"workhorse" poems
These are the hard times,
the long stretch of coal-shed days,
the corrugated nights of the antinomian.
I retch at the old doubts and the panoply
of dustbins clattering bright,
their watchers simian in the morning ****
I dress as though dredging up greys,
monotone deep in the GB tradition:
now sandpit tea with oil stain floats
silt dreads the mass of a seven year clay.
Four weeks of shadows drown wind in a storm.
And dreams of my cottage
in days of such calm and late summer happiness
as brought cut corn and strawbs
and horse manure in hugs
until like Zulu tribesmen the birds appeared.
Hunched with expectation
Spears smiling like baddies they rushed me.
I woke pouring sweat like a workhorse
the weakest of defences laid up
my face pulling cellophane over French windows.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
If I had last words they would be…
Well… I mean… I see in those streams of invectives
I see especially people who drink, eat, sleep,
who make all human functions
Which are quite rather ******
And I shall say that they’re heavy
It never stopped being heavy
I noticed
I’ve read so many verses and particularly
verses from the 17th century
Verses, so-called courteous verses
I found 3 or 4 good ones in thousands of them
There’s little lightness in man
He’s heavy... isn’t he
And nowadays he’s extraordinary in heaviness
Since automobiles, alcohol, ambition, politics make him heavy
Even heavier
It’s mostly like that, he’s extremely heavy
Maybe one day shall we see a mind rebellion against the weight
But it isn’t for tomorrow
For now... we’re heavy
So I’d say indeed
If I had to die
I’d say
Man is heavy
That’s all
Oh! They were mean but...
Because they were heavy
They were heavy
They were heavy… jealous of a certain lightness
Jealous... jealous like a woman who wears a clothing burlap
instead of another who wears lace
Like someone who owns a workhorse
instead of a thoroughbred
Jealous...
Jealous of being heavy... that’s all
Crippled...
They weigh... they're crippled
Heaviness makes them *******
Therefore we can beware of them
They’re ready to do anything
Oh sure
They’re ready to do anything
And to activate heaviness
They drink, aren’t they
So when they drink, they turn into sledgehammers
It’s frightening, isn’t it
Sledgehammers without control
Yes, they’re especially like this
They activate... increase their weight
Instead of making themselves lighter
Oh! They’re not in Ariel’s side
They’re more like Caliban
More and more
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
i fall and ascend in a sea vantablack
spiral light
fire ghosts and ice
that cut the soul to pieces
like scissors
that split rabbits
industry of a hissing creation
polluted altar of sleeping lakes
and scythe
bludgeon and howitzer
prods of push and pull
in a grindhouse
necropolis of craters
scattering satanic eggs and tumors
i am here born to you thin of bone
mother of catastrophes
on a colossal ball of scab and callous
that moves sonorous dazzling shapes
careening through
ephemera workhorse torches
of doom
you fill me with knots of terror
and desperate dreams of stairway wings
veils and glimmers
resolutions dissolving
petaled apertures of desire
and night whispers
in a spider web of sonic bulls
before undertows gravity
i was vibrant
but then i died into the rock ash of earth
they called it my birthday
my parents with party hats and balloons
blinked fetters
against nights of granite and stone
i got deader still
until i was nothing
but an imagineless gob of mud and breath
an eye looking out
behind red nerve forest fires
and tears shook tambourines
down heavy lashes
cascaded fluttering tassels
i am born to you mother of senile seas
citadel of shattered glass
in a slate cube of cyclones
mute and screaming
my fate deep shock
encased in mausoleums led nautilus
blatting hells jaundiced shriek
Pluto conjunct Saturn
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
Paddy's faithful workhorse
It broke down by the gate
And he had forty acres
To plough and cultivate
Paddy lived all alone
Now that was a fact
So he wrote an advert
Somewhat lacking tact
WIFE REQUIRED URGENTLY
A MOST IMPORTANT FACTOR
IS THAT THE APPLICANT
SHOULD POSSESS A TRACTOR
AGE UNIMPORTANT, COLOUR DOESN'T MATTER
PLEASE ENCLOSE WITH REPLY PHOTO
OF SAID TRACTOR
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
Our road trip memories align
as we pass a Farmall tractor,
fire engine red and rooted
roadside in a field of alfalfa,
a relic washed by cloudburst,
a workhorse dried in sunshine,
arrested air stack,
rusted crank case,
supple spider webs
in chaste wheel wells—
immutable old machine
somehow extinguishing
in the reflected acreage
of the rear view mirror.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
Shortened by your own expectations
to a son, whose a workhorse.
who's under the shade of others,
ill and hidden under the rocks.
Under dog they say
does not brag any stellar milestone he's been in,
giving all the drastic efforts
but still gray and merely unseen.
Questioned himself
when he learned the term "black sheep"
Child in the heart, strong,
operates at his own risks.
of epic proportions and stars
he sees but only to himself,
hidden angst and questions to his own blood,
kept in the inner skirts of his chest.
A son, whose emerging,
underrated with his dreams.
a follower of the art
waiting until dawn, forever it seems.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 6:04 AM UTC
They were cold and sterile
Maybe that's why they plagued it
As they placed their signatures upon experimentation
and pushed too hard like a workhorse facing retirement
It's a script indeed
The downfall of a generation
Weak minded fiends cycle it out like ***** laundry
Siphoning jet fuel to reach new heights in sacrifice
It's no wonder why none of us can sleep at night
Me I'm just a piece of paper full of ineligible lines
Treated like a germ
With great pain held behind whimpering eyes
So hard to disguise
My pace quickened as I passed
Glossy eyes and desperate breaths
People clawing crying out
I continued forward heart cast out
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Players 1 and 2 are after the same role
Pretending friendship with a higher power
In a laughable effort to get what they want.
3 just drinks coffee.
Endlessly.
All day long.
No-one knows what work she actually does
Or is indeed employed to do.
5 will soon be retired
Right now he's just tired
of all the silly games
So he sneaks a nap at his desk when things are quiet
And reads his newspaper under the desk.
There's one guy, number 6, he brings wine
To work and hides it in the toilets
Has a plan to confess soon
The company are obliged to pay for rehab
But at the moment, it's cheaper to turn a blind eye.
4 is the office joke
Gets in at seven
No lunch, last to leave,
A real workhorse
But he's next up for redundancy
Makes everyone else look bad.
And me?
You know my story
I write poetry
Endlessly.
All day long.
And I drink coffee.
I Stay out of the way
I don't like office play.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
The story of a defined bus
A description of the 1954 Greyhound Scenicruiser that reminds us
A coach bus with its own design
A long distance bus that comes to mind
The Scenicruiser had all the features
Air conditioning to help passengers relax
Picture windows so the passengers wouldn’t feel perplexed
A full equipped restroom at your disposal at your elect
Then a dual half floor with a big window in the middle of galore
The view from all angles at the top
The traveler’s enjoyment that just wouldn’t stop
The famous Scenicruiser being that revolutionized bus
It involves the slogan, “Leave the driving to us”
A bus of the past
The memory that will certainly last
The workhorse of the fleet
The reclining seats that add to the treat
I almost forgot, every seat had a place for your feet
Scenicruiser of years past
I almost hear the echoes of the wheels that turn
History in the making of a long lasting urn
Hauling passengers and freight
The idea is don’t be late
The motto, “Don’t miss the bus”
The Scenicruiser’s history involves all of us.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
this I can't deny
a secret person from myself
a secret life behind these eyes
cast away behind the shelf
a personality I cannot find
what no one expects
... sincere
and yet...
insane
for being a caged animal?
tame?!
if you are what they want you to be
if you are sane... then you are weak
if you are financially inept
then you are ******
goodbye dignity
goodbye "BEING A MAN"
but you never needed that
you were always an intellectual
you had no other choice
but this is hidden in the chaos
and the chaos is something no one can argue
when you try they don't believe you
they believe in a higher being
when they don't understand
they don't understand disorder
they don't understand biological disorder
I am not tame when provoked... just like you
except when I am provoked...
I naturally turn violent
when I turn evil, I turn on myself
safety measure, defense mechanism against me.
and when I can no longer take it
the dark thoughts pace rapidly
nerves are shot
I am only writing this to save my life
I am only writing this to save my life
I am only...
the life I don't want
in a place that's tolerable
with the inhabitants that don't understand me
I am only writing this to preserve....
I'm not pathetic
I'm not what everyone says I am...
or thinks I am
I'm not...
but they wouldn't know that
they never bothered to ask me...
I'm either too intimidating by appearance
too the opposite by demeanor
I'm either this or that
this or that...
ITS ALWAYS MULTIPLE THINGS AT THE SAME TIME
DOES ANYONE ELSE EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS???
It barely makes sense to me..
I cannot identify...
and then I give up..
turn apathetic...
begin narration
and I am only writing this to calm myself down
I am only writing this to save my life
I am not selfish enough to take it...
even from the people who don't believe me.
the people I love.
I fight myself everyday for them.
Because if it were up to me... well...
...
I now remember why I chose to write
I am defeated... by nature
and a workhorse by society.
hysterical...
I hope no one ever reads this...
even if they did
it wouldn't matter...
this is the last thing someone does
is trick themselves into company
who cares what others think
when you're basically talking to yourself
you're talking to yourselves
and yet...
you are still the mystery narrator
A MAN, just how the world likes us
defeated.
Dead in a Metaphor.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
These beasts of burden with their potent power,
They plough the fields for hours and hours,
Working for the farmer,
Never do they complain,
Strolling through the vineyards,
Harvesting next seasons grapes,
Time and time again,
While Amish farmers use theirs gifts and treat them tenderly,
In all their bridle wear,
Made in traditional way,
Left over gifts from these gentle giants,
Their deposits natural,
Have been used to heat and build a dwelling, if not somewhat smelly,
While keeping gardens blooming in a most productive way,
Some of the many things a workhorse does in a day,
Workhorses they also dwell in city life,
While walking through the city streets,
Mingling with the passers by,
Or controlling the traffic,
As part of forces supporting royalty,
Through regal processions,
Walking boldly proudly through a cacophony of drum beat sounds,
In a disturbing row,
All this noise and full furore,
Please respect these fine beasts,
Brethren of our world,
Poetry in motion as with such grace they move,
One thing for sure,
they can help us save our world with their minimal emissions!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
What a way to spend October 11, all in one day?
There are many enterprising words that I could say
It was the 14th Annual Mass Transit & Trolley Modeler’s Convention in New Brunswick, New Jersey
It was held at RUTGERS UNIVERSITY Gymnasium Annex
All attendee’s wore badgers and stepped back into time
Trains, busses and trolley’s all had their preservation combined
A look at steam engines who was the workhorse of the rails
Come and follow me as I explain in more detail
Transit and highway buses the vintage of their trail
Towns with trolley’s, a matter of tracks and wires
A world from the past with tomorrow that’s here today with plenty of technology advances that inspires
A trip down memory lane in years before my years
Yet the honor of preservation to continue my passion for buses in preserver
Then there were highway buses I once rode
Purchased a scale model MC7 Challenger of Vermont Transit, and added to my personal collection of look and behold
A day well spend indeed
The story goes on in proceed
I really didn’t know where time went
This was my exploration being support
You could say, “My determined will”
It was my ambition running on still
Yet it was a worthwhile experience
But it was a lot of walking and you had to have endurance
I learned even more mass transit and buses
This places me like an Ever Ready battery to influence
Also with that knowledge, I learned about the back roads and rails no longer exist
This was a thought I couldn’t resist
The mass transit flow and time is moving with systems go.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
I want this to be about you,
But it's not
It resides in the hours
That I spent wide awake
When I couldn't sleep so I smoked
And I couldn't dream so I wrote
What I hoped I'd see
For the metaphors
I couldn't keep churning out
So I smoked some more
And I spurted out
Lines about lines
For the driver on the dented highway
With the window cracked
To feel the chills of the air blowing past
Listening to Bob Dylan tell her
The person she was supposed to be but
Never was
And never will
I want this to tell you how I feel,
But it won't
And if she drives far enough she'll reach that
Looming exit
The one she knows she must take
Back to the life she's sick of living
But fights through the pain
For the same reasons that I
Fight through, because
I want to meet a pretty girl
With great vocabulary,
And a smile like Rita Heyworth
I'm still looking for that girl
To drive me across that highway
And recycle old Dylan lines
As if they were personal dictums
She had synthesized herself
And we can freewheel this road together
See I'll never be that great poet that
Three hundred and twenty-nine thousand people
Have watched on the Internet
And that is a comfort
Because the truth resists simplicity
And in my heart of hearts I am a simple man
And telling the truth through words in meter
Or in stanzas
Will never come as naturally to me
As it does to Dylan
But in my acceptance of my ignorance
I become more powerful
Than I'd ever need to be
Poetic.
So if writing is always my hobby
And never my workhorse
If I can self-satisfy through
Strict stanzas that I will
Seldom share
If it is only to a girl
Driving on a highway
Singing songs about formerly-modern America that I
Recite these rehearsed thoughts of mine
Than I will have succeeded
Because my career will have been love
And maybe I can write this
About you.
And then, and only then, it will be.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
A speck on a tile,
the cabinet floor,
my patchwork wooden table
left to disrepute.
That red speck of being,
crack open another,
the sharp side of glass or else
the fluid within.
It laces my blood,
or else is blood itself,
staining my innards
and shaping my mask.
My martyred heart
and its tireless pound,
marching the red-coated soldiers
to their eventual demise.
Incorrigible workhorse,
sustain my progress
when all else has turned to ash and rain,
when all else has been slain.
My Boxer, he pleads
to keep on up the hill,
to allow him his efforts and fluid,
when we’ve all but given up.
And so I shave in the light
of the late-morning glow.
My hair collects in your old shaving mug,
remnants of yesterday.
So for now I’ll ignore
the speck on the tile,
and all of its false promises
in the time of my storm.
For now I’ll awake
with taut skin and white scars,
with broken-sleep eyes, pastured bone
and some far-off notion
of forlorn hope.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
*My Zebco 33 is part of my family
you see , on many a troubled day this
precision piece of machinery has helped
to foster great clarity , encouraged playful
lakeside banter , put many a panfish or two
in the creel as well
This old reel has ne'er skipped a beat in
thirty plus years , a faithful friend , riverbank
companion , an American workhorse in the blue
collar tradition , the 'go to friend' of a grateful fisherman* ...
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
Go on, and pass it along
To your workhorse
Go on, tell me I am wrong
I am your resource
Please blame me
Please shame me
Please work me to the bone
Please frame me
Please proclaim me
Make me one of your own
Get out, but please don't shout
At your workhorse
Get out, you're too devout
To your workhorse
Please blame me
Please shame me
Please work me to the bone
Please frame me
Please proclaim me
Make me one of your own
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Verses out of rhyme
From prophets to poets
Out of line
Corridors of restless passages
Form this abode of passion
Of mine
In countless manifestations
Upon seeking representations
To salvage this predicted downfall
About to be genuinely fulfilled
What say you
To my fate in this
Displeasure?
Hiding the crimes
That people must censure
Getting a fix
And giving a trick
Being used like a workhorse
Before my staying power
Is over….
Can I make myself
Come to terms
With failures for fortune
Riding the crest
Of my oblivious popularity
Will they remember
Or can they see?
When white men
Would drag me
To the cell of my death?
I belong here, don’t I?
Like verses out of rhyme
I close my eyes
To nurture the *****
Of this solution
They must inject inside
Of me
To dissolve me
In the fading background
Like lingering shadows
That will never take shape
I brought my hands up
To touch my cheeks
I wipe the bitter tears
As I lay me down
To sleep…….
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
Do you still taste of salt?
You, playing tennis in the hot sun,
and me, in my office working.
Lovers with two separate lives
Until I got tired of being your workhorse.
Still, I miss the taste of your skin.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
Jerry, the GM PD-4106 bus is what I call
There was a period of stall
But wait, that’s not all
The GM PD-4106 bus of the past with possibilities
The bus was once the workhorse at Greyhound being reality
But because the PD-4106 was a bus of the 1960’s, it no longer had a function
The General Manager and Maintenance team had stuffed the bus way in the back in the bus company’s yard behind the garage where no one would notice
The Smith Brothers Bus Company had Heavy Charter traffic, and with all new updated features that the GM PD-4106 didn’t have from the past
So Jerry being had no use, but stay in the back and collect dust
The General Manager and Maintenance felt that was an absolute must
They thought there no fuss
How uncertain they were
But something happened for the good for GM PD-4106 that no one expected
A group needed to charter a vintage bus for a bus museum trip
Jerry was the only vintage bus on the lot
It wasn’t a plot
But I can tell you, the updated buses didn’t like that a lot
Jerry the GM PD-4106 was finally noticed
The updated buses started jealousy around the bus company place
Even the General Manager and couldn’t even erase
Jerry was the talk of the town
So vintage buses, man your stations
You are still the best from vintage back of all time creations
GM PD-4106 proved that
It is pure fact
So what happened to Jerry after the charter?
Jerry became a permanent bus to a proud owner in becoming a traveling motorhome.
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 7:38 PM UTC