At the end of the work you may judge of the workmen.
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That'll Work
I never judge a man
By the color of his skin,
But by what I see--
That'll work!
I never judge a man
By what people say,
But by what I know--
That'll work!
I never judge a man
By what is said of him,
But by what I see--
That'll work!
True love is unlimited.
It goes on without complaint.
It offers without expectation--
That'll work.
True love protects without explanation;
It gives without asking.
True love is forever.
That'll work.
poem by Vaudaline Thomas
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Judge
Judge is not here to decide
Who is winner and who is loser.
Judge is here to decide
Who is in right point.
No judge is empower to
Pronounced death sentences
No judge has got power
To give life to the lifeless.
Judge can not decide
The synonyms and antonyms
Judge can not say
The right source for right word.
Judge is not judge
So long as the judge is mortal
Judge is judge
If judge is eternal.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Where there are too many workmen, there is little work.
By the work one knows the workmen.
quote by Jean De La Fontaine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God buries His workmen but carries on His work.
quote by Charles Wesley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When we went to school we were told that we were governed by laws, not men. As a result of that, many people think there is no need to pay any attention to judicial candidates because judges merely apply the law by some mathematical formula and a good judge and a bad judge all apply the same kind of law. The fact is that the most important part of a judge's work is the exercise of judgment and that the law in a court is never better than the common sense judgment of the judge that is presiding.
quote by Robert H. Jackson
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Where I Work
I work here,
Collecting sins of soulless souls.
Who had covered them from some sore skins
And their tongue naked,
I don’t know, why?
I work here,
In this weird game where I’m the judge
To judge between wrong and wrong.
For nothing I work in this dismal earth,
I don’t know, why?
I work here,
Where the bleaks and I live together,
But like oil in the water, I am
Where I cannot merge with them,
I don’t know, why?
I work where,
in dark mournful place!
I sign the pages of sins unknown
Making the puppets of liars
In the depth, a burning earth more than sun
Oh thou painful sins! I blame to thee
Another raging sun; all ‘cause of me
But I don’t know why?
poem by Ravin Sharma
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Do not Judge me (First Poem Submitted)
As I stand before you
with the reality of the shame of my sins in my arms.
Do not judge me.
You do not know me.
You do not know the pains I have suffered,
As you look at me like I am a demon from the pits of Hell.
Do not judge me.
You do not know me.
Picture youself alone as I, needing the comfort and touch of another.
Would you not do the same?
Do not judge me.
You do not know me.
And my child has already been marked like a person with the plague.
Not given a chance,
Do not judge him,
You do not know him.
We all have sinned and it is not our job to judge,
So do not judge me.
You do not know me.
(I wrote this after watching Scarlett Letter)
poem by Tamara Daniel
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The course that will restore to the workmen a father's duties and responsibilities, between which and themselves the state has now stepped, is for them to reject all forced contributions from others, and to do their own work through their own voluntary combinations.
quote by Auberon Herbert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who is to judge?
Family Heads, are you right to judge?
Political Heads, are you wise to judge?
Religious Heads, are you just to judge?
Judicial Heads, are you true to judge?
Individuals, are you free to judge?
One is right to one’s act.
Each act ends with its fate
As each birth meets its death.
Which birth is not just?
Which act is not just?
Who are you and I to judge?
Time is supreme and beyond us.
08.06.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sonnet: God is the Best Judge
Which man can judge others accurately?
Is it a thing easy to judge others?
The human judge best though learned be, errs;
No one can judge his neighbor ev’r ably.
A man has both a good and bad backgrounds;
Only the proportion varies with time;
No man is perfect, not even his rhyme!
Can one predict the layers within mounds?
Man is so complex; so is his action;
No man can be perfect akin to God;
God’s judgments will be free of mal-function;
No man is perfect, his judgment is odd!
Let not a man judge his neighbor rashly!
God is the only Judge who does justly.
poem by John Celes
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You Cant Judge A Book
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
When I was young and went to school
My mama taught me the magic rule
And what she said I tried my best to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
Then I left school and moved around
And what I saw and what I found
Made me remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
And now I think, by now Id know, that what appears is not always so
And I remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted
When Earth's last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
'Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They'll sit in a golden chair
They'll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet's hair
They'll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They'll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Four Letter 'Work' Song
Work me up, work me out, work me flip side down.
Work me here, work me there, work me with renown.
Work me hot, work me greedy,
work me through and through.
Work me to the very marrow,
work me just like I'd work you.
Work me proud, work me late,
work me do not hesitate.
Won't you let me work for you?
Work me til I'm black and blue.
Work me steady, work me needy, work me to a lather.
Work me til my backbone breaks, and the buzzards gather.
Work me in, work me under, work me til I bleed,
Work me over red hot coals, work me like a boss in need.
Work me nasty, work me silly, work me through the clover.
Up down, 'n' in between, into a slipknot sweet Jehovah.
Work me, work me, go ahead.
Work me, work me, til I'm dead.
Buddy Bee Anthony
poem by Buddy Bee Anthony
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...in order that a man may be happy, it is necessary that he should not only be capable of his work, but a good judge of his work.
quote by John Ruskin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Million Young Work Men
A million young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads,
And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red roses.
Yes, this million of young workmen slaughtered one another and never saw their red hands.
And oh, it would have been a great job of killing and a new and beautiful thing under the sun if the million knew why they hacked and tore each other to death.
The kings are grinning, the Kaiser and the czar—they are alive riding in leather-seated motor cars, and they have their women and roses for ease, and they eat fresh-poached eggs for breakfast, new butter on toast, sitting in tall water-tight houses reading the news of war.
I dreamed a million ghosts of the young workmen rose in their shirts all soaked in crimson … and yelled:
God damn the grinning kings, God damn the kaiser and the czar.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Heigh, Ho!
Heigh, ho! But they're talking, talking,
As the cold, hard streets we're walking
Seeking work at any wage,
While the talkers rant and rage.
Says the judge: 'Let's look up section
Ninety-eight in this connection.'
'Right,' replied the advocate.
'But I submit that's out of date.'
'Sir!' the judge says, 'such things border
On contempt. You're out of order!'
Heigh, ho! But a man grows weary,
Time flies; and the outlook's dreary,
What care we for argument
When bread alone can bring content?'
'What,' enquires the advocate,
'Happened in the Roman State,
Back in forty-two B.C.?
Let me read some history -
Fifty pages. 'Tis but just.'
'Well,' the judge sighs, 'if you must.
Heigh, ho! When life is over
Must we rest in fields of clover,
Listening to long, endless chater
On some point that does not matter?
Heigh, ho! I'd rather be
Where they'll find some work for me.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Many workmen
Many workmen
Built a huge ball of masonry
Upon a mountain-top.
Then they went to the valley below,
And turned to behold their work.
"It is grand," they said;
They loved the thing.
Of a sudden, it moved:
It came upon them swiftly;
It crushed them all to blood.
But some had opportunity to squeal.
poem by Stephen Crane
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When a work lifts your spirits and inspires bold and noble thoughts in you, do not look for any other standard to judge by: the work is good, the product of a master craftsman.
quote by Jean de la Bruyere
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Payment
A tortuous path of neurons arced a call: ‘Awake! ’
I did; in rising, peering, stretching, bearing,
Pained anticipation saw it all:
Foretold, another filthy day.
I drew the drape: diluvian lay the ground
Beneath a lazy leaden cloud – apissing out
The puddles; irksome on the roof –
The drumming drops of bitter glee
Were hounding out a hapless me –
Reinforcing doubt that I am sound.
I left the house
to go to work
to earn a crust
without a perk
then on to bust
another straining vessel.
Trudging on thro’ mud and clay, I pondered:
‘Why a drought of happy times?
Auspicious climes were
Old and fusty books
Atop a dusty shelf
Inside a morgue-of-a-room,
Somewhere in a long-forgotten library
Down a lane without a way.’
I thought again: ‘And still I pay.’
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
O how I
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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