"workman" poems
Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant.
Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds
it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does
it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another
one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide
for? What use is it besides to look at?"
Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's
a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields,
by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like
a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind;
I know elephants are good to babies."
Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough
son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's
strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside."
They didn't put up any arguments.
They didn't throw anything in each other's faces.
Three men saw the elephant three ways
And let it go at that.
They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon;
"Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.
15k
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.
A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.
And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.
Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.
Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.
The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.
Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.
Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea
Adrift in a sea of springs.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
269
Bound—a trouble—
And lives can bear it!
Limit—how deep a bleeding go!
So—many—drops—of vital scarlet—
Deal with the soul
As with Algebra!
Tell it the Ages—to a cypher—
And it will ache—contented—on—
Sing—at its pain—as any Workman—
Notching the fall of the Even Sun!
5.5k
THERE is a woman on Michigan Boulevard keeps a parrot and goldfish and two white mice.
She used to keep a houseful of girls in kimonos and three pushbuttons on the front door.
Now she is alone with a parrot and goldfish and two white mice ... but these are some of her thoughts:
The love of a soldier on furlough or a sailor on shore leave burns with a bonfire red and saffron.
The love of an emigrant workman whose wife is a thousand miles away burns with a blue smoke.
The love of a young man whose sweetheart married an older man for money burns with a sputtering uncertain flame.
And there is a love ... one in a thousand ... burns clean and is gone leaving a white ash....
And this is a thought she never explains to the parrot and goldfish and two white mice.
5k
peeress: a woman holding the rank of a peer in her own right.
what tools fo you require?
a microscope, binoculars, perhaps an observatory telescope...
you ask to peer into my soul,
the heart of the matter,
and I object
not,
asking only for a workman's wages,
of honest preparation,
have you the tools to see me properly,
and when you love what you see,
will you have them by your side
to see the future close by,
and so far ahead?
do you possess within thy
secret places,
an archeological brush
to wipe gently away my ancient earths,
or a toy red shovel to remove fossilized
10,000 year old grains of old hearts,
or fresh, damp from this morning,
of words and sand from my inner
beach, even then, the tonnage may
require an industrial excavator
to clear, hold and perhaps contain
all that poetry, all that love that it contains,
so I ask, you, myself:
*Do you have the proper tools,
the necessaries and the necessities,
to find to store to relish and to delight
in what you may find?*
be an explorer,
and write of all your discoveries,
hurry, for the word
time
means in soul terms & the heart's specialized verbiage,
never enough
so girl scout/ mademoiselle peeress
you s t i l l
have much to assay/essay/uncover
re the meanings of love...
for there is as much to learn from the
quietus of love,
as there is, from the vibrant tumbling of
climbing to new heights
peer carefully...
5:44am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 9:28 AM UTC
THE GYRES! the gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth;
Things thought too long can be no longer thought,
For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth,
And ancient lineaments are blotted out.
Irrational streams of blood are staining earth;
Empedocles has thrown all things about;
Hector is dead and there's a light in Troy;
We that look on but laugh in tragic joy.
What matter though numb nightmare ride on top,
And blood and mire the sensitive body stain?
What matter? Heave no sigh, let no tear drop,
A-greater, a more gracious time has gone;
For painted forms or boxes of make-up
In ancient tombs I sighed, but not again;
What matter? Out of cavern comes a voice,
And all it knows is that one word "Rejoice!'
Conduct and work grow coarse, and coarse the soul,
What matter? Those that Rocky Face holds dear,
Lovers of horses and of women, shall,
From marble of a broken sepulchre,
Or dark betwixt the polecat and the owl,
Or any rich, dark nothing disinter
The workman, noble and saint, and all things run
On that unfashionable gyre again.
2.6k
The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.
There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.
Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.
He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.
Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.
Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.
Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.
Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.
You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.
On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.
Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!
2.4k
“O lonely workman, standing there
In a dream, why do you stare and stare
At her grave, as no other grave where there?”
“If your great gaunt eyes so importune
Her soul by the shine of this corpse-cold moon,
Maybe you’ll raise her phantom soon!”
“Why, fool, it is what I would rather see
Than all the living folk there be;
But alas, there is no such joy for me!”
“Ah—she was one you loved, no doubt,
Through good and evil, through rain and drought,
And when she passed, all your sun went out?”
“Nay: she was the woman I did not love,
Whom all the other were ranked above,
Whom during her life I thought nothing of.”
2.1k
At what point does one's status
Change from normal to elite?
Is it when a career is ended ?
Or is it after just one feat ?
When does a "Boy of Summer"
Reach that level...at the end ?
After playing at a high level,
Is that when he ascends?
Hitting streaks, get watched each year
But most just come and go
They try to reach game 56
Like Joe Diamggio!
Legendary status
was bestowed upon this man
Hitting for 56 straight games
no one who's followed can.
Ted Williams was an all star
The "Splendid Splinter" with the bat
His records's stood since '41
And that my friends is that
A .406 average is baseballs holy grail
It's one that every batter
Tries to reach , But they all fail
These marks made these men legends
No more "Boys of Summer" here
They've moved on up in status
To one that no one will come near
But others, have no records
They played a solid, workman game
Do they deserve the recognition?
Will you even know their names?
Al Kaline with the Tigers
The World Series... never his
But in Detroit...he was baseball
A Legend you can't dismiss
Reggie Jackson...there's another
In October he was great
but for all the other times he played
He was just average at the plate
The list, you see, is endless
It's one you think of and discuss
Is he now of Legendary status
or a "Boy of Summer", just like us?
Over time he may make Legend
Over time he may drop back
But, you can always ask the question
Each time you hear the bat go "crack"
So, If you are a fan of baseball
Just watch the game like me
You can watch these "boys of Summer"
And just wonder...what will be.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears,
Made of a heart and cemented with tears;
Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;
No workman’s tool hath touch’d the same.
A HEART alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy pow’r doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame
To praise thy name.
That if I chance to hold my peace,
These stones to praise thee may not cease.
Oh, let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,
And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.
2k
They were so not interested when the brother was so very available
Lonely even and longing to be needed longing to be loved it
Didn’t seem like it cuz he could be so very surly but desperately longing
To laugh out loud and secretly longing to dance to no music but that which
was in his lover’s heart but they would have had to but didn’t care to
dig under the bravado or be lurking behind the door to his otherwise
empty sanctuary when he locked out the needy and narcissistic and
peeled the ess offa his chest before hanging his all-purpose multi tool belt
on the all-purpose multi tool belt nail and became
merely his naked self to see that what he truly had to offer could
not be built or repaired or paid for or driven or
traded for the promise of some ***** which he would have settled for in
lieu of real companionship cuz that’s all people seem to be about these days and
*** is easy and love is hard and therefore a fella could hardly hope
for something that songs are written about and hope deferred
is unpretty at best and ****** tragic at worst so imagine
their surprise when one day he walked in with his large workman’s hand wrapped
around a smaller softer hand and he was suddenly not so surly maybe joyful even
and they wondered how they didn’t notice how **** he is and they
asked themselves did he grow two inches cuz he sure seems taller and
they don’t understand when he no longer comes just cuz they call and they find
that for some reason they hate that ***** that he is with and she ain’t so cute
so why is he not noticing how he is now coveted or catching the
obvious and disrespectfully thrown hint… and
in their selfishness would see him unhappy before seeing him
with her before seeing him not sniffing around them
trying and hoping to be noticed and their arrogance
dictates to them that he is not unavailable… not truly… that she is just a
passing whim and their ignorance whispers to them that he has forgotten
how not so long ago and for years and years
they were so not interested
…now ain’t that somethin
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
Something made me smile
as I passed the place today
where the beech nuts used to pile
and the squirrels used to play
and the workman with the frown
that is sawn into his face
came to take the old tree down
and leave a raw and empty place.
'Let her be a wooden tombstone,
she was getting out of hand'
declared a rubber stamped official
but he didn't understand
that all her strength was in her roots
and her roots were all still there
and today I smiled and watched
her raise two fingers in the air.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
As I sit here in my kitchen
I watch my lover work
(Trying to fix the boiler!)
It is
Possible/Probable
That
He will very shortly
Go
Totally
Berserk!
Hoses
Drills
Cables
Adorn the kitchen floor
But …
I have mischief on my mind
That will soon
Come to the fore
I sassy over slowly
Ask is he wants some tea?
We often play this silly game
Pretending …
That he has never before met
ME!
He is just a workman
He is purely trade
I am just a housewife
Desperate to get laid
I set his tea beside him
Run my fingers through his hair
Caress his manly muscles
I really do not care!
I do not care for etiquette
I do not care for rules
I only care to **** him
Here
Amongst his ***** tools
I know the game is on
When
Resolve walk out the door
I now possess the power
To drink from his liquid store
He is but a willing victim
So I start to make a show
Soon
It’s hell for leather
My gifts on him
I do bestow
I love this man with all my heart
I loved this man right from the start
My love for him is off the chart
I love my man
**My
Work of Art**
When the job is over
When the tools are all packed up
When the job is over
He stops
Drinking from the cup
That’s the time he invoices
A bill needs to be rendered
I always pay up willingly
For my soul has long surrendered
I thank my ***** workman
This man
That sets my heart ablaze
Then
My ***** workman thanks me
For my wanton ways
I escort him of the premises
My love for him adorning
He smiles at me lovingly
**That’s why
I’m easy
I’m easy like Sunday morning**
... ~ ...
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 4:16 AM UTC
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now that I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
Like Nero fiddled on his harp
When Rome was burning
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more;
When a tear falls that, thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore.
On a round ball
A workman, that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afrique, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, All;
So doth each tear,
Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mixed with mine do overflow
This world—by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine armes, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another’s breath,
Who e’er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other’s death.
1.5k
I can't tell you how many times I have done this before
Sliced tomatoes with a dull santoku
My ankle bells jingle
My hips swivel
And the tip of my pinkie
Is gone
"Will this erase my fingerprint?"
I ask
"No. Only acid can do that."
Like from tomato juice
Like from chlorine in a pool
I am swimming in my own blood
Practicing flip turns
Watching it clot
And drying off
I turn a blue towel purple
It was just a tomato
It's not as bad as it looks
And it tastes even better
When I make panzanella
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
The workman told you to bury a curled dark lock
Of your dead baby’s hair in the earth,
A quiet offering to a quieter god
You spent several months weeping to the sky
Your small hands curled into your white frock
Work was left unattended in your colorful house
No food on the stove,
No boiling salt fish, or softened dumplings in murky white water
The pungent smell of cured fish filling the quieter home
The home, austere and shrinking into the long street
Your helper comes to do all this
Your children understand in their small ways
You covered the lock of dark hair with fresh dark soil
Palm fronds wave in the wind
Salty sea air kisses your wet skin
Tears make tracks on your cheeks like a map pointing to
Nothingness, like a page of a book with words of moroseness
Once you had my mother, birthed her into a world of noise
The sure and strong hands of the matriarchal mother,
Your mother, who’d delivered more babies than she’d had her numerous children
Then you cooked, you toiled, swept the veranda with your broom
Left the buried lock of hair in the locked cabinet of your mind
Now, when I make the saltfish, I do it with stilted preparation
My hands form lumpy misshapen cornmeal dumplings
I fry the little ***** of dough for too long, they come out dry
I pop one into my mouth and chew
There, the fragrant smell of your perfume,
Sweet lull of your voice, your birdlike hands.
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 8:27 PM UTC
I wake up on my sofa after
Work, knowing she needs
Workman's hands to hold
Hammer and nail at
Points she's chosen for her
Pictures.
A stronger back for heavier
Things, but I'm spent. Work is
War, now. Power drill, pistol.
I bark orders at privates,
Not warnings at young, spiteful
Carpenters
Fresh from school
With too
Much product in their
Hair to want to wear their
Mandatory
Hard hats.
My heart skips beats when I
Lift. I count falling stars
At daytime climbing stairs.
Lie to concerned foremen.
A brain-soul-body Bermuda
Triangle of energies lost.
I have love to last her lifetimes,
Shoulders to rest her weary,
Closed eyes against or dig her
Fingernails into, gasping.
But for now, the ceiling I gaze
Up at stares back down judgingly,
Not recognizing this frowning
Ghost of the mud-covered grin I
Carried a few, short years ago.
The futile clawing and sliding of
A minuscule man climbing a
Colossal statue of himself.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 3:13 PM UTC
Algiers, six
floors up but
still
the rich
odor of reused
cooking oil, of limp French
fries makes its
way to this
tiled top floor
balcony, an absolute sky
scraper by local standards. The
low whine of traffic
reaches me –
syncopated, punctuated
by a workman’s
hammer, an impatient
horn, the wail of a car
alarm, a quick shout
of greeting, of
anger. I
can almost see that
far away
in the distance
velvet mountains still
bluely rim
the fog-yellowed
sea.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
When I was younger in a different time
I had a habit on a special date,
Or on an occasion, to write a rhyme,
Often enough, because I'm a cheapskate.
So as Christmas swiftly soon descends,
And I've but my heart to claim as loot,
I write this story for a special friend
About a Giant and his Little Boots.
You see, these two made quite an awesome pair -
A lanky lad with lanky giant feet,
He'd often smile as people'd often stare
As he'd walk with Little Boots about the street.
A friendship in college they did form.
The Giant couldn't have asked for more.
His Little Boots could help weather a storm
Or bust a move on the Workman's floor.
Those Little Boots helped through thick and thin.
When he was in his darkest places,
They'd help him smile and let light back in
Or send him gifs or silly faces.
He knew they could take different paths -
Boots, like friends, can tread through the rough,
But nothing could silence the joy or laughs -
The friendship was made of stronger stuff.
And so they lived, as friends, forever,
The Giant and his Little Boots,
Strolling down life's roads together
Making it big time, in cahoots.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
~~~
*A rich woman
Walked down the street
She met a workman she didn't greet.
But though they didn't
Stop to TALK
They were able
To exchange THOUGHTS...*
Hey! Look at me! I'm all that!
Think you're cool with that
baseball hat?
I'm in my designer clothes
I'm Dior from head to toe.
I have snakeskin shoes
And pure silk pants
My perfume comes
From Paris France...
**Designer Bags and golden rings
Jeweled tiaras and a
Real mink coat?
What to do with such trivial things?
Except wallow in the
Superficial joy they bring...
Please. Humour me
With stacks of DOUGH
That's street lingo
For cash you know.
I'll sit here and strum my guitar
Whilst I look up
And count the stars...
Please... take your spoils and go...
I don't have time for spoiled souls
I'll enjoy the things that matter most
While you celebrate
charades and toast.**
If life's a charade,
At least I'm a player!
You're sure not gonna
Run for Mayor!
C'mon DOUGH BOY
You know that you want
All the goodies that we flaunt!
Yes... I have a real MINK!
And my money has a STINK
But who supports
The people you are?
Why! You're nothing but
Shiftless POOR!
**I ain't gotta pay
to play this game
I got a Full Heart I'm all IN!
You can't just buy
Yourself some PEACE
I've learned life lessons
To pay my lease!
Your whole life is inside your wallet
And I'm sorry... but I must call it...
Inside your soul is
bankrupt and foreclosed
It's sad to see happiness is posed
Shiftless, classless and
OUT OF STYLE
But your pretty golden pennies
Ain't worth my while...
You've got cash, but it's just CRASS
Lady. Take your fortunes and
KISS MY BOOTS!!!**
WELL! I *never!
The last thing she thought
As she hurried away.
She's filthy rich NOW...
... but one day she'll PAY.*
(C) SoulSurvivor
(C) Frank Ruland
~~~
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
2/20/2015
"*Lust too is a jewel
a sweet flower and what
pure happiness to know
all our high-toned questions
breed in a lively animal.*"
Adrienne Rich
So these days i find myself
scouring the somewhat stolid sure shores of
of seeming lust, which Adrienne Rich says is a jewel.
I don't see it
this lenten weekend.
I didn't give anything up,
maybe i'd switched from walking out of dorms into
walking out of cars, right? I laugh as I say this, not really ready
to say I am empty since I was taught to never lie and I do not feel this
after all,
More like a solid breathing discomfort at the squelching snow
on my solid leather workman's boots
lighting a cigarillo with a spark lighter and wondering what
you're up to.
My love's not so easily gained, i'd written once in a diary entry
and I suppose maybe it isn't,
but maybe it is the weather because
things didn't go as fast as I had liked this past
baptismal season but they still seemed fine.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
As Monday mourns the weekend's passing
men are massing
at the shipyards,steelyards,
good men ,hard men
waiting at the coal mines
I wonder were they better times.
Mass employment,enjoyment
a wage to take home Friday night
a beer or two
to set the world to rights, and a couple more
before the saloon bar door was closed.
Saturday and up on market street
set out to meet friends
old and new.
The Matinee,
a treat for kids on Saturday and then some chips
and dad slips in to see the accountant
(turfing the lawn,I suppose,but who knows)
Then Mum and Dad dressed to the nines
aye, yes
much better times,
and down to the dance at half past eight where they'll stand in a queue till a quarter to, and dance the night away.
A different time
a different day
when a workman worked for a workman's pay.
It was a long time ago,
and not in Bethlehem.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
Jim
To start I am amazed and baffled why such a loser as myself has had the privilege of knowing so many uncommon people. If nature won’t tolerate a vacuum then God will not allow a deficit life so if one is incomplete he will surly surround it with the right amount of good people.
Old Abe said it right ‘It is right and fitting that we speak these words here to honor these lives so honorably lived. I can say that about Jim and this also he was a prince among men if I do this right the words will convince you.
He had a gentle way and nature he spoke softly but a softness that flowed to you like ribbons that bounced in a little girl’s hair how delightful. He should have been a doctor his hands his mannerism was ideal for that job. I guess thats what made him stand out so strongly like a gentle calm breeze if you came in a panic his soul would float down around you like a parachute first it safely brings you from great anxiety and exaltation to a graceful landing then gently envelops you in its silken embrace. I had this privilege of watching him inter act with his wife as I said and truly he was a prince and I was the beggar that benefitted richly from the sidelines God knew my needs.
He was called from this life but all the days he filled before his home going are the sustaining force noticeably seen felt with keen awareness you know that a gentleman passed this way. In the lives left behind there is a blend of sadness and astonishment you realize you are looking at the work of a master workman who left behind a tightly and perfectly fitted family this unfortunately is sadly rare in this society that boast of its accomplishments.
As a friend his breadth and depth was sufficient you weren’t a burden he had a way of dispelling trouble making you understand with wisdom and unerring judgment then with ease you could extricate yourself from the problem. His heavenly father filled him with tenderness it stood him and others well in a somewhat crabby world. If you’re pressed and anxious about life take from this life expressed. A portion of the good will you need use it as a defense Jim couldn’t be everywhere but God saw fit to make an original that you can duplicate benefit from and be a part of his ongoing legacy. Thanks friend for a life lived well.
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haldenton › Portfolio › Jim
Jim by haldenton
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:48 PM UTC
Wish I could read every book
In this world.
Wish I could shake every hand
That hasn't harmed an other
Unjustly.
If only I could press that heart-
Shaped button for every poem
I read,
And inhale every poem of every
Poet that ever pressed one
Under any of mine.
And those of any that didn't.
I see gems with each scroll.
Bits of lives, heartbeats,
Some broken, some healing,
Some full of nothing but
Gratitude. Some filled with voids.
So many laughs. I wish I could
Share your every one
With you.
If I try to hold on to it all,
I'll lose my mind.
And track of my time.
I see poetry in every post.
Wish I could comment on them all.
Some I may not fully agree with,
But praise to all that write.
I have been gifted with so much
Response from so many.
I've tried to reply and thank
Each one,
But I am just one man.
A tired construction worker with
Band aids on every finger
At times.
Their tips hurt from sharp screws,
Hammer blows and rushed
Carving, then typing.
Head from digging in these
Second language parts
Of my simple Norwegian
Workman's brain.
Living a full, fantastic life.
One that I cherish
To write about.
To share. To express to myself,
And in the same breath
Anyone wanting to read.
I suppose we all carry some shade
Of that same feeling.
That's why we're here.
To share.
This site has been more than
Therapy to me.
It has been a home.
A sanctuary.
Some small, huge egos
Cry for fairness and attention,
Mouthing the three ugliest
Words I know:
*What
About
Me?*
But dark shapes in contrast
Create fulfilment within the art.
So what the hell, all balloons are
Mostly nothing but air. Anyway.
I hope I have inspired some.
I know I have made others feel
Neglected and unappreciated.
Well, it's a dance floor
Full of toes, and it's only human
To have a left leg or two.
Nothing's worth taking too
Seriously. I should know.
I have.
I'll still dance my heart out,
Laughing along with all others
That do. It's a Kindergarten
Universe. Play. Eat. Nap.
I thank you for every Follow.
Each and every Like and
Comment.
Every Collaboration.
Every Unfollow.
Every Block.
A full life is full of everything.
We are all single humans. Yet
Not one is here alone.
There's poetry dancing in
Your every
Movement.
There's life in every heart.
I love words.
I love life;
I love your every
Heart.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC