Best Sweepers Poems
To some, there is a “good side”
When you’re posing for a pic
And people show their “good sides”
Sometimes trying to be slick.
But if somewhere in Manhattan
Is the place from whence you hark
Then you know the “good side” means one thing –
The side where you can park.
For streets are cleaned 6 days a week
On alternating sides
With posted signs reminding us
To move away our rides.
So for an hour and a half
One side of every street
Is free of cars so sweep machines
Can make their work complete.
Most drivers sit inside their cars
Until the sweepers pass
Then quickly move back to their spots
So fines they won’t amass.
You’re lucky, though, if when you park
You snag a “good side” spot
For then a small reprieve, worth more than gold,
Is what you’ve got.
World wide they're wranglin' up my folks,
So I stay woke 'cause it's no joke,
We came from slavery & hangings by rope,
To wantin' dollars in bulk,
Tryin' to make the money last be 1 of my main concerns,
See many yearn & learn
to play the game
Just to fail & get burned,
See in the streets you get 1 turn,
And everyday we die slowly,
We're all sinners needin' a spirit that's holy,
And in this game of deception
I lost a lot of my homies,
Some gone from their crooked expeditions,
On missions to glisten,
But a better way for paydays have risen,
We now use education, music & sports
on our path to find our gold mines,
I learned from my elders from the old times,
It's best to make your soul shine,
Stay focussed & dont close your peepers,
'Cause sleepers go blind
and can't see the street sweepers,
Poor vision will take you under,
From the elders to the younger,
They suffer from hunger,
And soakin' wet from the 'Poverty Thunder',
Sometime it feels like it's no sunshine or fun time,
It's only the one time[the police]
and their trigger happy gun times,
We're fallin' like flies on the frontline,
So I lay low,
I travel in the slow lane hopin' my day go
on the positive side
while I'm retrievin' my legal pesos,
Jeepers creepers can’t believe your peepers
Sweepers keepers jumping josey leapers.
Gleepers fleepers dallying with sneepers.
Reapers heapers willful wonder kneepers
Sleepers greepers foremost firstly weepers
Deepers sheepers giving golden fleepers
Cheepers zeepers living with grim reapers
Jeepers creepers can’t believe your peepers
This is my translation of a Chinese Song dynasty poem and my response to the poem
Yan Jidao
To the tune of Mulan hua
Again, the east wind blows its heartless gusts
Smears flowers thick upon the ground like scarlet makeup blush
Emerald tower’s curtain no screen for sorrow’s view
Last year’s melancholy washes in anew
Am I not a fool to fret so over spring’s remains?
At every step shed my tears in vain
Instead, I’ll fill my wine cup to the brim
This full of fallen flowers I need to drink my sorrow dim
People Petals
Fallen flowers do not linger in these days
When spring is greenhouse years and air-conditioned rooms
And workers plant the flowers for a time, then take their withered heads away
But no, it’s not in vain to fret and cry for all that falls and fades
The careless wind and strewn ground
A season mirror sending us our hearts
The flowers as if people petals that blossomed in our past
Faces gone, friends and neighbours, Christmas present aunts
Run to gather up those bits of life and stay their shades
Press them in my memory books and glue them fast
People petals still spread blush and dab the earth’s cheeks bright
The roads inside us still need tears to wash away the dust
Be summer rains and clear the skies for autumn gold
Even with the east wind shut outside and seasons small
We still know time and still grow old and feel how sorrow turns
Still the sowers, gardeners, sweepers
Still the faded fruits, the ashes and the earth
Salt of The Earth
Ordinary people
That’s who we are
Our triumphs
Our sacrifices
Loves
And torments
Go unsung
For the most part
Un-noticed by anyone
Ordinary people
Who’s lives may have suffered tradgedy
Quite sperate
From the world of celebrity
Who’s weight loss and weight gain
Who’s lives are sucked up
So avidly
Un-famous
Un-important
That’s what we are
Un-recognised heroines
And heroes
People that the world
Never knows
This celebrity culture
Demeans us
Turn our lives
To a paultry plethora
Of existence
Devoid of the glitter and pomp
Of celebrity red carpet
TV show sold money
Our faces un-immortalised
In the applause
Of the overpaid and wealthy
Of yet another publicity stunts
Awards
Our lives a mere daily
Rigmarol of mediocrity
As we dine on the scraps
Of news and gossip
Of the purile insignificance
Of celebrity
Ordinary people
That’s who we are
The un-discovered heroes
And heroines
Who’s backs and sweat
Hold up the scaffolding
Of the bright shinning
Neon distraction
Media circus
World of celebrity
Politicians
Models
Muscicians
Actors
Football players
All raking the cream
Which belongs to
Firemen
Cops
Nurses
And Doctors
Road sweepers
Trash collectors
Husbands
Fathers
Wives
Mothers
Making their lives ends meet
And staying afloat
Facing each day
Heroines and heroes
Of the common all
And for the common good
Though bemused and belittled
Misinformed
Mislead
And lied to
Still we emerge
As the salt of the Earth
Just ordinary
People
This poem was prompted by the recent death of celebrity Jade Goody, a tragedy indeed. I am
sure she will be sorely missed by her family. As will all the other ordinary people who
passed on recently, be missed by their families.
The rules are posted on a sign –
The city’s made its mark –
Instructing drivers there are times
They’re not allowed to park.
The streets require cleaning
So at certain listed hours
The sweeper truck comes swishing through
And picks up trash and scours.
But certain selfish drivers
See those rules and just ignore ‘em,
Assuming that there’s little chance
A cop’ll come before ‘em.
And so the sweeper sweeps around
The cars that will not budge,
Thus leaving certain city streets
With detritus and sludge.
Of course, those drivers drive away
And leave within their wake
A dirty patch the sweepers missed
For someone’s selfish sake.
In the month of July during whirlpool
A Legacy was born to challenge a fool
Who in sphere of market did money drool.
As all feast and dance and sing in yule
Many people like Vipul, Maulik and Sanket rule
Over minds of customers who remain very cool
In our D-Mart which served as a perfect tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart Whirlpool.
All - cashier, attendants, owners, sweepers - pull
Praise, sympathy, good words and have globule.
There are many wicked, old, shrewd ghoul
Who conspire against you O! D-Mart, My soul!
ACs, clean floor, smiling faces and nature cool ;
Bhaiya, didi, managers, workers, watchmen Spool
Are the real source of income than other tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart whirlpool.
Future is bright of D-Mart with such module,
It also includes good products, service Gruel.
No judge can verdict anything like rice overrule
Or China food item never finds in its pool;
Clean and healthy food items, fine variety gul
And great discount on many items that ridicule
Those who conspire despise it for its fame and tool,
Come and join the ever-winding D-Mart whirlpool.
Too Many Churches Are Becoming Political…
Have you noticed? This may seem to be “heretical.”
As more churches are becoming too “political”
What in the world are churches doing “for heaven’s sake.”
Do many in churches think about what’s at stake?
We’re to be the body of Christ with fellow believers.
Have we become like the “doormat sweepers?”
Rather than making Godly decisions and choices.
Too many in church listen to “outside voices.”
The politics of the day seem to “sweep the moment.”
Godly principles often take a “postponement.”
When churches govern by man’s “set of rules.”
The building has then become “a bunch of fools!”
Christ is coming for a church “washed in the blood of the lamb.”
The importance of Godly living… Many don’t understand!
A message of holiness and repentance need to be heard!
A deep passion and love for Christ is seldom stirred!
As many seek after their own doctrine and denomination...
Much of what’s happening has become an abomination!
It’s time to wake up and be filled with God’s awesome power!
Christ could come now! This could be the hour!
It’s time for Churches to be a Godly influence!
Taking a stand for God’s word and making a difference!
“Unless the lord builds the house… They labor in vain that build it.”
Christ must be the foundation!
His presence must completely fill it!
By Jim Pemberton
The Queen of England exists in a sphere
Of opulence, hygiene, crystals and clear
The Queen of England, between me and you
Is oblivious of the fact, that all is not true
The Queen of England is surrounded by maids
Valets and footmen, horse guard parades
The Queen of England has nothing and much
Closeted, nurse maided and kept out of touch
Once in a while , when she steps out of her bubble
An army of subjects remove, Englands rubble
They brush up and clean all, make everything quaint
Repairmen, road sweepers and the movers of paint
They fill in the pot holes and paint roads with new grey
So the Queen of England can continue her way
The Queen of England thinks it’s always like this
Hygienic and colourful, ecstacy and bliss
When the movers of paint, paint the grass with new green
Moving litter and dog plop so all is so clean
They paint the grass greener than grass could be green
So the Queen of England thinks everything is clean
They paint up the sky with a light shade of blue
Then repaint the clouds whiter, I tell you, it’s true
They paint all the flowers to make everything be quaint
This army of menders and the movers of paint
They repair all the buildings and freshen the park
Thus the Queen of England, she stays in the dark
When The Queen of England has ended her tour
Back safe in her bubble of opulence and more
An army of subjects, they down tools and they stop
Britain returns back to pot holes and dog plop
Litter, drug packets adorn all that was made quaint
By repairmen, road sweepers and the movers of paint.
One day the bubble, like all bubbles, will blow
The Queen, her Majesty, will have nowhere to go
Except out on the streets, where nothing is quaint
No repairmen, no road sweepers and no movers of paint
Offside the tree row
Plank the nuts and autumn leaves
As sweepers keep them.
Down through the greener woods of Uma,
Through the lions’ den to the green mamba’s palace,
Near the dik dik’s habitat,
As the antelope took off to escape the rage,
Of the approaching leopards whose paws protruded,
Upon the trees were vultures the street sweepers,
Freely interweaving chores with weaver bird choirs,
Whose melodious tuning meant zero to the jungle-
Whose circle a train man decided to cremate,
Elephants hitting their tusks clumsily-
To secure escape routes as rhinoceros tails wagged by,
On their bellies, precious pythons unwounded their rings,
To fit in the general jungle athletics
As the dark pan paper like smoke covered
Rapidly converting the small milieu into-
A small tentative night before a see through,
Thorough plights epitomized the sodomic tragedy
And the Gomorra wails.
As he moved down the valley to Naili Center
Nyama choma’s aroma spread in the setting
As occupants of a small matatizo City
Saw through to Lake Matatizo bounds-
Silence in Uma.
My right, my plight, my fight, my sight how I use and choose to burn bundles of my life’s candle
Matters little what fleas and fees tongue waggers tag and drag, what doubt dream dousers doodle
My right, my tight, my blight, my bite, my kite to optimize my rise
Grant me the privilege on my ledge to earn, turn, return and burn my private prize.
My right, my plight, my fight, my sight how I use and choose to burn bundles of my life’s handle
Matters little what fleas and fees tongue waggers tag and gag, what bliss boss bleachers bundle
My right, my tight, my blight, my bite, my kite to optimize my sunrise
Grant me the privilege on my ledge to earn, turn, return and spurn my survival surprise.
My right, my plight, my fight, my sight how I use and choose to burn bundles of my life’s sandal
Matters little what fleas and fees tongue waggers tag and nag, what fact fun filters fumble
My right, my tight, my blight, my bite, my kite to whisk a whim
Grant me the privilege on my ledge to earn, turn, return and burn my serene stream.
My right, my plight, my fight, my sight how I use and choose to burn bundles of my life’s spindle
Matters little what fleas and fees tongue waggers tag and flag, what circumstance sweet sweepers swindle
My right, my tight, my blight, my bite, my kite to stake my cake
Grant me the privilege on my ledge to make, wake, take and bake my heartache.
AN OPEN AUTOGRAPH
(To All My Friends There And Here,
Then And Now)
On the bald branches of the lightning
That avoids the dark earth below;
Around the nipples of the October rain
That pamper the thousand lips of the earth;
I see you all; believe me.
On the receding waves that carry all the conches of the earth away into the bottom of the sea;
In the lidless red eyes of the fishes
That lie on the fishmonger's table;
When you sprout as the fountain-head of the parched river;
Now I see you accompanying the flower to cross today's turbulent river.
When all the unseen children crisscross the busy roads into infinity;
When you play with the orphaned tiger-cub in the wild within;
Believe me; I see you all.
While the female sweepers' fatigued hands scavenger all the condomed words along the streets;
When the lonely walking sticks stoop along my old verandas;
I see you all spinning around the earth.
When you unbutton your mind to the sun;
And your braless thoughts hang at my peeping window;
When a mischievous finger wanders into the most willing navel;
When Rahat Fateh Ali Khan burns my back with a thousand watts of energy;
I see you playing cards with the gods.
When the lunar night decides not to pluck the solar flower;
When the unwanted sheman on the train tells the story of the seedless fruit-bearing tree;
Believe me, I see you all here at my desk;
Yes, when my pen speaks to me the most illegible words,
The indecipherable of all.
(The End)
the window was broken as the smell
of stinking raw fish heads fresh bread
and that mangy old dog barking
always seemed to awaken me I dashed
quickly for the back door to sneak down
into the basement where coal was burning
heating thee entire Irish stoned building
smoke filled the chimney while up the street
a Polish polka song being played in the middle
of the day folk dancers lined the curb as sidewalk
street sweepers interrupted the final song
laughter and hymns opened my mind to Auschwitz
beckoning old memories that settled within
musik boxes old clocks and violins somehow
behind katy gates i'd wondered how old Mr. Olgavich
managed to dance to a simple tune called Americanist
AN OPEN AUTOGRAPH
(To All My Friends There And Here,
Then And Now)
On the bald branches of the lightning
That avoids the dark earth below;
Around the nipples of the October rain
That pamper the thousand lips of the earth;
I see you all; believe me.
On the receding waves that carry all the conches of the earth away into the bottom of the sea;
In the lidless red eyes of the fishes
That lie on the fishmonger's table;
When you sprout as the fountain-head of the parched river;
Now I see you accompanying the flower to cross today's turbulent river.
When all the unseen children crisscross the busy roads into infinity;
When you play with the orphaned tiger-cub in the wild within;
Believe me; I see you all.
While the female sweepers' fatigued hands scavenger all the condomed words along the streets;
When the lonely walking sticks stoop along my old verandas;
I see you all spinning around the earth.
When you unbutton your mind to the sun;
And your braless thoughts hang at my peeping window;
When a mischievous finger wanders into the most willing navel;
When Rahat Fateh Ali Khan burns my back with a thousand watts of energy;
I see you playing cards with the gods.
When the lunar night decides not to pluck the solar flower;
When the unwanted sheman on the train tells the story of the seedless fruit-bearing tree;
Believe me, I see you all here at my desk;
Yes, when my pen speaks to me the most illegible words,
The indecipherable of all.
(The End)