Short Pickers Poems

Toil
in the
mid-day sun-
still carrying the
can

artist-George Clausen...

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The worm embedded 
deep within the ripe fruits core 
safe from pickers now... 

                ***

Contest: Apples ? Oranges? 
Sponsor; Carol Brown
Submitted by; Judy Konos...

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Plenty perfect pumpkin plants.
Piles promote pickers;
People preparing pumpkin pies.
Porch provides pumpkin presentations
   ...plump, petite, pretty.
Pumpkin products prove palatable....

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~ Mr. and Mrs. Obsolete ~


A picker of pockets used to get cash
Now just credit cards, and never a stash
   Shed a tear for old pickers
   They're dying off quicker
Than bearded ladies without a moustache...

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THE APPLE PICKERS


                                                  the apple pickers 
                                         gathering harvests of breasts
                                                  ripe picked easy...

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Through strawberry fields,
Path back to school,noon day sun,
Bike push slow,heat haze.

Through strawberry fields,
Pass pickers toliling near soil,
Jam nose up nose.

Through strawberry fields,
Solar wave break on hot back,
Bone dry soaked to skin....

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Oh this summer if I were you                                   
Tulips fluttered in the breeze that knew 
And kisses trickle from dawning's dew
Into spring blossoms white and blue


A tear drop's trail in tame to throe
Wings candle flickers 
Love's pollen pickers 
As petal pondered in weed to woe...

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autumn rainbows stripe
vegetable september
across bromham fields;
roundway island, hazed in mist
on a marrow orange sea

wiltshire sunbeams fall
gold on the cockle pickers
green fields, fishermen;
down fruit littered ditches glint
glitter strewn rivers of light

© Gail Foster September 16th 2016...

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Listen to poem:

Danger for the opihi pickers,
It slides on rocks pounded by waves,
When threatened they stuck as stickers,
Danger for the opihi pickers,
Risk in the sudden surge that one braves,
Waves rise suddenly, breed jitters,
Danger for the opihi pickers,
It slides on rocks pounded by waves.


Date: 08/26/2019...

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My poor poems, neither rhyme nor scan, a scandal be damn, 

as grand grammarians grumble and crotchety critics cry tumbrels,

while trendy topic pickers poke fun at one so dumb, as so nice and precise 

mistresses (or masters) of the art pull me prettily apart; I just go my way -  

smile, sigh, ponder and pray that the Muses dear will inspire me without fear....

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Shaped like a
polar magnetic field
but more greener
with a stub of a stem
let me see here
your name is
Granny Smith
Crisp and Tangy
4017, Produce of USA
A fine specimen indeed!
I hope the fruit pickers
didn’t put their
greasy, grubby
Beaner hands
all over your
luscious
surface.

The rough world’s bruised you
but not enough to save you.
You die tomorrow at sunup....

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Blueberries rushing down five at a time
			from loaded branches tom-tom the bottom
			of a coffee can until growing numbers
			mute the beat. Super pickers fill
			two cans an hour in bumper season.
			Pies and muffins march from ovens
			and cereal looks richer than a lapis crown.
			In blueberry time we reach to the highest hoards.
			On these gems of the Sun we feast like lords....

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The game
Squashed his frame
Socks tainted
Carved out plain
But the road map was tame

Animals replete
With zoo keeper seed
From marsupial greed
A black out rabbit hole
Concealed the frrozen deals
Pincers chopping dollar backs
Red with collar grabs

Soapy suds and beer
The watery love endeared
To carry a child burden
For the sake of namesake
Dust off the the boot heel kickers
And fly kites with cotton pickers...

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My coffee still proud
halfway from the mouth.
Golden in light.
It's glow from the south.

A cup made of paper
rolled to a cone
with a lustre of candy
that's sweet and alone.

Invisible vapours
float on the surface
sealing heat in
for their miniature purpose.

Staggered clear bubbles
floating on top.
Some of them larger
that some are going pop.

All with a flavour
as rich as the beans.
Thanks for Colombia,
the pickers and machines....

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The shadows such a sixties group
they played their tunes so cockahoop,
Hank Marvin was the one to woo,
Bruce, Brian and Jet, then others too

Winkle pickers were the shoes, tight
jeans or trousers made the news,
Cliff Richards why; sang all a day,
and with them Summer Holiday

When I see their films on screen,
deep inside I want to scream,
now shadow’s shadows, have passed
me by; they’ll have my love, 
till day I die...

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strewn thoughts 



The skinny dog
snoozes on the graveyard's lawn
at ease with the stillness of the night
The fruit of the carob tree 
looks like a cotton pickers hand 
on an autumnal beach
a bottle of suntan oil 
tells how the summer was
A lone streetlamp sways
a drunk staggers home
he used to be an actor, stops and sing 
A seagull fancied to be human
used lotion and combed feathers shiny
Alas, it was hacked to death
by those that resist any change...

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They had a hasty meal of bones
Lest the dogs should hear them
They buried their heads to explore
Dried rutabagas and stale scones.

It was their world ravaged by bulls
Cats, crows, goats and ghosts
In the skinny island they roamed
In search of prehistoric tools.

Have you heard an eldritch screech
In the sunset hour on some Goan beach?
They are bone-pickers of a squalid slum
Running like a crazy in the city bedlam.


Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
Theme: Garbage...

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