Long Shovelling Poems
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On Snow Shovelling
A foot of snow fell by night
with no let-up in sight.
(“Brrr, it’s cold out there.”)
A mutt rebounds past my window
as I contemplate the morning weather
while sipping my hot cup of coffee.
By the street lamp’s hazy glow,
I make out my neighbour,
who’s clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and with a winter implement
grasped in her mitten-covered hands,
bravely confronting the heart-attack weather
while tossing snow over her shoulders
to clear the driveway from garage to curb
for the mechanical beast to enter
the unplowed street.
She stops and calls to the mutt
(no doubt an excuse to catch her breath).
The dog, tail wagging, rushes to his master,
who brushes the snow from his fur
and, I venture to guess, says, “Atta-boy!”
as if the dog had overcome
some great endeavour.
But they both seem to derive pleasure
from the brief encounter.
The master resumes her shovelling
and the mutt his romping,
and I, continue thinking
while sipping my hot cup of coffee that I, too,
will have to face the inclement weather,
clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and commit to the task of snow shovelling.
This is no time to die
Surely the time has come
Surely the time is near
When God and his angels
Will come out from the things
Of this world we worship asleep
In golden glossy mummy cases
And sweep away the dust of millenniums
Gathered in an old world of sarcophagi
Overturning the worn-out pages of
Death scripts and gross materialism
This is no time to die
Which brings in a new reality
With the force of the archaeologist
Shovelling dirt from the tombs
And launching it out into the wind
Over the Valley of the Kings
Into the wind of a discovered reality
Of joy and blessedness and life
Getting close to eighty, not a great idea
To shovel snow anymore
The danger of a heart attack is ever present
Certainly not something to ignore
Up in our brains we're still young as ever
But the body's fallen way behind
So don't you go thinking, that's not me
I'm still young and able of mind
What kind of flowers d'ya want on your coffin
That's if you don't heed my warning
It's not really a subject to make jokes about
But it may help you see next morning
When we're up in years, it's more on our mind
It used to be way off in the future
Then all of a sudden it starts getting closer
Thinking about age, ain't so super
So to hurry it along, keep shovelling snow
You ain't a young pup anymore
It's up to you if you wanna be a smart ass
Maybe make out your will before
© Jack Ellison 2014
OLD SHOVEL
I’m just an old shovel, worse for wear
Long wooden handle badly weathered
Yet this job tonight, fills me with disgust
It is merely fulfilling my duty, as I must
A corpse to bury, limbs partly severed
At night in the forest, never to share
The hole I have dug is quite deep enough
A few feet down and about five feet long
A big pile of dirt that I’ve left in a mound
It’s scraping earth making an awful sound
I’m no expert but I’m sure this is so wrong
The body is in now, and this work is tough
Shovelling the dirt back to cover the hole
It is not quite level, but who could tell
I’m taken back and thrown in the pickup
If only this task had experienced a hiccup
I can only be silent as he knows darn well
I’ve never been so ashamed of my role
Yet here I stand in the corner of the shed
Abandoned, never likely to be used again
Maybe one day, some sapling might grow
Hoping to remember someone might know
Who knew shovels could actually feel pain
So quiet now his lovely wife is quite dead
My dad built a house on a hill. How exciting to climb to the tippy-top then look down upon the roof, and dog home, the bean garden, and to sled the slope in Winter white.
eyes delirious
dazzled, dizzy, delighted
dopamine kicked in
A truck gets stuck at the bottom of our steep driveway, blocking local traffic on our rural road. I wonder if this sticks in anyone else’s memory? Then like ants, industrious, sweating for donuts and coffee, my dad’s friends work their quads, up and down this unexpected hell.
our walls carried up
unfinished planks, like a cross
friendship marches on
We’d help spackle the parts of the wall scored by nails. Dad would use the saw to cut a wooden floor, like his rest-in-peace dad, who surely stops in to measure his son’s progress, to see his grandkids placing the unstained wood.
this home has no ghosts
brand-spanking new on old hill
but the past’s with us
While constructing, Mom would open a can of Dinty Moore stew, cook over a portable stove, and serve over rice. We would order Pizza from Salvatore’s - my mouth waters at the thought of this New York pie with Italian sausage, sauce and cheese. They’d occasionally order a submarine; I can still taste the fresh lettuce, tomato and thin-sliced deli meats on yeasty bread.
what we remember
is funny; the senses touch
childhood memories
The builder, of the house’s frame, was called one day. He was told my dad went through the roof. Later, they came, standing outside and sizing up the roof, when my mom questioned them as to what he was looking at. Mom rolled her eyes as she told him, what was meant, was that my dad was mad.
screwball translation
the heated conversation
is lost in humor
Shovelling the driveway, in Winter, in my plaid, woollen, hooded coat. My face can feel the chill, the briskness of the wind, and the warmth of mittens. I miss my childhood, even the arduous times, those wonderful family times.
a surprise arrives
at this address; a newborn
unplanned, a kicker
Winter Came Early
Winter came early in a blast of flurries,
Cold like the dickens, but we were tingling,
Giddy with joy and eager to get going,
To kick up our heels in the newly fallen snow.
Mum bundled us up with kisses and hugs
(Cute to see but hard to run).
While snowflakes kept falling,
We kept squirming (all bright-eyes and bushy tails),
Chattering impatiently as if we’d miss something.
Snow covered everything, and the forecast was dismal.
And Dad was out there, somewhere, between the banks,
Shovelling snow from the driveway for the automobile,
And us kids couldn’t care less.
“Hurry up!” to Mum, we said.
Will soon be eighty-eight, not a great idea
To shovel snow anymore
The danger of a heart attack is ever present
Certainly not something to ignore
Up in our brains we're still young as ever
But the body's fallen way behind
So don't you go thinking, that's not me
I'm still young and able of mind
What kind of flowers d'ya want on your coffin
That's if you don't heed my warning
It's not really a subject to make jokes about
But it may help me see next morning
When we're up in years, it's more on our mind
It used to be way off in the future
Then all of a sudden it starts getting closer
Thinking about age, ain't so super
So to hurry it along, keep shovelling snow
You ain't a young pup anymore
It's up to you but if you wanna be a smart ass
Maybe make out your will before
Antagonised from the depths of my psyche,
the charcoal dirt is blown
and dusts of deepest black scatter,
not dead but dormant
from the fickle and the protective.
A breeze permeates my insides and it is a shock,
unwelcome and unnecessary,
alien, frightening and belligerent,
yet uncovering sleeping embers
and shovelling in the coal.
Huge barricades of ice under the threat,
how did this get in?
When I am so rehearsed and closed,
a trickle of water showing the weakness
a puddle at the foot.
I had not imagined this, I expected nought,
my cardiology provoked
to saunter around a blind corner,
as slowly as I dare let it awaken
So I can be with you in a heartbeat.
My thoughts let go of a thousand memories,
Like faces, dates, times and places;
Yet, I can recall each and every detail,
On the day of your funeral.
(. . .and my mind takes me back through the tattered pages of my life
to a place of warmth, security and love . . . . .)
O the grieving . . .
In the middle of a snow storm I followed,
And the wind blew back my long hair;
As we meandered down a winding cold path,
The wild wind paused in the trees.
( . . O, my mother's kitchen with it's big cupboards and old stove
and a blue teapot on the kitchen table and grandma telling me of life,
of people in the family long dead . . . )
O the weeping. . .
Snowflakes fell on me from the tangled branches,
Falling like crying tears cascading down;
I am lost and moaning in this forever, ever memory,
And now the snow drifts in the cemetery.
(. . . and it was at that same table that I read my first poems
while sipping tea and father coming in from shovelling snow
in winter all bundled up . . . )
O the sadness . . .
A headstone is buried deep in the pure white,
And but one engraved word is revealed;
In this pristine cold, dead winter wonderland,
Only one word can be seen, MOTHER,
Hidden beneath the snow.
(. . . a warm fireplace waiting within
then at night in an attic room this little girl was tucked in
with forever loving hands, hugs and kisses . . .)
O the lamenting . . .
I will treasure your arms last embrace, mother,
till this heart stops beating . . .
__________________________________
February 19, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/''oh the memories, memories''
Copyright Protected, ID 02-641-987-19
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Memories
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron, Judged 03/2015
Second Place
Why are all these hash slingers
Constantly there on my TV?
When did the ability to cook
Become reason for celebrity?
Eating for me is just like
Shovelling coal on a fire,
Just adding fuel to keep
Your energy levels higher.
It’s a bonus if it tastes good,
An even bigger bonus still
If it quietly does that and,
More importantly, doesn’t kill.
As for that fine dining lark,
Fashion apparently demands
They poke and finger it about but
Seldom seem to wash their hands.
I’m just a lower class peasant
But one thing I loath and hate
Is having to send my food back
To be properly served on a plate.
And as for the prices they charge,
Why are those in the catering trade
Constantly quoted in statistics as
Some of the lowest of the low paid.
I really don’t wish to be seen as
Pouring insults upon insults
But shouldn't these foodie quirks be
Confined between consenting adults.
Give me a roadside burger van.
You can almost guarantee it’s clean
For sure as heck a Food Inspector
Will not too long ago have been.
See a bunch of parked lorries
And your checking is complete
Had it been below our standard
They’d have voted with their feet.
So, you compile your list of
Good honest eating places
And in time come to recognise
Some well known familiar faces.
A quick greeting as you slip in
Courteously switch off the phone
And get ready to join in with
The latest rant or moan.
A bucket full of coffee,
A bacon butty in hand
And well before it’s time to go
Solve the problem of the land.