Best Pickaxe Poems
MOUNTAIN
I
used
to be stable,
dependable, granite;
a mountain holds an echo
like a lover’s kiss. Once holy parts
of me are crumbling away, eroded by betrayal
~ that shifting precipice, integrity ~ that landslide, my honesty.
? How long does it take for a mountain to become a boulder? ?
Geologists know the answer but you don’t care, you have a pickaxe ?
and the desire for security. If a woman asks you to give up your mountain-ness,
no matter what she needs the rocks for, in exchange for her love, refuse indignantly;
it is not a fair trade.
Categories:
pickaxe, analogy, identity, integrity, introspection,
Form:
Concrete
Though dormant, your strengths are still present...
within the silky staircase of God woven DNA.
Just peel away layers of perceived weakness
climb through the fiery muck and mire...
through acidic jive-devil clawed lies.
Climb with a pickaxe of love and faith.
Shed decades of doubters and layers of deceivers.
Buoy the desperate dreamers, along the way.
Climb until ogres cannot reach your lowest high.
Until jealousy no longer bangs a cymbal against your mind.
An enriched life awaits those with fair intentions.
Climb as if every step, uplifted the heavens.
Climb until you smack your face against the stars.
Just climb.
Categories:
pickaxe, confidence, faith,
Form:
Free verse
When dulled down shock painfully became
a pickaxe ache behind shimmering eyes,
the bludgeoning screen hammered memory cells
repeatedly, over and over.
Tears exploded, soft rain dampened flame,
the grumbling dust cloud debris disguised
broken hearts bursting in agonised swells
searching for life confirmation.
Crashed vultures, evil in senseless flight,
beating humanity for hours like a drum,
cramping the breath with holocaust claws,
gleefully gloating, gloating.
Yet humanity does not die in the night,
by the warped wicked ways of fanatical scum,
humanity fades not, nor crawls on all fours
the prey of abomination.
Could Hitler pulverise humanity dead,
could Stalin annihilate it's very soul,
could Hussein defile it's essence to dust,
could they, hell.
It arises from rubble and ashes instead,
steel resurrection, reassembled whole,
in the love and pride of people it must
elicit restoration.
Beneath the veil of despair-crippled night
a broken city seethed neon 'till morning,
mortal wounds blazed and shone in rebirth,
defiantly living, living.
And hope prevailed in each bulb burning bright,
in each filament, tube, each spark a new dawning
of all that Heaven allows on Earth,
a prayer-shot inspiration.
The carnage of angels bedazzled with pain,
yet the courage and conscience of saints empowered
a neon-lit love of brother for brother,
a blinding, blinding sight.
From sorrow and sacrilege raining again
humanity's wonder, upon them was showered
the love of the brave and the just for each other
that they become the light.
Categories:
pickaxe, death, history, people, uplifting,
Form:
Verse
We should teach the chimpanzees to read
the names of certain things. Objects like tools
for instance
then label the tools: hammer, saw, axe,
screwdriver etcetera, then screws and nails.
Teach them just enough words to know
a pickaxe from a pencil…just a few practical words
for practical applications, not too many,
otherwise they might turn into poets,
and god-knows we don’t need anymore of that.
The chimps could build dog kennels for dogs,
shelves for their tools. Park benches for
other more elderly chimps.
They will, of course have no use for words
like romance, religion and politics.
If they wanted to fight among themselves
(as chimps often do),
they could simply go back to grunting,
screaming and throwing sticks at each other,
as we used to.
I might have made a miscalculation,
maybe tools for low-tech apes
eventually leads to holocausts and Hiroshima.
Perhaps after all,
we will just teach them how to write poetry
for those who prefer their muse
to scream and grunt a bit.
Then maybe we can start on the dogs and cats;
force them to play the piano for a living.
Categories:
pickaxe, poetry,
Form:
Blank verse
I seek not a robe of glittering pearls and rubies shinning bright
Give me a modest dress only not shorter than my height
A handcuff, a collar or may be, a shackle heavy and tough
The adornment for me should compliment the stature of my love
My foe wishes to improve his stature or he wants me dead?
Does he seek my turban of glory or he seeks my head?
A pickaxe in my hand I have and fervour of love in heart
Do not fail me, O tough rock! Stream of milk* start
The treasure of ideals and vision aren’t on trees to pluck
For wealth of sensitivity, anguish and pain, one would need my luck
Seeing human sufferings, Yamin, causes torments and pains
Put me in the cosy arms of sleep, where peace and serenity reigns
----
* Reference to legendary Asian lovers Shireen & Farhad. Farhad dug a rock to start the
stream of milk for the sake of his love.
Categories:
pickaxe, devotion, hope, life, lost
Form:
Ghazal
The Burial, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : L’Enterrement
I know nothing as gay as a burial !
The grave-digger who sings with his pickaxe in bright thrill
The church bells from afar reverberating with their svelte trille
The priest in a white surplice whose joyous prayers hardly in denial
The chorus boy with his voice fresh as a girl’s,
And when at the bottom of the hole, all warm and snug,
The coffin nestles in with the tumbling in soft tug
Of earth making the corpse’s eiderdown, the lucky devil’s
All this looks to me quite charming forsooth !
And then, all those, stuffed plump in tail coats’ sheath,
Mourners whose noses redden while receiving tips
And then, the proper concise speeches stuffed with advice rare
And then, with bulging hearts and glorious foreheads glistening
Hail ! The sparkling heirs !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
pickaxe, funeral,
Form:
Sonnet
Miss Andry, you are truly a mystery.
You have Revealed yourself as Artemis and Lady of Ephesus to Many.
Miss Andry, you're mother nature that Roars like a lion and your voice thunders time after time.
Miss Andry, you're the root of most religions and goddess to many nations.
Miss Andry, you're the role model and idol to women all over the world, and even worshiped as queen of the Amazon women long ago.
Miss Andry, you're Strength was revealed when you transformed into your twin brother Apollo.
While Transformed into Libera, the goddess of Freedom, you have forgotten your attributes of Justice and Mercy.
Miss Andry, your Heart is cold and hard as the statue of liberty, not even a pickaxe can penetrate your disharmony.
Miss Andry, why do you treat me like you do?
Why do you blame me all the time?
Haven't I tried to love you through and through the passing of time?
Miss Andry, MIss Andry, How can I get through to you?
Categories:
pickaxe, beauty, culture, freedom, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
In all honesty
I believe Love is actually blind
That she lost her road
And headed straight
Into the mess, she lays in today
I hope we all find her, bathe her and clothe her
Cos she's really a mess right now...
Love used to be the gatekeeper
Between the legs of young girls
Keeping the invaders out in the wild
But these days,
She's more like the green lamp on the traffic lights
Beaconing every car to drive that route
Deep into 'The Virgin Close'
Love used to be the backbone of every man
The strength and blood that pushes men to fight
Work and be the better person
But these days
She's become the gravity pulling every man down
She's the pickaxe used by gold-diggers
Digging the wealth out of our young men
Leaving them broke—like some shattered glass
Love was so innocent back in the day
All she knew was just letters
Written by some secret admirer
And believe me
The shadiest part of the letter is
You've got beautiful brown eyes
That's a classical one
But these days
Love does Sexting
She's all about the unspeakable...
Love is so rusty
She needs some work done on her
She needs rehabilitation
From her figure to her concept
Especially her use in this context
She is meant to be the binder
Between us all
But sadly, Love is blind
We've gotta spit on the ground
Make mud and rub in her eyes
As we proclaim the phrase (Jn. 9:6)...
Here's Mud in Your Eye
And all will come to know that
Love is not blind
Love is not proud
Love is not self-seeking
Love keeps no record of wrong
Rather, Love is kind
Love is patient
Love is true
Love protects
Love perseveres
Love is beautiful
Just like the Sea...
Inspired by Martha Machief
Critiqued by Ess—Jay
Categories:
pickaxe, bible, first love, love,
Form:
Free verse
Marcus Mosiah Garvey arose from a little town, yes my lord
A Leo lifting Harlem, kingdom bound, yes my lord
Resuscitated religion around the black man’s looks, yes my lord
Cuddling pickaxe, hoe, and cradling books, yes my lord
Umpire of Freedom from home to foreign land, yes my lord
Seeker of justice from Costa Rica, Nicaragua to Panama, man, yes, yes my lord
Master of the African destiny, this man could dream, yes my lord
Overtures of empire, black starliner on the Atlantic stream, yes my lord
Sentinel and soldier, O Booker T’s light giver, yes my lord
Itinerant leader from island to continents, the diviner, yes my lord
Athletic word maker speaking truth to power, yes O my lord
Sequester again the UNIA at this defining hour, yes my lord.
Greatness is sometimes attributed, sometimes achieved, yes my lord
Africa’s proud son, both in you we believed, yes my lord
Regal was the call you made: “Up you mighty race!” yes my lord
Venerable the acts you did standing to the governor’s face, yes my lord
Earth has no better soul, or Jamaica another child, yes O my lord
Yielding everything to heal the lambs defiled, yes, yes my lord
How shall we see again the great black visions of grandeur, yes my lord
Evoking in cultureless voids Africa’s splendor, yes my lord
Royalty reduced to slavery would not crawl the dust, yes my lord
Once liberated minds can fly where only eagles lust, yes my lord
We heap up your tributes now that your dead, yes my lord
England’s queen can sleep without a dungeon for her bed, yes my lord
Men who dream are imprisoned to bury their dreams, yes my lord
Instead those dreams prove finite walls too poor, yes my lord
Superior imagination to tame, and brighter still gleams, yes my lord
So when the wind blows look for him at the door, yes my lord
Yapping Hoover at his heels lied on him to stall him, yes my lord
Over in Jamaica, he broke the walls of prison grim, yes my lord
Uncle Marcus, great hero, O how we miss him, yes, yes O my lord
Categories:
pickaxe, dedication
Form:
Acrostic
12/26/21
Time I make a splash
Got to fulfill important tasks
Can't rely on hiding behind masks
It won't always be what you asked
Staying intact or full of bug splats
Broken and cracked windshield glass
The wings of bats
Continuing to flap
Before returning to the cave for a nap
Out to get snacks
Packs of rats
Eating trash
Watching their backs
Looking out for cats
And traps
In a flash
Another clash
On train tracks
Or in the grass
Followed by maggots and gnats
It had nothing to do with cash
Just the way of the animal world, real facts
No cap
Comprehend and imagine that
A lot comes with a catch
It goes by fast
The good things in life rarely last
Live a life full of laughs
And have a blast
Close and far from flax
Just about everything getting a tax
Whether or not in burlap sacks
Often outmatched
Souls being snatched
By the batch
Evidence buried underneath a hatch
With a locked latch
Hundreds of feet below a vegetable patch
Never went to mass
Pushed it to the max
Then ran out of gas
So I ate some bass
Then took a dab of wax
Back to work on this obstacle I slash
And smash
I'm causing cracks
From swinging my pickaxe
Originally, I was barely making a scratch
For the last time I'll rehash
It was slapdash
So there was backlash
Wrote about it in my raps
Often I'd relapse
Perhaps
It's time I detach from all this crap
Too many chaps
Obsessed over apps
And others fighting over scraps
The curtains getting pulled back
Not going to keep it under wraps
Before it all turns to ash
Learn from the past
And other despicable acts
As time continues to pass
What's the haps
Do you truly have a clue?
Do you know the half
Or are you an ignorant ass?
People harass
Cause others to feel like an outcast
No wonder they eventually snap
And are full of wrath
Causing bloodbaths
This is turning into a plague, not a rash
Why are we going down this path
Where most burn and crash
Categories:
pickaxe, dark, deep, life, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Top of the world, Ma —
See those little fingers down there?
Those tiny rivers runnin’ thru the valley —
You fall, you won’t be repaired
Gimme pickaxe, gimme rope-ladder
Gimme both McKinley and Everest
I think best at highest altitudes
I’m hottest at my grooviest
Sheer fall —
You’re goin down
You’re goin down all the way
(2x)
You know the Donner Party was up in these parts
And they ate each other up
Much like those handsome boys from Brazil
Who were tryin’ to win the World Cup
When you finally scale that mountain,
Of course there ain’t nobody to witness
And then your ego sends the avalanche down
And you’re a sacrifice to physical fitness
Sheer fall —
You’re goin down
You’re goin down all the way
(2x)
Categories:
pickaxe, courage, future, mental illness,
Form:
Rhyme
What love embodies is set in stone
Only a pickaxe can break
What's truthfully there, damage prone
What the heart wants is stuck with a stake
Maybe I’m the pickaxe who destroys all love
But I will never be so sure
Because the pickaxe can be anything, a gentle dove
I don’t know what love has in store
All I know is that love still embodies
Anyone who sets me up a glance
My heart seems to take many vengeful hobbies
But hey, my head won’t move it’s stance
What love embodies is set in stone
I’m the pickaxe that breaks
What's dishonestly there, lying prone
I must stick my heart with a stake
Categories:
pickaxe, first love, lost love,
Form:
Rhyme
i represent an
invisible wall to
you
everytime you walk
by
i wish i was a
magician only for
you
everytime you walk
by
i would create the
most amazing art for
you
everytime you walk
by
i would totally
erase the maze of
confusion for you
everytime you walk
by
the bridge of
rejection sends my
inner fear into
ascension
i want to fall off
intentionally when i
imagine the natural
scent of you
internally i do
jumping jacks
internally i do
squat thrusts
externally i do
speed walks
externally i do the
shy guy stroll
everytime you walk
by
i guess i deserve to
be the ghost as
practice for the
sport of your
resistance
i wish i had a
pickaxe
i wish i had a
mallet
i wish i had a
poker....anything to
to help extend my
arms
everytime you walk
by
now the day is done
now the night
becomes the
masterful bully
now the dawn of day
teases me with its
indecisiveness
now the apex of the
torture begins for
me again
everytime you walk
by
Categories:
pickaxe, conflict, fear,
Form:
Free verse
As if by other ears,
you hear the trees cracking,
a black ice splitting the sky,
a pickaxe laying bare
night’s white bones.
Sleepers arise
still dreaming of such things.
A cave, and inside
that carved-out ear
the dreams of others’
troubling you
into a kind of love.
And was it you walking
angrily away
driven wild and shouting,
with a night-gale roaring
in some other ear?
Categories:
pickaxe, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
The Grind
In Gielinor's realm, where legends reside,
A hero emerges, with nowhere to hide.
From Lumbridge to Kharazi, a journey untold,
With pickaxe and sword, a story unfolds.
The grind is relentless, the hours they blur,
Woodcutting, mining, a monotonous stir.
But whispers arise, of glory and fame,
To slay the great dragon, and conquer the game.
From barrows to bandits, a constant fight,
Forging ahead, with unwavering might.
Each skill a triumph, each level a gain,
A digital odyssey, easing the pain.
With friends by your side, a camaraderie deep,
Sharing the burden, secrets to keep.
The memories linger, the laughter, the tears,
A timeless adventure, conquering fears.
So raise a tankard, to Gielinor's might,
To heroes of old, who battled through night.
For in this realm, where legends are born,
The spirit of Runescape forever will adorn.
Categories:
pickaxe, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form:
Free verse