Long Sweepers Poems
Long Sweepers Poems. Below are the most popular long Sweepers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sweepers poems by poem length and keyword.
In the month of July during whirlpool
A Legacy was born to challenge a fool
Who in sphere of market did money drool.
As all feast and dance and sing in yule
Many people like Vipul, Maulik and Sanket rule
Over minds of customers who remain very cool
In our D-Mart which served as a perfect tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart Whirlpool.
All - cashier, attendants, owners, sweepers - pull
Praise, sympathy, good words and have globule.
There are many wicked, old, shrewd ghoul
Who conspire against you O! D-Mart, My soul!
ACs, clean floor, smiling faces and nature cool ;
Bhaiya, didi, managers, workers, watchmen Spool
Are the real source of income than other tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart whirlpool.
Future is bright of D-Mart with such module,
It also includes good products, service Gruel.
No judge can verdict anything like rice overrule
Or China food item never finds in its pool;
Clean and healthy food items, fine variety gul
And great discount on many items that ridicule
Those who conspire despise it for its fame and tool,
Come and join the ever-winding D-Mart whirlpool.
Pearls of sweat trickling down the cheeks
On the cup of warm tea
As the vendor sells his ice cream
It is a poetry
The fish seller from dawn to noon
Toils hard and earns little
Her smile always reveals poems
Her health is though brittle
Sunshine writes rhyme on the muscles
Of sweepers on the street
With heavy brooms they keep shining
Our roads in scorching heat
The little girl as she washes
Cups and plates in tea stall
Her dimples twinkle in bright light
From the tall shopping mall
Clouds feel the burning heat in which
The working class survives
They all gather above their heads
And welcome rain arrives
A car stops near the hospital
A patient is moved in
By that gate a corpse is moved out
Abrupt twitch in my chin
Words are restless in life and death
To bloom in poetry
I try to set them through my pen
When neurones are in glee
Even when a leaf falls at night
Under the apple tree
Whispers moonlight your job is done
Now you will come with me
The bubbling ripples in your brook
Are so charming in rain
That I cannot help carving out
Dark blue dream in my vein
September 5, 2017
THIS STARTED AS FAR BACK AS I COULD TALK
AS POPPA READ TO ME AS I LEARN TO WALK
HE SANG WITH ME AS WE DANCED ON NAT'S SHOES
WHILE BIGMOMMA SAT SINGING THE BLUES
HE ORDERED FOR US ALL THE JET MAGAZINES
WITH ALL THE CIVIL RIGHTS AND NAT KING COLE
THEY CALL IT A SECRECY DIARY HIDDEN FOR YEARS
UP INTIL IT WAS GIVEN TO ME ON HIS DEATHBED
HE SANG AND CRIED AT NINTY FOUR YEARS OLD
TELLING ALL ABOUT FIGHTING BUT I WASN'T THAT BOLD
AS TIME WENT ON I BEGAN TO GET SHY
POP ALWAYS SAID WIPE YOUR EYES DON'T CRY
HE TOOK US EVERYWHERE SINGING THE BLUES
WITH THE DUKE AT THE YMCA
AS I GREW SOME MORE HE ALWAYS DID SAY
HONEY FAME DOESN'T MATTER IT BRINGS GREED
EVEN THE RICH WITH TAKE FROM THE POOR IN NEED
AS I GREW OLDER I BEGAN TO SEE WHY
MY POP WAS JUST THAT KIND OF GUY
MY HERITAGE IS QUITE OLD THAT IS ME GOLD
WRITTEN BY MRS. YOLANDA NICHOLSEN
3-17-2004 DURING A BLIZZARD COPING WITH PTSD
IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY UNCLE
ISOM KEATON MY GREAT GRANDMOTHERS
CARRIE KEATON BROTHER MY IRISH ANCESTORS
FROM THE LATE 1800'S 1900'S IRISH SETTLERS
FROM ST. LOUIS MISSOURI MY NONA IRISH ITALIAN
UNCLE ISON ALWAYS REMINDED ME OF THE OLD IRISH
CHIMNEY SWEEPERS LIKE MR OKEEFE ONE OF
MY SHORT STORIES I LOVE WRITING
TRIBUTES TO MY ANCESTOR ISOM KEETON HE ACTUALLY
LOOKED JUST LIKE RICHARD DALEY SR. SO DID MY
IRISH AUNT BEING FROM AN IRISH ITALIAN FAMILY
LADY LUCK IS A PRODUCT OF MY IRISH ANCESTORS
THE KEATONS OF IRELAND
GOD BLESS AMERICAN POETS AND WRITERS
I AM CARRIE KEETON MARIETTA KEATING ISOM KEETON
THESE ARE MY IRISH ANCESTORS I BRING THEM
TO LIFE WITH MY POETRY LIVING TRIBUTES TO MY
IRISH ANCESTORS IT'S A PERSONAL PRIVATE WAY
OF HEALING COPING WRITING WITH COMPLETE PRIVACY
To some, there is a “good side”
When you’re posing for a pic
And people show their “good sides”
Sometimes trying to be slick.
But if somewhere in Manhattan
Is the place from whence you hark
Then you know the “good side” means one thing –
The side where you can park.
For streets are cleaned 6 days a week
On alternating sides
With posted signs reminding us
To move away our rides.
So for an hour and a half
One side of every street
Is free of cars so sweep machines
Can make their work complete.
Most drivers sit inside their cars
Until the sweepers pass
Then quickly move back to their spots
So fines they won’t amass.
You’re lucky, though, if when you park
You snag a “good side” spot
For then a small reprieve, worth more than gold,
Is what you’ve got.
The rules are posted on a sign –
The city’s made its mark –
Instructing drivers there are times
They’re not allowed to park.
The streets require cleaning
So at certain listed hours
The sweeper truck comes swishing through
And picks up trash and scours.
But certain selfish drivers
See those rules and just ignore ‘em,
Assuming that there’s little chance
A cop’ll come before ‘em.
And so the sweeper sweeps around
The cars that will not budge,
Thus leaving certain city streets
With detritus and sludge.
Of course, those drivers drive away
And leave within their wake
A dirty patch the sweepers missed
For someone’s selfish sake.
the window was broken as the smell
of stinking raw fish heads fresh bread
and that mangy old dog barking
always seemed to awaken me I dashed
quickly for the back door to sneak down
into the basement where coal was burning
heating thee entire Irish stoned building
smoke filled the chimney while up the street
a Polish polka song being played in the middle
of the day folk dancers lined the curb as sidewalk
street sweepers interrupted the final song
laughter and hymns opened my mind to Auschwitz
beckoning old memories that settled within
musik boxes old clocks and violins somehow
behind katy gates i'd wondered how old Mr. Olgavich
managed to dance to a simple tune called Americanist
The electric jolt of the city stops
It bows like a sapling in a February storm
The thirsty windows collect the drops
The heart, the pulse of the place— still warm
Still whispering behind doors, under grates
Beyond the snowy garrison of the city, Spring swarms
Over the yawning, gushing streams the melt creates
Near the child with the mud covered sneakers
The icy mist that lingered dissipates
Blooming from trees, fresh buds are sweepers
Brushing off the flecks of dirt and snow
They become the season’s youngest keepers
A wind to break the back does blow!
A new era is but a stone’s throw!
~For Regina McIntosh’s contest “Heart Universes”
Tuesday, February 9th, 2021
At twilight I sang
through veils of darkness,
as moon turned heads
with her crescent mourning,
and yesterdays permeate
within this etherized rhythm,
the metronome swung
a lifetime within a crescendo,
violet tears seeped octaves
and feel distantly,
to move in life
and shivers took hold
in old lanes paved
with tears of stone,
streets littered with
tissues of newspaper,
blowing to roll
as a string of
breath past,
dustbins filled with organs
necessary removals of survival,
now
breathe with life again
amethyst and gold leaf,
press all roads of now
to rain,
with feathers of faith
with the debris of horror
gasping at routes end,
a mercy,
street-sweepers cleared
to guard
waiting for the call
to a final reckoning
now as midnight chants,
striking
every memory of horror!,
crushing each torture!
till,
they are nevermore
I sing with amethyst ether
tendril-ed from my lips,
and I forgive them all
in one breath
I see her early in the morning everyday , She is a young sweeper in a proper blue uniform, The street is only clean because of her art, She sweeps the street alone for an hour .
I honestly admire her sincerity in the work, Many people salute her noble service , She expects nothing from the people , Every one appreciates her honesty.
One day she passed out near a house , The house belongs to upper class people, But the couple have helped her gladly , She has become quite normal and does the work .
God sends an angel down to earth ,
Who cleans dirty streets for the community , swee I never forget the greatest service of the sweeper , Thank god for sending her to the earth .
Oh god, what a lovely creation she is! , God's creation is truly astounding and magnificent , Sweepers are a really boon to our modern society. Nothing is equal to their wonderful service.