"sweepers" poems
I wander thro’ each charter’d street.
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow
A mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man.
In every Infants cry of fear.
In every voice; in every ban.
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackening Church appalls.
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
5.7k
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
3.3k
What was known yet unseen
was a king and a dying queen
holding their last kiss good bye
That day the kiss died
He then ordered all his men
to bind all lovers in his den
Every embrace ever lied
The day the kiss died
The Judge and the Law
all came to find flaw
In any poet or guide
The day the kiss died
Finding two lovers, that spoke
of how his and her lips broke
Evidence, they could not hide
The day the kiss died
They cried,
*“We hold and we touch
yet it’s not enough in as much
a kiss can’t be denied”*
The day the kiss died
With a kiss hid in their heart
They tore them apart
and took them aside
The day the kiss died
Children chanted, *“the kiss of death
will draw your last breath.
Don’t or dare to no longer abide”*
The day the kiss died
And all the people they wept
and the sweepers that swept
the sad streets, they sighed
The day the kiss died
In lace they all dressed
in hope to lay the last kiss to rest
In a coffin to confide
The day the kiss died
That night,
Artists repainted the sky
Lanterns hung high
In the black rain they cried
The day the kiss died
While white doves bled red
It was heard and it was said
even the angels cried
The day the kiss died
The clowns in all places
Painted a frown on their faces
for all grooms and the brides
The day the kiss died
Old widows slept as it seems
waiting for their dreams
nuns by their side
The day the kiss died
The romantics broke doors
of bottle shops and liquor stores
yet the wine had all dried
The day the kiss died
Yet, still up north and down south
lovers, for love, open their mouth
welcoming death near and wide
The day the kiss died
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 3:44 AM UTC
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep,
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.
Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lambs back was shav’d, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair
And so he was quiet. & that very night.
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight
That thousands of sweepers **** Joe, Ned, & Jack
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black,
And by came an Angel who had a bright key
And he open’d the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.
Then naked & white, all their bags left behind.
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father & never want joy.
And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
2.6k
Uniformed and re-upped,
We are the mind sweepers,
The navel gazers moving lint,
Waiting for the image to strike.
We are the missals
And the launchers,
Looking through cross-hairs
From think tanks.
We captain verse vessels to shore,
Unload and return for more.
We are the Romantic
Ancient sub-conscious mariners
Stitched in hammocks.
We are rocketeers.
A force
To reckon.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.
Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
The street was dark and so too were my eyes
I walked down the cobble under darkened skies
I walked down the stone, ankle breakers sets
Gamblers in the alleys watching on, making bets
The buildings stand guard on the night for their lords
keeping them safe, open their mouths; in filth pours
Light poles, with dim candles, give hope for safe journey
Dark alley ways steal eyes, make nervous muscles in our sides
Window light, guardian ports, fly catchers, laundry holes
Shines on the street, waiting for me, with it meet
Footsteps creep around edges avoiding sight
But it’s easy to see, all this going on in the night
Out of law exchangers making changes in pocket stuff
50 for the things, that make pigs squeal, illegal deal
Children's eyes are shut, in bed, not here with us
Tucked in warm and tight, not here with the people of the night
Street sweepers weep, we drink, bottles broken at our feet
Bar tab one too many, stumble, mumble, home on the street
Pickpockets delight, puts up no fight, pockets empty when drunk
Bourgeoisie snobs make prison demands! Lock them away tight!
The street, is ***** I know, I do
But this is o.k, with wary watch
For indeed
In the absence of the light
Come the People of the night
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Exams over, friends dissolved and school also told bye,
Holidays commence; time to wander and to fly.
The first day of holiday-I woke up like an early bird,
Mom preparing stuff for breakfast,
And dad busy with calls and hurrying fast.
I stare at my room window and take a glimpse
Of people rushing their cars past the traffic.
Seeing everyone in routine makes me terrific!
The birds chirping daily without any holidays
And the sweepers taking away the dust without any leavings.
The gardener has arrived, the maid had come
In almost each person’s home.
People terminated their morning walk
And grabbed the car.
I’m still at the window spotting tones of people departing out very busily-
The merchants and vendors shouting noisily.
All the work is turning on without distraction,
Everyone at their workplace in attention.
After some time, my neighborhood turns out to be calm
The tranquil and the ready floating breeze blow past my face.
This assures me that everyone left their houses
And reached their respective places.
I take my eyes off the window and sit-back.
No more to-do lists, no more writing the home works,
And timetables on the calendar looks.
No more wearing shoes at the sound of the school bus
No more books and things at mess.
I see the clock-it’s only eight
Same time yesterday I was in an exam fight.
Spotting everyone at their routine work-
I feel so much desolate and forlorn.
And yet at dusk I watch people returning home from their day’s work.
At twilight, I see the firmament fading into a thick sapphire loom
And ask myself-“What have I done today?”
The obvious answer is-“Watching people drive and return from work!”
I see the calendar-Two more months for school:
Two more months for my homely eyes to twinkle
Two more months to shut the windows
Two more months to mess my table
Till then, my homely eyes-weak and feeble
I just need to nurture and make them twinkle…
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.
Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.
Kids slope back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and aromatic oregano
pot-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.
Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.
Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.
Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
The sound of silence is a chainsaw
with no fuel, longing to gnash its teeth
against the husk of sweet bark.
It is the cold wind on a winter’s morning
that sweeps across a frozen Lake Michigan,
gently kissing the motionless street sweepers
in the city beyond.
The sound of silence
was never the sound of one hand clapping,
nor was it ever kosher.
It was never the final breath
of a young wanderer dangling
from the husk of sweet bark
that chainsaws longed for.
The sound of silence
is the paper blanket given to
homeless men and women,
the aftermath of broken plates
in the home of a south side apartment,
the lingering misty droplets
in a bathtub full of cold red water,
all of this
unheard and unseen.
The sound of silence
is not the absence of sound.
It is simply not noticing
that a starving child was whimpering
in the first place.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
get away from me all you fools
store owners
underpaid store clerks
delivery people
disgruntled factory workers
bosses
know it alls
child molesting priests
rabbis
loud mouthed reverends
strippers
track armed hookers
pimps
johns who's wife won't give it up
teachers
shady lawyers
pill poppin' doctors
nurses
kids with colds
old people with dementia
***** dogs
feral cats
evil grandmas
perverted grandpas
street sweepers
***** garbage men
slick bartenders
waitresses
drunk people
people high on life
dope heads
meat heads
sober judges
all of you
go to hell in a handbasket
and let me live my life
in peace.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
Every summer is a girl.
The loud walk on the concrete melancholy.
Street sweepers, sweat and eyes meet the lap top.
Panhandlers lay into persona
And I greet a smile with a dead president.
Virginia, she knows me.
And that’s what happens when we write and I listen to music.
The summer girl shows up.
Palmetto bugs screech, fire flies love my eyes
Then the sun preaches brown skin.
Virginia, she knows me.
Blue ***** fall in a basket waiting for the old bay’s season.
Family crowds around the television waiting for the next movie
I’ve written and we eat on news papers.
Washington never drained the Dismal Swamp.
Virginia, she knows me.
Then Kate the summer girl walks by.
Kicking wet sand staring past the dream.
I build landscapes to not catch I’s.
Simply amazed at what is said with out words of dread.
Virginia, she knows me.
There is so much here
We cant believe how much.
Toes wiggle on mutton feet in the sand
And she tells me about Hanovarians.
Virginia, she knows me.
Pressing my face on the day
Finding her hair taken by the wind.
I lay into a wave and the heat leaves.
She cant breath her breath taken away.
Virginia, she knows me.
My day laughs when she says I’ve got go back to
Richmond.
Mom finds the umbrella and we go for a walk.
Then she asks without thinking if she lived for this day.
Virginia, she knows me.
Tourists trample sand and find chocolate icecream
To cool. Locals forty second street and I in the middle
For freedom. She has a way with men and a walk.
She loves me and knows this not.
Virginia, she loves me.
Bulbs break into stalks flowers bloom
For summer time and my summer girl.
Kate is her name and Virginia, she knows me.
This man will miss the summer and his girl.
She loves me Virginia.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:23 AM UTC
The night people seep away
Like water into soil
Neither noticed or followed by anyone
Road sweepers remove the night's detritus
Ready for the city's full awakening
When the rushing crowds shall emerge
Surging tides of humanity
Never speaking to each other
With heads down and hidden eyes
On their way to another day
Worker bees in skyscraper hives
Growing old and growing ulcers
Amidst the canyons Between these buildings
Leaning into the buffeting wind
Two young lovers are seen
Little more than children
Carrying their innocence between them
Hurrying away from here
This harsh and angry place
Believing only in each other and love
Leaving the metropolis behind
Their names are Hope and Joy
And this is no place for them
By Phil Roberts
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:11 AM UTC
Ice cakes stick like
Bricks on Brownstones
And Brooklyn sidewalks,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips;
Suspending alternate parking
Indefinitely...
Street sweepers sleep by the Bay
Dreaming of spring
And summer's stifling heat;
Garbage piles rise to the sky
From graves of snow
A stray cat named Rufus
wrapped in extra layers
Of fat
And black fur,
Streaks into the night,
Looking for love
And mice...
Two hookers in heels
Case the block
Flashing random Johns
And Jills
For 10-dollar thrills
Salt, shovels and greased elbows
Battle ice and snow
And frozen mountains grow
In the aftermath,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips...
For Rufus...
~ Pablo (#ASCNR)
2/19/2014
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
The vintage shops are closing,
The sweepers are cleaning the streets.
Our modern minds are locked in change,
As poetry suffers to defeat.
Oh, the Christmas bells are chiming,
To greet the start of June.
They’re calling, calling, that love’s tokens
Can never be bought too soon.
And, the infant yell of binge drinkers
Sounds over their bosses’ tones.
They’re drink-driving to the liquor store,
And weaving through traffic cones.
Now the engineers are catcalling
In their neon-breasted suits,
Hard hats to hide their flaccid love;
Oh, purple-hearted brutes!
This hometown is full of characters
In the brief demise of day,
And all I can think in this lonesome state is:
Darling, please don’t go away.
This photograph of childhood
Stains my eyes with smiles.
Such a full and healthy appetite,
Now gone over so many miles.
Still, I search on for a reason
To live within this hive.
I’ll give my all to find this sanity;
I’ll give everything just to survive.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
In the month of July during whirlpool
A Legacy was born to challenge a fool
Who in sphere of market did money drool.
As all feast and dance and sing in yule
Many people like Vipul, Maulik and Sanket rule
Over minds of customers who remain very cool
In our D-Mart which served as a perfect tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart Whirlpool.
All - cashier, attendants, owners, sweepers - pull
Praise, sympathy, good words and have globule.
There are many wicked, old, shrewd ghoul
Who conspire against you O! D-Mart, My soul!
ACs, clean floor, smiling faces and nature cool ;
Bhaiya, didi, managers, workers, watchmen Spool
Are the real source of income than other tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart whirlpool.
Future is bright of D-Mart with such module,
It also includes good products, service Gruel.
No judge can verdict anything like rice overrule
Or China food item never finds in its pool;
Clean and healthy food items, fine variety gul
And great discount on many items that ridicule
Those who conspire despise it for its fame and tool,
Come and join the ever-winding D-Mart whirlpool.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
Sleepy moon beams kiss the morning sky
Goodbye, as they slip into the cerulean on
High.
I’d been walkin all night, the morning air
Unwinding the curls from my tangled hair. As I drug
My emotions through potholed streets.
Tires crunching sand the sweepers missed,
Sliver boxes clicking the lights from green to
Red, steam clouds rise in a royal ascension
Bathing passers by in a ghostly hue.
Pulling my coat tightly I slipped though
Their procession unnoticed, ears pressed to phones,
Eyes lowered to ground, hands gripped on purse straps.
I sit watching the wisp of early risers become a
Thunderous herd or late risers walking nowhere.
I’d been walkin all night, the morning air
Damp against my face, cool and electric
Condensing on my cheeks, dripping down
My face where my tears should be. If I
Won’t cry for myself most certainly the morning air
Will do it for me.
AD
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
*Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.*
Poetry conceives no meaning,
it is complete in its creation
as am I, as are you,
as are crows exploding
outside in the fevered air
or inside as worms slithering
in penumbral silence;
it provides no self-help,
no profound apocalypse
beyond delight in genesis
and what is engendered there.
That is enough to deliver
to thoughtless children
dancing and laughing and unaware
that death and decay turn with them
stalking beauty in the carefree air.
Poets speak only words not truths,
speak only to create wonder
from unconstrained imagination
beyond which bounds they may not dare.
~mce
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
Untamed mammals release tensions before mine own eye's. Chains art broke, none more cloaks to hide those dreading thoughts of suicide. Raging dictating swearer's, jewels traded for tools as the sun lowers. Tis this place gets rarer and bare. . . . . . .Cars surround. Compound their rubbers to bullets of blood issued steel. . .Captivating and excruciating. Music to thy ear's turneth to bad news! ! Chess sweepers. Checker winners. Both losers whilst the rest born sinners. . . Costly state pay to fatcat pocket books hands; some issue warnings whilst protective custody issues dull demands. . . . . All prosecution standeth to issued remaxed detective blogees. . . . . . .redneck respecters cometh with protectors whilst the odd breeds cometh with a dodger. . . . . .mystique, defeat. . . . .to thy hands thou art tied from behind! Move up the latter, tasteth thine coroded own chatter, the deaf art now the blind. . . . . . .
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
There are times a person is
on the edge of shattering.
Not noticeably so;
Forced smiles they
Shape shift the mask.
All it takes is a push
An adverse action
A mere word
To send them tumbling
Over the ledge.
She has taken
One too many arrows
One too many breaks
Invisible, she sits
Inside the pieces
Knowing that she
Will never be the same.
Something's changed for good
She feels it deeply
Something's been taken
Leaving crumbled bricks
Left as the bombs explode
Riddled with wounds
She sits exposed
She hears the sounds
The roaring of the sweepers
Coming to blow away
Her remains
So she can be replaced.
Soon she will fade
Into remember when's
And forgetfulness
Indifference and
Negative inference
Because love is often faked
To gain access
To the remnants they take
Where flesh becomes flesh
And bone becomes bone
And the soul is left wandering
Without a home.
v.k poetry
copyright 2013 @ dbv publishing
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
I stare at a glowing window while I hear
the street sweepers chiming down the street
for the week night I've lost count of.
Body warmth and sleep cuddles aren't around,
to help me want to close my eyes tonight.
It's 3 AM on Monday and my lover's in his own
waking in a few hours to the glow
and I still don't want to wink.
Fixated on past experiences.
This is just never the time to be
appreciating everything, is it?
Too late to get anything good down,
Too early write anything off.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
Let you know a story of the sweepers
They were no fools, they did not take the weeper
Every dime they made
They built their own brigade
She tinkered on, she did, the sulky sailor
He dreamt another job, the timid tailor
Surely, they’ll cross paths
Where the money’s at
A fantastic sail
Carried by a gale
Gallop down the windpipe
Of the sea-coloured stripes
The beggar found his riches off the starboard
We reach for that which we can never afford
A sandy rune in time
Our happy, crooning crimes
When pruning eyes quickly peruse the wheel
The boy quickly rises to show his seal
Beyond comprehension
Beyond condescension
Do away with looking glass
Steel your ship with trumpet brass
The world will only sway for you
If you take heed and start to move
A fantastic sail
Carried by a gale
Gallop down the windpipe
Of the sea-coloured stripes
When they reached the land they became meek
The weary scrambled to seek out the creek
To drown their riches in
And start alone again
Is it such a crime they are now strangers?
Fast and loose, when you befriend for flavour
They hold the memoir
They know that they’ve come far
The fantastic sail
Carried by the gale
They galloped down the windpipe
Of the sea-coloured stripes
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
Keep your bags held high
try to keep your feet dry
the water's coming soon
will we ever see the sky?
Consumed by fright
we are strangers to the night
street sweepers on the move
burning little ladies in the night
To dream, to live, to be,
we will suffer in the streets
and one day hope to leave
our little penthouse by the sea
Social cleansing in the streets
soldiers armed to the teeth
we pray we will be safe
they dare not go beneath
Step into the abyss
men shouldnt live like this
to escape the death squads
sweet darkness we will kiss.
To dream, to live, to be,
we will suffer in the streets
and one day hope to leave
our little penthouse by the sea
Our children born and raised
in the stinking sewer cave
we'll toss the coin of misery
and pray to god we will be saved.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
Zackamundo
Rattah Tattah
Battah Bag had
Baghdad
Diss?
Quick Lynch...
1 Trillion Ton
50 Million Trillion
Cash
Nuclear Tip Missile
Tank so Big Run-over ya crib
Take the guns? NAH!
GIVE US GUNS YAHH!!
corners sweepers
Government watching
Clock mocking
Hoes in line one a time..
Drop Em...
Cooper, Rupert, Doobie, Super, durp, Dean, Lean, Quavo, D, T, L, Wayne, Trigg, G Floyd, Stem, B.A., Cam, B, G, C, Mii, Cashish, Rah, Rob, Raheem, Jake, Rasheem, Black, Unc, Baby, Gettah, Guttah, Z, Pete, Reese, Raymond, Reggie, Will...
Ounce pound brick
Brick house pound
Cars ounce trash
Death Dismay
Hope, Prayer
Love an Trust
Faith in God
**** 1 God
Wrote a script
Paint a picture
A picture of...
Fortune, Fame, wealth and royalties
Pure loyalty
King
Torture
Rip off your nails...
Rip off your ears...
Rip out your teeth an tongue...
Cut off fingers toes 1by1...
Stomp your leg and arm bones,
Stab your ****
Pour bleach on you with gas...
Choke you in an out of consciousness
Repeat...
You're future is tortured,
Mark My Words,
Don't Quote me ***
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 11:12 PM UTC
Untamed mammal's release Tension's before mine own eyes,
Chains are broke, no more smoke to hide those dreading thought's of suicide!!!!
Raging dictating swearer's,
Jewels traded for tools,
As the sun lowereth this place get's barer and rarer!!!!
Cars surround,
Compound their tires to bullet's of plasma issued brace!!!
Captivating,
Excruciating,
Music to thy ears turns to bad news!!!!
Chess sweepers,
Checker winner's,
Both losers,
The rest born sinners!!!!
Costly state pay to fatcat's pocket booked hands,
Some issue warnings,
Whilst protective custody issues strong demands!!!!
All prosecuting stands issued remaxed detective blogger's,
Rednecked respecters come with protector's,
While odd breed's come with a dodger!!!!
Mystique,
Defeat!!!
To thy hands thou hath tied from Behind!!!
Move up the latter,
Taste thy corroded own chatter,
The deaf hath now turned blind!!!!
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC