Best Shovel In Poems
In the saloon gambler Milton, rose from his leather chair to speak
And said we need to make changes for the good of Soup Creek
He read all the meaningful proposals to the townsfolk out loud
And those meaningful proposals were well received by the crowd.
A stranger sat in the corner looked like he'd just got outta bed
Stood up and disagreed with everything Milton had said
He'd totally misunderstood Milton's honourable intention
The situation became tense and you could feel the tension.
There was an icy deadly silence then over by the far corner
Stood saloon girl Jenna looking mean, and cradling a Winchester
There was a mad stampede, as folks tried to get out the door
The stranger carried on ranting and at gambler Milton he swore.
Someone had alerted Sheriff Koplin and he was soon on his way
Then entered the saloon approaching the stranger, and had this to say
"Soup Creek is a very peaceful town and we aim to keep it that way
And if you don't like how we run things then you'd best be on your way"
Then from the back door of the saloon, entered four other deputies
Dave the Texas ranger, saloon girl Tania and the blacksmith called Rees
Undertaker Tom needed business, he was hoping the stranger they'd kill
And then headed off with a pick and shovel, to his office at Boot Hill.
The stranger was outnumbered and knew he wouldn't win
And handed the Sheriff his gun who said "I'm taking you in"
The Sheriff at gunpoint walked the stranger over to the jail
And told him" I'm locking you up and don't think about bail"
Meanwhile Tom up at Boot Hill was sweating digging a grave
Then heard someone hollering it was the Texas ranger Dave
Tom looked up and Dave told him "you won't be needed today
But Sheriff Koplin is generous and you'll still get your days pay"
"Gambler Milton is in the saloon later and he's holding a big party"
Tom threw his shovel in the grave and said "sounds good to me "
They both mounted their horses and then headed back to town
And they arrived back in Soup Creek as the sun was going down.
Written 16th August 2022
It was the young man's pleasure
to dig for buried treasure
with shovel in hand
he suddenly planned
to dynamite, just for good measure
D. H. Lawrence was a Better Man
I read about his snake
And was quite impressed with the
Alliteration and symbolism he used
To express that moment
As they met at the “stone trough.”
I appreciated his struggle with
The voice of his education which told him to
“Take a stick and break him now,
and finish him off.”
I too have faced the snake
And made a decision not so “perverse”…
or “cowardly”…or “honorable”.
The rattler was long and sleek
And glistened in her new skin.
I found her waiting in my tracks
As I returned across the field.
There was a moment as she flicked her tongue,
That I stood and gazed upon her,
Knowing what D.H. had felt.
Why was she there… and
How was it that we should meet?
My admiration was brief…
Shovel in hand…I struck her down.
It was the voice of my father
That said she must die…
“And truly I was afraid…”
Surely she would have struck me
Had I not seen her first.
And yet I questioned my decision…
Was it “paltry” and “vulgar…a mean act?”
I too shall think of the albatross…
And yet be watchful for the snake…
Again there will be a decision to make…
Having felt his “pettiness”…still I know…
D. H. Lawrence was a better man.
DISGUSTING COMMERCIAL
As one gets older things begin to sag
Belly hangs over, energy lags
Better take thought for your health old man
Heed this add, start our diet plan
Oh, there’s fat-free, sugar-free, freedom from gas
Beach ball bloating a thing of the past
Darlene B,, bikini beauty, she lost fifty
From obese to trim now aint that nifty
I tell ya, gordo, though you may resist
Fifty off that paunch will never be missed
If going cold turkey has failed in the past
Cash on the line will save you at last
Our plan now comes with money back guarantee
So what if you pig out – go on a spree
Nothing’s lost but your self esteem
After the orgy macho bod only a dream?
No! Shovel in the junk food one last time
Then start life over, call up Trim Line
Dave Austin
I stand at the window and watch the snow fall
It's been two hours since Billy left
The wind has built, a blizzard set in
And I can't put my mind at rest.
The snow has drifted blocking the road he took
But he knows his job, the cattle must be watered and fed
And hay for the baby calves to bed.
"I'll be all right," he said.
There is no school it is Christmas vacation
The radio predicted conditions to worsen.
With his family save and warm
He then sets about caring for those out in the storm.
TV and presents keep the children entertained
While I my hair do pull.
Dinner is ready and still Billys not home
And with questions like "When's daddy coming home?
And "Can I go out and play in the snow?"
It is hard for them to understand
It isn't just a snow fall, the danger is far to grave
Wander to far and they could be lost
And in turn perhaps lose their lives.
Two o'clock, three o'clock, four o'clock came
Finally Billy comes through the door
Wet, exhausted and frozen to the bone
He removed his outer garments and collapsed on the chair.
As he ate the children came
Excited to have daddy home
Satisfied he was safe and sound
They went back to their TV and games.
Chore time came and the blizzard ruled
I offered to do my share
He smiled and said, "Everything's fine.
Just the cow to milk and the pigs to feed
And I'll be right back inside. "
I put on my coat took shovel in hand
And worked at clearing the path.
In an hour it would be covered again
But I needed to have some fresh air.
All were in bed, the Christmas tree bright
The Nativity set caught my eye
Tenderly I picked up the manger, bow my head and say
"Thank You Baby Jesus and Happy Birthday."
Cile Beer
Well, Finn and Mc Gee
Were riding along
Headed back home
When something looked wrong
So, Finn off his horse
Now looked all around
He said, "We are lost
But, there's something we've found"
"Look at this massive
Whole in this plain
We'll never get home
This is insane"
"A canyon like this
What an unlucky find
We can't ride around it
We haven't the time"
"And we can't ride down through it
There isn't a way
If even there was
We'd be dead in a day"
So Mc Gee very calmly
with shovel in hand
Said "Well, we'd better get crackin'
And fill it with sand"
I go there while sitting in the executive conference room during budget meetings.
I go there while listening to his teacher tell me he acts like the ten year old boy that he is.
I go there while stuck in traffic with the other sheep being led to slaughter.
I even go there in the middle of the preacher trying to send me down the righteous path.
I go there in the grocery store line while price checks are being called for the shopper in front of me.
I go there with uncompleted tax report forms sitting in front of me on my desk.
I go there with a snow shovel in my hand, pushing it back and forth across my driveway.
I even go there in the middle of a prostate exam.
And, every time I go there - it is just as beautiful as ever.
I smell the bountiful fragrance of the most colorful flowers.
I meld with the butterflies fluttering about; I rejoice in the songs of the birds gliding on air above.
That secret garden that exists deep inside of my being is what helps me to carry on.
by Joe Flach for Nette's "My Secret Garden" Contest
2/13/2014
He put the shovel in the earth
With dry eyed dread he shakes his head
He's not a man to show emotion
He'll do the job, dig up ground
go through the motions, build up the mound
before the evening sun goes down.
His wife and son are standing by
While clouds swell up and tears are cried
that stem from grief they cannot hide
....
They stand aside, and he begins
Beside him in the crate, homemade,
so carefully the dog was laid.
Old "Oliver", was his best friend
but this is where that story ends.
Love came to them, from who knows where
and with it came a million woes
of muddy paws and ticks and fleas
of broken screens, and mother's screams
of slippers torn, and growing pains
And a love like no one understands
until they've known this kind, unplanned.
Concealed are tears he will not shed
He's not a man to show his pain
He motions them to come, and bring
a worn-out shoe, a toy or two
to lay within the disturbed ground
And then beneath the chestnut tree
He puts the crate into the grave
Then shovels in the dirt again…
They walk away, and the sun goes down,
without a word, without a sound
Sometimes such silence has a thousand words to say
_____________________________________________________
8/9/16
For Contest: "Camouflage Me A Poem"
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Walking the yard with shovel in hand
Cruising back and forth just as planned
Trying to pick up every last pile
If the wife steps in one she gets hostile
Didn't think this through from the start
Three dogs are great but this from the heart
Of the many jobs you have to do
The dirtiest of all is picking up poo
Dogs are creative with their poo
Over the years I've seen a few
So here are a couple of the best
Not enough room to list the rest
The Walking poo is always a trip
Spreads out in one long strip
Why can't they be still and squat
Could they please stay in one spot
Elephant poo is a surprise when found
This mammoth pile weighs about a pound
It really stands out above them all
Quite a feat because my dogs are small
If you have a party here is a tip
Be careful with the onion dip
Dogs really like that goo
But it leads to Diarrhea poo
Purple is a color you don't want to find
It's hard to get this one out of your mind
The Hide and Seek poo will keep you busy when done
Searching to find what's been eaten,what fun
From Kalamazoo to Timbuktu
Nothing is like the Houdini poo
Now you see it now you don't
Keep your eyes on it, this one will float
Winter cleanup can sometimes be hard
Snow after snow just covers the yard
Making layers upon layers of Icicle poo
Remember the horror of the thaw of '02
Just when you think the job is over
One more little gift from Rover
What's that on the bottom of your shoe
Nothing but a piece of Camouflage poo
If you have dogs this is nothing new
I'm just really tired of picking up poo
Contest: Everyone Poops
Sponsored by: Roy Jerden
Written by:Greg Hoffman 8/20/2015
A young Shepardflees fascist Italy,
in a boat crossing a tereachorous sea.
His rudimentary education,
ending sheep in Abruzzi, Italy.
His venture, to seek a life of freedom,
on the cold gold ground of La'mere-rr-ika.
He walked out of the pasture near Penna,
into the black pit coal holes of Scranton.
Pick and shovel in hand, clothed in black pitch,
a beacon light upon his tired head.
A young no-good lazy bastard "guinea"
working for a fast talking lying, "mickl".
Day and nighrt, night and day, anday annight.
pick, shovel, load, push, pick, shovel, load, push,
four weeks of darkness, thirty days of night.
Working double shift days in the coal pit,
sucking dust, ingesting coal from the hole,
a nickel a load for pasture clear lungs.
Greenback money in his empty pockets,
mark an "X", on the clear white payroll sheet,
then settle up with the company clerk,
paying his month long debt of servitude.
A slave to the industry of demand,
dictator Baron's that trade in black lung.
Days to months, months to years, a month of years,
living in clapboard company houses,
with bambino's running around his feet.
Just enough left for a couple of beers
and a gallon bottle of cheap vino,
then back to the grind with facist "mick",
Shutdown, restart, blink and freeze
Why oh why can’t technology for once be a breeze?
Such simple commands, pressing start or enter
But you would think you were begging for a suntan
In the middle of winter
I rely on this pink box for writing and such
Not trying to command the world
That would be too much
But you would think I was looking for a new planet
With the rate of its speed
Come on, I paid good money for you to full fill my need
There’s a shovel in the shed with HP on the handle
Just waiting for the day
That I am over this scandal
Mother and three siblings to keep,
bread winner, man of the house,
at pit head, down into the deep,
to extract coal like a sucking louse,
twelve hour shifts, morning to night,
water to drink, jam and bread,
working in poor artificial light,
coal miners life until he's dead,
thousand feet down, four miles along,
on man rider to coal face,
sound of mind, with arms so strong,
essential to keep up the pace,
with pick and shovel in hand,
now at the sharp end, damp hot,
more coal employers demand,
this hard life is a miners lot,
miners blood flows through his vein,
coal the centre of his soul,
buried Ancestors down pits remain,
reaching retirement his goal,
from a sunless place,he emerges,
moleskin trousers, dirty shirt,
gassed canaries, in cages,
aged fifteen, an inherited convert,
his hands are rough and beat,
grime ingrained into palms,
his fathers boots on his feet,
miners lamp, full of charm,
head to toe covered in slack,
survived another day young lad,
colleague to scrub his aching back,
thoughts of dead, especially his dad.
synthetic textile ghost, or maybe a
brown burlap bag
hanging over a shovel in the garden.
along its side reads burmese long grain rice.
it is raining heavely and the water has begun
to create tiny puddles in the dirt..
i can hear the wind blowing sheats
of rain across the grass.
i imagine green rice fields and wooden
ox carts mixing in the monsoon clay ethic.
burmese burlap hanging in the wind,
from what fields have you come?
who painted those markings on you?
was your birthplace holy?
the pool of bethseda is at your feet.
The fire burned warm and brightly,
As the little band of wagons were gathered close and their animals were
tethered tightly.
The ladies sat about preparing meals for the coming day,
While the men folk took on chores there wasn’t nary time for play.
Scouts were still out and their water was getting low,
Restricting their selves was the only way to go.
The wagon boss was talking on changing their course,
Said things ain’t looking good, best we prepare for the worse.
He said I know another way but it’ll be harder at first.
But about a weeks ride south there’ll be plenty of water to fill our thirst.
Bright and early next morn the little train pulled out,
Changing its direction added miles there was no doubt.
As they slowly plodded on the desert took on a new look,
But the sun still shone brightly in the day they all cooked.
The third day in the scout came riding up,
Said it’s a good thing ya’ll changed directions as he reached for the cup.
He said the last three water holes were only sporting dust,
Real early next morning the old scout lit out said he’d find water for it was a
must.
He strapped a couple of small kegs on an ole pack mule,
Took along a shovel in cased he’d need a tool.
Less than a day out he was taken by surprise,
Found an old dry creek bed that had just been on a rise.
There stood a solid rock basin as full as it could be,
He plopped down and drank his fill then rested for a moment by an old
mesquite tree.
He filled up the little kegs then he headed on back,
When he caught up with the train he told of the water and said there were all
kinds of animal tracks.
Next day they made it there to this little glory hole,
And rested up for a few days and then took off to their destined goal.
You just hope for the best,
And make sure your guide knows the way west.
There is no guarantees whether you make it or not,
The trip out west you’re either wet and freezing or you’re dirty and hot.
Soft winter draped with white;
a lonely wand'rer travelling a road.
Rough tracks of a wheel in the snow
trample the earth with a fearsome mirth.
The lonely footprints follow thee
as you travel the long-lost path.
With shovel in hand, the frozen land
beckons you to the end.
I wonder what led you here
after friendship so forlorn.
Have you forgotten me;
left me here to live in fear?
Cannot understand, not in the least,
but you make the trekk seem peaceful.
Acceptance so prevalent - so unlike you -
what has become of the you so young?
I sit here in silence,
thoughtful under the half-sunk moon.
Together we fell into the frozen sea,
yet only you travel the lonely road.