Best Shovel Poems
The meticulous melody of my musings is she.
Quietly my quill inscribes intrinsic ink upon the paths she walks.
Profoundly postulated in poems I've portrayed her in -
she's inspired ingenious imagery of beaucoup beauty.
I ponder without her what my life would be like?
With determiners of this, that, these and those, she is the
one who guides like an orchestra of street lights at night.
In times of silence I wonder what she is thinking of
when gazing at blue horizons that appear cloudless,
as her exotic eyes always crave for calming climes.
There is no measure in the pleasure of her treasure and
her artistry on a blank canvas turns stanzas radiantly starry,
so I croon a tune hoping to be the moon under her serene skies.
Yet not all lullabies of lovers can ease a melancholic mind and
sometimes it's difficult to write lyrics making sense of it all.
Not all verses compliment strings with an instrumental that's
an emotionally unbalanced mix of tones not seen as the best
remedy in episodes of rage - so I wonder what becomes of
tranquillity when her tempest temper turns her thoughts dark.
I regret those forgotten promises lost in broken symphonies and
until sanity soothes with words of softness, I'll hold onto all that is bright.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty
… after Langston Hughes
You know how they do. They say that
we run, that we fit descriptions, but justice
ain’t blind, she just sees who she wants. Is
it any wonder we hold our breath? A
body ain’t a body when they label it a threat. Blind
fold her, watch her peek, call her a goddess.
Watch her drop the scales. Watch how balance is
a myth chased between our nana’s prayers and a
judge’s gavel. They got this thing
for claiming fear while standing over bodies. To
serve, to protect—who? Which
way to run when history's got a knee pressed upon the we
aried? Red light, blue light, a flash, a name gone black.
Mothers wailing thru the street. We are
n’t new to this. My father knew. And his father wise.
Still, she won’t look. Her
hands steady but the bandage
doesn’t stop her from peeking. It hides
but we see it slip. MLK's two
Americas on display. Wounds keep festering
and this country born of scars and sores
struts like a wayward siren. That
same scream, same prayer, same fear. Once
we thought time might change things. Perhaps
we were fools to hope. Seems we were.
Though standing here. Still, we look her in the eyes.
###
In a cynical realm where truth is tainted in black, rises she,
amidst whirling vortexes veiling reveries where she walks.
Yet society thrums thick skinned lies, whilst morning moon sighs in-
silence, seeing sunrise through eyes that mirror golden beauty.
Her persona resembles firm perennial petals like,
maternal warriors waltzing through wistful winds, singing the,
song of survival in loneliness through every forlorn night.
She's bestowed with selfless angels thawing wicked webs of,
time, freezing the rainbows hidden behind cloudless,
cerulean wrapped in balmy breeze blowing along cashmere climes.
She is her own sorceress with an invisible ring and
silver spells, her unbreakable spirit shines like starry
amulets of faith, sparkling across cold midnight skies.
She still composes calm symphonies in elegance and,
patience, whilst ignorant tongues concoct storms amongst all,
evil that reeks within a community that's-
ready to place names, find fault in words within the chorus of life, best,
written for the unheard voices ostracized, by merciless tunes of,
the past, where freedom fighters were left alone in the dark.
But she sprouts, like a sunflower growing in the cracks of emptiness and,
like an untamable warrior, she serves hope and love, that beams so bright.
“She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and bright Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty”
In 1890, cowboy Bob Womack found gold at the base of lofty Pikes Peak!
In short order a ramshackle town was founded called Cripple Creek.
Hordes of gamblers, 'soiled doves' and prospectors hopin' to make a buck,
Heeded the call of 'Pikes Peak Or Bust' and fled west to try their luck!
This 'peaked' the interest of a young Hoosier feller named Oliver Pence,
Who ordered a shovel from the Sears Roebuck Catalog for eighty-seven cents.
(He called Cripple Creek, Cripple 'Crick' since that's how Hoosiers speak!)
He strapped the shovel to Fred his mule and headed west his fortune to seek!
Oliver staked his claims and his shovel left many a diggin' 'long the way.
His shafts and holes in the hills and vales can be seen to this very day!
He'd found a few nuggets and a bit of dust but didn't 'mount to much.
What he did find he'd blowed on gamblin', whiskey, wimmen and such!
Often, he'd lean on his trusty shovel and muse 'bout his fate.
He talked to the shovel, sayin, "We ain't had much luck as of late.
We'll winter in the cabin and come spring we'll continue our quest;
I'll strap you on old Fred and we'll head fer them hills to the west!"
Seasons came and went and Oliver wasn't seen 'bout town much anymore.
On a cold and dreary day, friends found him stiff dead on the hovel floor!
They dug his grave with the shovel and buried him outside the cabin door.
Six feet down the old shovel struck gold - the lode he'd been a-lookin' for!
Exotic eyes stare back at me
a huge Heffner begging
for the attention of her musings
she dances and sways
in the darkness, the streetlights
highlight her deceptions
she thinks she stole my heart
blind, I see the meaning of true deceit
my wallets disappears between the sheets
she thinks she is silent
I hear every click
the credit cards makes
sadness stabs me
that the even the sheep are fake
kindness is a mask
on the canvas of life
make sure to paint the truth
Inspector Clouseau
has confirmed
the infidelity of it all
Old
Digger, lifter, mover, slicer
Friend of ScoopDog and Dugger Graves
Lover of landscaping, building, and gardening
Who feels less sharp, disused, and edgy
Who fears dull blades, broken handles, and rust
Who would like to see verdant gardens, straight fence posts, and freshly laid sod
Resident of the junk section on the old wood fence just outside the tool shed
Shovel
In the old dark coal mine, brought cold feeling.
It was underground and very dangerous and hard work.
Wearing dark clothes, leather boots, and canvas hat
With a leather brim with metal lamp brackets to hang off a light.
My owner would carry me on his shoulder
When he walked into the tunnels of the mine.
He would hold me firmly with both hands.
Forcing hard with his body, would push my blade into the hard ground,
Rocked my handle back and forth to loosen the ground to get to the coal.
He came out dust covered black with me on his shoulder
All wore out needing to be sharpen for the next day.
I pondered about winter; it would come, and snow would fall.
He'd get me out of the shed, cold chill I would be to the touch,
And shovel the soft fallen snow of the sidewalk.
Years have passed and also my owner.
Now I hang of the wall with my blade painted.
His daughter in tribute, painted a winter scene.
An endless breadth curtain of a blue sky
As it closes the sun's view going down.
Patches of snow on the ground and bare limbs on the trees
My owner walks down a path with his dog.
As he had walked that path so many times.
AN OLD SHOVEL Poetry Contest Sponsored by: John lawless
Written: August 12, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Once an archaic shovel—worn and rusted,
Now reborn, its purpose adjusted.
Become the shovel, embrace its might,
Revel in its past—a tale to ignite
With calloused palms—strength untold,
The shovel bore deep, breaking through the mold.
Sweat dripped down—mingling with the earth,
As dreams of a fitter future gave birth.
Of arduous work and toil,
Of digging trenches and turning soil.
From dawn until dusk, it never wavered.
A faithful companion—never faltered.
Ponder its present—a relic of the past,
But it is still a tool—its purpose is vast.
Now resting against a weathered shed,
Its once sharp edge—now dull and dead.
The shovel, once a symbol of might,
Now waits patiently for its chance to ignite.
Bestowed by a child, curious and free,
The shovel becomes a treasure, a key.
To dig and explore, to uncover the unknown,
To create castles and kingdoms of their own.
The child marvels—at its worn-out charm,
As they dig deeper, their imagination warms.
They uncover hidden treasures, buried deep.
Imaginary worlds—where secrets—keep
The shovel, now a vessel for dreams,
Guiding the child through endless streams.
With each scoop of earth, a raw adventure awaits.
As the shovel unearths, the child's excitement escalates.
They discover fossils and ancient bones.
Unlocking mysteries—rewriting history's tone
The shovel journey continues, ever-evolving.
From laborers' hands to children's exploring.
It reminds us of the power within.
To shape the world, to uncover, and to begin.
Explore its meaning, the shovel essence,
A symbol of resilience and presence.
In its worn-out state, it still holds worth.
Teaching us lessons of resilience and rebirth.
From laborer—to child
The shovel journey—ever wild
So let us honor this humble tool,
A testament to the human spirit fuel.
The man who you were born to trust
shouldn’t be the monster to then in turn bust
your bubble of hope for a fun, happy life
and become the nightmare of your every night.
She was trapped inside an abusive cage,
at the mercy of her father’s rage,
who continuously inflicted a shower of pain
while she cried her tears and sobbed in vain.
The suicide note on his nightstand
was written in the script of a young girl’s hand,
bedside the empty bottle of sleeping pills
that rendered freedom to his little girl.
The authorities looked the other way
knowing he received the dues for which he paid;
no one was willing to help her before -
they simply rolled him outside of the door.
She attended his funeral in a long, black dress;
disguising the relief, she did her best;
although her conscious bore a hefty scar,
she justified her reasons for what they are.
But, not until that first shovel of dirt
did she begin to release the unbearable hurt;
the abuse that this man constantly gave
was now buried forever with him in the grave.
She is now an advocate for abused youths;
empathizing with the secrets behind their truths;
hoping to help them get released from the hurt,
long before their abuser’s first shovel of dirt.
People
who
buried
the dead
cannot
expect
to
be
buried
by
the
Dead.
I remember when Grandpa used me everyday, now he has gone far away. I am sitting here watching the clouds turn gray, as the family never comes my way. For Grandpa and me digging was play, it was fun to hear what he had to say.
Come, shovel
splinter my hands
let me feel even an iota of pain
for I am forever in
denial
it seems
Come, shovel
let my bare foot
push you deeper
until I bleed
so I can face this
reality
in front of me
dig
dig
dig
...ditch
and dish out
all that dirt
make that hole
big
big
big
...breach
and break out
all that brine,
all that whine
then let me fall
deep
deep
deep
d
e
e
p
eep.
Come, shovel
bury me whole,
cover me
in peace
Let, me, be, number,
let, me, escape,
in
mindless slumber.
even just for two days.
41920161208a23: Come, Shovel
yes...
stirred day
april first so...
the winds are
spiraling snow...
in front of the
garage...
and front door
Golgotha seemed no risk to view,
As the Place of the Skull beckoned anew.
My heart hammered for I saw no escape
From the man with a shovel and tattered cape.
His shovel waved, as if to attack,
And he gave the ground a wicked whack.
He shoveled some dirt and filled a hole,
Then I recalled the story told.
After the Crucifixion, like one possessed,
To fill every hole was this man’s quest.
He said, “I caused His death, to my shame.
The hole for the cross was my blame!”
I replied, “Sir, he died for you and me,
To fill holes in our lives, don’t you see?”
As he stood weeping, his mind in shock,
I said, “Sir, we need to talk.”
The Summers were hot in the suburbs of our city,
We had a small sandy yard, a few toys and a kitty.
It was just me and my brother ages four and six,
We tried to dig to China with a shovel and sticks.
Into the hole my brother presses down his ear,
Be quiet little sister for I am trying to hear.
Running to mom shouting, I hear people talking,
Dig further down son, you might see them walking.
How grand our mother was, able to keep us entertained,
Though times were hard, we never heard her complain.
My children live in luxury with every electronic game,
If I told them to dig to China, they'd think I was insane.
Author Eileen Clark 2022