Long Diggers Poems
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I'm confused, mentally I'm at a crossroad
due to years of trial & error with failed
love attempts, a small ratio of my mind doesn't
know if she's an angel in disguise
disguise or heaven sent so as I...play the field
do I stick to the playbook, or run a series
of no huddles. I've cut off all contact with
the outside world in this tunnel I'm in,
ain't nothin like starting over again
but me, like so many others don't know
if love, true love is something I should
continue to fight for. The reality is I've
heard it all before, most women I come
in contact with knock on the front
but once they see the real me exit
out the back door. I guess they must be used
to the sugar coated rug of street dreams
and I display that honest hardwood floor
so as I...play the field like an employer
this is an interview process I got a lot of
applicants, yeah alot of em wanna see
what's happening but unfortunately for them
only one woman can fill that void.
My persona is so attractive to the
opposite sex, I display impeccable poise
and I have no interest in a woman who
in the essence is nothin but alloy.
Life is about decisions nevermind the opinions
and on the road to riches I'm wealthy
beyond measure so I encounter alot
gold diggers so I question this time around
with the next one I date, is this where
I call off the search party, minus the
up's and downs isn't she worth the wait
if she'll bring me joy, so why hesitate,
let us escape to that island of tranquility
that no one thought was reachable
so I beseech you with one final request,
seek perfection with me...no one's perfect
but I'll try if you will so let us both just say yes
Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
their ghostly neighing
adds pathos to this momentous moment.
It was decided, we boys, and one sister
of a boy we hardly knew,
that Custer must die, the Indians win,
there could be no sudden victories
plucked from certain disaster.
We have no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We have no Custer,
three fair haired kids, no long flowing hair
no mustaches. Undaunted
we march on to meet an anonymous death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.
At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
tearing up the hallowed ground.
Jim (my best pal), loudly proclaimed: " it,"
to no one in particular, then sloped away,
hands in pockets.
We had heard of this common oath of course,
but none of us were old enough
to pull that salty phrase out of nowhere
with such aplomb.
Now in my elder days, I like to envision,
Custer and Chief Sitting Bull,
smoking a little weed
agreeably together,
jointly deciding
to call the whole thing off.
Death makes its appearance regularly. They lean upon their shovels
smoke a Marlborough, keep away from the mourners.
Always shovel ready. Even the utility hut is hidden yet ready,
it’s back where the graves peter out into headless mounds.
Theirs’s not the burden of loss, nor are they tasked by grief
as the undertaker crew solemnly do. The best are swift, professional,
they resist swapping vulgarities until work is done;
just fill in the coffin-plugged hole, hum the ‘grave-digging’ song:
“So long you’re almost done.
Ours the winch and lowering straps.
Ours the pork chops for dinner,
Ours this pleasant labor.
All that loved you
want you now be gone.
Ours the cold beer
Yours the slow fuse of corruption.
So long,
shovels need cleaning,
the boss is watching
so long,
so long,
so long”.
Written March 31, 2013
In the shadows stood a figure
Taller than the diggers
Picking diamonds in the mines
Don't worry now I will be fine
Said the children to their mothers and wives
With a journey comes a question
Maybe two and many more
Why they never close the door in the floor
On coming back to where they're from
To the tune of the black angel's death song
That was it
I'd had enough
So I packed up all my things
And crossed the bridge on a blind man's bluff
Lie blind man can't you see
If you take the road less traveled
You're less likely to unravel
Some will say what a foolish thing
To go around with all your things
In a velvet knapsack on your back
Walkin' 'round in perfect circles
Just waiting for a heart attack
From the dusty plains of Kansas
To the mining in Peru
And chain link fences lining concrete zoos
Caging in the elephants
On 23rd and 7th avenue
That was it
I'd had enough
So I packed up all my things
And crossed the bridge on a white man's bluff
Lie white man can't you see
If you take the road less traveled
You're less likely to unravel
I amm incensed apalled; outraged as an intended blanket Un-law approaches its final stage.' where is the backbone?
Oh Victoria fair.' Is it truly lacking? What are you allowing?
Down there.' You seem only to loose.' And give away.? Yet
You have come to the point.' As to whats the point? All must say? Your lives are next.' And the very soul of a (once
Famous state) now WAKE UP BE BOLD!! treat this as you
Did ' the voice' just stand together its a simple choice.'
Stand for your elders who in con-vid died for your chidrden
Harmed.' Search for some hestro-pride.' Support the warriors there are many still 'dig in diggers' and hold your
Hill.! Speak the truth and honour all your brave fallen.!
Show the country and the world. That you are all; going
All in!
A man without a car is a poor fellow,
It’s like a cowboy without a horse, a lonely soul,
He doesn’t know what to do or who to visit in the ranches,
He walks alone in Los Angeles or Dallas,
He can’t visit the great rivers of Utah,
Nor go to photograph the mighty bisons,
Everything is complicated without a car, without a horse,
The cowboy can’t dress himself in California,
He can only feed on salads or sweet poetry;
Everything is difficult, buying a book, a new razor,
Look at the shooting stars above Lake Powell,
Everything is so far away, the flowers on the green hills,
A cowboy without a horse is not free, poor fellow
He can’t cross the Grand Canyon or Arizona fields,
He sees no sun, nor can he meet again his friends,
The gold diggers, the noisy saloons, the poor fellow,
The poor fellow, he is not master of his destiny.
Un homme sans voiture, c’est un pauvre bougre,
C’est comme un cowboy sans cheval, sans âme,
Il ne sait que faire, ni qui visiter dans les ranchs,
Il marche solitaire dans Los Angeles ou Dallas,
Il ne peut visiter les grandes rivières D’Utah,
Ni s’en aller photographier les puissants bisons,
Tout est compliqué sans voiture, sans cheval,
Le cowboy ne peut s’habiller en Californie,
Il ne peut que se nourrir de salades ou de poésie ;
Tout est difficile, acheter un livre, un rasoir neuf,
Regarder les étoiles filantes au-dessus du Lake Powell,
Tout est si loin, les fleurs sur les collines vertes,
Un cowboy sans cheval, n’est pas libre, vous dis-je,
Il ne peut traverser le Grand Canyon, ni l’Arizona,
Il ne voit de soleil, ni ne peut retrouver ses amis,
Les chercheurs d’or, aux saloons bruyants, le pauvre,
Le pauvre bougre, il n’est pas maitre de son destin.
PS, when i come back from the garage friday, i was the happiest man of the world
In all honesty
I believe Love is actually blind
That she lost her road
And headed straight
Into the mess, she lays in today
I hope we all find her, bathe her and clothe her
Cos she's really a mess right now...
Love used to be the gatekeeper
Between the legs of young girls
Keeping the invaders out in the wild
But these days,
She's more like the green lamp on the traffic lights
Beaconing every car to drive that route
Deep into 'The Virgin Close'
Love used to be the backbone of every man
The strength and blood that pushes men to fight
Work and be the better person
But these days
She's become the gravity pulling every man down
She's the pickaxe used by gold-diggers
Digging the wealth out of our young men
Leaving them broke—like some shattered glass
Love was so innocent back in the day
All she knew was just letters
Written by some secret admirer
And believe me
The shadiest part of the letter is
You've got beautiful brown eyes
That's a classical one
But these days
Love does Sexting
She's all about the unspeakable...
Love is so rusty
She needs some work done on her
She needs rehabilitation
From her figure to her concept
Especially her use in this context
She is meant to be the binder
Between us all
But sadly, Love is blind
We've gotta spit on the ground
Make mud and rub in her eyes
As we proclaim the phrase (Jn. 9:6)...
Here's Mud in Your Eye
And all will come to know that
Love is not blind
Love is not proud
Love is not self-seeking
Love keeps no record of wrong
Rather, Love is kind
Love is patient
Love is true
Love protects
Love perseveres
Love is beautiful
Just like the Sea...
Inspired by Martha Machief
Critiqued by Ess—Jay
before, i have been chasing the future...
true, there is a must & need to prepare..
yet, who knows what tomorrow can bring..
Wisdom and A heart to decide, our gifts from God..
It lies within us...
Within our own very selves..
How our life will be..
How our future will be..
It's wrong to lay it in all to God...
It's wrong to say: He always there..
It's wrong to depend it all to Him..
why o why????
Cause it us who is living..
It is our duty as humans to go striving..
It is in us to not never give up..
Instead to pursue believing...
Doing progressive productive actions..
not to sit and fool around...
not to be lazy and to be as like parasites..
nor be like also gold - diggers...
It is our cumulative deeds that will lead us..
It is by our most definite specific decisions...
It is by our first step and the risks..
above all of these efforts and foregoing acts..
God will see; God will do His way..
He will touch whatever is in us...
In His God's grace and time, He will make all fit...
BY: olive_eloi
sept. 14, 2013
12:23am
Patiently they waited,
Watching each of us exert
Just a modicum of effort
As we shoveled up some dirt.
Every toss drew all attention
As the soil came raining down,
‘Til the coffin top was covered
With a blanketing of brown.
Then the diggers picked the pace up
But they paused while words were said,
The familiar farewell speeches
To a person newly dead.
Next machinery took over
As we slowly walked away
And the workers did the job
For which they earned their weekly pay.
How bizarre to be a witness
Every day to people’s grief.
When the grave is filled and patted down,
It must be a relief.
THE DEPTHS OF PROVIDENCE
When Providence delays, don't lose your way
For God arrives with grandeur, come what may
Big dreams need persistent patience like sumptuous stew
Lest complacency dulls the heart anew.4
Dig deep, dear seeker, like a miner's plight
Unearth the treasures hidden from plain sight
Not like the grave diggers who start from above,
Nor gold diggers, who chase fleeting, shallow love8
For wisdom lies in depths, where few dare roam
And character is forged, like tempered foam.
The eye is deceived and wealth's allure is brief
But the soul's riches grow in patience and relief.¹²
Let your roots grow strong like the ancient trees
And trust the timing of destiny's divine breeze,
For when God comes, it's big, it's bold, it's grand,
Rewarding the faithful with an outstretched hand.¹6
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©?26th October 2024.