Best Shovelling Poems
Porcelain doll, with a face so pretty
a country gal, ran away to the city
Worked in a bar, dancing on tables
beat shovelling sh-it, in Pa’s stables
Looks for love, but only finds bums
lowlife gamblers, in rundown slums
Go back home
not a chance
One day soon
find romance
Porcelain doll, life’s becoming gritty
rent’s due, ain’t nothing in her kitty
All knocked up, mascara streaking
bloodshot eyes, skin’s unappealing
Sleeps in the pines, winter it snows
crystallised tears, angel eyes froze
Barely alive
baby’s dead
No way back
no warm bed
Porcelain doll, face’s the committee
lunatic asylum, nobody shows pity
Shock treatment, four hourly dose’s
prison guard lesbians, with halitosis
broken doll, made one bad decision
they chipped her head, thin incision
Eyes don’t blink
stare at space
No expression
just a doll’s face
By
David Kavanagh
day in the life of a coal miner
in the darkness you hear them
their boots clumping along the cobbled stones
not dawn yet ...yet still they are on their way to work
young lads of 15 plus.
these are miners sons
following the traditions
each generation go down the pit
twelve long hours
twelve hours in the dark and dust
twelve hours shovelling the coal
hewn by their elders.
horses are used to pull the trams along
eight hours they work....
young lads work longer.
their little food tins....tiny tins..
a chunk of bread if lucky a dripping sandwich
a bottle of water completed the feast.
they stumble on that cobbled road to home
tired and weary, hopefully a hot bath awaits them
in front of the fire.
nearly too tired to eat the meagre food set out
falling asleep dreaming of sunshine and fun
reality such a different story.
penned 18 May 2016
Audio Below
~~
my mind takes me back through the tattered pages of my life
to a place of warmth, security and love . . . . .
to my mother's kitchen with its big cupboards and old stove
and a blue teapot on the kitchen table and grandma telling me of life
of people in the family long dead . . .
it was at that same table that I read my first poems while sipping tea
oh! I recall father shovelling snow in winter all bundled up
and a warm fireplace waiting within . . .
then at night in an attic room this little girl was tucked in
with forever loving hands, hugs and kisses . . . .
_______________________________
January 24, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/home of my childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 01-635-607-24
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Entered in the Standard contest, Home Sweet Home
sponsor Skat , Judged 02/2015
Third Place
hey buddy, I have to tell you,
you stink just like rat pooh!
raw effluent smells so much better!
I wear a gas mask so I can breathe around you,
to say your dirty would be complementary,
I hear you work in a mortuary,
ain't that where all the dead heads hang out?
you, your head, you nutter!
get back to where you belong, back in de gutter!
did I use to call you bro?
a mistake, now I know!
I need fresh air gotta go!
before I do I bought you a bar of soap,
no, not to eat man, you on dope?
a word you do not know, 'wash'
now, now don't get violent put away that cosh!
go have a bath, with the soap use wire wool,
might stop you looking dull.
if you struggle, go get your brother,
no, not me, I'm no your bro,
a few lines back, I told you so.
right now I have to git,
when I get back I'll probably find that you have shrunk.
that's if you managed to shift ten years of gunk!
In case you do, I'll bring a shovel, cos ain't that wot you do best?
shovelling pooh, ten years of mess,
and the rest!
catch yuh later,
got to go going to meet your sister!
05/17/18
8 Mile Style Poetry Contest sponsored by Nick Trim
On Snow Shovelling
A foot of snow fell by night
with no let-up in sight.
(“Brrr, it’s cold out there.”)
A mutt rebounds past my window
as I contemplate the morning weather
while sipping my hot cup of coffee.
By the street lamp’s hazy glow,
I make out my neighbour,
who’s clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and with a winter implement
grasped in her mitten-covered hands,
bravely confronting the heart-attack weather
while tossing snow over her shoulders
to clear the driveway from garage to curb
for the mechanical beast to enter
the unplowed street.
She stops and calls to the mutt
(no doubt an excuse to catch her breath).
The dog, tail wagging, rushes to his master,
who brushes the snow from his fur
and, I venture to guess, says, “Atta-boy!”
as if the dog had overcome
some great endeavour.
But they both seem to derive pleasure
from the brief encounter.
The master resumes her shovelling
and the mutt his romping,
and I, continue thinking
while sipping my hot cup of coffee that I, too,
will have to face the inclement weather,
clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and commit to the task of snow shovelling.
People call it a winter wonderland
I call it a lack of green
Not that green's my favourite colour
But it beats keeping driveways clean
As soon as we think our shovelling is over
Another storm hits with a blast
The grass was showing only two days ago
My hopes once more have been dashed
Silly of me to wish for such kindness
I live above the 49th parallel
To entertain such wishful thinking is folly
Keeps turning, this world carousel
Realize the gods have their own agenda
They decide on the weather we'll get
Winter is punishment for all the damn wars
Mother Nature doesn't forget
Don't think this is how it's supposed to be
It should all be sunshine and flowers
We're being punished so let's smarten up
Not worry bout who's got the power!
© Jack Ellison 2015
My thoughts let go of a thousand memories,
Like faces, dates, times and places;
Yet, I can recall each and every detail,
On the day of your funeral.
(. . .and my mind takes me back through the tattered pages of my life
to a place of warmth, security and love . . . . .)
O the grieving . . .
In the middle of a snow storm I followed,
And the wind blew back my long hair;
As we meandered down a winding cold path,
The wild wind paused in the trees.
( . . O, my mother's kitchen with it's big cupboards and old stove
and a blue teapot on the kitchen table and grandma telling me of life,
of people in the family long dead . . . )
O the weeping. . .
Snowflakes fell on me from the tangled branches,
Falling like crying tears cascading down;
I am lost and moaning in this forever, ever memory,
And now the snow drifts in the cemetery.
(. . . and it was at that same table that I read my first poems
while sipping tea and father coming in from shovelling snow
in winter all bundled up . . . )
O the sadness . . .
A headstone is buried deep in the pure white,
And but one engraved word is revealed;
In this pristine cold, dead winter wonderland,
Only one word can be seen, MOTHER,
Hidden beneath the snow.
(. . . a warm fireplace waiting within
then at night in an attic room this little girl was tucked in
with forever loving hands, hugs and kisses . . .)
O the lamenting . . .
I will treasure your arms last embrace, mother,
till this heart stops beating . . .
__________________________________
February 19, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/''oh the memories, memories''
Copyright Protected, ID 02-641-987-19
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Memories
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron, Judged 03/2015
Second Place
NOTE-Right now Scotland is suffering it's worsed winter since 1963.The severe
weather has put the whole country at a stand-still.....
Polar bears in kilts, it's now minus fifteen.
Ice cube cars and wellies and our frozen windscreens.
Roads are all at grid-lock,schools are closed across the land.
Whole communities shovelling snow, all working hand in hand.
Where are our gritters and our snow-plough's, is oor salt in short supply?
All my poor winter pansies, bet your boots there going to die.
My snowman's got the flu, my sledge has two buckled blades.
And now i've slipped a disc out and i've broken three good spades.
People wearing earmuffs, snoods and scarves, no skin to bare.
But i am in a Glasgow Betting Shop, not in Moscow's Red Square.
My wee car's like a bobsleigh as it trundles through the snow.
My toes are cold, my bum is numb and my cheeks they are aglow.
River Clyde has all iced over, cancelled trains and frozen locks.
Leggings, gloves and thermal undies, woolly hats and soggy socks.
All my gutters have collapsed and caved in, my snowman's head.
And the birds, they are all starving, better throw them out some bread.
Penguins play the bagpipes, carol singers join in too.
Susan Boyle sings White Christmas in the icy morning dew.
Scotland.... Shivering to a stand-still, this winter really is a corker.
Stuff this vicious winter weather's am away aff tae Majorca.
III
This is the land of the convectional rains
Which vie on the monsoon back scrubbing streets
This is the land at half-past four
The rainbow rubs the chilli face of the afternoon
And an evening-morning pervades the dripping, weeping
Rain tree, and gushing, tumbling, sewerless rain drains
Sub-cutaneously eddy sampan fed, muddy, fingerless rivers
Down with crocodile logs to the Malacca Sea.
This is the land of stately dipterocarp, casuarina
And coco-palms reeding north easterly over ancient rites
Of turtle bound breeding sands.
This is the land of the chignoned swaying bottoms
Of sarong-kebaya, sari and cheongsam.
The residual perch of promises
That threw the meek in within
The legs of the over-eager fledgelings.
The land since the Carnatic conquerors
Shovelling at the bottom of the offering mountains
The bounceable verdure brought to its bowers
The three adventurers.
A land frozen in a thousand
Climatic, communal ages
Wags its primordial bushy tail to the Himalayas
Within a three cornered monsoon sea -
In reincarnate churches
And cracker carousels.
The stranglehold of boasting strutting pedigrees
And infidel hordes of marauding thieves,
Where pullulant ideals
Long rocketed in other climes
Ride flat-foot on flat tyres.
IV
Let us go then, hurrying by
Second show nights and jogget parks
Listening to the distant whinings of wayangs
Down the sidewalk frying stalls on Campbell Road
Cheong-Kee mee and queh teow plates
Sateh, rojak and kachang puteh
(rediffusion vigil plates)
Let us then dash to the Madras stalls
To the five cent lye chee slakes.
la la la step stepping
Each in his own inordinate step
Shuffling the terang bulan.
Blindly buzzes the bee
Criss-crossing
Weep, rain tree, weep
The grass untrampled with laughter
In the noonday sobering shade.
Go Cheena-becha Kling-qui Sakai
(continued from Parts One & Two)
One fine day while shovelling snow from upon my sidewalk
I noticed a huge hairy dog on a big shiny white rock
He wagged his little bushy tail and ran with jolly up to me
and lifted up his right hind leg and on my leg he peed
Redfaced mad and humiliated,I chased him down the street
I followed him with full regard for what he did to me
I chased him to an alley and into a dark backyard
He ran into an old woodshed and hit the shed but hard
Down and out, he was laying, twitching on the ground
I had tried to read the printing on his collar I had found
I ran in fear of being caught for what I may have done
And ran into a big huge witch who must have weighed a ton
She looked and said "That was my dog" as I shook my dizzy head
"He used to be a damn good dog, but now he is damn good dead!"
I said "Good" and walked away with a grin upon my face
No more dog to pee on me and put me to disgrace
Back at home still shovelling snow, I heard a whining sound
I turned and looked to my dismay, "That dog is still around?"
I seen the witch who owned the dog, she smiled and sadi to me
"My dog is fine and my oh my, you should have let him be!"
With and evil laugh the stare, she said "Sick em!" clear and loud
I shovelled him up into the air, so high he broke a cloud
Finally he landed hard, and hit a speeding car
The dog flew like a football far off to distant stars
The old witch, shocked, left in a rage and went back to her home
We knew that dog ain't coming back and no more shall he roam
Here you have the story of a dog, some man's best friend
For any dog that pees on me to doggy heaven I will send
Before I resumed shovelling snow, I looked up to the sky
Then it started raining yellow drops on my face, don't ask why!!!
Sprinkler man,
Dancing in an idle neighbourhood.
Eyes rolled back feeling fine,
gallon coat of tears,
his boat drifting
like his floating feet
His mind an endless note
charming the children from the river,
disturbing mud packets of thought,
Caught a fish he did, the sprinkler man,
swirls waving hooks in the air
paddling like a worm
curling like a note he wrote.
--The night is young
Still stuck in his river yellow mind
Brewing toxins falling to the ground out the
entrances of his pointers
He lives down on the alley
praying amongst tall grass
weaving a sunrise, exhaling
the lifes clouds drifting along in deep currents of blue.
He was my father at one point.
sold his tanned heart and smoked
sticky dreams flooding valleys
staunhcing him a like a shadow coat
Starfishes in the corner,
intoxicated pacified in a midnight blanket
mono train exaiming ants briefly stern.
on he goes
Destroying darkness
shovelling blood out his ten shores
spiriling notice leaving the world behind.
Riding quilts galloping,
All is quite fine with the clown
teething
moping like a wave to his mothers palm.
On he crys..
Singing
There's a lot going on in the world, so I feel the need to write
I'm going to give my food for thought, while the government just feed you lies
I'm not dumb enough to believe a word that comes from Theresa May
Believe or don't believe, we're still screwed either way
We're all forced to suffer because of the actions of the Government
We live in the dirty streets, nowhere near a palace like Buckingham
Wages are getting lower but taxes are doubling
Look at all the dirt we're shovelling
We're told not to care about all the innocent kids being killed in Libya
We're told not to worry about the deals going on in Syria
Facebook won't allow you to change your profile picture to remember the ones who get killed in Nigeria
The government will make you believe that Europe is the only place that Bombs happen
Why are we told to hate a whole group of people for one's actions?
We Kill each other daily, so why would I fear an enemy?
How can I look forward to tomorrow when I can't clear my memory?
Politicians say they'll build new houses to home the homeless and it sounds Promising
But then a month later, that plan is scrapped and they're demolishing
Soldiers who fought for the country
Will be left homeless and made to go hungry
Never will i duck the coward Donald
I can't believe some actually support this force of evil
Some things get lost in thoughts
But he's at the golf resort
He doesn't care that there are people drowning in Puerto Rico
The president of the United states doesn't even support the people
He doesn't care who goes without
You held the door open for him just for him to show you out
Being a good human being is something he doesn't know about
They're going to hate me for writing this, I may end up below the ground
I'd rather die speaking my mind, than some meaningless shallow rhymes
I don't give a damn what a Kardashian is wearing for Valentines
I care about freedom of speech and I hope someone will free Palestine
I scream free Palestine and that's something some will want to kill me for
If I'm laying on the ground and my blood is spilling on the floor
It just means I died as a man and my message was too great
I won't apologize for speaking my mind, even if this makes you hate
I refuse to be quiet or stay blind
Someone tell the politicians it's question time
Here in the prairies we get lots of snow
It’s not even strange to see 40 below
It’s almost to an end
With spring ‘round the bend
So take off, Eh’ winter! Dontcha know!
It isn’t the cold that’s so bad though,
It’s even t-shirt weather at zero!
But I still want the warmth
To come to the North
CUZ IM SO SICK OF SHOVELLING SNOW
Feb 23, 2022
The rumbling and shovelling
Pandemonium and desecration
The killings and maiming of souls
Boko harambee, the harem of
murderers
The genie let loose, murder
incorporated,
Unlicensed to kill
It's the wild! wild!! North on
the brink!
The north overrun
The hounds on the run
The hunt only just began.
Boko haram has taken the
center stage
The grave is filling, yet it takes
more and more dead.
It's the Wild! Wild!! North on
the brink.
(Written on the 2nd May, 2015)
N.B. presently Boko haram, Killer herdsmen, bandits, kidnappers and others have overran Nigeria and overwhelming the Security forces.
My dad built a house on a hill. How exciting to climb to the tippy-top then look down upon the roof, and dog home, the bean garden, and to sled the slope in Winter white.
eyes delirious
dazzled, dizzy, delighted
dopamine kicked in
A truck gets stuck at the bottom of our steep driveway, blocking local traffic on our rural road. I wonder if this sticks in anyone else’s memory? Then like ants, industrious, sweating for donuts and coffee, my dad’s friends work their quads, up and down this unexpected hell.
our walls carried up
unfinished planks, like a cross
friendship marches on
We’d help spackle the parts of the wall scored by nails. Dad would use the saw to cut a wooden floor, like his rest-in-peace dad, who surely stops in to measure his son’s progress, to see his grandkids placing the unstained wood.
this home has no ghosts
brand-spanking new on old hill
but the past’s with us
While constructing, Mom would open a can of Dinty Moore stew, cook over a portable stove, and serve over rice. We would order Pizza from Salvatore’s - my mouth waters at the thought of this New York pie with Italian sausage, sauce and cheese. They’d occasionally order a submarine; I can still taste the fresh lettuce, tomato and thin-sliced deli meats on yeasty bread.
what we remember
is funny; the senses touch
childhood memories
The builder, of the house’s frame, was called one day. He was told my dad went through the roof. Later, they came, standing outside and sizing up the roof, when my mom questioned them as to what he was looking at. Mom rolled her eyes as she told him, what was meant, was that my dad was mad.
screwball translation
the heated conversation
is lost in humor
Shovelling the driveway, in Winter, in my plaid, woollen, hooded coat. My face can feel the chill, the briskness of the wind, and the warmth of mittens. I miss my childhood, even the arduous times, those wonderful family times.
a surprise arrives
at this address; a newborn
unplanned, a kicker