"milkman" poems
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
a cup of coffee
makes difference on
how you manage to make it
put your love into the cup of coffee
it makes it sweet
put a bit of hate and it becomes sour
every cup of coffee defines you and your personality
the way i make my coffee maybe different for you
but the coffee beans, the the milk, the way i make is same as you
but the chances of making the same coffee as i make is a zero because
every style, every cup makes a difference
every smell of the coffee,the style,the amount you put
everything is different
but you never realize the fact that
the cup of coffee
is
the same cup of coffee
whether you add something or remove
it remains the same cup of coffee
you never know how hard it is to make a cup of coffee
and yet you bark about it being bad
because you never seem to understand their people's hardwork
unless you feel it
even if its a cup of coffee
you enjoy it with a passionate love and care
HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR CUP OF COFFEE
because it's the same cup of coffee
that has been made by a diligent hardworker
putting his love and affection to his work
the very same coffee beans
that has been farmed by a diligent hardworking farmer
the very same milk that has been brought to you by hardworking milkman
you never cease to understand
how hard it is to make a cup of coffee with a smiley on it
because you never tried that
but but but you will still bark about it
even if its your fault
even if you know that
you should've hold the cup firmness
you understand everything once,
you throw your selfishness and
wait to admire the hard work ,the love,affection,the care that one cup of coffee brings you
and you realize that
a cup of coffee is not a cup of coffee
it's a world on how you decide to see it
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
Once, long ago,
An old man took me into his shop
And showed me his snowglobe collection.
Every one, spotless,
No trace of dust lining the rims.
I paused to gaze,
No,
Marvel,
At each scene:
Two children ice skating,
A milkman driving his truck,
Ladies reading magazines while having their hair styled.
Every one, spotless,
Until I lightly shook one,
Just enough so the snow sprinkled
The ice skating children,
The driving milkman,
The reading ladies.
But each scene was still, frozen in time,
Still, perfect.
I slumped to the floor,
Heartbroken and tears trailing down my cheeks.
I wanted their life so bad,
But all I could do was marvel,
No,
Gaze,
And lightly sprinkle the tiny figurines.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
That whistling Milkman so long ago
With tunes so happy and gay,
So very little did he know
How well he started my day,
The tinkling bottles
Of milk and cream,
Awoke me each morning
From my dreams,
With happy tunes
From this whistling man,
Brightening the day
Before it began.
5.2k
She was an ordinary girl.
Plaits beside a waistline she drew on with ribbon,
Fastening her thoughts she'd sworn to keep hidden.
Behind closed doors she would loosen the noose
Man tied up before her,
And bind up her lover
The milkman's daughter.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Her world was golden
her world was sleek
Designed for the brave
Any second minute, day or week.
She waited and she waited
For that special moment to come
She had read in her paperbacks
What thoughts to think overcome.
Petals began to fall on her in disgust
The Magnolia had worked this one out.
Leaves encircled her feet, leaving dust
a lonely image, imprint of her shadow.
Hope began to question itself in her heart
Should she stay or should she go.
I suppose a little longer just to play the part
of an excited young lady, would not matter.
She started to whisper to herself,
words of encouragement, so as not to cry.
The Magnolia shed its tears hours ago.
She could hear footsteps, nearer they came
This could be him, the love of her future life
But she had only got herself to blame.
It was a milkman delivering orange juice
"Not much call for the white stuff nowadays" he said
"I'll soon be out of a job" he chuckled.
His words went in and straight out of her head
She half smiled and looked beyond in hope.
Looking at her watch, at last she saw sense.
The Magnolia had thrown caution to the wind
a long time ago, but sent its emotion to line her path.
If it could hug it would have done I imagine.
She went home, he appeared, late, to a wilted leaf.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
You know, if I had a penny for every poem I have read with the theme of
"You don't know what you have until it's gone"
I would be a rich man
It's a shame that it took me seventeen years and a handful of special people
To realize that sometimes clichés are correct
I am not sure if you are aware
But each time you inhale
It is called an inspiration
And each time you exhale
It is called an expiration
So here I sit
Echoing a process that has been perfected throughout the millennia
Except I guess perfected would be a strong word
Because we don't have it right just yet
You were someone who inspired me
To become someone who I could be proud of
Someone whose own stories set my blood on fire
And filled me with hope that I could take the raw elements
Of myself and forge them into something great
Because that is exactly what you did
Just a milkman's son
Who ended up becoming the smartest man I know
Who taught thousands of students
Both privileged and poor
And couldn't tell the difference between the two
Who inspired two generations of people
To learn
To love
To laugh
Whose little gestures meant the world
To everyone who had the fortune to inhabit yours
Your five sons went on to become
Doctors and lawyers
Businessmen and police officers
Even if one wanted to be a clown
You married a beautiful woman
Who walked with love in her heart
And kindness kneaded into her hands
Your grandchildren, while there are a lot of us
Each owe you for the knowledge and kindness you instilled in us
All this from a milkman's son
This poem isn't goodbye
Because each time I draw inspiration from the atmosphere around me
I am thinking of you and I hold that **** breath for as long as I can
Just waiting for inspiration to hit me
I squeeze my eyes closed and hope against hope that everything is going to be okay
Because I am too scared to let that inspiration go, I am not ready to expire
So grandpa,
Please
For me
Take that breath.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
The Milkman Cometh
It could be Margie or it could be Pearl
bringing us our refreshment we trust
though we are all old dead beat boozers
we still enjoy sweet cookies dunked in lust
we waited for Hickey for as long as we could
to get this party off with a bang
but we've waited long enough I say
time for a grand toast gosh dang
Rocky gave us the okay to get started
but he asked us to leave Cora alone
she was busy baking a surprise cake
for the captain who was finally coming home
Hickey finally shows but wont raise his glass
says he sees better now that he's sober
but he couldn't take the kiss from her lips
and quickly began to disrobe her
got milk they all yelled as the night wore on
the police finally shut it all down
the chocolate had been spilled everywhere
the news was all over the town
Gomer LePoet....
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
THE POLICEMAN buys shoes slow and careful;
the teamster buys gloves slow and careful;
they take care of their feet and hands;
they live on their feet and hands.
The milkman never argues;
he works alone and no one speaks to him;
the city is asleep when he is on the job;
he puts a bottle on six hundred porches and calls it a day's work;
he climbs two hundred wooden stairways;
two horses are company for him;
he never argues.
The rolling-mill men and the sheet-steel men are brothers of cinders;
they empty cinders out of their shoes after the day's work;
they ask their wives to fix burnt holes in the knees of their trousers;
their necks and ears are covered with a ****
they scour their necks and ears;
they are brothers of cinders.
2.7k
Red post boxes stand on street corners like aged prostitutes
rusted and flaking
and they are going the way of phone boxes and TV aerial?
Are there still milkman?
Who writes letters?
Postcards from men
working down a pit?
Stuck in the trench
I killed time by attening seminars about powerful words,
the history of things,
body language as legitimate currency
exposing the micro.
A craven emptiness screaming extinction.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Woe is me
What have I seen
The ****** dog peed
All over my DVD machine
Woe is me
And twice woe
I lost my balance
And I stubbed my toe
Woe is me
It just isn't fair
I looked in the mirror
And saw I'm losing my hair
Woe is me
I hate my life
I came home and found
The milkman run off with my wife
Woe is me
I chased a mouse
Knocked over the electric fire
The curtains caught light and burnt down the house
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 10:18 PM UTC
Your old man
opened the door
and stood there smiling.
She won't be long
Benny boy
she's just making
herself beautiful
or haven't you
got that long?
and he laughed
and went back indoors
and left the door open ajar.
I stood there
on the red tiled doorstep
and waited
looking back
into the Square
seeing the man
with the boxer dog
walk past on his way
to the shop.
The milkman
was over the way
delivering milk to the flats
on the ground floor.
The door opened again
and your old man said
just off to the work
someone has to keep
the railways going
and he stepped off
down the steps
and away across
the Square
and down the slope.
Your brother Hem
came out the door
he stared at me
and went past
and around the corner
he didn't like me
since I beat him up
for throwing a firework
at my sister.
Then you came
to the door
in that white dress
and your hair in a mess.
Won't be long
you said
just got to have a wash
and be with you.
Ok
I said
see you soon
and you went back indoors
and closed the door.
I sat on the doorstep
watching the world go past
hoping you wouldnt be long
and sorted through
my small collection
of football cards
which ones to keep
and which ones to swap
at school on Monday.
I hoped you wouldnt be long
as the Saturday matinee
started in half an hour
and I hated
being late.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.
She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.
I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.
We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.
What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.
I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.
What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.
She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.
I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,
I say, he didn't care.
I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.
We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.
I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.
We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.
I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
Ponder the milkman.
Uniform obsolescence met evolution
Occupation is what you are reduced to,
In a body
Not meant for boundaries
Some nausea from the neighbor’s perfect lawn
There is anxiety pouring from that clock
Cerebral mardi gras parade rolling the spine
Crackling bottle rockets that pepper nerve endings
Between the shouting and *******
Accompanied by beads of sweat
My love
Ain’t all in the hips, some comes
Outside of me, but through me all goes
All I could ever know
And always less I could tell you
Things aren’t the same, they never will be
That truth like a statue
Carved from ever step forward
That forgot what backwards meant
The Milkmen may be a dead breed
But I know children who have soul
Dressed all in that pearly white
Ready to deliver
Themselves
To everything.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
At this time of my life
I find myself wearing hats…
I’m not happy with my head you see,
In short, being able to see it
it just doesn’t thrill me.
Not through those depressing, disappearing strands.
So it’s that time - It’s hat time!
Hats are warm, comforting things;
take it off and, for a while at least,
it feels still there - a phantom hat.
Not quite as spooky or worrying
as a phantom arm or leg - after that
severed limb thing, but right there!
It really is that time - It’s hat time!
My Grandma Lamplough,
that’s on my mother’s side,
was an avid knitter of things to order,
She was even a freelancer for Jaeger…
matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers
But in later days mostly just tea cosies.
If there was no immediate customer in mind…
“Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all”
she would say… and anyway,
commissions were rare for cosies back in the day
She’d wear it boldly herself
with handle and spout slots front & back, proud
She’d start the next one and announce
to every visitor right out loud…
”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your ***
Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot!
But then he showed up every day!
A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today!
Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig
or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig ….
I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret,
news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate
and avoid the comb over till a later date.
Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:32 AM UTC
Semi-
——-
Something new, in our years of partnership,
during
the early morning semi’s, the half awake, yet
mostly asleep, passageway from rest to wake,
as per usual, I am awake before her, to write,
to think, to read, to do my variety of early morn
chores, but today, her semi is populated by a
new concern, an alert, mind programmed, silent,
no chirp, no beep, just human punctual new instinct,
let us
check if my man is alive and breathing, rub his
thankfully copious-headed hair & air supply,
rub-a-dub,
once, repeat twice, thrice, sense his beating brain,
confirming the night passage, always dangerous,
completed safely, for she feels my warmth, hears
my eyes-crinkle smiling, and ascertains, the
continuation of my existence and the statistical
probability, (her occupational hazard and habit)
that when
she crosses fulsome into the living day,
awakensgladly, that her not-too-hot-black
coffee, will be
mister milkman delivered on schedule with
a bedside delivery like clockwork-blonde, with a
half sheet of enwrapping paper towel within some
morning fruit, to ensure that her coffee will have some company…
while she dances a beloved tango in her semi-,
I am:
*in my only~pretending post-tense,
semi complimentary state,
mentally scrambling scribbling half a dozen
eggs of new poem ideas, mad pursuing these
very words, my way of saying good morning girl,
my beating heart muscling me to be sure I-remain,
in the good company of the Oompa-Loompas,
and yours too*!
Jul 31, 2023
Jul 31, 2023 at 7:44 AM UTC
I didn't wait long
for the milkman to arrive
but instead of milk he had
liquid cyanide
and I didn't know how to tell him
that I was all set with that
so I paid him, zipped my lips
and decided that was that.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
.
No milk today.
Please tell the cows its nothing personal.
© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC
It was me, I killed the Butler
and what you've heard is true.
But before I am condemned
Let me explain to you...
The milkman killed the ferrel cat,
set a trap and let it starve
So now no longer there will be
sick kittens in his yard.
The schoolboys killed the milkman
Maybe it was some sad trick
Maybe it was just an accident
I'll let you take your pick.
The Butler killed the schoolboys
I won't pretend that I know why
He shot them each in the chest
then fired his gun into the sky.
And yes, I killed the Butler
I didn't even know his name
He snuck up upon me
and now I'm the one they blame.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
[an imagined monologue of an elderly lady]
It's taken me a while to think
To think what I wanted to say
Did you put the note out for the milkman?
I'm sorry. It's just, I need to pay
You know how it is, the way
some people just want me to go
You know, you've got your own life, so
Don't feel you have to stay
I think I'm just in the way
Perhaps it'd be better if I just...
Is that the milkman? I need to pay
Is it Thursday or Friday today?
Dear they all seem the same
What was I saying?
Oh nevermind. Pass my my purse, dear
have I got the money for Ray?
I think I'll just be going, now
There's no reason really to stay
That's it. Put it back on the tray, dear
So I was saying, what I wanted to say
Oh it's taken me a while to think
To think what I wanted to say
Do you think that God will accept me?
I still sometimes kneel to pray
But then I cannot get up, dear
If my stick's left too far away
There's not enough money you say?
Oh, then how will I pay?
Oh, then how will I pay?
That's what I wanted to say
*For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God
is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 6:23*
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 2:31 PM UTC
Lydia's mother
opened the door
of the flat
after I had knocked
and gave me
a stern stare
is Lydia coming out?
I asked
she looked hard
at me
where?
to the herbalist
get some sarsaparilla
I said
sarsaparilla?
she said
yes it's good for you
they say
makes blood
I said
she looked
at my scuffed shoes
and blue jeans
and the gun and holster
hanging
from the snake head
elastic belt
around my waist
I suppose she can
her mother said
LYDIA
she bellowed
windows rattled
a dog
across the Square
barked
the milkman's horse
lifted its head
from the nosebag
Lydia came to the door
and poked her head
out from under
her mother's arm
Benedict here
wants to take you
to get a sarsaparilla
Lydia looked at you
her eyes narrowing
then widening
ok
she said
can I go?
she asked
course if I say so
as long
as you are wrapped warmer
than you are now
her mother said
Lydia rushed back inside
and her mother
took a long drag
of a cigarette
her yellowing fingers
in a V shape
what's your father
do for a living?
she asked
the smoke carrying
her words to me
he's a metal worker
I said
he makes things
from metal
she stared at me
a few loose hairs
had escaped
the flowery scarf
about her head
I think
he frequents ******
she said
I see
I said
unsure
what she was saying
she inhaled
on the cigarette again
her eyes
gazing beyond me
keep Lydia out
a fair while
she said
pushing out smoke
I want to rest
my eyes a while
ok
I said
she went indoors
and I waited for Lydia
sniffing in the smoke
hanging about
the doorstep
the dog barked again
the horse ate
from the nosebag
the milkman whistled
a few notes
from some tune
I sniffed the smoke again
hoping Lydia
would be out
wrapped warm soon.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
You are the Titan of Tears,
Sobbing to the unforgiving milkman
Who breaks your ***** bottles
And feeds you curdled milk
From withering cattle.
He crunches around broken glass
With his scuffed leather boots on your front porch
As you watch from a hole in your bedroom wall,
Losing your first piece of dignity
And the last of the sanity carrying you since age ten.
You are the Titan of Tears,
Crying to the cutthroat poetess
Who refuses to send your estranged sister
A collection of misery soaked poetry.
She burns your insincere words in front of the mailbox;
Stanza by stanza the ash coats your mouth
Like lipstick for the ******
Spiraling into smoke as she walks away
Fast enough to lose her in the midst of your fit.
The Titan of Tears—
You whimper in torn apart doorways
To block out strangers who will never appear.
You, Titan,
Who only feels clean when flossing
In the harshest of summer storms
Because you believe your great God is washing
Sins out of your matted hair.
You, Titan,
Whose childhood feels never-ending like evening traffic.
Childhood is the milky smoke you witness
Seeping from your dying neighbor’s chimney;
Childhood stares at you
Like glassy eyed pigeons outside of your office window
As you weep into your cold black coffee, Titan.
Your lacking adulthood is full of sloppy attempts to silence
Barking dogs in your slush brain,
Pushing down the bile that rises in your flaking throat,
As water floods your eyes like a basement during Katrina
And feeding worms writhe out of your flared nostrils,
Covered in snot and blackened discharge.
You are the Titan of Tears;
Your weeping rivals Mother Mary’s ****** streaks.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
*With heavy breaths
Pounding heart
Perspiring temple
I woke up in the middle of the night.
Was it a nightmare?
Or what?
I looked at the watch.
3 AM it said.
I gulped some cold water.
And let my breaths settle.
I tried to sleep
But in vain.
“I’ll take a walk.”
I said to myself.
“A bad idea!”
No sooner did my feet retort,
I found someone’s still gaze upon me.
I’d never known him.
But something about him
Seemed familiar.
Was he a colleague of mine?
Or my milkman?
I smiled at him.
He smiled back.
Forced smile, noticeably.
With unkempt long hair
Sullen abysmal eyes
Wrinkles of stress
Head loaded down
Wrapped in shabby clothes
Lost he was in his own thoughts.
He looked troubled.
Did he lose someone special?
I decided to talk to him.
I started to walk in his direction.
Astoundingly he too moved in my direction.
“He too wants to talk to me?”
I thought.
We kept moving towards each other
Until he crashed into the reality
And I, into the mirror.*
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
Annette, she was a Worthingham
And Karen, she was a Lee,
But both of them were adopted
In the war, in ’43.
They pulled them out of a rubbled house
But their folks, they couldn’t save,
And so they grew as the sisters two
With the common name, Palgrave.
As sisters, they were like chalk and cheese
Though the neighbours didn’t know,
They said that one was the milkman’s
And the other, Lord Mulrow’s.
For Annette, she was a saucy ****
Was the wilder of the two,
While Karen, she had a stately mien
With a haughty, grand purview.
They fought like cats through their teenage years
Would curse and swear, conspire,
Annette destroyed Karen’s underwear
While Karen burned hers in the fire.
The mother was pale, and frail and ill
When she asked them both to go,
‘I don’t have to keep you anymore,
I adopted you both, you know!’
The news hit home like a thunderbolt,
They looked in each other’s eyes,
‘You mean, we’re not really sisters, Hell!’
It came as a great surprise.
Karen went to her room to brood
Annette was flooded with tears,
‘Why weren’t we told, it seems so cold,
We should have known that for years.’
So Annette got a cold water flat
While Karen lived on the Square,
Then Annette got herself pregnant, but
Nobody seemed to care.
The boyfriend didn’t appear one day
And she knew that he was gone,
She drifted into a deep despair
As time went travelling on.
She got so big that she couldn’t cope
And she thought to take her life,
And then there came a knock at the door
Just as she raised the knife.
She groaned and whispered to go away
As she lay flat out on the cot,
‘It’s Karen here, it’s your sister, dear,
I’m the only one you’ve got!’
She’d brought a parcel of food with her
And a daffodil layette,
‘I couldn’t choose between pink or blue,
Not knowing it’s gender yet.’
They hugged each other and burst in tears
For a love they hadn’t shown,
While caught in an unknown falsehood, but
Their sisterhood had grown.
David Lewis Paget
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC