Work Poems (218)

he stands amid the dusted rays
of beams from smudged, windowed days
casting light on the words below
pressed flat upon papered page

he's been here since before sun up
stained and smelling of turpentine
surveying the thoughts he's pressed
quickly he hangs the page to dry

then re-inks the typeset laid to table
and inserts another piece to press
pulling at the screw pressed platen
repeating process his labors express

his desire to enlighten the world
not just his neighbors informed to tell
ideas and thoughts carried on back
ancestors haunched with ink and quill

before them criers cried the street
events be known upon lips aloud
spreading ideas throughout the land
difficult to speak beyond the crowd

and unbeknownst to him and kind
someday in future ideas are spread
with something called electricity
through wires and waves on into head

to reach to you my heartfelt soul
ideas with emotions and feelings said
until now, thoughts sweetest aspirations
words spread like jam on slice of bread

words, like feelings toil quietly
carry your touch and feeling along
to distant lands and distant times to
give life's meaning, therefore prolong

what the publisher and writer wish
to convey to all able to read or hear
that thought, like life, is precious
held close at hand, the mind made clear

© Goode Guy 2011-08-09

When I shop I never say no
If a receipt they want to give
Many a poem I wrote on these
When paper is not near
On way home 'Phoenix' I wrote
Could barely fit it on there
How sad it'd be if poem not born
Not here in existence

in the shop with hardware and bits of wood
can make almost any man feel useful, good

a screwdriver, a drill, some papered sand
away from day-to-day, simply out of demand

just tinkering around with piddling things
the easy satisfaction messin' 'round brings

no major renovation, or building earthworks
just little improvements, near anonymous perks

unsqueaking a hinge, maybe unstick a drawer
fittingly better is what tinkering's for

whether it's the thing of attention being repaired
or the man doing the labor, it's hard to declare

so too, it can be with words on page or a screen
to ensure understanding, say exactly what you mean

a glued letter, word oiled, or nailing a phrase
brings the writer satisfaction of all he surveys

so I continue to tinker a little bit more
on a few couplet lines, with no guarantor

that I'll illicit from you, oh diligent reader
understanding or joy, from this rambling meter

but that is a small sideline to most our tinkers
it's time tinkering matters to meandering thinkers

© agoodguy2have 2011-05-23

Distance won´t keep us apart...
Turn on that weird radio station!
i will be there with my art
Fulfilling you with inspiration
i will sing an unknown song
Waiting for your lovely ears
Maybe in Hong Kong
Countless years...
i have a southern heart
Full of imagination
Trying to restart...
Any happy situation
Please be more kind!
Consider my daily battle scar
i will enlighten your mind
Because i am a bright southern star

The game of life
Everyone is playing it
I'm going backwards
While everyone goes forward

Everyone is graduating
I'm just starting
Look at the marriages
I'm just graduating

Look at their cute little kids
I just got my first divorce
They just bought their house
I just got my first youngster

I can't play the game of love
Nor the game of life
It's all going by
I wish it wouldn't fly

Their life is perfect
I'm on my second marriage
Starting over
I need a redo

Big bad job
I just started
Big new home
Third marriage
I'm a little whore

Can't play the game of love
Nor the game of life
It's all going by
I wish it wouldn't fly

tattoo of a dove tells of true love,
one of a dagger bellows the hurt endured,
two of spades a gamblers life,
three blind monkeys tell of three dumb signs,
four of spades tells of great good luck,
a pot of gold shall reveal a green irish man ,
tattoo me up tattoo me up a story shall be told,
fading will tell the story of old and color shows us all the new hype,
bart or donald marked shows that a bad boy doth exist,
punky brewster or matilda on the wrist a sign a bad girl doth exist,
from cartoons to fish to the man on the moon these tattoos take their place as each and every one doth use some space,
when asked watch their face a smile can be seen from space as the
picture is a book a story to be told for good.

My heart is sad
so melancholy,
once again my
foolish folly.
I know that 1
does not make 2,
I wish there was
a me and you.
A cuddle and
my lips to kiss,
oh well I guess
I won't be missed.

the rig sails on
the captain at the wheel
steel billowed crosswinds
and Willie's gruff twang

come back...maybe not flip-flop
rigs riggin' is sailin', movin'
waving goodbye to yesterday
I'm a stowaway into today

ahead is clear horizon
aft is crewed distant past
the ropes taut, creaking
and diseal's low rumble below

port is where we're headed
starboard is starry shafts
stern relentlessly unappeasable
riding the waves bowed

someday I'll tighten up
swigging the anchor line
laying roots off of route one
but at present, rig's tackin'

we're decked out directly
hauling freight, liners for
what in life we're lackin'
so, harden up to the wind

crestin' hill, descendin' trough
this rollercoaster ride of life
keeps sailin' on to skyline
just the mate 'n' the captain

© agoodguy2have 2011-05-20

Seven hundred miles drove all night
4am can't see the stars covered by clouds
6am must be their with two hours to spare
lay down close my eyes, knock on my door
hear a voice
driver open your doors
slide your tandems
take dock 76
lay back down close my eyes
knock on my door hear a voice
driver your wanted inside
you got a mess spilt your load
re-stack it sweep the glass
smell of pickles filled the air
five hours later twenty six broken jars
fifty two cases smashed

Now I'm in a pickle
no sleep weary eyes
was cruisen down a highway at 65
traffic slowed came to a stop
everybody's going home
I have 700 miles to drive
3 hours in traffic put me behind
can't take a break
must be their at 6am or get a fine
traffic is moving breaking free
takes a while get to 65

It's a beautiful day I should be okay
out of nowhere car changes lanes
cuts in front of me
hits their brakes
for an exit they must take
I can't stop with 40 tons
look in mirrors the coast is clear
swerve my truck to miss his butt
with that load of pickles

don't cut us off give us room
now it's 11am waiting for a new load
with no sleep and weary eyes.

I sometimes wonder and then I ponder, upon my brow I sometimes come to and think again. For I spend so much time in my thoughts and my wonders to pray and sleep till morning light. So now I sit to finish my thoughts and thus send them to you and then let them be yours. Then again I try and think for what have I done to let someone think the thoughts that are mine? Thus confuse and bewildered and then slightly amused. I send you this and so I now laugh ever so slightly just a chuckle or even less than a giggle. For you now have a piece of my mind and are now going like what? So thus the books are now flying and ever surprising at my head from many distances that can be. I am no Poe nor to I plan to be and my thoughts are merely close but not even near. Just a thought of the books that are knocking on my head. Then comes my slumber for tomorrow I work, to labor a day for very little pay. For the ideas of it already is spent for I work anyway. Yet I dream it to be lost and sometimes forgotten then I dream that I am awake again.