It was the work ethic that did it.
He just couldn’t get enough.
He would sit for hours and hours
Just contemplating the stuff
Until suddenly it was home time,
Getting on for half past four,
And he knew that in the morning
They'd have delivered plenty more.
After nearly a week they found him
Slouched dead in his swivel chair;
He'd been hidden by all the work
Piled up in mountains there.
They gave him a long service medal
Posthumously I should think
And following his last wishes scattered
His ashes by his favourite old golf link.
Thus an illustrious career was ended
Without a hint of any shame
For the company couldn't afford
Any slurs to be cast on its name.
And all the work that he'd not started?
They just shovelled into a bin
Knowing if any was important
A client would write again
The grave was freshly dug
Just awaiting the arrival of the body
Four Ghosts stood silent in wait
They had waited a long time
The waiting was over
The gravestone would remain nameless
There would be no mourners
No prayers goodbye
The body was checked for the final time
A customary nod would start proceedings
The coffin was placed into the hole
The gravediggers quickly shovelled the earth back into place.
No words were spoken
Satisfied, they left
Four Ghosts stood silent in wait
They had waited a long time.
The waiting was over
Four Ghosts
Now
Became
Five.
Here lies Father John with his mum
Who told everyone John was dumb
Her final scoff,
"What a RIP-off!
You must be as dumb as they come!"
Well, lightening soon struck their stone
And we heard that old lady moan
Beneath the cross
She yelled, "I'm boss!"
And I'll punish each shiftless bone!"
Father John saw his plight was grave -
Eternity hearing mum rave -
A priest in Hell
Knows the Devil well
So he bargained his soul like a slave
Father John heard Blueberry Hill
Was a place where some find a thrill
Satan cast his mum there
But she found it just fair
Whilst her son shovelled coal with a quill
The moral of this stone is grim
Fill your coffin up to the brim
Whilst some shed a tear
Make the most of the bier
Let your grave bear a pseudonym
My snarling flash drive
numbed my approach
as I drove fifty clicks
into the morning, still dark.
I did obeisance
to my tyrannical inbox,
it showed no mercy
to either side of the screen.
Everyone had an axe to grind,
not least of all me,
but the futureless kid at the traffic lights
would probably have settled for a pie.
I shovelled some cholesterol
into the gash in my face
and chased it down with coffee,
strong as the strongman
from the travelling circus,
I can't drink it any other way.
Much grinding of axes continued,
some of it by me,
but the forgotten old man at the traffic lights
may have settled for a pie.
My inbox, by late afternoon,
was plainly laughing at me,
and obeisance continued
on both sides of the screen.
As I drove fifty clicks
into the evening, now dark,
my snarling flash drive
hypnotised my retreat.
1st August 2018
stand still
tis cold here
on this Christmas day
frigid winds blow in
carry messages
from the wide world
“PEACE ON EARTH”
good will toward men.
did angels really sing those words?
were they able to keep
straight faces?
we wish for Christmas
all the right thoughts in fuzzy cards
Santa Baby give me, give me
sugar daddy to the masses
bring me what I want.
it is right there
ignored by the pushing crowds
able to commit devious acts
to acquire this years toy
or designer runners; to run to what?
the peace is here all around
buckets of it shovelled up
with stained snow and detritus
tossed aside because it is too simple
to be the answer therefore dump it
peace settles on quiet places
unasked for yet, called in by spirit
peace abhors turmoil and strife
created in its name, in the search
for what we already have; if we allow it.
We made the base for the grave out the farm,
Where our dad can now rest his head
Forever more, in his favourite spot,
The place of dad’s harmonious bed.
We mixed the buckets of water with concrete,
Then shovelled this to the square,
Levelled flat with rake, trowel and a spade,
We let it harden up in the air.
It’s on top of the hill, with a beautiful view of the farm,
A peaceful spot with the sheep,
A peaceful place where the birds sing all day,
And dad can now peacefully sleep.
We made a base for the grave out the farm,
Using concrete, bricks and stone,
Where dad can rest, forever more,
And we can visit him each day, all alone.
Luloo was in a terrible rush
Shovelled snow then fell on her tush
It isn't a joke -
Her ankle got broke
But the snow's now turned into slush
GET WELL SOON LULOO
26th February 2016
for Gertrud Widmayer
I am a coal-truck
Carrying gold dust.
Someone threw some
Coal-dust upon
My gold-dust.
I am a coal-truck
In a gold mine.
Someone struck a coal vein
And piled me full in vain.
I am a coal-truck
Covered in subterranean dust.
Someone shovelled my soil
And found an ancient bone
All coiled.
I am a coal-truck
Waiting for the rain.
The sun is my rail
The night my shed.
I am a coal-truck
Rumbling all the way.
Wash me in the rain-storm
And fill me full of coke
Until I choke.
© T. Wignesan, 1957 - Pub. in "Forum Academicum", Heidelberg University, 1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
You don't know how this feels,
the pain compacting my chest,
the pressure bearing down,
laying my heart to rest.
Ashes and dust assail me,
filling my aching throat,
gasping and flailing, a drowning man
unable to keep afloat.
I feel I'm in a grave
whilst dirt is shovelled down,
covering up my face and eyes
consigned to the cold, cold ground.
I cannot breathe without you,
I don't know how to survive,
the thought you don't love me
is burying me alive...
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