Ye Olde Wordsmith Click
here to listen to "Ye Olde Wordsmith"
With each blow sparks flew out into the air,
Traces of light whose hot, incandescent flashing streaks
Scorched their marks in the nothingness that previously
existed, leaving
Only a hint of the Toil, and strife, and Sweat of the
Smithie as he
labored with his tools.
Blow after blow, so hard-hitting and mighty
Sent sparks issuing forth again and again and again;
How hard it must be to shape such an ethereal mass, to
change its form,
To force it into line with that which it is supposed
to be
or, at least, that which is desired.
Ahh ... finished at last, the smithie straightened and
Wiped his brow, a smile slowly creasing his once-sterned
visage;
Laying aside his tools, he moved away from his anvil,
peering at his work;
Turning it back and forth in the light to inspect every
side, every angle, every possible view.
Satisfied at last, the Smithie drew a great breath.
And with audible sigh he released all of the pent-up
tension built
From this last, Great effort; this fusion of this emotion
with will,
of thought with material;
His work now finished, he folded it carefully and slipped
it inside the envelope, hoping the Editor
Would like his Poem.
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The Passage Of Time Click
here to listen to "The passage of Time"
Second after second ticks loudly in my ears
has images of
The stripes painted on the highway recede behind me.
This trip through life is sometimes marked
by the passage
Of time intermixed and blurred with many diverse images-
Of family, of school, of work, of marriage, and too often,
The Emptiness of Time, unmarked.
Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick...
Sounds the clock that introduces the "Sixty Minutes" television
show.
Louder and louder, it seems, the ticking becomes
as my thoughts
Become clearer, more aware of the wasted money
spent on
Recording those empty seconds just to dramatize
that show.
Could it be that seconds that march past in one's
Journey through life are just as costly? |
The Death Of Craftsmanship Click
here to listen to "The Death of Craftmanship"
Derisive comments didn't work;
The old man just kept on working,
As if he never heard the many scathing remarks.
And the more that he produced
The better and quicker he became,
Which only served to worsen the problem.
His perspective, although narrow, was enhanced by concentration,
And tempered with the wisdom and work ethic of the "Old-School."
While contributing significantly to his job.
This only deepened the jealousy and enmity of his Supervisor.
Then, trumped-up accusations of failures,
Assignments missed that were never initially communicated,
And false blaming of inadequacies finally found their
mark.
In his vulnerability the old man kept silent,.
Kept on working, perplexed, but harder and longer than
ever.
Thinking he would surely break,
The Supervisor piled on more and more work.
The old man worked even harder and longer
And was criticized more and more.
Then one day the old man's body gave up,
And he had a massive heart attack.
Without the old man's production
The work stacked up.
The Supervisor redistributed the load to other workers,
But they were not familiar with the duties or used to
the load.
Project after project missed important deadlines,
And the quality of the work that was performed was very
poor.
Many clients were lost, whole accounts closed down,
And new business could not be found anywhere.
Eventually the business failed,
Dying as certain a death as had the old man,
For the same reasons, and by the same hand. |
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