Best Tins Poems
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
Twice a month on our tiny little Isle
A group of heroes go that extra mile
Wearing protective clothing they clean the beach
Removing vast amounts of rubbish within their reach
Plastic bottles, fast food containers and tins
Items tossed away so thoughtlessly – it’s a sin
So many marine animals can get tangled in discarded plastic
They need our protection, or the results could be very drastic
Hundreds of bin bags of rubbish are removed from our beach
Restoring them to beauty, now they are as pretty as a peach
Volunteers work tirelessly with amazing solidarity
To help ‘Beach Buddies’ which is a registered charity
Contest: Stuff Thomas Martin
10th June 2015
An email just received is a sham,
stating swine flu comes from tins of ham,
but don’t get a fright,
for this is not right,
when the email claims ham, well it’s spam.
Dad had threatened for some time, to reclaim the land behind the shed,
where rubbish over many years, had stockpiled but now instead
of being easy to be shifted, blackberries, docks and thistles grow,
entwining history of ours… and you know we didn’t know.
Mum cracked the whip one Sunday, handing out the different tools
for us to shovel, fork, pick and slash; of course she made the rules.
We weren’t to stop until the rubbish, had been cleared and left to show
a barren space to be landscaped… and you know we didn’t know.
Johnny parked the truck close to where we’d easily load the tray.
First we had to slash blackberries, to open up a pathway.
Old fencing wire and bent droppers, we pulled and tugged. The work was slow.
Plus bits of motors, old oil filters… and still we didn’t know.
The ‘Old Man’ knocked a stump out I can’t remember being a tree,
it disintegrated into pieces; white ant workings I could see.
Plastic pots and old fuel drums, onto the tray we heave and throw.
Just on half the plots been cleaned up now… and still we didn’t know.
A concrete trough and a mattress spring, mesh from an old birdcage.
A kitchen sink broken in two and a pushbike at some stage.
Sardine tins, a barrow bowl, and a seized up mower that won’t mow,
now there’s just one corner left to clean… and still we didn’t know.
A stack of roofing iron near the fence; the last that had to go.
One by one we dragged the rusting sheets… and still we didn’t know.
Dad picked up the final sheet, and then he quickly threw it down again.
His face was white and ‘cripes’ he shook… we ‘bloody-well’ knew then.
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
The old cookie lady lived in an old house, on an old street in a very old part of the city.
She wasn’t tall, she wasn’t thin but she was very pretty.
She had silver hair in a silver bun held with a silver clip.
Every day at 2 PM she would bake her cookies and put them in silver tins-On Monday chocolate chip.
On Tuesday oatmeal raisin, On Wednesday sugar cookies with jimmies blue and red,
On Thursday snickerdoodles and on Friday gingerbread.
Why did she bake them at 2 PM? Well, they had to be done by 3.
That was when the kids from the school walked by and she offered her cookies most cheerfully.
Years went by, but one day on the porch there was just an empty silver tin.
The youngest boy on the block shook it to be sure there nothing was in.
The oldest girl on the block,
Walked up the front steps to the door and gave it a knock.
The old cookie lady answered. She still wasn’t tall, but now she was thin
and she apologized and said that could be no more cookies in silver tins.
The oldest girl on the block had an idea-one that was great.
She told all the kids to come to her house at 8.
They made cookies galore.
Peanut butter, macaroons, sweet meringues and more.
They took the cookies to the old lady’s house after school
But when they knocked on the door the old lady’s daughter answered it-uncool.
They thought the old lady was dead.
But the daughter said no, the old lady would come and live with her instead.
They, the old lady and her daughter, said goodbye and drove off north.
The younger kids cried as they sat on they sat on the porch.
They ate the cookies they had made and felt a little better somehow.
The oldest one said, “maybe she left because she knows we can make our own cookies now”.
Halloween: Safety First Then Fun!!!
By the Poets Listed After the Poem
Happy day getting candy treats while dressed like spooks and goblins.
Angels, genies, princesses, too, put “loot” in their bags and tins.
Look both ways when you cross the street. Always stay close to your friends.
Lighted homes. Festive decorations. Porches. Pumpkins. Invite!
Oh, be leery of the dark, where ghosts and spooks stay out of site.
Wear bright costumes that reflect at night! Not lose or tight. Just right!
Every child must be aware that some goblins inhabit homes.
Each year we hear of razor blades placed in a child’s candied cones.
Never!!! Ever!!! Eat your treats 'til Mom says, “OK, little gnomes.”
Stay safe! Look around! While you walk, beware of witches and bats.
Always, ghosts and goblins watch. Looking out for sweet treats you drop.
Fear? If they happen to appear parents, quickly call the cops!
Enjoy laughter, hot chocolate, and other treats with your friends.
Take care not to play tricks that could hurt others or cause offense.
Youngsters, polite and respectful, great delight they do dispense.
Fun you will have! Enjoyment too. Be sure that you are careful!
In all situations, “Trick-or-Treaters” beware! Need HELP? Shout!!!
Remember say, “Thank you” for treats when you’re out and about.
Stay clear of Spooky Soupers as they write with their crazy pens.
To write in verse, some witches curse. And drive sanity ‘round bends.
The madness, “Dearie,” is very clear; they strive to make amends.
Hooting owls and wild black cats wildly eat from your mum's pumpkin
Eerily, creaky zombies leave their tombs and walk down your streets.
Night, bubbling soups, you must beware, might be made of your own feet--
Frantic frenzies and fabulous fun begins just before dark.
Under that moonlit chilling night, “Trick- or-Treaters,” find their mark.
Nearby neighbors anticipate. Waiting with treats is a lark!
Contributing Poets in Alphabetical Order: Charmaine Chircop, Carolyn Devonshire , James
Frazer, Rhoda Galgiani, Sean Kelly, Karen O'Leary, Patricia Prescott, Dane SmithJohnsen
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra crossings,
slick on high street tarmac,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp beneath primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, tarmac—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh coats.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than roadway—
onto takeaway windowpanes, pavements, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
disciples of feeling,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
dressing decline as though it were destiny.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Edges bleed in private,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colours torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in tarmac,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
Mottled bodies inside and out
Needled veins black and about
Eyes dark through unsleepened nights
Lying in door ways that's about right.
Bottles and tins surround my life
Once i was married, no longer have wife
Kids disown me as i lie there spent
Confused they are where the family has went.
The above is not me, if you don't mind me saying
Its a vision of life, for the ones who start playing
Who take that fork they meet on the road
Again the doorways no family abode.
Many a home in this modern world
Hit by life's Tornado's in never ending twirls
Some see the light at the end of the tunnel
Some down the drain, in a spiralling funnel.
Society seems to breed the above
Are they really the clever, who absorb that first shove
To be an Addict as you walk down that road
Be ever so brave, ignore that goad.
Live strong, live free
An Addicts life is what you don't want to be
Sometimes, don't think of you, think of others
Or they remember you under an earthly cover.
Tongues loose, tongues in a hangman’s noose
Wag without care to declare nonsense
As wisdom salvaged from the sluice
Where nonsense whacked common sense
Lost in a sea of error whose terror
Harmed victims concealed by protagonists who opted to promote
The cult of nonsense whose defence mirror
Plunged into reverse gears that chose to demote
Common sense when tongue waggers
Congregated in an occult cabal to upgrade gossiping skills
As though grapevine daggers
Staggered upper echelons of wisdom whose quills
Spilled reason in dark corners where tongue waggers shared nonsense seeds
Plus fertilizers of idleness and the icing on cakes of lies
Whose taste on tongues that wagged feeds
Total belief in naked gossip sties
Tied malfeasants together tighter
The better for them to wage war on common sense and desecrate workplace etiquette
Which is anathema to tenets of ultimate gossipers rate lighter
Than curses the wisdom ticket
That caught gossipers red handed munching grapevine beans
While sharing tins and pins of sins
For which gossipers scrambled when grapevine means
Came under close scrutiny when truth queens
Declared grapevines illegal in Wisdom Land
Where any culprit convicted of spreading gossip propaganda
Would be stripped of the royal brand
And punished for the gossip blunder
Committed without shame
To discredit the truth and integrity
In solemn worship of the blame name and claim
Would be sent to Coventry for eternity.
copper tins on shelf
gleaming panner’s gold
— priceless faux lighting
4/2/2018
The swell and surge of surf
whispers tinnitus conched
on titanium sunken tankers
that rock restlessly on far reef,
as children play unheeded
building imagined bastions,
nursery rhymes drown
turning back cnut tides.
Inevitably,
sand shifts in an hourglass
that plumb the memory's depth
with rosy pictures in ruby flourescence
like monochrome holiday snaps
stored in old bashed biscuit tins
that mother would open on grey
overcast November soaked Sundays.
All oceans are drowned
by the sea's past dregs,as cerulean and cobalt waves
steer towards safe harbors,
tantalized by tinto tinted sunrises
like a rocking pendulum
that plays a metronome symphony,
playing lullabies, rhythms sound
when der holle rache sings
and the nocturnal queen echoes as the dawn breaks.
Translucently, ephemeral light
glistens on children's limbs,water singing as they play,
momentarily soaked in perfection
as delicate beams dance over their fragile bones.
Now amber-crafted moments, Capri's crimson breasts
waves, nestles close to succour infant swells.
Yet magenta lips pout in rock pools,
the breaking and wombing
of waters now birth new journeys
that drive towards a vortex rush.
Defiant boats chase, turning tides in lucent rays,
navigate between lava laced volcanic outcrops
into distant remembered horizons.
I do so love harvest thanksgiving,
That time of year which celebrates agriculture,
When church flips from being god-centred,
To remembering farmers and good food manufacture.
It’s not an Armenian or Amish allusion,
‘Cos tins are given no problem;
Natural remedies aren’t primed as better,
Than medicines, to the mind and body superior.
As a child who regretfully attended church,
I thought on that day of poverty and Christian giving:
That their offer was kind of a respectable food bank,
A silent redistribution of wealth, income and living.
No food bank is respectable, of course,
But they can channel wealth efficiently and appropriately;
And that the Church offers such for just one day,
Should be celebrated as a positive sign most definitely.
God is sometimes just such an abstraction,
Academically, he’s for the objective mind;
He’s not comforting when your needs are just so real:
Physical, emotional, psychological: he can be so unkind.
When you just need a meal on the table,
And need it supplied by someone else,
Whether by government, food bank or church,
It’s a person that's there, not divine impulse.
I thought it was moral to impose that on believers,
As a kid who just so wanted to talk and shoot,
About real mechanisms, real structures and methods,
Which made life’s systems, dynamics, art and roots.
Being grateful for food, diet and health,
Eclipses salvation humility and responce;
Eternal purpose lays as distant and non-tangible,
To people and belongings which have an unimpeachable force.
Farmers need to be remembered, given relevance,
For their labour, dedication and sheer love of the job;
It’s that occupation and training which ensures,
Our basic daily needs are met not just with contours.
The harvest basket every year means to me hope,
Nourishment for those who starve and scrape;
Church wealth rides so high and mighty on average,
That this real examination is something to advocate.
A FULANI GIRL’S COMPLAINT
I carried water. I did all the house cores. I drove and bred the cattle one and alone, singing songs, running and climbing mountains. I milked, sold milk and bought you silk. I ground the corn and cooked your meals. I woke up on the peak of the seasons and carried duties; I did all these to be given to a wild hard-looking stranger like a cowry!
I spent my whole youth among trees and beasts in eloquent silence away from siblings, aloof! I learned and loved God through things that spoke to me, indented, with neither paper nor pen. I wore a strange hat and a stiff piece of cloth that fell on my knees revealing my bony legs; I had strings knotted around my waists and wrists and neck to be betrothed to a wild hard-looking stranger who swept me as if I were a cow for sale, reaped my inward garment and damned my virtue! His words are swords; his horn is a worm that eats in me, wholly!
Oh, Aunt! You fastened my tongue and sold me like Dauda’s slave who would quit me by day leaving me starved, empty bottles and pockets in Gbaya’s tins. Aunt, don’t care the whips, the solitude, the empty stomach, the hands that hurt like electrical cords, but, my aunt, his words are worse than swords and I miss my olden days, the twilight, the humanly beasts I forsook for the beastly human, mother’s looks that hook the heart, oh, I miss my old self!
Galim (Tignère), April 22, 2012
Jaafar Sadig El Waad
My pulse quickened
As tears streamed down my face
I felt my soul race
Notes rising from discarded bits
Yanked out of plastic bags
from decaying pits
Skin sun baked and bleeding splits
Garbage, hand formed into instruments
So that these deaf ears might trace
The spectacle of true dignity
that poverty can't erase
Theirs is a world far removed
from manicured lawns and lace
Strings and frets
Oil cans and pipes
Found amongst the baby wipes
by people painted in scarlet stripes
By society treated like a disease
Some how finding music
from coins cans and keys
Music resonates
From a place with few trees
Pouring forth from polluted streams
People like these
sort out opportunities
that no one else
would ever think to seize
There, a young girl
takes a tin violin in hand
She's transported to a magical land
White beaches and sand
Now symphonic dreams
are hers to command
Each chord played
feels like possibility
A fret held bridge
to a different reality
She kisses a star
Transcends their invisibility
Fruit tins and bent cookie sheets
An X-ray film to create a drum beat
People from around the world
Rise to their feet
Still the ones at home
Don't have enough to eat
Let us practice compassion
Repeat, repeat!
Rise from our seat
Think beyond privilege
In our land of the elite
The ones called "Garbage Pickers"
the low of the low
Moving in harmony quick and slow
What we hear and see
Will it cause our hearts grow?
Do we feel life's rhythm and flow?
For, from what others have discarded
they have something to show
Winds of change are coming
Waters rising
Watch listen and see
where the notes of change blow!
Dedicated to the people of Paraguay who work in the Garbage Dump of Cateura.
Check out the documentary "Landfill Harmonic".
Not entered in any contest.
Written March 9th 2016