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Best Poems Written by Thomas Plue

Below are the all-time best Thomas Plue poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

Baby Dill

Whilst walking down the street one day,
I saw upon the drain,
A little green dill pickle,
That was beaten by the rain.

I picked it up and took it,
To my house upon the hill.
I placed it in a tiny bed.
I named it, Baby Dill.

I nursed it back to bright green health.
Its flesh was plump and firm.
Whenever I would touch it,
I'm sure I saw it squirm.

One day when I noticed,
My babies wrinkly skin.
I grabbed a jar of pickle juice,
And I promptly threw it in.

Within a couple of hours,
I thought I'd better check.
My baby dill was missing.
I was just a wreck.

That's when I saw my brother,
He was sitting in his chair.
Eating my dill pickle.
As if he didn't care.

This was the hardest lesson,
I've ever had to learn.
Now I can't eat pickles.
They make my stomach turn.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

Defasco

Hamilton, Ontario,
Is a steel making town.
You can hardly tell it, 
When the sun goes down.

The slagpiles glow as the big furnace throws,
Another batch of ore.
Big ingots sit on the railway cars,
Behind the big steel doors.

They call this place DeFasco
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.

Something happened one autumn night.
I'd heard the older men tell.
The shift boss heard someone screaming.
It came from the bowels of hell.

A father and son were working,
Breaking slag from a big ladles spout.
The young man couldn't get out of the way.
When the molten metal poured out.

The molten metal mixed with the mud,
To make a sticky muck.
By the time the father turned around.
He saw his son was stuck.

The boys workboots were on fire.
As he was buried to his knees.
Even his asbestos clothing ignited.
He begged to his father,"Please,"

"Put me out of my misery,
I know my days are done."
His father pushed him under the slag.
He killed his only son.

They found the old man later that night,
Running circles in the rain.
They say he never spoke another word.
They say he'd gone insane.

Sometimes during my coffee break,
I'll sit and I'll think a while.
I often find myself wondering.
Just what's under that pile.

They call the place DeFasco.
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.

Note; I worked at the DeFasco Steel mill in the early nineties, and was told this story.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

Mustard Gas

I guessed that they called it mustard gas because of it,s yellow hue.
Once you got a mouthfull there was nothing you could do.
Your throat explodes,your lungs implode as your brain screams out for air.
You rip the skin off your windpipe but you don,t even care.
Where it touches your skin, it burns right in leaving blisters in it,s wake.
Your skin looks like it.s boiling, how much more can you take.
You can hear your brothers moaning, they.re in excrutiating pain.
Soon you find yourself praying, please God, make it rain.
The first raindrops do nothing, but as the gray clouds open up.
The water tastes refreshing, and you drink fram a porcelain cup.
By now the rain is pouring,you see yellow river.s in the sand.
The battlefield goes quiet, you look out over no mans land.
You can see your friends are crawlling now,back toward thier trench.
The air smells rank and putrid, truly an ungodly stench.
The battlefield goes silent now,the gas clouds wash away.
we clear the bodies from no mans land, now we,re ready for the day.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

Ode To the Corpsman

"I want my Mommy.I want my Mommy",
I heard the young man cry.
That's how I made my living.
Watching young men die.

The boy had taken a bullet,
Right around mid-thigh.
It cut through his femoral artery.
Soon he'd bleed out dry.

I took my index finger. 
I stuck it in the hole.
I tried to make a tourniquet,
But I couldn't find a pole.

I could feel his lifeblood pulsing.
I just couldn't make it stop.
As the bullets flew around my head,
I could hear the pop,pop,pop.

My rifles butt exploded.
It had taken a direct hit.
I found that I was thanking God.
I'd found my tourniquet.

I prepared the lad for transport,
To take him back to base.
When I turned around he was dead.
He'd taken three rounds in the face.

He was gone, so I moved on,
Amidst the constant cry.
That's how I made my living,
Watching young men die.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

A Letter To Heaven

I am writing a letter, to heaven today.
There are a few things, that I'd like to say.

My heart has been broken, since you went away.
I yearn for the days ,that we used to play.

I can't feel the sunshine, it's cloudy and gray.
I just don't know what, you want me to say.

I'll always remember ,on that fateful day,
When God called from heaven, and you went away.

So I'm writing this letter, to heaven today.
There's just a few things, that I'd like to say.

'Til I hear God calling, each day I will pray.
That we'll be together, in heaven some day.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

Even Angels Must Sleep

Into my memories and dreams you do creep.
I now know even angels,sometimes must sleep.

Since the day that you left me, something in me has died.
In the morning I wake up and I find that Ive cried.

My heart has been broken,there is no repair.
When I wake in the morning and I find your not there.

Yes, you were my angel,sent from God up above.
I never thought Id feel, such unselfish love.

Since the day that you left me, only memories I keep.
I now know that sometimes,even angels must sleep.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

The Jokers Card

It was the end of the line for the Van Dyke mine,
In this tiny northern town.
The final shift was ending,
They were going to shut her down.

The headframes lights dimmed a little,
As the generator started with a roar.
And the final group of miners,
Stepped through the elevators door.

Then suddenly from deep within,
The earth gave a mighty heave.
Their fates were sealed with the rocks above.
From this hell they would not leave.

Jim McClusky broke his back,
When the first rocks hit him hard.
Poor Jim was a wreck, for from deep in the deck,
He'd drawn the Jokers card.

You see, that far down below the ground,
The earth has a vise-like grip.
All it takes is the slightest nudge
To cause the scales to tip.

And then it came like some unseen pain,
That grabs a man by the balls.
It came from above, it came below,
It even came from the walls.

God has no wrath like that deadly gas,
That snatches your breath away.
As you try to pull that last lungfull
Your heart explodes they say.

That was long ago, but I remember it well.
Iwas part of the rescue crew.
We were'nt expecting any miracles,
But we thought we could save a few.

Only God knows what he has in store
For the men who search in the muck,
For that tiniest bit of colour.
That tiniest bit of luck.

Now the mines sealed up, the headframes gone.
But if you listen really hard,
You can hear the Devils laughter.
For you've drawn the Jokers card.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

The Bombs They Fell On Christmas Night

The bombs they fell on Christmas night,
Both sides entrenched in a bitter fight.

And as Christmas day drew near,
There was no thought of Christmas cheer.

The soldiers noticed in the night,
A star that shone far too bright.

Then what next did appear,
Filled the soldiers hearts with fear.

A ghastly angel with wings all torn,
Spoke,:On this very day was born:.

:The son of God, the King of Kings,
And on this special day, he brings.:

:The hope of peace, between all men:,
Then the angel was gone again.

As the men climbed from their holes,
They saw the battles deadly tole.

So many bodies strewn around,
They covered every inch of ground.

The soldiers hearts were filled with grief
And yet that feeling was quite brief.

As orders came to fight once more,
The men returned to their holy war.

The soldiers failed to see the light,
And the bombs they fell on Christmas night.

With so many lives just thown away,
The bombs they fell on Christmas day.










So many bodies strewn around,
They covered every inch of ground.

The soldiers hearts were filled with grief,
Yet that feeling was quite brief.

As orders came to fight once more,
The men returned to their holy war.

The soldiers failed to see the light,
As the bombs they fell on Christmas night.

With so many lives just thrown away.
The bombs they fell on Christmas Day.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

The Butterfly

Now listen very closely. It's almost like an art,
And answer me truthfully. Did you ever hear a butterfly fart?

I mean it has to happen, they eat fruit and nuts all day,
And when it happens to butterflys, does it help them fly away?

Is it like a little gas engine, that makes a putt, putt, putt?,
And does it stop abruptly, when he closes his butthole shut?.

Now I know that these are'nt questions you'd hear from a sane mans lips.
Does the butterfly eat extra, when he's planning longer trips?

Now when you're out enjoying a beautiful sunny day.
When you see a butterfly flying by, you won't see it in quite the same way.

Details | Thomas Plue Poem

The Plagerist

Your a plageristic son of a dog!
I once said to this guy.
Every thought that comes out of your head,
Is nothing but a lie.

The day that you decided,
To try and steal my words.
That's the day you changed from a man,
Into a pile of turds.

If that was your feeble attempt at humour?
Then sir I am not amused.
You signed your name under my words.
I feel violated and abused.

My first and foremost instinct,
Is to punch you in the head.
But I have decided it's better,
Wishing you were dead.

When you said you didn't mean it,
Well then that is just a shame.
Because when you signed the bottom,
You misspelled my name.