I say with this my hands are tied.
I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours, we’ve also heard them too
So let me make it clear again there’s nothing we could do.
I hope I’ve given clarity, on what I’ve said today,
And why we must all push on through co’s it’s the only way.
I know that times are hard, but there’s better days ahead
so please lets all be patient and remember what I’ve said.
So let me finish here today and wish you all fair weather
In times like these as we all freeze we must all stick together
So until our next meeting, I’ll deliberate no more
I'm not a man of many words, so bye I’m out the door.
The end
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
I could've been a tradesmen
I'd work a six till three
Follow my fathers footsteps
To work and spend and sleep
But I couldn't stray from embracing melodies
-In the darkest times we often crave normality.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
A white collar day holiday
tradesmen get one too
I'm at my best about this time
take a line to make rhyme
and coffee comes in handy
which doesn't rhyme at all.
It's still Sunday though,
but don't let that fact stop the fun
the carnival's not over yet
it's not even begun.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 2:50 AM UTC