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He was the ocean; handsome, but yet, Impulsively damaged. He had a sandy heart to correspond his sandy eyes, the moon dismantled that omitted pride he carried at a dead weight; shoveling and reshaping it, so people would see a sandcastle statue assembled in strength. But his washed-up soul and unannounced insecurities were aware of its genuine purpose,
this beach alongside his pupils;
quicksand, he'll sink so slowly in.  Waves in his hair like ripples on his cheeks, skipping stones land at his defeat, he left notes in bottles for you, sank multiple ships for you, because he hasn't the heart to say he's desiccating with the arrival of the stars.. Retracting scars are not too far from gasps for air,  foaming words of crisis by writing in the sand, signaling a light as the last one in him died. You wouldn't understand, the calm before the storm, as valve after valve puncture him. So intoxicating as it drains him, and from within, he's drying out. Sunburns stain him, a smile restrains him,
in an inescapable drought--
All feedback is welcome
So this was posted here a couple weeks ago and, when I went to revise it, it was drafted and came out as new, I guess? :)
the bed is not very big

a sufficient pillow shoveling
her small manure-shaped head

one sheet on which distinctly wags

at times the weary twig
of a neckless ******
(very occasionally budding

a flabby algebraic odour

jigs
        et tout en face
always wiggles the perfectly dead
finger of thitherhithering gas.

clothed with a luminous fur

poilu

        a Jesus sags
in frolicsome wooden agony).
John Mahoney Dec 2012
it is winter,
still
although warm days
deceive us

dead branches
brown lawns
desolation

now, finally, in a winter's
black night
giant, sodden,
perfect
snowflakes
drift

the sky clouded
     full of snow
to make the night sky
     day

we stand
each wielding a shovel
working

sharing the joy
in this
perfect
winter
moment

         in which
the universe once again

seems to work

yet,

it is the bond
of the shared moment
which generates an
intensity of
closeness

a perfect understanding
between souls
strung out along
the driveway


shoveling snow
in a cloud of grey
steam
Sam Temple Oct 2014
multimedia macramé
sloshing propaganda sewage
on the unsuspecting public
***** lice infest ****** hill folk
west Virginia outbreak threatening the world
as we know it
flesh altering nonsense explicitly graphed
charting movement of microbes
on air, land, and/ or sea
global currents the new deliverer of death –
infected immigrants sit smiling
internment camps providing nutrition
never before experienced
as non-natives negotiate freedom
by submitting to vaccinations baths
and the standard delousing powder –
paranoid hand-sanitizer users
glued to the **** tube
spray their shoes with disinfectant
praying to an absent GOD for health
while shoveling GMO corn chips into ever widening
mouth holes
pharmaceutical companies lick lifeless lips
as Congress recognizes their humanity
while rejecting the concerns of the poor
…..no money in it –
outlandish claims of outbreaking Ebola
flood the mainstream outlets
fear: version – infinity
one more plague plan to stimulate new legislation
more law
no touching
even looking at the infirm can be cause for isolation
radiation treatments
courtesy of Fukushima, reactors 1-4 –
new found focus on fracturing the shale
releasing new oil reserves
and old bacteria
dinosaur killers
free-radicals
radically changing the genetic code
humanity altered
once again –
Harly Coward Oct 2014
"Do you know who the prime minister of Canada is?"

"Hmmm isn't it Tim Horton?"

Sweating, shivering, and shoveling snow,
Looking up with relief as the flakes begin to slow.

Starting our mornings with pancakes drizzled in gooey sweet syrup
And greasy, cheesy, poutine being our last meal we eat up.

We hike up a green lush mountain just to see the view
And shoot down the slopes of silvery snow and feel as if we flew.

The rascally beavers are our vandals, the loons are our song,
The cougars reminding us that we are strong.

We are Canadian, eh?
But would we really want it any other way?
am i ee Jan 2016
blizzard passes
fluffy snow left
deep footprints

sun comes out
melting mountains of snow
night falls

cold descends
ice freezes hard
top layer of snow

now hard
feet don't
fall deep

owing the universe
a mountain of shoveling
shovel in hand

off i go.....
Scarlet McCall Jan 2017
a rewrite of When the Levee Breaks that was inspired by a hideous snowstorm a few years ago*

If it keeps on snowing,
Tree limb's going to break
If it keeps on snowing,
Tree limb's going to break
The street is icy  and
cars don’t have time to brake

All last night
Sat on the A train alone
All last night
Sat on the A train alone
The train don’t move
And I’m trying to get home

Plowing won’t help you
Shoveling won’t do you no good
I said, plowing won’t help you
Shoveling won’t do you no good
When it keeps on snowing,
Mama, you got to move

Don’t it make you feel bad when you’re trying to get home and you don’t know which way to go
Cause the power line’s down and the wind’s blowing hard and you can’t see which way’s the road

It’s coming down now, it’s coming down now, ooh ooh
sing it!
Jamie King Sep 2014
We are young men buried in books
Shoveling words every day
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Ours minds drained deep in the pools
Of knowledge. So they say
We are young men buried in books.

We find ourselves caught in hooks
Of wisdom seekers shall we pray?
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Exhausted, some will turn into crooks
While we proudly remain grey
We are young men buried in books.

We bear fruit of hope from the roots
Of pain so follow the rules we lay
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Are we zombies in schools?
In our paths we never stray.
We are young men buried in books
As we are gradually shaped into tools.
I've never been the one to follow structures when it comes to poetry but when I heard about the villanelle and how difficult it is to master I just got excited and inspired
Parker May 2018
I followed the path that had signs to sunflowers
When I arrived, everything was dead
The full moon no longer shines and a dark cloud have been chasing my every step.
Living with sadness is like receiving a broken instrument
A printer with no ink
A car with no wheels
I stopped fighting it
  Existing as a shell of the man I once was shoveling dirt on the man I could of been
Watching the clocks lie
The silence is deafening
and
hope taunts me out of reach
Mary Ann Osgood Feb 2011
she said something about her food
and looked towards her mother

i'm sorry
it may not have been interesting
but I was talking

— The End —