God buries His workmen but carries on His work.
quote by Charles Wesley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weight of the Wind
The wind carries much more than we see
It carries a lot of what makes you and me
The wind blows and carries lies
Around the world it carries cries
We don't hear nor see any of these things
We don't know or feel what the wind brings
The wind carries the wishes and dreams
The wind carries promises down streams
On it lays our secrets we hold inside
Also the love for others we try to hide
It carries so much oh how I wish to know
With all that weight how can the wind blow?
poem by Mathew Welch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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At the end of the work you may judge of the workmen.
I Grieve
It was only one hour ago
It was all so different then
Theres nothing yet has really sunk in
Looks like it always did
This flesh and bone
Its just the way that you would tied in
Now theres no-one home
I grieve for you
You leave me
so hard to move on
Still loving whats gone
They say life carries on
Carries on and on and on and on
The news that truly shocks is the empty empty page
While the final rattle rocks its empty empty cage
And I cant handle this
I grieve for you
You leave me
Let it out and move on
Missing whats gone
They say life carries on
They say life carries on and on and on
Life carries on
In the people I meet
In everyone thats out on the street
In all the dogs and cats
In the flies and rats
In the rot and the rust
In the ashes and the dust
Life carries on and on and on and on
Life carries on and on and on
Its just the car that we ride in
A home we reside in
The face that we hide in
The way we are tied in
And life carries on and on and on and on
Life carries on and on and on
Did I dream this belief?
Or did I believe this dream?
Now I can find relief
I grieve
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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When Words Don't Work
When Words Don’t Work
When words don't work
You've left this plane
And opened yourself to
Other languages.
Of the body,
Of vibrations,
Dreams and intuitions,
Pools of communal feeling
Of which sadness is the fullest.
When they dont work,
It seems nothing's left,
But it only seems
that way.
Because there's always another vehicle that carries meaning
Another subtle sign that conveys
Another unspoken language to learn, just as there's
Another day.
poem by Farnaz Fari
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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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A Mother's Grief
There are no sorrows
Like a mother's grief
No one can ever know
And it is never brief.
The pain she carries
Is like daily death
Though memory buries
She cannot forget.
Where would she run
For a healing balm?
Tears for a lost son
Though shed, could not calm
A baneful mother's heart
For the death was so tragic
It had torn her apart
And for justice they seek
I pray her son's killers
Be caught to serve time
Heal this grieving mother
Knowing they pay the crime.
--------
This poem was about my friend, a mother whose son was brutally stabbed to death by two drug addicts while he was working late at night driving a tricycle. He was father to two small children.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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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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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
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.
Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’
Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!
So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The bee that carries honey in its mouth carries a sting in its tail.
Any fool carries an umbrella on a wet day, but the wise man carries it every day.
Somewhere in your career, your work changes. It becomes less anal, less careful and more spontaneous, more to do with the information that your soul carries.
quote by Ben Kingsley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Any necessary work that pays an honest wage carries its own honor and dignity.
quote by W. Kelly Griffith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Land Of Hope & Dreams
Grab your ticket and your suitcase
Thunders rolling down the tracks
Dont know where youre goin
Sky is turnin black
Well darlin if youre weary
Lay your head upon my chest
Well take what we can carry
And well leave behind the rest
Big wheels rolling through fields
Where sunlight streams
Meet me in a land of hope and dreams
Well I will provide for you
Ya and I will stand by your side
Youll need a good companion darlin
For this part of the ride
Ya leave behind your sorrows
Ya this day at last
Tomorrow theyll be sunny skies
And all this darkness past
Big wheels rolling through fields
Where sunlight streams
Meet me in a land of hope and dreams
This train
Carries saints and sinners
This train
Carries losers and winners
This train
Carries whores and gamblers
This train
Carries midnight ramblers
This train
Carries broken hearted
This train
Carries souls departed
This train
Dreams will not be thwarted
This train
Faith will be rewarded
This train
Carries fools and kings
This train
Hear the big wheels singing
This train
Bells of freedom ringing
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry Music
I think I know what you mean.
Like focused emotion
expressed through a particular rhythm,
temporal art just like poetry,
every word carries the world
just like every accord carries one.
Nice thoughts, I hope I got them right.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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