"brooms" poems
74
A Lady red—amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms—
Sweep vale—and hill—and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird—
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the “Resurrection”
Were nothing very strange!
10.3k
By Arcassin Burnham
when you looked in to my eyes,
i had the strangest feeling,
flying rodents in my tummy,
retro waves came rolling in,
witches and their brooms,
soldiers at war , fighting and weaponry,
car crashes into the lake, with fire and debris,
clowns making entertainment amusing at the circus,
make you happy with one kiss unless its worth it,
stuck in a dream wave,
retro waves that came rolling in.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
could it be a ********
like cotton buds
from the ***** flower
a witched river
under dark clouds
of brooms that don't fly anymore
maybe in need of an upgrade
perhaps a spell of weaponized winds
with insinuated floating ghouls
shaking their lopsided claws
under blood orchards
and diagrams of grief
as they follow their noses
looking for *****
******* the scent of vivacious
zyzzyva
loving oozing laughter
thirsty skin
needles too
**** heroine stuck on toe picket fences
mimicry of ducks blood butter
like a crime scene of kisses that went to far
eggs and runny yokes left puddled on a thigh
the ****** burps Pans milkshake
*** legacy legs
lookin for love
auto asphyxiated in a closet fringy and hanging with a hardon
lost eyes and drool
somewhere in Thailand
after spicy noodle soup
and a Tsingtao
hurt me
hurt you
i'm an evil boweval
a Zyzzyva come to love you
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
sometimes i feel like i’m two creatures caught
b
e
n
e
a
t
h
skin
sharing one body.
my tongue rough- sandpaper, broken glass, too many curses
while the lips around it burn with apologies
fleshy brooms sweeping up the messes
of another woman.
i feel like there are two animals
each fighting for their right to shine through
they’re voracious in this battle— it surprises me that their clawstalonssteeth don’t break through the thin expanse of flesh to the outside.
i have two women living within my skull
one wildroughfighting— slinging glasses and insults.
face paint, bones and bottle trees, fire and ash
wet pine needles under bleeding feet.
the biting creature who leaves bruises on the lips of men.
the warrior, Artemis. laughdancing through flames.
a bear, a wolf, a cat, a bird.
animal in nature.
the other fights with words.
elegant, gentle, soft, break able-- everything the other
cannot afford to be.
goddess of the hearth, she feeds her comrades like children
keeps fires stocked with woods
and binds bleeding arms.
this woman carries pitchers of water
writes sweet letters to missing friends
and opens her soul to many lovers.
am I some crude splice of these creatures?
am I a ******* of these mothers— each passionate
one biting, brackish tides, slow moving rivers, still ponds
the other a warm, clean bath?
am I both simultaneously, or am I wearing one face while the other
watches behind mine eyes?
I am the moon—
full and loving, dark and hiding
and something in between.
yeah, that sounds about right.
something in between.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
I asked again but my hope refused to extinguish,
It smiled and told I had always been distinguished.
So, I kept checking my mail box even if it seemed lame,
I kept waiting and waiting but that Hogwarts letter never came.
Eleven progressed to twelve, twelve to thirteen,
Mistaken- I thought-they must have been,
Meanwhile I did my own reading and learnt all the curses,
And with the wand I never had I practiced all the verses.
First of September arrived again, and again, and again.
And with the years that passed, so increased the pain,
“So the age limit isn’t actually eleven!” then I optimistically thought,
“Oh! What a brutal test of patience they cleverly plot!”
Pictures in newspaper don’t move, brooms yet don’t fly,
And yes there are times that these thoughts make me cry,
“Hogwarts doesn’t exist”- Oh! These oblivious muggles continue to tell,
Deep down they are just jealous that they just can’t cast a spell,
“Well, can you?” they ask laughing and teasing,
Their voice brimming up with sarcastic appeasing…
“Not yet” I silently speak, “Just wait for days some...
My pretty little Hogwarts letter is just about to come.”
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
If Nigeria was a book,
It will be as big as an oxford English dictionary
Cause, our problems alone will be too many to write down
There won’t be any table of contents
Just like that old song goes, “everywhere jaga jaga”.
If Nigeria was a book,
Readers will never be leaders
Instead, they become cheerleaders when it’s election season flaunting brooms and umbrellas over their heads.
If Nigeria was a book,
The book itself will be imported
Each word will be written in red
If you get to read in between the lines you will find corruption on every single page.
If Nigeria was a book,
You wouldn’t want to read it, you would say “nothing come out”
But yet
The book defines us
It is our home
It is our pride
Our remedy is still in the book.
Fortune Maine
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 7:11 AM UTC
219
She sweeps with many-colored Brooms—
And leaves the Shreds behind—
Oh Housewife in the Evening West—
Come back, and dust the Pond!
You dropped a Purple Ravelling in—
You dropped an Amber thread—
And how you’ve littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!
And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars—
And then I come away—
4.6k
Smoke, it is all smoke
in the throat of eternity. . . .
For centuries, the air was full of witches
Whistling up chimneys
on their spiky brooms
cackling or singing more sweetly than Circe,
as they flew over rooftops
blessing & cursing their
kind.
We banished & burned them
making them smoke in the throat of god;
we declared ourselves
"enlightened."
"The dark age of horrors is past,"
said my mother to me in 1952,
seven years after our people went up in smoke,
leaving a few teeth, a pile of bones.
The smoke curls and beckons.
It is blue & lavender
& green as the undersea world.
It will take us, too.
O let us not go sheepishly
clinging to our nakedness.
But let us go like witches ****** heavenward
by the Goddess' powerful breath
& whistling, whistling, whistling
on our beautiful brooms.
3.9k
The **** blooms weren’t even that pretty
and the nicest thing on the ground was dead.
Gas trucks and red cars turned up the earth;
we should get out of here.
It was orange zest in the middle of doughy flour,
a risk that not many chefs take.
It was leaves from autumn, twisted
and forgotten under shoes of hikers.
It was the sunset sand art that dropped, soundly
to the ground, left for brooms and vacuums.
Outlined like the eyes of an Indian princess,
the wings left its powder matter, a footprint,
by the shoreline and asphalt.
But the Earth didn’t care;
and the **** blooms, the chefs, the hikers, the brooms,
they didn’t care. What a treacherous thing,
to take a risk when you think people care.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
only the children of the vandal.
iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
to our locomotives.
iv.
the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v.
somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
yet i am
not coming home.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
I hunt antelope in human hordes.
I haul three brooms on one shoulder.
I don't clean up.
I dance with specters and minuscule magenta men.
I am the precocious girl in fuchsia heels and charcoal dress.
I am the humble man with stark white tails.
I pull drops of food from the ether.
I pinch seeds from flower's eyes.
I touch like feathers and embrace like mountains.
I take leave when I want to.
I am the shaggy oak watching his youth flash past.
I am the alabaster orb and the effervescent waves.
I eat the wind with a dash of cinnamon.
I exude thunderstorms from every pore.
I sleep with stingrays and the smell of wet hay.
I spend blood-soaked bills without a second thought.
I am the sinless murderer.
I am the woman with eyes that mend bones.
I fly with eagles in the cerulean.
I fight Irish brawlers with my eyes closed.
I capture hearts in nets of lavender and silk.
I climb towering opal obelisks.
I am the painter's muse and the singer's breath.
I am the hoary frost on ancient limbs.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 11:07 AM UTC
what a joy it is
to have a new broom
for it sweeps clean
all of my rooms
the old one had gone
well past its used by date
as the straw in it
did quickly dissipate
working with my new broom
is a breeze
brushing away the dirt
is done with ease
and there is an added bonus
with the broom
I can set it on
low power or on high zoom
I have had many brooms
throughout the years
but none of them
have filled me with many cheers
the present one
is truly a delight to employ
and it sweeps better
than Mrs Troys
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Tales of ghouls and trick or treats
Witches, ghosts, and things to eat
The spirit world is here to greet
It's Hallowe'en again
Soaping windows, creaky doors
Begging like addicted ******
They keep coming, they want more
It's Hallowe'en again
Haunted houses, ghostly frights
Witches flying brooms tonight
A zombie lawyer is quite a sight
It's Hallowe'en agin
Charlie Brown and Snoopy too
Get rocks as treats, I ask...do you?
Dressed as smurfs, all done in blue
It's Hallowe'en again
The smell of fall is in the air
Tonight the kids are out to scare
I stay downstairs like I'm not there
It's Hallowe'en again
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
allow me to celebrate the ant
summer miscre-ant in my kitchen
picking up pieces of pieces "to go":
a crumb of Meow Mix, a crushed Cheerio;
applied the usual eco-safe spray
detecting this way too feint for they
amassed to quest their innate objective
exploring and toting the prime directive;
hymenoptera tents with doors
four on the floor: cafes of poison
for caulking the cracks in the walls hadn't solved
the stay-past-your-welcome guests involved;
soon numbers diminished but still a few
creeping through unrepent-ant
I swept thrice per day to starve them out
yet brooms are too thick all crannies to rout;
surrendered and wondered, perhaps they are teachers
attempting to bypass my brainy block
too thick to buzz with what the ants know?
I squat as a toddler to take-in their show;
for hours observing them (off and on)
until an implosion of comm-ants sense
challenged my globalized conception
exposing my mind to ant redemption;
the ant is now my writing totem
trouble though they'll be next June
within this mantra is what they knew:
one moment one crumb to carry and chew;
insight's relative I realize
ants have their own frustrations with size
but ponder the ant when writing time's little:
at peace with a piece of ant-agonist vittle.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
1252
Like Brooms of Steel
The Snow and Wind
Had swept the Winter Street—
The House was hooked
The Sun sent out
Faint Deputies of Heat—
Where rode the Bird
The Silence tied
His ample—plodding Steed
The Apple in the Cellar snug
Was all the one that played.
2.1k
Life’s just a riddle that none of us can answer
we’ve got some leads, we’ve got some clues.
Still the answer eats alive like a cancer,
and the treatment is something I’m like to refuse.
It was raining
as always in September.
They were complaining
about what; I don’t remember.
Reputation staining,
or maybe full dismember.
In need of some training
or my tempers need to be tempered.
It’s true you can never go back home,
being on your own doesn’t need to mean being alone.
You can gift the people silver, gold and chrome
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.
Life’s just a puzzle that’s missing a piece;
you can try your hardest to fit in another,
or you can accept it and leave the picture incomplete,
and spend the rest of your time left to be frustrated and suffer.
It was a cold December,
some would say you could smell the ice.
I only seem to remember,
the nerve of those celebrating, bleedin’ Christ.
Start a fire but end up with embers
I think a spark or light would be nice.
So I go in search of vendors
but they’re charging far too high of a price.
The nightmare had a nightmare of its own
never learned to share even though it’s full grown.
You can gift people blankets and tapestries that you’ve sewn,
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.
Life is like a flower
it blooms out until it drops.
Each day hour after hour,
until time’s ticking then stops.
For treasure I still scour
moving so fast my steps are hops,
and the floors filthy; needs a shower
but I think I’ve broken the brooms and mops.
It’s true you can never go back home,
the path is covered by weeds and stone,
and to each town and city you roam
there will be those who ask how to skin a bone.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
***(Long, long ago,
when people still
believed in witches...)***
**-To wander
longingly through
the forest in search
of mystery, but
she herself was
a haunted house.
When night comes,
the whole witch chorus
follows anon.
On brooms of blazing
embers they ride,
Jumping out
of Hell-fire.
The wind is hushed,
The stars grow pale
while the black cat cries
to the moon.
It was All Hallow's Eve,
the ancient ones could tell.
Where ghosts haunt their
graveyard,
Until the morning stars sang
together.**
***(Here, in the forest,
dark and deep,
I offer you
eternal sleep...)***
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
another construction friday:
smash, lift, grunt, clean, sweep, collect, empty . . . (grind)
lift up (hup!) doors, hang 'em, nail 'em in.
rap up the stairs, feet heavy in big old boots
thighs aflame --- heavy--fuck
clomp
clomp--stomp. swish.
stop for lunch: sandwich/grapes/arizona
sandwich only cheese so not satisfied full..
dusts in the mouth
(and nostrils) so i sneeze & sneeze
raw-nosed in the attic cleaning
---brooms and dust dust dust.
good view to the bay up second level tho:
autumn vistas and panoramas and waves on white shorelines
giant's tomb in the deep, breast heaving
big wide windows w/wasps buzzing eternal
buzz
whack each with rolled window installation guide
grind with the heel
grsch
each one dead is replaced with one more
crawling from odd upstairs nest
---from rest.
feel guilty & awful killing them but
so aggressive in their slowness (compensating) this time of year that
moving material presents good risk of sting.
---zing.
hope they will forgive me.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
why can't family be family again
we used to always be friends
we used to huddle together
whenever we got scared
we felt the warmth in one anothers arms
because we knew the love was there
we used to build forts out of whatever we had in our rooms
and wage sars
throwing pillows, books, and brooms
we used to have mini mosh pits
with just the four of us
we headbanged and pushed
we screamed and pretended to cuss
we used to protect eachother
we used to defend one another
we used to stand together like brothers and sister
when mom punished us we would all resist her
we used to be a family
a family that would always care
we used to be a family with more happiness than despair
we used to be a family that never hogged food or air
we used to be a family that told eachother we were there
we used to be a family
a family that sat down toghether and ate
we used to be a family full of our own ideas that we create
we used to be a family that got along without debate
we used to be a family with more love than hate
so why can't family be family again
and remember why those times were so good
why can't family be family again
and treat eachother the way we should
why can't family be family again
and throw the hate away
why can't family be family again
and invite the love to stay
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
Our teacher rides on her broom
she levitates on it in our classroom
she will snap and then deride
wish she'll take her pride for a ride!
Our teacher rode off on her broom
and there was joy in the classroom!
Our teacher came back from her ride
and all the students stirred inside,
"How do we rid her?"
"We must decide!"
"There are students in other classrooms
that also ride as you on brooms"
"They need a guide!"
"They want your brew!"
"They can ride along with you!"
"They can be your new crew!"
"Fly to them now, that's what you should do!"
" We won't miss you, we won't be blue ! "
"Fly to them now, that's what you should do!"
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
The sun was still cold in your breath,
half-awake still dreaming and we are way past that hour,
just waiting for the first light to break in and steal the dark away like a stereo.
The air was fetid,
reeking of sad news,
swirling about,
but we moseyed along carrying dustpans and brooms,
lugging garbage bags
like we were sanitation Santa, sweeping cigarette butts,
and in them I saw burnt time,
and in them I see mounting bills.
The cold air was doing a number
on us, dumping its oblique
sorrow on our then ragged frame
as we emptied waste baskets.
At times when I utter the word doctor,
your eyes go creamy,
your ears wag,
perhaps I was doing an impression—
an echo
of a forgotten life.
People were still groggy on their cardboard beds, their lips wearing soot as they drooped down on the side of their faces, the night weighed heavy on them.
Unlike most sight that slide through and veer away from despair in the flesh, yours fell on them with flecks of your heart knowing that from them we are dimes apart.
We swept, but your broom was nimble, springing into life in those days. Out of nowhere your hope swung a fist. I always remembered those words like a promise and held on to them like a limb.
“Though the world may forget, don’t dare forget who you are.”
Oct 8, 2024
Oct 8, 2024 at 12:58 AM UTC
“In sickness and in health
till death do us part”
She exploded in my heart
threw me off my feet
Across a living room filled
with nights only she can host
I spoke of her to those across the world
who will never experience what it is
to fall for a city
it is beyond patriotism
this ineffable love for a sleepless phenomenon
who homes strangers
shook the world
with shockwaves
that equaled the chemical imbalance
its people have for their city
Under the debris of sparkling glass
she was broken
there’s so much she can withstand
even when we always stand by her side
shards engrave themselves under thick skin
poking at the body that still believes in love at first breath
At a heart that does not know how to stop
At a will-power that questions its creator about its strength
At a body that homes an identity beyond this world
alien to it
toxicity hovered in lungs
And across skies
blushing clouds
turning them pink
Sunset wasn’t serene
The ocean cradled bodies
on their way to the afterlife
They cried salty tears
Fed up.
Her soil has felt the stomping anger of grieving mothers, fathers, husbands
families
the last words of suffocating victims who never lost hope till
The angels opened the doors of the sky
To welcome new brave souls into the heavens
to lead by example
their white coffins
wed the earth with the skies
they watch over us
Brooms brushed her face
Hands held others
Homes homed
Revolutionists revolted
Nooses were hung
judgment day is knocking
at our hearts
and mind you, we are known
for our hospitality
She cannot cry
She never did
It never suited her
But she sure knows how to roar
how to devour
parasites feeding at her immortality
I wear your ring around my finger
“In sickness and in health
till nothing does us part”
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 2:23 AM UTC
i.
in him like the sewing needle of god’s mother; is lightning.
in you a koan.
ii.
now that she wants the surgery removed
they tell her
the womb
is a hook
that looks like a womb.
iii.
everywhere work.
stalks
pitch
the golden blood
of brooms.
iv.
mother in her rocker
her eyes
tire swings
her tongue
a cat’s tail.
v.
fourteen
my sister
martyrs herself
under the monkey
mad
in the stoplight.
vi.
in a church
hangs a coat
with a man
in it.
vii.
does not break loose
like they say
all hell.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
welcome to the horror show
where webs from spiders
stream and flow,
where witches fly upon their brooms,
offering poisoned apple brew
where monsters play
where shadows dance
where screams are songs of violence
masks go up, horns and crowns
running running, away, around
sew your ears and pluck your eyes
this is the only way to stop your own demise
Jul 6, 2023
Jul 6, 2023 at 6:19 PM UTC