"trowels" poems
A-Artifacts of long ago they're ever searching out
R-Relics in the Earth's soil layers interred deep
C-Curios from cultures past they're excavating out
H-History is alive in the things buried so deep
A-Abroad and at home their trowels seeking out
E-Enlightening the world with fragments of the deep
O-Open our eyes to the objects they shovel out
L-Lasting stories of past societies entombed down deep
O-Ongoing discoveries made with what they dig out
G-Great civilizations lie in quietness beneath the deep
I-Interesting journals and facts these specialists put out
S-Saving the ken of ancestries which are lodged deep
T-Times way back in eons past to-day bought out
S-Surfacing from the ground out of a sleep most deep
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
People coming by with tins of food and towels
Newspapers, toys and blankets, and little plastic trowels
I don't understand the reason they are coming
We're a charity, we don't need this stuff
But, still they keep on coming, bringing food by the truck
There's tins, and bags and skids
There's enough towels for turban training in British Columbia
And papers, lots of newspapers, tons of newspapers
But, we are a charity looking for donations
This doesn't make sense, all of this animal product showing up
Until I checked my email.....
**** I hate auto correct on the phone
I told people we hoped to increase last years donations
And hit a grand total of 101 thousand
Thanks to my Iphone...we sent out a message
that we had a grand total of a 101 thousand dalmations
God, I hate auto correct
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Sitting in a chair counting spots that passed before my eyes.
The insect smiled and said "hold still" i missed one.
They swirl this way and that.
dont move Please. be still.
Not an easy task
a fever of 104.2
could you. I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.
Sitting on my blanketed chest
The insect did his best to sing me a lullaby.
his breath was horrendous but he meant well.
He stroked my burning cheek and
changed the cool washcloth regularly
on my aching head.
Then turned my pillow to the cool side again.
There my friend.
He scuttled under with me and snuggled
his hairy legs were itchy and rough.
small price to pay.
eh wot.
Oh yes we have no bananas
We have no bananas today.
Captain if we keep pushing her like this
she's gonna blow.
We regret to inform you that
the price of tea in China is now
High as gas in California.
Chicken broth he brought
with a silver spoon to boot
The insect waited patiently
as I swallowed then spooned
the next load in.
"Here let me wipe you chin."
Ladies and gentlemen and all ships at see
The Hindenburg has landed
oh the humanity.
This is not the end
No not the beginning of the end.
But more, the end of the beginning.
Help me up Mr Checks. I think I gotta ***
Oops forgot to raise the lid.
Mr Checks. Can you have room service come up.
we need more Trowels. Uh towels.
Stop hogging the remote. Where's mom
Have you seen my Teddy with one eye missing.
To bed to bed
You sleepy head .
Tarry a while said slow.
Put the *** said greedy glut
Lets stuff before we go .
Mr Checks.
All hands on deck.
We dont have enough lifeboats sir.
The iceberg is sky blue and beautiful dont you agree.
What do you do with a drunken sailor
early in the morning.
Heave ** and up she rises
Early in the morning.
THIS FEVERISH DREAM TO BE CONTINUED.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
"Papa. Read my the four little pigs and the BIG BAD POUF." With emphasis on the big bad "POUF", we begin the fascinating journey of the pigs and the rehabilitation of the "Pouf".
My granddaughter (age 2) loves the story and when ever we come to the Big Bad she says the "POUF" part. It rather sounds like a French pastry.
The fourth pig, as everyone knows, is Momma pig, she sent the defenseless little pigs out the door with a warning, "the BIG BAD "POUF" likes to eat little pigs." Seems to be a common malady of "Poufs" and Humans.
The BIG BAD "POUF", we are told, watched from the top of the hill where he lived. He was a considerate "Pouf"... letting the little pigs build their straw, sticks and bricks houses before offering to be a building inspector to test the strength of straw and sticks. The "Pouf" condemned the first two houses... huffing and puffing and all of that. All the hair on the little pigs chin could not stop the tinsel strength test performed by the Big Bad "Pouf".
Everyone knows that brick is stronger than straw and sticks but we have a Big Bad "POUF" that begs to differ. Consequently, he ends up in hot water, much like Humans who make bad decisions. Not the brightest and smartest choices made in Pig/"Pouf" Land. At least this pig did not put the lid on the *** and have "POUF" for lunch.
The "POUF" became a reformed "Pouf" staying on his hill top. No more Big Bad for him. Kind and gentle. A NEW "POUF"!
Now 60 years ago the Building Inspector in this story got into hot water and became the lunch of the brick house pig. The other two pigs became lunch of the "POUF" but I suppose I will not be telling that to my two year old any time soon.
There are many versions of the story. Things have changed over the years. The Three Little Pigs live happily ever after and the "Pouf" now stays up on the hill and is a GOOD BOY. Getting into hot water can be a life changing moment... provided the lid is NOT put on the kettle. Moral to this story... stay away from pigs who carry hammers, trowels and squares. Or. Don't be a blow hard.
(c) 02/14/2012 by John Stevens
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
Tools of the Patriarchy
Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files
Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks
A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!
And
A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
Vocal silence
Does for an
Argument make.
You hide behind your belligerence;
With mortar of icy rage and
Stones of cold indifference,
Laid with trowels of denial,
Lobbing nothing wrong
Like fury-fueled firebombs
Then you run a mile.
It's not a war,
It's a conflict.
I'm hunting through a jungle
Of stone-walled edicts,
My defensive guns laying ammo
On metaphorical trees
Guilty of hiding the dead.
A bunker deep enemy,
Safe in their concrete head.
Hunting a deserter
Who spent a lifetime
Learning camouflage techniques,
Sulking under cover,
Lining up their gently angry shot
For when the cross-hairs meet.
I would call you out,
But you would only go in.
It's like fighting a shadow,
My silent twin;
Naturally nurtured
To hide behind benevolence
And fight a cold war.
I warn you, it's growing thin.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
Don't you love those lovable guys
Tanned and loud surrounded by flies
Trowels flying, hammers thumping
Music blaring lots of swearing
They love the summer and love the sun
Love to show off their builders ***
But don't you love those lovable fellas
Who work up a sweat
While we sit cool
Under our umbrellas
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
8:55 A.M.
Wednesday,
December 3, 2014
Eyes dry, stagnant like a box fan
in a windowless room in summer.
Del Monte plastic blades—black
on the serrated side—dice rotting
pizza tomato trash air.
Stomach like a battery acid pond.
Flannel, Dockers, hair slicked
tight like road signs, tossing oyster
crackers to acid ducks. The sky's
on fire.
Clouds textured like *******
and never-ending like Escher.
Jet planes carry ***** comatose
patients into the sun to burn
out like a light bulb
a few flickers of life gone.
Hands dry, faulted like missing
bathroom tiles at Exxon-Mobil/
Sunoco/Shell beneath the metal
sink where crabgrass sprouts
from the cracks like
cheap caulk from Second-Hand Hardware.
Bent nails, rusted patching trowels,
ants in the quick-dry drywall mix.
I'll never reach Nirvana.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Tell. me you love me again.
As you run your fingers through my hair.
While touching your temples with my pen.
As I touch yours with new born grace.
Once kisses of power.
My heart was devoured.
Blood flow blue.
Royal blue my lord.
I shall write my words for you.
As I write my words for all and sundry.
The girl whose heart turned cold and blue.
In a mismatch of a hotchpotch.
Of gobbledygook mistaken.
On a crisp cold winters day.
She begs for nothing.
Nothing at all.
Perhaps pride came before her fall.
Her fall from grace entirely dropped.
Discarded in dreams puddles.
Her poems now extended.
Too many months descended.
To put my words in consonants and vowels.
To fill the cracks with trowels.
No, not mine you fool.
Words are my nourishment.
Sometimes my punishment.
As the book of revelations.
I lay open.
Not signalling Armageddon.
Nor the end of my world.
Without you!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
im alive
im sleeping on a roof right now
in my dream i stand
in my dreams i spend most of my time thinking
sane beauty
*****
cut
fade
angels pray
driving home
my path is perfect
swallow loose bolts
weighed down by crosses
my crutches
shifting
getting sweaty
sweet odor
barely born waiting
strong gaps end
a big gun going
crushed by lead
fresh loving numbed
tried tight
bitter falls spent falling
gaze constantly
mistakes eventually
perfection is nostalgia
a mad scene with important colors
darker cool shades of summer routine
a small orange
think its called a tangerine
you melted trying to understand me
puppets control the telescoping cathedral glass
we are wooden
i am holy benedict
existence overrun
you'll try a new direction
holy benedict patron
12 minutes
11 moments
walking frigid down the crest of a wave
kept spinning deeply free
i am green and red and yellow
holding hands with elves on daytime trowels
on shoals of sandy beaches creaking
creeping deathly towards peaches hidden meaning in my mind
help me say peace and green lively words
heavens receipt
he owes you a lot more than his life
eternal sin wrapped in a rapture unfurling
you kept passing saturn underneath the no and yes
david started to say before you cut him off
safe bridges cross memories corner
painted a house insane colors
too bright for morning eyes or evening skies
tomorrow is mist
their heads are held on tightly by glues brought in by alien exporter importers in the late early century of passing grace
passing tightly daily ladies keep spinning ten fer a dollar
filled to the brim
fix the wide hook looked deeper for a picture of my childhood reflected on my sneakers floatng in argyle lake
stuck in the slots of a bridge passing
sleeping tv
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Carve out the marrow in my bones
and plant a flower there.
Split my ribs for fence posts,
empty my skull for a watering can.
Use my hands for trowels,
plunge them into the earth.
I shall be pushing daisies
come the first sign of spring.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
1. Garden Avenue Driveway
They pulled up at 7:00 with spades, trowels and hoses
and a spinning truck full of concrete soup.
Then as precisely as an olympic fencing team
six men with well toughened and tanned biceps
drove the liquid rock down the chute
and into the the “two by” forms.
Then with rhythm as fluid as a corps de ballet
they poured, smoothed, spread and coaxed the mix
in to a concrete lake as smooth as glass.
and the morning’s deed was finished.
They hosed down the chute and walks,
packed their tools and vanished by 9:00
leaving their concrete sheet cake
to bake in the hot Illinois sun.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
passionate peach, the cream acrylic on their wall
filling the textured grooves the trowels had left
almost pink in morning light, taking on the color of
the fruit at eventide, when incandescence reigned
when fireplace flames flickered, the wall became a fickle facade:
gray in shadow one moment, pale peach the next
his favorite chair sat there, where she thought it looked best,
a worn rocking guest in a room filled with modernity;
that is where she found him, slumped over, eyes agape
blue metal gun in his lap, where it had landed
after the dead journey from his mouth, after he had
squeezed the trigger but once
painting the flat wall behind him with hues of crimson,
cherry, and bits of white
what queer shape this scattering had made, she thought;
surely not a visage, though it appeared so
as she watched in paralytic silence while strangers
washed the gore from the wall
leaving but a black hole where his rich red legacy
had left its beguiling design
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Stark on the Wilshire skyline
Lean the monoliths of mystery
Marshalled by the Heel Stone
Sentinels guard the secret
That mocks the mind of man
~
Huddles of academics
With puny trowels and theories
Probe the dusty chalk lands
Scratching for the key
That picks the lock of time
~
Come, you followers
In your robes of worship
Circle round the blue stones
As ghosts of the ancients
Dance in the Pagan fire.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
I saw my heart dancing
in the park wood today
She was dark
and lithe
and graceful
She is dark because I am
discovering Her still
and am not completed yet
It's an archeology of the heart
I practice
The inner eye caught
the nuanced landscape
which foretold the fossil
With careful strokes
respectful of the treasures
within me,
I clear away
I clear away
My trowels: feelings
my brushes: tears and laughter
As they are cut away
from ego sediment and stone,
my fossil pieces
fit in place
and lock together the puzzle
that I was
that I was
It is a re-membering I do
because
because
I saw my heart dance
in the park wood today
c. 2009/2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 5:33 PM UTC