Best Bulldozing Poems
It's not easy
keeping yourself together
when there is a part of you
hiding away still darkened
with fear. It's been curled up
there for years.
Then there's that other part
of you who can't keep still,
creating havoc as it charges
around your head
demanding answers, bulldozing
certainties until there is nothing left
except rubble strewn across
the mind.
Other parts play silly games,
or put you down or flicker
on and off in a constant state
of not knowing what to do.
They're the ones that stutter
on the lip of every day,
running down your batteries until
there's not much left of you.
You wake up
each morning feeling depleted
as if half of you has gone missing
in your sleep and what remains
is a bag of parts that no longer fit.
Like children you've given
each a name, fed and provided
them with shelter.
Worn out by the labors
of their want, you hope one day
they'll grow up and go. Then,
you can think about downsizing
into the less cluttered spaces
of the real you.
A slow descent of lovers in white,
drifting along the quiet current.
A pair of travelers, strangers to the dark,
Jack Frost isn’t too kind to wanderers.
As dusk claims the sky, a storm makes haste.
Desperately holding on to each other,
their crystals begin to change.
They can’t remain as they are.
The violent storm, an orchestra of stars.
Black clouds in a sky of crystals,
hail bulldozing through dusk,
The rise of winter has just begun.
Mercilessly dragged away from each other,
the two get tossed by raging winds.
Alone, they travel across separate skies
slowly forgetting each other's faces.
When the snow melts, there he lay awake,
the last one of his kind, enduring Mother Nature.
As the crystal begins to decay and deform,
a ripple spreads through the puddle of memories.
He began to rise, higher and higher into the black sky.
Changing into his former glory, a snowflake once more.
Drifting alone in darkness,
for no two can be alike.
One dollar and eighty-seven cents, that was all
And sixty cents of it was in pennies
Pennies saved one and two at a time
By bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher
Until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony
One dollar and eighty- seven cents
And the next day would be Christmas
Christmas would be different
From the previous years
My dear baby Suzy would not get that new toy
That baby doll she thought looked so much like herself
My boy Tommy would not get the new train set
That we would set up around the Christmas tree
That the cat would try to catch with his paw
My lovely Julia would not get that diamond ring
She's been hoping for
The best I can do this Christmas
Is prepare a feast of bread and soup
With my one dollar and eighty-seven cents
Dark clouds loom beyond battered mountains,
cracking sounds seep through broken walls
and murmuring voices echo near and far.
We did not know where to begin,
but I had a strong feeling that we would win.
We leaped through block doors,
trampling on broken glasses,
tearing down make shift barricades,
busting wires fences,
bulldozing fortified doors,
and chiseling sealed up walls.
Our stricken faces dented with anguish,
broken voices crackle with fear,
spilling unbridled emotions in the atmosphere.
Smoldering petrol engulfed the air
charring corruption,
cleansing hearts,
purifying souls,
while tears of joy flow without control.
We journey through dark tunnels,
broken bridges and rocky mountains,
cutting and clearing the bushy path,
until we finally made the mark.
One chance, one dip
we broke the glass ceiling with a mystical pick.
©2013 Christine Phillips
Trudge home
All alone
Can’t condone
What I feel inside
Can’t abide
What constitutes
My whole
My soul
My hope for
What is to come
What is to some
Their whole life
An allergy
An allegory
Of their whole existence
Their whole subsistence
In the long drawn-
Out years
Rolled out in front
Of you.
Dispensed
In time
A specious crime
Tempted to make
Tempted to sate
Your long lost dreams
That have been
Lent out
To someone new
To someone younger
Than you
And you are left
Empty
Left plenty
Of something?
Nothing
No excitement
No enticement
To that glistening,
Mist revealing path
No mirror reflection
Of your past
That blasted
And opened your eyes
To the addictions
To the fiction
In their bodies,
The illnesses
Created by God
As a folly
To our greed,
As a folly
To their seed
That created
A new psychosis
Ripping through
Bulldozing anything true
The crimes of insanity
Crimes of humanity:
Rapes, murder, assault
.
These are the genes
I wear
That have
Teared
Through my heart
Left at its core
A lust
For stardom
For brilliance
To save the world
To help wrap-up
Those curled-
Up within their
Beaten bodies
To help those
Whose
Luck turned
Inside out
Had cast a doubt
All this
Was my destiny
My reason
For being
For seeing
All the past
Destruction
Past obstruction
To happy
Functioning
Lives
But the poison
Has caught up
Within my brain
And drained
All the energy
Away
Paying
For the transparent
Sins of my past.
In my dark
Hooded cloak,
Soaked
Through
To my
Weary bones
Feet scraping
Across
The ground,
I trudge home.
When civilization begins to crumble,
it's gonna end with a crash
The sound is gonna be loud:
Big Bang!
Everything
swirling down the toilet drain
The first crashing sound
is the financial markets plummeting to the ground
Those banks are gonna be closed,
no money coming out of those teller windows
You won't have access to your cash,
that's when things start to dissolve real fast
People still gotta eat, don't they?
Riots in the streets when workers don't get their pay
But the worst ain't even got started yet
this Doomsday
Police creating deadly restriction zones,
main roads blocked with combat drones
The dreadlock man on the corner
with the crazy sign ...
seems like he knew all along
Now toss in a health crisis too
Pestilence ...
more than a few
People getting sick and dying
Quarantines start to rise,
as the health care industry collapses
Whole cities, globally, fall into the abyss
Looking like a zombie apocalypse,
machines bulldozing bodies off of cliffs
into pits below
The specter of extinction exponentially begins to grow
What set all this disaster in motion?
This ominous sound came first,
even before the colossal fall of the Wall Street church:
Radioactive echoes of war
Third generation cold fusion bombs burst
Nuclear piss melting the earth
Sent everything spinning off its axis,
like falling dominoes:
Technological destructive progression
Financial systemic oppression
Pandemic genetic regression
Then a massive EM pulse from the sun
sent tremors to everyone, everywhere
Civilization comes grinding to a halt,
when mankind was sitting in the electric chair
But who flipped the switch
on Doomsday?
Killing all the computers,
satellites and cell phones
And the dreadlock man on the corner
with the crazy sign ...
looks like he wasn't wrong
First comes the soldiers, then comes the tanks,
Just another day in the Gaza Strip and West Bank.
Heartless military monsters show no remorse,
Itchy trigger fingers so eager to use force.
Torturing children, breaking their bones,
Occupying lands and bulldozing their homes.
Then you become a UN registered refugee,
While fishermen are constantly harassed at sea.
Protesting in Bilin leads to tear gas and guns,
Coca-Cola, Motorola equals Israeli army funds.
Hundreds of checkpoints and roadblocks all over the place,
Discrimination, humiliation due to the features of your face.
Pregnant women are dying for just making the trip,
Fox news don’t show that due to its censorship.
This is ridiculous, how much more can they possibly take?
The sad thing is only a fraction of the world is awake.
Open your eyes, stop ignoring, things are far from fine
What more can I say, free Palestine.
Trained dogs to rape
raped doctors in prisons
used human shields
snipers to kill children
bombed churches
taken woman and children
hostages of the streets
beating them
burning villages
bulldozing history
Zionists deserve
to burn in hell
is your choice
to burn with them
or join humanity
Kaolin ceramics shelved for display
A framed mirror suggests a window into time
Fortifications in a continuum surround this fortress
Inside a Southwestern style is secured
Bulldozing nature for architectural delight
Rich in warm tones and textures of stucco
Baroque oval portals lead into substructures
Endearing pine stripped.....stained to perfection
Strategically placed beamed ceilings finesse
Whitewashed antlers hang above a fireplace
Not a hunters home but a setting of one once known
A water well stands with an antique pump
As an unyeilding sun drenches the broken claylike ground
Genuinely revealing a life long past
In Beautiful New Mexico a Southwestern home is found
~This was inspired by Brian….and his Cameo piece~I hadn't used or seen the
word KAOLIN in some time...and it reminded me of the west....hence, I used the
word first and went from there~
What the poet knows,
I'll tell you what:
He moulds the clay of wisdom,
Fine-tunes the disruption of misconceptions.
He listens to breaking sorrows
And leans a helping arm on society.
He is the eye of the ancestors
An encyclopaedia of generations passed.
He reflects the ills of humanity
Gigantic bulldozer, bulldozing through.
He devices a language of illumination
Shining to all who understands his dialect.
He touches starvation with a helping hand,
Fighting malice with the pen as his sword.
He knows when to strike
And where to aim,
Poised for greatness
A marching warrior.
He defeats with ease
And cures with his words,
Piercing his way
Through the hearts of darkness.
A voice of change
And a voice of the earth,
Created specifically to nurture the earth.
He is born to sing and born to shout
Amidst much silence from a quiet lot.
He deciphers solution for multitudes at ease
From his warehouse of wisdom, oh man of letters.
He was created to heal
And born to lead
His devoted urchins
That roams the earth.
He bears immortality
With the tip of his fingers,
Granting at will to preserve his cause.
He speaks the bitter truth
And embraces nature
Cos within it lies
The sincerity of creation.
So skilled in his art
His fine craftsmanship,
Posing not just a poet
But an artist as well.
So much to learn
And much to envisage
From an aged treasure house
Of what the poet knows.
Never
Can I begin to
Comprehend
How could I ever
Understand what you went though
Imagine what your eyes have seen
Fathom what your ears have heard
Feel the hunger that ravaged your body
Comprehend the savage cruelty endured
Day after day
In the streets then in the camps
Nowhere to hide or run
Can’t even pretend to grasp
The meaning of
Extermination of loved ones
Evil staring you in the eye
Godless droids overtaking the world
Bulldozing all in their path
While the universe
Stands by in disbelief
How does one pick up and carry on
Beyond the nightmare
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
As deities undress
Sidesaddle the monk
Who’s utterly confused
To see atrocities wax
A sculpting bulldozing
Branding a blueprint
Spewed unto man
Irrigating sewage
Leaking in shoes
Stomping out dogma
In spangled shawls
Confetti balloons fall
As subjectivity subjects
Each a unique nook
To harbor opinions
Cultivating folly trees
Aiding sleeps process
As conclusions draw
Brisk as a piece
Fired on whiteboards
Washing whitewaters
Drifting down to the next
Who believe they know
The universe's edge
Thoughtless Day
I was looking out of the window
The view was a road and an opposite wall
And I decided to think of nothing
Emptying my brain for all the rubbish and
Lies I had read today and let it sink into the silt
Of the forgotten yet is silt that one day can be
made of mud and do a lasting service
for mankind, and since the settlers keep bulldozing
Palestinian dwellings, no, no I will not think of
This and why should I since I`m not thinking
Like the rest of the world.
Man, it is difficult not to think about love and death
And all the things in between so I look at the white wall
It is five years it was painted, but it still looks new.
No, this is too hard I will go and make a coffee eat
A biscuit and think the freezer need to be defrosted
SYNOETIC NOUVEAU
misreflect moving introspect
factualize flamboyancy
in radical fanaticism
a gaudy malady
of catastrophic
opulence
beauteous summaries blush
nontoxic pure embolic
stencilling set lustrations
a nubile Nirvana
of candy essence
affluence
fantastical floatation’s drift
bulldozing stagnant brains
decomposing in doubt
radical rare rhapsody
of loves chastised
lavishness
© Kim van Breda
To be clear...
I’m not asking you to love this.
I’m asking for you to meet me
where the words land hard—
where syllables ignite
like the last coin
burning a hole into your palm—
spent, but still cursing
what you could’ve claimed,
what you’re still pretending to chase.
I know...
you didn’t ask for this.
The ink staining your thoughts
like the memory of a tattoo gone bad—
the weight of metaphor,
that friend who never knows when its time
to leave even after you’ve abruptly shut the door.
I’m not here to make you believe
in anything more than the obvious:
the moon still shows up unabated,
the sun fades to an overhyped memory,
the world keeps spinning
because who needs a break, right?
However...
allow me to offer a word,
dew tap-dancing sweetness
against humbled slabs of rubble—
the way it burns like
that spliff smoked
in the backseat of a car
with no apparent destination.
You don’t need to love it—
I’m not asking for your devotion
just your pause,
your ear tilted toward the rung
of what might mean more
than either of us can say.
I’m not here to sell you
on the holiness of rhyme,
or to argue that a line can be
both prayer and weapon—
something churning in your soul
as you disappear into a crowd
too loud to notice.
I only want you to see
how language, this worn & battered thing
is the closest we’ll ever get
to a mystery worth chasing.
It won’t show up in the ding of a text,
or tucked between constant notifications
buzzing like mosquitoes
too thirsty to leave you alone.
This talk won’t beg your consent
only your presence.
It hangs in the air
like incense refusing
to dissipate from sheer obstinacy.
You’ve spent too long
bulldozing its remains,
lost in the whirl of your own doubts.
So let’s meet—
in the space where words
aren’t source guides or Google maps
but the body’s struggle to speak;
the pulse you feel in your fingertips
blushing on the page.
I don’t need you to love this,
but I can show you how a sentence
becomes a river you never meant to cross
but can’t seem to stop wading through—
how it pulls you under
and still,
somehow
manages to let you breathe.