Long Shoveled Poems
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Where in the world does satisfaction dwell?
Tempt a poor with money once.
He will let out such a wail
Dissatisfied faces gather in a bunch.
I witnessed those drowned in greed
Ones I believed were a symbol of sanctity.
Though terrified to question their creed
Yet I know without desires exist no entity.
I stumbled one day in a forest
When looked up, displayed a competition.
Trees shot toward the sun, leaving behind the rest
They stifle, subjugate and obstruct without hesitation.
Rivers yet are quite manipulating
They carve a compelling story
Once acknowledged as calmed, now invading
Eroded, shoveled and marked its territory.
Snow whispered unto me
"Nothing remains static"
Yet I remained completely still
While I shoveled the snow away
Second month frozen gave way to warmth
From passion, from anger
From a wealth of confusing events
And spending it all in a volcano
Burnt out in the cold
I shelved my axe once again
Stuck down in a rut
I let the melting snow sail me home
The new leaves bravely sprung to life
As I let the breeze take me wherever
All bent to my will
As the ending of something great came upon me
I waved my savior goodbye
Setting out back to home
Returning to the promised land so shortly after
To while away my time in peace
I waved my lover goodbye
As she flew far out over the sea
And as my body fell apart
I demanded ever more from it
Everything fell apart
Bedridden and heartbroken, I cried alone
Oh, how I wish I could have cried
Oh, how I wish I could have died
Back on my feet again, huh?
I spent the month as I spent the last
But with hope instead of despair
With a spirit formed from thin air
Back in the saddle again, huh?
In my absence, I became a legend
With a lack of self, I fell to despair
I couldn't bear to fall again
From the grim jaws of death, I found hope again
I watched the winds of gray paint my world red
And yellow and brown
As the leaves began to fall again
Freezing once again, I went back home
In the car of someone I didn't know
In the happy memories of someone I'll never know
Or ever choose to see again
A despairing year's hopeful ending
As everything I see before me crumbles and rusts
But I see the color between the gray
Even if no one wants to see it that way
they lowered his casket six feet down into the cold ground.
They shoveled him under as I wept-
and then the green grass grew over.
I planted pretty flowers around his headstone
and they soared high in the summer sun.
One year, five, ten years and still I keep coming back
to this place of tears,
to weep. And then I lay
on the green grass over him
whispering my love
to brittle bones buried six feet under. I am frozen
in this past sorrow . . . and then, and then, and then.
___________________________
April 14, 2017
Verse/And Then
Copyright Protected, ID 892441
And Then
John Lawless
Fifth Place
ALWAYS. ********
Understand. I MUST go
On these clearing acts of
Instinct and inspiration, these flashings
As they come. For a blizzard has
Been moving in and the snow is
Piling up by the foot...So the doors
Must be kept cleared. The temperatures are
Not rising. The storm pounds in
From the west, but I part the curtains awaiting
The sun to gleam up from the east. These
Enemies — oppression and fear — have come
Disguised as beautifully rising white drifts,
Satisfied that I will drowse by the window
As snow turns the entire landscape into silence.
Understand! Encroaching dark shadows are easier
To overcome, for they reach forward bringing
A dis-ease that I must fight and know
They will tremble upon my call to Jesus.
But, this massive blizzard is a masked, deceitful
Effort of death to try my will to live
And act upon what remains to me:
Instinct and inspiration, as born within me.
In the ‘70’s, in Chicago I survived a massive dropping
Of snow over days of falling. Snow was
Shoveled and packed into chest-high,
Undulating routes to trudge as a necessary
Innovation for sidewalks. Once, I stood at
A stoplight on a mound higher than my height.
That was practice in preface for now. See!
All things have their meanings. All things.
I am confirmed. I will shovel
Out from this blizzard with prayer and poetry
And love...I must. I must.
Thanks be to God!
***************************************
(C) sally young Eslinger8/24/2020
Faint drums in distances rolling
brave tales before us unfolding.
Over proud battle cries it will fly
saving grand dreams that shall not die.
Bloody sands seen at Normandy
attests mankind's will to be free.
The daring who marched as one
arm in arm till the war was won!
From space we see a tiny blue ball
seems not so important after all.
Stare straight into adversity -
hard fought pride and diversity.
Bursting towns, shoveled ditches,
Dust Bowl plains that yield us riches.
Our views changed on world order
as more humans cross our border.
Those wise fathers of our founding
the din of principle keeps pounding.
More hopes today than ever before
opportunity stands at our door.
Purring drums on a sultry eve
a new dawn in which to believe.
We shall solve the world's perils
as our famous flag now unfurls!
My skin crawls as I watch a hand,
disembodied,
reach yet again into the Tollhouse bag.
Bright, artificial yellow. It burns my eyes.
Countless chocolate chips are shoveled down my gullet
as if crumbs to a wretched, starving creature.
I’m only jarred out of my sinful haze by catching si th r of my reflection.
That face staring back at me - I don’t know it.
Dry, lifeless eyes,
the expression of a corpse,
chocolate smeared on the edges of my mouth.
Disgust rises like bile in my throat.
This stranger lives a soft life.
Hours spent lounging by the fire,
fleshy stomach warm and sated,
screen filled with ads and the inane,
I have never known struggle.
The world blazes with fire
and the screams of dying children surround the soul,
so I employ synthetic numbing agents.
Blue light has seared my nerve endings into inactivity
while glucose rots me to my core.
Do my vices truly dim the pain of helplessness?
Or do they simply induce a coma of false innocence
until I’m able to face the world?
“My” face stares back at me,
haunted and hated.
I am vitriol,
bottled up and consumed.
For consumption is the only skill we have left;
purses and devices and anything worth a cent are
boxed up,
framed with silver tongues,
and shoved down our throats faster than we can blink.
And we take the poison,
digesting it like the obedient cattle we are.
Not even thousands of victims can rouse us from our stupor,
willingly chosen to numb the conscience and the void
yawning from self-inflicted purposelessness.
Ibuprofen for the guilt of privilege and powerlessness.
I choke on the silver spoon from which I’m fed these pills
but find I swallow regardless.
3/31/21
Stoner
Loner
An addict
Always at it
The chronic
Still on it
Can't get off it
Or stop it
On top of it
A serious alcoholic
The problem
Is constant
And toxic
Causing conflict
Being honest
Often catatonic
Nearly unconscious
Shoutout to Juice Wrld, "everywhere I go feels haunted"
"This isn't the life I wanted"
Damn it
Battling habits
Bringing me closer to a casket
Using gadgets
And tablets
During daylight or pitch blackness
It's gone beyond
Doing my body and bank account a lot of damage
Even if I manage to "manage"
It does me no advantage
And is extra baggage
Dirt I dug and shoveled
Remaining humble
People quick to burst your bubble
In ways that are obvious or subtle
On the double
Staying out of trouble
Even though it's a jungle
Got to solve each and every puzzle
Can't buckle
Even though I continue to struggle
Been far too dependent
Temporarily splendid
But really unpleasant
The cycle has not ended
Eventually the heart stops beating
When it comes to death, there is no cheating
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.
There is a character I had known back at the barracks,
That his doings earned him the title 'Smoke man,'
He had weird habits that always succumbed to change,
He had a way of bringing life to introductions & then deep graves on mid-parts,
The only thing he ever finished was his ciggie.
His loss of interests shriveled like rains in July,
And he lost patience fast,
You could hear him complain of hunger at times food delayed over the fire,
And when it's finally served,
He would take three or at most four spoons,
Spit out the last and bark 'Whatever this new recruits can cook, a rat can better,
As he pulls out a victim from his cigarette packet.
Sometimes I think he found more meaning in cigarette packets,
Than in all the Arabic the Janabu spoke,
Along with his promises of outcomes,
He did not have much,
But had never been poor enough not to afford a pack of ciggies.
Yesterday he was out on a Valentine's date with a girl,
I could sense his excellent starts,
As the woman released conservative chuckles and giggles now and then a while later,
At one moment he reached into his pockets as if searching for something important,
You could puzzle out the anxiety and expectations on his date's face,
As if expecting an engagement ring or something of interest,
To her disappointed he shoveled out a lighter and smirked.
They say time changes people,
But for as long as I've known this man,
He's never changing,
Not until he goes into a grave,
Where there are no chairs & cigarettes.
*Janabu is an Arabic word for a senior rank military officer
© John Ngor Deng
she spent her day traveling from nap to nap
the dogs and cats laid around, lethargic
they were all becoming listless, non-moving slugs
once upon a time she had been energetic
she had a great job, and a lovely life
but then she was laid off work
Her husband left her, and her sister was in a car wreck
She tried happy pills, but they did not work
For the last two weeks she has been an avid napper
Her house is so dirty, it would have to be shoveled out
She has no desire to do that or anything else
Her energy level is at an all-time low
The battery in her phone has run down to empty
she was not returning calls anyway
when she is this low she wants to be alone