Best Tills Poems
Money money, ringing in your tills,
Calling us to worship,
The hundred dollar bills.
Bend our knees in wonder,
Bow our heads in awe,
At the power of the liar,
Who now controls us all.
From the darkest deep caverns,
To the stars in the sky,
From the infinite universe,
To the strangers passing by.
From your inner most conviction,
To your laughing in the night,
From everything you 're seeing,
To everything out of sight.
The new God has risen,
To claim the holy throne,
The one that we have emptied,
Our hearts all cold as stone.
The throne that we have emptied,
We killed the rightful king,
Sold his crown an sceptre,
Pawned his sacred ring.
Raised his bleeding body,
Up on that bloody hill,
The silent lamb still bleeding,
As the money fills your tills.
He tills within the buzzard's flight
this cruel land he calls his home,
ewe and wether, milk and bucket,
broken spirit, ne'er to roam.
He's stuck for good, the laws of nature
guide him, be they right or wrong,
gone his hopes and his compassion,
save for the curlew's mournful song.
Courted by the country lasses,
love can't penetrate this soul,
pain and grief his only help meets,
daily toil his only goal.
Mother, father, gone to dust now,
confidants who'd calm his fears,
struggling with a heavy heart,
internalizing all his tears.
It's back to digging, discompacting
stones and boulders from the earth,
working 'til there's no more sun
in Wales, the cradle of his birth.
Striving against the elements
he stretches every nerve and bone,
every muscle, every sinew,
'til exhaustion brings him home.
Ne'er a smile adorns his visage,
there simply is no time for this,
haggard, careworn, slave to nature,
racked by weather's wantonness.
Two weeks gone, and there they find him,
chided by the wind and rain,
cadavered and condemned to fester,
never to be sad again.
*******
...dedicated to the Welsh poet R.S. Thomas
and his book, 'Song At The Year's Turning.'
He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.”
Matthew 13:31?-?32 NIV
From the beginning this small mustard seed
Looks foolish to all other seeds
They are puffed up in own soil
For they seek to grow on their own
Not planning on water to flourish
In the need to start a sprout
Just to be left dead from drought
Some that get a splash of water
Will start to sprout but then
The rocks block out the light
But this small mustard seed the farmer
Tills up this land to start afresh
Places in the best soil
That is fed by a living fountain
The seed sprouts up seeking
The leaves are being pulled towards the light
Receiving strength within to grow upwards
The farmer watches and knows it's need
To remove any weeds which try and hinder
All the hard work the farmer has done
That this seed might reach its height
To grow above all the plants
Into a living tree which has overcome
All the obstacles which seek to destroy.
This within strength is here to stay
To allow this farmer which tilled the soil
To receive all glory from His hard work
For without Him it would have died
This seed is the spirit and word of God
That we might see we are dead
Without His spirit to resurrect life unto one
It starts off small for one to take notice of change
But one must stick with the spirit
Which placed this life within
God knows our hearts and minds
more will be revealed the more one seeks
The more one dies to this world
The more one will grow above the weeds
But someone will ask, “How are the dead raised? With what kind of body will they come?” How foolish! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. When you sow, you do not plant the body that will be, but just a seed, perhaps of wheat or of something else. But God gives it a body as he has determined, and to each kind of seed he gives its own body.
1 Corinthians 15:35?-?38 NIV
The Blackness And The Hard Labor Of The Housemaid
Store up the spasms of the low rims of busy suns
trudging work tills the upheaval of ragged soil
and what of shadow hours, sweat and hard toil
does indifferent soil its gasping unholy vomit spill
she folds the clothes and then she falls asleep.
Trudge the hours and crack the unwilling stones
as her shadow walks into bars of uneven ethereal mists
the dark red rouge smears in round about shy patterns
she wonders, where does brown dung of yesterday hide
She slaves as a worker, her tired muscles cramp
her mind drifts and then it accuses her of nothingness
today is for work, tomorrow the mice may play
her work is as ancient days a drifting into noon
she is bent as a scornful indifferent boothill
as she finally stops, yes stops, to dare to go to sleep.
Robert J. Lindley, Verse
June 2nd 1972
Note: My new girlfriend's mother is a housemaid. Works 6 days week about 12 hour a day/
Lord, we are so grateful fer the gracious bounty of Yer Creation!
But there are some things You created that cause us some vexation.
We appreciate that You've given us ice cream, bagels 'n' strawberry shakes,
But was it vital that You created mo'skeeters, spiders 'n' snakes?
Thank You fer the sun, the stars 'n' fer the moon glow in the sky,
The butterflies, hummin' birds, finches 'n' eagles soarin' high.
We savor Yer celery, okra, spinach, brussel sprouts 'n' Bermooda onions,
But Lord, was it really necessary to plague us with fleas 'n' scorpions?
We want You to know how much we cherish the beauty of Yer lakes 'n' rills,
Majestic mountains, waterfalls, forests 'n' the verdant land the farmer tills.
Thank you fer the lowly chicken that provides eggs, thighs 'n' gizzards,
But Lord, of what redeeming value are gila monsters 'n' Komodo lizards?
How we enjoy the apples peaches, cherries 'n' oranges from Yer trees,
Salami, pizza, ravioli, rocky mountain oysters 'n' delicious cottage cheese.
We thank You fer the companionship of our puppies 'n' inscrutable cats,
But Lord, we could do without the porkypines 'n' pesky mice and rats!
Thank you fer Yer fauna, the lions, hyenas, rhinos, hippos 'n' little fawns,
Fer Yer life sustainin' rain 'n' the pearly dew that graces roses at dawns.
We're grateful fer hogs that give us hams 'n' fer cattle that give us steaks,
But Lord, is there any reason fer creatin' mo'skeeters, spiders 'n' snakes?
As the morning carries different bird song
My body stirs from its cozy slumber, begone
Aloft to the mountains volcanized hard crest
Dark clouds beat upon its jagged green breast
Then raindrops fall down in a long mighty yawn
The sun fights back to bring on the silvery dawn
So full are the colors of rainbow phenomenon
I wake to nature’s bounty completely impressed
Like sitting at the table as a humble breakfast guest
To see her splendor spun in swirls of bright chiffon
Green is the valley that man tills with his brawn
Growing rich gifts of the land it does spawn
As dawn wanes to noon for earths timely request
I let go of the morning feeling happily blessed
My head filled with pictures nature has drawn
written 9-22-2019
copy right protected 2019 Jeanne McGee
San Pedro, Guatemala
farmer tills field
blackbirds prepare
for the feast
Gitanjali 11
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Leave this vain chanting and singing and counting of beads:
what Entity do you seek in this lonely dark temple corner with all the doors shut?
Open your eyes and see God is not here!
He is there where the tiller tills the hard ground and the paver breaks stones.
He is with them in sun and shower; his garments are filthy with dust.
Shed your immaculate mantle and like him embrace the dust!
Deliverance? Where is this "deliverance" to be found?
Our master himself has joyfully embraced the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all forever!
Cease your meditations, abandon your petals and incense!
What harm is there if your clothes become stained rags?
Meet him in the toil and the sweat of his brow!
These are modern English translations of poems by the great Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), who has been called the "Bard of Bengal" and "the Bengali Shelley." In 1913 Tagore became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Tagore was also a notable artist, musician and polymath.
Gitanjali 35
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been divided by narrow domestic walls;
Where words emerge from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not been lost amid the dreary desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Keywords/Tags: Translation, Tagore, Bengali, God, Religion, Prayer, Chanting, Singing, Counting, Beads, Dark, Temple, Doors, Shut, Tiller, Ground, Paver, Stones, Sun, Shower, Garments, Clothes, Mantle, Dust, Deliverance, Master, Creation, Unity, Meditation, Petals, Flowers, Incense, Rags, Toil, Sweat, Brow, Work, Labor, Hindi, vain, worship, entity, God, temple, chanting, singing, counting, beads, petals, incense, meditations, tiller, paver, dust, rags, sweat, toil, mrburdu, Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, India, Indian, poet, Bengali, sea, seashore, children, mother, dog, love, lover, patience, curtain, death
The city rattling,
Feet trampling,
Faces focusing,
Engines purring,
Drivers sighing,
Music drifting,
Ads whoring,
Johns buying,
Click Clack,
Shoppers yapping,
Money swearing,
Tills ringing,
Workers wishing,
Cameras spinning,
Wealthy plotting,
And me weeping for eternity.
Simon was a happy elf
Who always wore a smile
One of Santa's best elves
Willing to go the extra mile.
With trousers of green, tunic red
And a bright yellow bobble hat
Simon whistled a happy tune
While at his workbench he sat.
Answering letters to Santa
From all the girls and boys
Stamping Made in Lapland
On all the childrens toys.
For three months Simon toiled
Hardly time for a rest
But satisfied in the knowledge
That he had given his best.
But Simon's work was seasonal
And soon it came to an end.
So upon the shores of England
Simon did decend.
At the local job centre
He was told he had to work
He could not draw benefits
If he intended to shirk.
So he was sent to Poundland
And stacking shelves he had to do
Not really an ideal job
For an elf of five foot two.
Simon became sadder and sadder
And considered taking pills
Until he saw Santa arrive
To start work on the tills.
Simon was happy again
Looking forward to the day
When he would return to lapland
On Santa's reindeer pulled sleigh.
A child in the shopping Mall, wearing Superman kit,
leaps up with one arm in the air and tries to fly a bit.
With dreams of being bulletproof and lifting heavy things,
and all the other powers being a superhero brings.
Such innocent exuberance he'll find, as time goes on
will be replaced with other things that he will wish upon.
As years go by, no wish to fly, such talents would not be missed
so here I state the humble gifts I'd have on such a list.
To put my socks on, standing up, not falling on the bed,
remember that the doorway's low when in my garden shed.
To bend and pick things off the floor without giving off a groan
put up and close the ironing board, and do it all alone
read what's in a tin of soup without using a microscope
when shopping, use self-service tills and not look such a dope.
Mix a pack of custard that don't look like tiling grout
and thread a needle first time without my tongue hanging out.
All necessary talents as quickly the time flies
and- hang on...I've mislaid my keys-
can I have x-ray eyes?
Supermarket Sweep
I arrive in the car park it’s full of cars
Battered and bruised and covered in scars
I drive up and down seeking a place
To leave my old banger while I enter the race!
I approach the doors - a trolley I need
Don’t forget parsley and sesame seed
Down the first aisle fresh lettuce I see,
Feeling for firmness, that’ll do me.
I turn the first corner, the trolley won’t come
A push in the back and a bruise on the bum!
Now this trolley’s fighting, it’s lost a wheel
Screeching and scraping an occasional squeal.
Pasta and pizza must not forget
And top up on brown sauce, I need some I bet.
As the trolley gets full, the fight just gets harder
But it will be worth it to top up the larder!
I pass the meat counter, a chicken I see
But I need one larger - that won’t even do me
Don’t forget stuffing it won’t be the same
And I really don’t like a brand with no name!
It’s nearly over, just beer and white wine
The latter for Mrs., the former is mine.
Now at the tills, the queue is quite short
Unload it again to pay for what’s bought
“Need help with packing?” I hear her say,
Not with the packing - I need help to pay!
He tills within the buzzard's flight
this cruel land he calls his home,
ewe and wether, milk and bucket,
broken spirit, ne'er to roam.
He's stuck for good, the laws of nature
guide him, be they right or wrong,
gone his hopes and his compassion,
save for the curlew's mournful song.
Courted by the country lasses,
love can't penetrate this soul,
pain and grief his only help meets,
daily toil his only goal.
Mother, father, gone to dust now,
confidants who'd calm his fears,
struggling with a heavy heart,
internalizing all his tears.
It's back to digging, discompacting
stones and boulders from the earth,
working 'til there's no more sun
in Wales, the cradle of his birth.
Striving against the elements
he stretches every nerve and bone,
every muscle, every sinew,
'til exhaustion brings him home.
Ne'er a smile adorns his visage,
there simply is no time for this,
haggard, careworn, slave to nature,
racked by weather's wantonness.
Two weeks gone, and there they find him,
chided by the wind and rain,
cadavered and condemned to fester,
never to be sad again.
*******
...dedicated to the Welsh poet R.S. Thomas
and his book, 'Song At The Year's Turning.'
Tonight I farm,
Four seasons to nurture in one.
Animals are asleep, equipment in the shed,
All gates are locked and done.
The land needs stripping of weeds,
All slopes and valleys are clear.
Trees from the highest hill
From the ground they grow and appear.
A scent, a good year, the glen is rich.
I perspire, am hot and dry
Leaning forward I sip from the oasis before me
The world moves it seems and I sigh.
My body tills, ploughs, rips and scours
And there’s hours of moans, oh the noise.
Finally millions of seeds are sown in rows
Now to rest, this warn out boy.
He lives there, where people love
Land as mother, worship agriculture
People of his nation, after independence
brought green, white, yellow, blue revolutions
to meet with the crisis of food
to wipe out hunger
to up root poverty.
He tills his mother earth
carries plough on his shoulder
sheds his sweats
turns himself into soil.
After a year of severe flood,
several children of his homeland
are at risk of death
due to lack of proper nutrition.
He returns from his polluted land
carrying a basket on his shoulder
full of golden harvest.
Flood stricken cornfields
Harvests destroyed, paddy fields washed
yet he carries food grains on his shoulder
The cattle Kraals are empty
The goats gaunt
No protein food for children
but he is carrying a basket
full of golden harvest.
In his motherland
where people worship food as god
Through away it and feel proud for it
where some people also search dustbins
madly hoping a handful of stale rice
to do away with their hunger.
The experts do research on cropping
Those with power keep their power.
Only he, the nominal farmer
trusts himself with earth’s treasure
is carrying a basket full of golden harvest
on his shoulder.
The sun does not dissuade him,
nor the water logging
that blows against him
as he ploughs barren land,
grows golden harvests
on the other hand,
drowns into the deep sea of loans
beaten by poverty.
He feeds the nation,
cannot feed his family.
He trusts his hand for his countrymen
what they used now,
but cannot do his family and himself.
Between life and death,
he is carrying a basket on his one shoulder
full of golden harvest
carries fear of suicide on his other shoulder.