~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rugged
Kansas prairie
Her hands rough with dawn tasks
His fingers trace Braille on table
Austere
Schoolhouse
ink and sweat smell
of small hands learning Braille~
a language pressed on waiting skin.
Alive.
Fifteen
Scrappy children
Clarabel, Dulce, John~
syllables hauled up* from the well
sweat, tears
Drought years
Calluses, sweat,
Stiff-backed, and obstinate
Heavy with weight of wheat and words
Courage.
At dusk,
they counted heads
and sang hymns of harvest~
Only thirteen grew tall as wheat.
Strength, faith
*hauled up from the well refers to both a physical action of rescue as well a metaphorical expression of support or accountability.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The windmill groaned before the dawn,
her hands already chapped with dawn-tasks,
his fingers practicing Braille lessons on the kitchen table~
both stiff-backed and deliberate,
both heavy with the weight of wheat and words.
Fifteen names,
each one dug into the earth like fence posts:
Clarabell, Dulce, John, Stanley,
each syllable hauled up from the well
with aching shoulders.
The schoolhouse smelt of ink and sweat,
of small hands learning Braille and
the shape of silence,
while their own children ran wild
between rows of corn,
half-feral, half-holy.
Drought years gnawed at the ledger,
but the well never ran dry~
only deeper,
only darker.
At dusk, they counted heads by lamplight,
his thumb brushing her cracked knuckles,
her voice a rasp of hymns and harvest.
They buried two.
Thirteen grew tall as sunflowers.
The Kansas prairie took what it was owed~
calluses, sweat, sleep~
but left them standing,
left them leaning into each other
like split-rail fences
in a wind that never stills.
I am from a mature lemon tree from tall uncut grass,
And pots and pans,
I am from the blue broken house and bags full of recyclables, to the smell of home-cooked pozole, and the feeling of comfort,
I am from the nopales planted on the fence,
To the willow tree whose long-gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.
I’m from family gatherings and recalentadas, from storytelling & crying,
From my mother and sister
I’m from card games and dice,
and from family visits to bonfires,
I’m from si se puede, and everything happens for a reason,
And nonstop oldies and corridos,
I’m from baking cakes on birthdays and fishing in the evenings,
I’m from Sacramento, the capital of California,
and deep roots in Mexico, a proud Mexican and Cora,
And from Chile rellenos to lasagna,
From a hardworking immigrant who has been hardworking since the age of 10, who has always been selfless and full of calluses on his hands, from high school graduation ceremonies to fond memories and photos of every milestone, hidden away in a safe spot in my mind, never to be lost.
Somewhere, a mother teaches her daughter
to carry water on her head without spilling-
balance, she says, is everything.
In another country, a different mother
teaches her son to carry his name
without flinching when strangers mispronounce it.
We are all learning to carry something.
The refugee carries a photograph,
edges soft from touching-
proof that home was real.
The prisoner carries tomorrow
in the calluses of his palms,
counting days like prayer beads.
What if peace is not the dove
but the earthworm, turning soil,
making everything fertile again?
What if justice is not the gavel' crack
but the quiet hand that helps a stranger stand?
We build monuments to freedom
while forgetting freedom is built
in the small spaces between us-
the breath before forgiveness,
the moment we choose to listen
instead of turning away.
So here is my offering:
not grand words carved in marble,
but this-the admission that I am still learning
to carry the weight of your name,
your story, your right to be here,
as carefully as you carry mine.
I have calluses on the inside of my body.
I am smooth and polished on the outside.
But once you peel away my cocoon, you will find cuts and bruises.
My intestines are knotted, tied in one big bow.
My bones are cracked and discolored.
my muscles are tangled and weak.
My brain has pins in it, i am someone's voodoo doll.
But no one will ever know, i hide it so flawlessly.
Picking and choosing,
really? That’s not how it works.
All or nothing isn’t easy,
create that mindset now!
Twice as instrumental
in the execution of exquisite,
champions challenge themselves.
Eroding calluses with their will.
savoured the roses in the garden
especially the climbing variety
because they had no bounds
and therefore represented
the wild passion of change
the juice of fresh blackberries
ran down as he picked and imbibed them
consumed by their nature
he never minded the prickly thorns
scratching at his skin and his soul
yet calluses on his hands and mind
sometimes took him to a darker place
and the undergrowth would not shelter
a numb kind of restlessness
from a peace not to be had
but he had always been able
to salve the wounds
sometimes picked at the scars
as if to remind himself
that he was frightfully alive
calendula gave him respite
chamomile reminded him
of the healing power of
patching up sores that
appeared out of nowhere
and out of somewhere
only to be seen through that lens
of refraction reflection
and parallel consciousness
as he trenched through the soil
his hands a trowel
and fingers and rake
he minded the earthworms
which sooner or later
would decompose what was left
16th May 2023
It is of the purest truth that the whole duty of man is to love God and thy neighbor.
However, for pastors, ministers, bishops, and priests, this is a calling of extraordinary labor.
Few and far between are ordained to present themselves before a congregation,
to spread the word of wisdom, healing, thought-provoking advice, and salvation.
Ever striving to teach and assist their fellow man with blood, sweat, and tears.
Calluses have formed on their knees from fervent penitence over the many years.
Behold their discretion in the spirit; ultimately, heaven's very best.
Tempered in the furnace of life and having passed a tumultuous test.
Surely, the honor shall henceforth be bestowed upon those select few,
who brings forth spiritual enlightenment foresight and insight.
Blessings are upon those who help the multitude
to discern and sift out the wrong from the right.
We set before you our appreciation for your passion and chosen path.
May you have unbounded blessings of health and prosperity to you from your congregation.
The sacred gift for this relentless and solemn duty is
Surely to be named in the book of life and glorious salvation.
with your permission my lady
i will take my leave
has your heart spoken it all
do not tarry here
do not let quiet pervade
it will destroy the silence of love
where galaxies meld
a thorn in the side
hidden burr in the saddle
if you do not let your heart sing
love is where dreams are shared
where the labor in the vineyard
is hand in hand
where the souls merge
into a quest for one
let your heart sing
give me your dreams
let me be a part of you
love harbors no fear
wine's grapes are crushed
in a gentleness, together
one must not hurt the seeds
it sours the wine
with your permission my lady
i will take my leave
let me depart knowing you
in all of its wonder
may the dreams that fill our vineyard
live in the calluses of our shared labors
OKC 8/04
"My friend, it was but a song of love out of a poet's heart, sung by every man to every woman" Khalil Gibran
Youtube: The Love Song by Khalil Gibran
quite the lesson within this video
I purged my heart, and there's nothing left
but sin it beats no more it's hard as a rock
Help me from within please, God
Come embrace me touch my pound of flesh
Reshape me and remove the calluses
Take me out of this paralysis
Engulf me with your spirit
Change me back make me a new being
Taking my sins away Father God
I need to be remade
3/15/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
He did it!
He's now sitting pretty
on the roof
of the Earth,
looking down
smelling the mountain air
with peacock-like pride.
The calluses on his hands,
the aches and pains;
the dripping sweat
on his brow,
well-earned.
The towering summit,
his place in the sun.
Glory, at last.
He's made it
after years of
sweat, toil and blood.
He's accomplished a goal
naysayers swore he wouldn't.
Their skepticism
he used as fuel.
Cat's got their tongues now?
He's done it!
He beat Sisyphus
to the
top!
Date written: 01/27/2021
They tell a story,
these imperfections.
Every wrinkle's
an emotion sealed
by routine feedback.
Indents and scars
were carved with care.
Mistakes were made,
but you were spared.
Calluses
show your strength
through tough times.
Each crease
defines
you.
1-3-2021
A Diminished Hexaverse Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Sid a sedentary popcorn
Married a pretty unicorn
They went for walk one day
Sid was crushed on the way
Unicorn was left with a corn
Date: 8/29/2020
Syllabus count : 8,8,6,6,8 check at soup poetry counter
Note : Corns and calluses are hard, painful areas of skin that often develop on the feet in response to pressure or friction.
blue-collar worker
the calluses on his hands ~
a badge of honor
Date written: 08/11/2020
The Cowboy bloke of yesteryear
Would work in mud and dust
He would tackle any hardship
As long as it was just
Out on the range from dawn to dusk
Rarely saddle sore
His butt was tough as leather
From calluses he wore
Had the same thing on his hands
Where red hot rope slid through
His courage part of legend
A guide for me and you
Very rarely got to town
Had a blow out when he did
Imbibing plenty rot gut
Then in the stable hid
Head out to the ranch next day
Full trust in his horse
Swear never go to town again
A short lived thought of course
They were the stuff of legend
But the same applies today
You could never live a better life
Than by the Cowboy way
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