We've woven Samson's hair, into Emperor's clothes
From the tangled web, that enough of us chose
We try to find our way back, while the drawbridge is closed
As the portcullis crashes on the cry in our throat
If we could but match it, with sincerity's tear
We might fashion a shield, and a mantle to wear
But if we cling to the cloak of the silk that's been woven
By the dance of the golden hooves of the cloven
We'll be trampled under, that stampede of lies
In the gathering storm, as it darkens the skies
It won't echo and thunder, as our epitaph
But a death knell our legend, as history laughs
At the folly of thinking, "We're better than that."
Swept into the dustpan, or under the mat
Placed at the bottom, of a yellowing page
In some forgotten tome... of enlightenment's age
The sun rose on what later became known as his darkest night. The effort was thoughtless and unmotivated. The broom bristles flexed and backlashed the many aged crumbs toward the center of the kitchen into a pile several crumbs deep at its highest point. A cabinet door hinge squeaked resistively revealing the inner contents. Glowing as if backlit by the softest most romantic light was an heirloom of unrivaled utility—the grand patriarch’s dustpan. Unspoken triumphs of unsung heroes could be read in the patina of dust and sweat and grime and the love of generations. Today he joined the lineage, performing an action conducted for its own sake.
There goes the tips of those trees again.
Lapping up wood chips.
Like a dustpan.
I had a pulse.
Somewhere in the bushes.
Strangling.
There goes the steam on that train.
Blushing with dark smoke.
I have enough coffee to make the world derail.
Enough about me and nothingness.
There is a pulse like me out there.
Eats things like veins.
Hurting like teeth chomping cold air.
Or other odd things.
There goes that tree again.
He brushes off dust and leaves fall down too.
He acts casual about it.
As if leaves are a pulse that grows back.
Dusting the floor,
my broom wrestles
with the cobwebs lingering
from yesterday's sales,
all around the ceramics
the threads poke
in all directions,
I kick the dustpan
and the dirt crystalizes
in midair,
for a moment, it was beautiful.
Sirius, bright as always but
Canopus, closely behind.
The vacant moment
stabilizes,
attuning gravity
for the slightest
second.
The image painted its portrait
onto the walls just as
Starry Night captured Van Gogh.
Unlike brilliant masterminds,
the stars fall as gravity remembers
its role.
The glittering dots flake
over my feet blending
back into the ground,
the straws weak grip lifts
the dirt kicking it back
outside, yet again it forms
high up in the skies blending
with nature as it hides,
slowly it vanishes
as its memory remains
within the dirt, stars form.
The covers were over my head.
It was time for bed.
But still, my fingers twitch a bit.
My computer is brightly lit.
In the corner of my room.
Next to the dustpan and broom.
I was almost ready to sleep.
My computer does a gentle beep.
“When will you write again?
When will you share from within?”
I start to dream a little bit.
But my mind is throwing a fit.
Ideas and plans in the making.
The room starts shaking.
Ok, I suppose I’ll write a poem.
I turn on a song and start to hum.
Then falling asleep too quickly.
Waking up feeling sickly.
Assuming that nothing was completed.
Despite the sleep, feeling depleted.
But I must have written in my sleep.
I see my story and start to weep.
It had been a few months since she passed away.
In fact, three months to this day.
It was the first long sleep in a while.
And finally, a poem came out of my file.
After three months.
I said goodbye more than once.
My computer gathered dust.
While I lost my sense of trust.
I thought it was just a dream…
But it was more it seems…
poverty a blight
a dustpan for the fight
keep our cities clean
armed with will and might
the Israelis got it right
strategy obscene
burn them in their tents
bid vermin good riddance
best not to be seen
puppy fights the broom when I get it out
I try to scoot him but he weighs sixty-five pounds
He does not budge
sits down on the pile I was trying to get up
chews on my plastic dustpan
rolls onto his back, smashing the mess into the rug
prevents me from cleaning up his messes every day
a dance I do not attempt often
for I always lose
Puppy won.
Me zero
Marta’s other pets were jealous and sore
They had been replaced by one she did adore
A stupid pig! Groused the myna bird.
The dragon was angry, but said not a word.
yellow cat waited for her chance to annoy the pig, named Pooh.
She tore up the kitchen and tried to blame him too.
Marta saw through it and gave the cat a dustpan and broom.
You will clean this up and also the dining and living room.
Now the cat was irritated, and tried to complain to the dragon.
He knew better than to get involved, he rode away in a wagon.
His last owner had also fallen in love with a large pink pig.
He decided to live with a new family, Mr. and Mrs. Dig.
Marta’s other pets were jealous and sore
They had been replaced by one she did adore
A stupid pig! Groused the myna bird.
The dragon was angry, but said not a word.
yellow cat waited for her chance to annoy the pig, named Pooh.
She tore up the kitchen and tried to blame him too.
Marta saw through it and gave the cat a dustpan and broom.
You will clean this up and also the dining and living room.
Now the cat was irritated, and tried to complain to the dragon.
He knew better than to get involved, he rode away in a wagon.
His last owner had also fallen in love with a large pink pig.
He decided to live with a new family, Mr. and Mrs. Dig.
Glass
Slivers
Broken chards
In the kitchen
We are all barefoot
Daddy’s eyes are not sharp
Baby wants to help of course
Big sister takes baby upstairs
Mama heads for the broom and dustpan
The buffet was spread liberally,
All across the floor,
As usual my dogs only want more!
Spoiled animals that they are,
They are dearly loved,
But not too far!
Normally a feast would be,
Turkey, Chicken, canned food,
Or all three!
But as luck would have it,
The food did not end up in a bowl.
But in a heap taller than a tree!
Lift a bag of dog food,
The bottom gave out,
The pups have been cavorting about!
While I with broom and dustpan,
Scoop up the mess,
Bring the buffet to an end!
Cinderella thought she had found her Prince Charming,
but arriving at the palace was a bit alarming.
Cinderella found it rather absurd,
how each room had women from all over the world.
Then he gave her a dustpan and sweeping brush,
told her:
"Clean the kitchen and then make sure the toilets flush."
Now Cinders, had just escaped her ugly sisters,
she was a bit fed up of cleaning with blisters.
What ever happened to their 'happily ever after?'
Her dreams of love had turned into a total disaster.
Now there's only so far you can push someone,
all a girl wants is to be free and to have some fun.
There was no way she was going to live in another hell,
gathered all the other women and pleaded:
"Lets rebel."
They all got together with their sticks and brooms,
told Prince Charming he can clean his own rooms!
He spent all day scrubbing the toilets clean -
whilst Cinderella sat on the throne as queen.
Mixed marriages never work his mother said
But she was a stool, and his father was a bed
Yours worked he told her, and for a long time
He was a dustpan who had fallen in love with a dime
Dimes are plentiful scattered here and there
His mother said “to marry one I would not dare”.
Dustpan reminded his mother it was his life.
Then he made the shiny dime his brand new wife.
Vroom vroom! The car stops to a halt.
Ooh! Dad’s home carrying him varieties of groceries.
Broom Broom! I sweep my room,
Collecting trash using a dustpan. Alas! The place is clean.
Vroom! The driver sped,
Crash! The boy was run over. Blood gutted out of his throat as he bled to death, helpless, while the heartless hooligan sped off to a neck breaking speed. All that remains is the indelible mark, now a blackspot as well as a death spot.
Vroom vroom! The mechanic tries the engine,
So old it is after it is drained its oil, after the previous race.
Tick tok as the team tries to reinstate it back to its performance so as to win the piston cup that he so craves it like the next breath.
Vroom vroom! The motorcycle halts.
The cyclist drops off a passenger at the crucial destination.
The latter, who is also a taxpayer, makes her way into the compound regarded a religious ground.
After six days of toiling the Sabbath is sure the best day for her to give thanks to god after a tough week.
Hands on hips,
sweat on her forehead,
tongue in knots
heart in her throat
she asks—
Are there paper towels?
My kid threw up in the wine aisle.
Sweat on his forehead,
knees on the tile,
a seventeen-year-old employee
scoops bile into a dustpan
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