Best Raking Poems
The rake fans out with long slender fingers.
They’re springy, giving a bounce
as they dig in and jump up.
The handle is wood – I wear gloves
To prevent splinters and blisters.
They will not prevent the blisters.
Stroking,
Each one a lunge out and away;
Then a pull back.
Arms forward,
Shoulders back.
Arms forward,
Shoulders back.
Fingers loose,
Then tighten,
Over and over and over.
Tickles of sweat at my hat band.
The sun is hot.
The sweat cools.
Arms twitch,
Shoulders ache,
Back screams.
Forward and back.
Forward and back.
My mind slips away to somewhere else.
The time starts to slip –
Ache forgotten –
Lark singing –
The house wren is back again this year
Letting the lark know he is here and wanting his share.
New spring leaves rustle,
in a God sent breeze to aid the sweat.
A cat looks at me
And settles in the shade
Wondering at my industry.
The slender fingers of the rake
Make trails in the dirt
weaving a carpet pattern between the grasses.
Ants are disturbed
And bustle to repair the rude damage.
A toad was up rooted from his winter sleep.
Pounding — a flicker is working on the side of my house.
My aching shoulders bring me back to real time.
The piles are big.
I am Thirsty.
It must be time to join the cat.
Autumn 2001
Dooralong Valley, NSW Australia
A 40 acre property to retire to - kept us
far more busy than our ‘working life’.
The swimming pool - that bright blue jewel
that bane of our existence, occupied us
incessantly, especially
when Autumn leaves covered the lawn.
Preemptively I would rake them, and rake them
and rake them before the wind could take them
to spread them on the pool
If I missed raking them, then with a net
I’d be scooping them, and scooping them
heavy, soaking and wet.
I was almost glad when our one ton stud bull
escaped into the home yard,
plunged into the pool, and put his hoof
through the lining,
No more raking that year but Summer was
the longest and hottest yet.
Fall Flavors Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
Yard waste bags,
seasonal toll and drive
need a rake
I had to pay for a new pair of shoes
When I went shopping today,
I asked politely but they refused,
To freely give them away.
I guess that’s just the way of things,
And everything comes with a fee.
It’s a shame about the strife it brings,
Because money don’t grow on a tree.
But what if it did?
Think of the inflationary implications,
When the leaves begin to drop.
And all of the economic ramifications,
When the falling leaves won’t stop.
Why we’d be ankle deep in currency,
Enough around to burn.
My Maple tree would carry me
There’d be no need to earn.
There’d be a line of kids around the block,
Just wanting to rake my yard.
I’d keep them moving around the clock,
Then bags of leaves I’d guard.
I’d take my leaves to the bank,
To make a deposit at the local branch.
They might think that it’s a prank,
But I’m saving for an oak tree ranch.
The green leaves have browned.
All have fallen to the ground.
There are tons of them around.
None are difficult to be found.
I will have to start leaf raking.
It is a huge undertaking.
My back will soon be aching.
This pain I will not be faking.
You can smell Autumn on the wind
as the leaves change from green
to yellow, red and orange
Eventually to fall to the ground
for you to have to rake up
You rake the leaves into
nice, big piles
You decide before you bag them
to have a little fun
You take a flying leap
straight into the middle of
the pile of your choosing
sending leaves of every
color in all directions
It gives you more work
as you rake up the mess you made
But you had fun in the moment
On this cool Autumn day
Contest Title: Fall Flavors Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Theme used: Raking Leaves
Written on: September 6, 2022
A bunch of dead leaves.
They cling on the eaves,
verging on falling
killed by frost.
Coating the earth.
Sweaty brow that furrows in
thought as the wind pushes.
Leaving them only to fly
back--can’t get them all–
the fruits of this labor
eternal and constant
as the dead petals
Back and forth.
Cold, crisp rhythm
sweeping out the old.
Time tested,
true auburn harmony.
The leaves have fallen
Now its time to rake
So the ground canbreath
Raked into a pile
Run and jump with abandon
Color explosion
Patiently rake once again
Making memories of fall
For the leaves contest...
raking dried leaves
as a mouse escapes
cat chases
crisp winds
blowing through my hair
birds in flight
a harvest
of fresh pumpkins
squirrel with nut
a blue corn moon
rises on horizon
autumn chill
pumpkin cookies
baking for ghosts and ghouls
tricks and treats
The trees know very well
And so do the limbs.
Nature tells the limbs
To release the leaves because
Their provisions of shadows
And shades have now ended.
The wind picks up and scatters
The leaves as they quietly fall.
Fields of grains and nuts abound;
Opened cotton buds astound;
Boll Weevils are not around.
Fall is the harvest season when
Painted leaves begin to descend.
High-tech landscaping all around,
But not for the raking of leaves.
For 16 years and more,
This exercise of hard labor prevailed.
Most chores are less adored,
But raking leaves were never adored.
Once upon a time, there were four trees;
Then there were two; And then there was one.
I gladly say, now there is none.
The trees and leaves, I miss; honest I do;
I miss their quiet descent from smog-filled skies;
I miss the protection from solar rays provided to me.
I miss their treasured colors, their artistry;
But I do not for one New York second, miss
Racking the leaves of mulberry trees.
101722PSCtest, Painting prompted Poetry Contest
Lisa YY. Chosen picture:#2. 2P
The wind has blown
All the fallen leaves
Downward to the ground
This is not the first time
All the raking starts
Raking a pile of leaves
Fifty bags are packed
More bags will be filled
There are more leaves
to spill
Until all has spread
To be raked once more
For the very last time
Wind
B l e w
Leaves
Feet
D r a g
Line
10/29/2020
In Just A Few Words Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
The tines of the rake
comb through a dispersing tumble.
Ocher clumps form random hillocks,
most slip through the iron teeth
dancing drunkenly away.
I was called into the rushing air.
Physical work with the dead and dying
is a ‘calling’ isn’t it?
The newly deceased keep falling.
Maple leaf bones crackle underfoot.
I scoop their remains,
brush an autumnal cerecloth,
shake the dead into swirls of afterlife.
I hear my sister calling me for dinner
As I'm raking up the clippings from the grass.
I turn my head
And am stuck by the gently setting sun
That glows red through the soft grey clouds.
A light breeze plays with my hair
As this warm summer evening crawls to a close.
I inhale.
"Coming!"