Best Mops Poems
It's 4:30am and I can't sleep,
the sheep leap and lay in a heap,
told me they're tired and got shut eye,
even my own mind has shunned I,
lets just freestyle this rhyme and see where it goes,
it beats laying in the dark watching that ghost,
across the room that never comes close,
my mind protects itself from some images,
probably awake cus my dreams have edges,
nothing on the tele but Teleshopping,
trying to sell pots pans and mops but I'm channel hopping,
maybe I should count that instead of sheep to drop off,
it's dark and rainy outside and there's strange noises up in the loft,
I don't really care though as long as they stay there,
if it's burglars it's funny cus they'll hide til all clear here,
and what weirdo would brake into and burgle the attic first,
a junkie on crack thinking he's superman singing Fred Durst,
Limp Bizkit I want a biscuit in a whiskey,
I'm tired now I've bored myself, I expect I'll sleep in a minute,
this poems over matey, find something else.
There was a naughty girl, and the naughty girl was she
She worked a crossword puzzle, while she had her cup of tea
Poured another cup, ......she should get up!
for chores and roll her sleeves
She had much work to do, but her good intentions flew
like feathers in a breeze
Instead of mops and brooms, she would sing a cheery tune...
while she danced around the room..
Sudsy dish pans full....but Mother Nature pulled
her to the sunshine for a stroll
Her bed unmade, her bills unpaid,
But instead she picked a daisy
Beneath a sunny sky
......she heard the lullaby
of the birds that sing on high
She had meals to cook
but would rather look
at the snowtop hills nearby
So much work undone, and the dinner?......NONE!
But she fed her soul instead!
_______________________
For Linda Marie's Contest "I Am Bored With _______
By Carrie Richards
Friday night's here at last ...lets have a blast.
Teenagers dash to discos ...ready to dance
to throbbing beats and combo drums
rythm and blues....kicked off shoes
as rock and roll pours out the heat..
Swaying along... couples dance and sing
swinging to the beat ...that's everything.
reggae to hip hop....... rap and soul
stir up emotions but take its toll.
Kissing and necking .....lips close around bottle necks
draining the draft.....drowning the thought of dreary days gone by
no thought of days to come...or care about outcome.
Older women start weekend cleaning.
Scouring cupboards, doing laundry,
dusting tops... flying mops
vacuming carpets...putting out garbage
no end in sight for the chores to be done
till the night is come and work is done
they slog and clean... till everything gleams.
Old men hurry to the corner bars
for a drink, a chat and a meeting with pals
to watch the wrestling match.....on the TV screen.
Till mignight they stay.. drinking their way through
bottles of beer, whiskey and rum
till their eyes water...and tongues grow numb.
Home to their wives they weave a crooked path
can't even see their way in the dark
Cursing themselves for drinking too much
now sitting ducks for thugs on the watch.
They wake up next morning asleep on the couch
shoes in their pockets ......stale breath in their mouths.
Money's gone...so too are wife and sons.
yet never has there been a house so clean.
Have they learnt a lesson...we shall never know
for the habits continue every Friday night
No one seems to get it right
Enjoy your weekends....but maintain self - repect
for when that is lost...what comes next.?
Your Indigo Ink, Yes, You
“Great spirits have always encountered
opposition from medicore minds”
Albert Einstein
Your very best poems are about truth, goodness or
beauty!
Yet, ignored, over something... not only ghastly base,
but something mindlessly fruity.
Do not fret if they are ignored, move on and close
the door.
If you are here to be loved and very popular, it
shows in your poetry, which is mostly jocular.
Let others write exactly as they choose.
Get up, read a poet you like, by wearing your
poetic soul shoes.
Why keep reading, only those at the top?
There are thousands rarely read, they are humans
after all, not floor mops!
Ah, those photos on that homepage are so very
deceiving!
Poses of love and great beauty, and then come
their vicious comments~ indeed a very, dark soul
revealing.
Never mind mean cracks at your poems!
These are unloving poets staring at their
contorted faux image.
Under their own cruel mind-domes!
Best we learn from one another.
Than to do all in our power, a good poet’s writ,
to ignore and smother.
Tell me, how great you must feel, when you turn
off your night light.
When some here really do choose to
make of another, a joke and a blight?
Better to support than do all in your power to
smother one another.
Than to prance about here, pretending others are
not your equals or poetry brothers.
Jealousy here? A purely teenage emotion!
It destroys friendships here, and creates a painful
commotion.
I cannot use his name, it would not be right,
But his humor is impressive, classical and a most
appreciated delight.
10/4/2021
He wipes the tables clean
Picks up the dirty wears
Take out the garbage
Stock the fridge with beers
Cleans the bath room
And mops the floors
Sweep outside on the sidewalks
Before he the doors
Sounds like a lot of work
But he enjoys it everyday
It’s the cotton club
With great jazz music every day
In this boarded up building
On 142nd street and Lenox Avenue
In the central of Harlem
His dreams has come true
In a sense it was segregated
White folks patron the establishment
And the black performers
The will provide the entertainment
And he heard the best musicians
The likes of Duke Ellington, cab Callaway
Nat king Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, count Basie
Josephine baker, mea west, Billie holiday
Some of the great performers he seen
Many comes from all over everyday
The cotton club is renowned worldwide
It’s where the best black musicians play
He thinks he is truly bless
And in his heart it’s what he felt
For just a poor Harlem boy
The music is the soul of his wealth
He remember it like yesterday
But it was 5o years ago
As he passes by the cotton club
He can still hear the music inside the door
He sits in the park watching his grandkids
As they play in a yellow plastic sub
And his mind wonders back as a kid
In the Harlem cotton club
He mows the lawn,
doesn't every man?
He mops the kitchen,
a gift of great value.
He shells pecans,
saves the pith for me.
He roasts peanuts;
we love peanuts!
He plants blackberries,
brings them in a bucket.
He builds bird houses,
cooks his own suet cakes.
He picks wildflowers,
shows me where they grow.
He makes up our bed,
most every day.
He bakes banana bread,
serves it warm, with coffee.
You will notice, I sometimes
wear a Cheshire grin.
I can’t smile without you
I miss the days long ago
We held hands
A soft kiss on the cheek was udder bliss
Nothing in life seemed amiss
Now you have long gone
Six feet under the ground
That day is embedded in stone
You and your suitcase, gonna leave me alone
I bound you tight
Pulling hair from my head
As I chained sawed you dead
Blood in my chalice, I drank
Lustfully I carved you into dinner
Lamb chops in sauce so sweet
Your family loved the meal
If they only knew
They might have stayed thinner
My roses sing every spring
Happily devouring your rotten bones
Leaving me was evil you see
Never the less, tiss I who smiles
I smile at the coffee shop
I smile more as the butcher mops
I am not dark, no not at all
My darkest, I smile for all to see
Cause you have all but gone!
Happy days are here again!!!!!
A year ahead my skull was taken by a diatribe- storm
Her face formed a bead in an invisible dorm
That was right I did feel with a warm wet street
They pressed their seeds into salamander kit
The first thing I did hate; “No, it was not norm”
I smelled a smell of thunder -short and thick
Played all knotty fingers a leprechaun trick
I went to the Iron Gate, the colour I must hate
Of that crippled stuff in me I shouldn’t overrate
And stopped the nerve’s cabal with an assassin snick
They said the sound of screech was a ratty speech
In the corner of a lizard and spider-web rich
Dumpled up near the bed with stiletto-eyes
To the bargain, my demon -self began to rise
My scroop and the shadow spoke each to each
I did nothing to spoil the fight; I did know I was right
I was cool in the argumentative pool while I was in flight
The moon-baked night shed her chill over the Carolyn Hill
In the jungles of cops, thousands of mops and the forgotten shrill
I did know in sloughed snow that it was not a stage fright.
I had my last straw to catch, darkness shrouded my face
Salt in blood played a evening tune, "I'm sure I have lost my space"
Now a derelict soul a barge I had nobody to embrace.
I could vanish without a trace but a crash and burn
Of thousand nights and summer wing's run
Had made me a shallow drone with a zip gun.
© Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
13 th October,2014
Death greets those who dive too
deep in dark pelagic hell; tossed
from jagged rock to vicious coral,
she stays the corpse’s dance, each
impact destroys a little more; her slow
explosion attracting hungry fish
All see her, bar gossiping
annemones, Cinderellas of the
midnight tide, swaying like mops
In the angry swell
Now, amid the canyons of the blue-
green sea, blood’s torpid rivers
conspire with current to pull her
down; where grassy queue awaits
volcanic vents; the tube-worms
larder door
It was I.
IT! WAS! I!
2000th year was rolling by.
Who concocted this chrism mix?
Who altered my course to dip?
Then,
Into Murky Lake Michigan.
Who orchestrated my first baptism?
There.
Then commanded a second.
Truth to tell ,really, no kidding.
I pray, now.
"Will anyone ever go fishing there again."
Truth, Father!
Yes, Truth to tell!
Looking above.
I saw no Dove.
Just a wanton mistress.
At the Eiffel Tower, atop.
Waving champagne cork and mop.
Please stop!
To shop.
Truth Father.
What's happened in fifteen years? (2015)
You Say Just ask!
I'd really like to know.
Why all the acumen, "Doom & Gloom?"
Mops changed to a vacuum broom; bro.
Will He be coming soon?
Let the Light shine inward.
I'll hide my silly grin, Nerd.
That I was.
Will the Bad doggie roll over?
Let the Good doggie in, Cause.
Brothers & Sisters.
Please don't frown,
At my blatant history Lesson.
Or, be intent.
Towards the wrong impression.
Its very wise to bark.
My latest, latent-est confession.
What,s happened in fifteen years? (2015)
The full moon last night.
Shinning, like a hallow Bulb.
Is Doom & Gloom, to wallow in?
Whitening out all tomorrow?
Yesterday is past.
Just ask.
Present moons drip waxing soil,
Inward.
Glowing maidens lamps chocked.
With precious oil.
What's happened in fifteen years. Psalms 19, Proverbs 11,14: 12,15
Second Home by Rob Barratt
An escape from the rat race.
Life lived at a slower pace
An idyllic setting they won’t be letting
The cottage slumbers ,
Like the electricity meter numbers
It’s early March.
The house is dark
They’re in Marylebone
Or in Rome
It’s a second home
It’s a mothballed shell, residential hell
It’s a funeral bell, a death knell
For the low-paid locals whose response was vocal
(In the White Rose, before it closed)
But unrecordable
It wasn’t affordable
It’s an empty place, a waste of space
It hasn’t got a ‘phone.
It’s a second home
People recall that within the walls
Of this second pad, lived a Mum and Dad
With their family, on the settee
They watched Morcambe and Wise, and ate pork pies
In the blue TV light on a Saturday night
Life was pleasant in Woodland Crescent
But the parents are gone and the kids have grown.
Mustn’t moan.
It’s a second home
In the shop, the assistant mops a spillage
Cycles to a less fashionable village
And she saved for….how long was it? To get a deposit
On a studio flat, where you can’t swing a cat
And she silently groans and takes out loans
Despite her persistence, she’s just living an existence
She says, “Why me?” and wishes she
Could spend the days where she was raised
She wishes she could own
That second home
If they want a holiday by the sea
Why don’t they try a B&B?
Life is tough. Isn’t one place enough?
And don’t try to build low cost housing
‘Cos you’ll be arousing
The anger of every second home owner
Who’ll fly in from Barcelona, or Gerona or bloody Pamplona
To claim they represent the residents
A majority of decadents.
Don’t want to set a precedent
They want a postcard picture,
A chocolate box fixture
In water-colour paint.
Want to keep it quaint
Maintain its reputation
Don’t worry about inflation
Or minimum wage degradation
Sod the working population
Mustn’t lower the tone ………..
It’s a second home
Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann furnished apiece with brush and pan.Each
Victorian 'Miss' tied in service's abyss.Far off days,now long gone,their toil each
day was lengthy and long.With fires to light,floors to scrub,and carpets to brush
and drub.Mops forbidden,as they smeared the dirt and begrimed their prim
alpaca aproned skirt.They cleaned 'his' tub,emptied 'her' commode,a regular
chore in a housemaid's daily load.Must rise at six but never to mix and no matter
what,keep a stiff upper lip.Never lose your cool,a formal curtsey the perpetual
rule.Half day off once per month,so free to roam and catch the omnibus home.No
other opportunities in store except a marriage at eighteen or before.Upstairs and
down stairs ,no in between,starting out at just thirteen and just there to please as Master and his Lady take their ease.
Maybe
Baby
Young cad
Is dad
Leaves her
For Fleur!
Teen mum
So glum
Up duff
Feels rough
Loo quick...
She’s sick
Huge tum
Soon mum
Wide girth
For birth
Can’t sleep
Counts sheep
Morning...
Yawning
Foods spurn...
Heartburn
Feels pain
Again
Again
More pain
Babe due
Needs loo
In rush
Must push
Not far
In car
With mum...
Best chum!
Log jam
Bedlam!
Head’s down
Feels crown
Mops brow
Push NOW
Babe’s born
Named Dawn
Babe screams
Mum beams
Cuts cord
In Ford!
All’s swell
Child’s well
Follow up poem inspired by Footless contest
11-1-17
There once was a guy named pete
Who find out there was nothing to eat
So he went to the shop
Bought a dozen mops
But then he forgot the receipt!
This evening in our flat there rose a flood
That made our rooms and entrance hall a lake
As unattended bath-taps churned the sud
Into a foaming torrent by mistake
Our darling daughter whom we shall not name
Had nonchalantly turned those bath-taps on
Before returning to some film or game
Or following the social pantheon
Behind her mobile phone she lay enthralled
Forgetful of the steaming waters’ rise
Which overflowed in bathside waterfall
And blitzkrieged our apartment in a trice
Too late the cry was raised and taps were closed
And towels press-ganged as mops then stemmed the tide
And floors as clean as if they’d been steam-hosed
Emerged pristine as all those cork-tiles dried
“All’s well that ends well” - wrote of old the Bard
Thus did our flood not clean our dusty flat?
Sadly not all; for as those tiles turned hard
The margin of each one grew thick and fat
Alas our hallway and our bedroom floors
That once were smooth and level, now did change
Into a row of bumps, as slowly soars
From crashed tectonic plates a mountain range