Related quotes: Death is God's broom.

Death is God's broom.

Swedish proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Not Your Broom

Now broom, you must now sweep for me
The dust it fills my room
No, john, I will not sweep for you
For I am not your broom
What nonsense are you speaking, broom
My words you must obey
Another life awaits me and
Im leaving you today
I am not your broom
I am not your broom
Ive had enough, Im throwing off
My chains of servitude
I am not your broom
I am not your broom
No longer must I sweep for you
For I am not your broom

song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brooms Witches And Mothers

Witches have broom's
When i a child
Mother's had broom's
Mother's ran with broom's
Mother's ran fast with broom's
I was a very swift boy
I had to run from many broom's
Sometimes mother would strike with broom
Therefore throwing herself of balance
As i ran i would laugh
Like a kookaburra
She would become a angry mother with broom
She would call for me to stop running
So she could give me her broom
I would keep running
For i did not like broom's
Witches like broom's
Mother's like broom's

poem by Allan James Saywell
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Pick Up That Broom and Sweep, Boy

Pick up that broom and sweep, boy.
If you wanna eat.
You gotta get sweepin'
Pick up that broom and sweep, boy.
If you wanna eat.
You gotta get sweepin
And if you don't sweep,
You ain't going to sleep.

Pick up that broom and sweep, boy.
If you wanna eat.
You gotta get sweepin'
Pick up that broom and sweep, boy.
Nobody's peepin' on the way you sweep.
And if you don't sweep,
You ain't going to sleep.
And you wont sleep,
If you don't eat.
So I suggest get off your seat...
Grab that broom and commence to sweepin'

Pick up that broom and sweep, boy.

If you wanna eat.
You gotta get sweepin
And if you don't sweep,
You ain't going to sleep.
So don't try sneakin' tippy toe on your feet,
Across this floor because it creaks.
And when that happens...
My dog Pete,
Will do his best to sink his teeth.
Right into your funky meat.
And you'll go screamin down the street.
And I'll report you to the police.
Who will bring you back here...
Once again until you sweep.
And it you don't do it,
You'll join those who've been deleted!

'You better pick up that broom,
And sweep, boy! '

~I gotcha 'boy' ol'man! ~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Happy Ending

i cannot always be a new
broom that must sweep well
your old floors

please take note of this

i cannot always be your new
broom that must sweep well
your garbage floors

please take note of this

time will make me an old broom
and you my dirty and old floor
overladen with scratch papers and
pens with dried inks and litters
and crumpled newspapers and torn
fashion pages scattered on your rough
floors,

time makes me a old, dirty broom
and now, ruined and stained, we shall
stay together, we now belong to each
other

please take note of this happy ending.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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New broom sweep clean, but de ole broom know de corner.

Jamaican proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A new broom sweeps clean, but an old broom knows every corner.

Jamaican proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A new broom sweeps clean, but an old broom knows the corners.

Irish proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's Death Again

It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'

The Reign of Death

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A new broom sweeps well, but the old broom knows all the corners.

African proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Disingenuousness

Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.

Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:

Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!

Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.

The March of Death

Death death death death death death death death death death death

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Deception

The lull in the dawn
Broken:
Bringing her
Smashing down to earth
Stretches herself in her bed
Hands and feet
Collide with tinned walls
This cacophony
Pulls her
Out of the bed

Chill is still there
Tightly wraps herself
With a tattered shawl
Sweeps the road
To be metalled
For a smooth walk
But herself hasn't
Taken a bath
Nor swept her floor

Throws glances
At smartly dressed
Satchel laden kids
Stops
Rests her had on the broom
Listens to their talk
Smiles
Till the broom pulls her back
Suddenly
Taken aback
Seeing the couple
Hand in hand
Pulls her hand from the broom
Looks at their smiling faces
They come
She looks
They cross
She looks
Away from her they move
She looks
Till she has lost their sight
Stretches herself
Again
A cacophony
And there she is
With the broom

poem by Sanjay Mehta
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Death and I

When death comes
I’ll need not love –
Consumed,
No wreath or dove
Could offer me salvation,
Not when I’m no more.

A weathered stone will bear my name –
Identity of once a being
Living out existence in
A world of risk, and never seeing
Sense of why we’re here.

My genes will die away thro’ child –
Hue of eyes and hair, the way of thought,
Will quickly dim with generation –
Bow to future dominance –
Memories of provenance
Resigned to curious few.

When death comes
I’ll need not grace
Below; no grieving face
Will call my resurrection,
Not when I’m at ground –

Death and I so bound.

D eath Crawl

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Broom Tree

I am sitting under the broom tree watching you,
And you came along to the entrance of my love;
But like the book of the chronicles,
I will still record what i see from here for others to read.

Sheath, heat, hat, he, as, at, has, she, the, heal!
Sitting under the broom tree to see what you are doing;
Sheath, sat, eat, ate, hate, sea, ale, seal, tea!
I'm sitting under the broom tree watching you;
And like the book of the chronicles to respect your muse.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Nothing But Death

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

Translated by Robert Bly

poem by Pablo Neruda
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You can sleep, sleep in my arms....

Like a baby bird.
Like a broom among brooms...
in a broom closet.
Like a tiny parrot.
Like a whistle.
Like a little song.
A song sung by a forest...
within a forest...
a thousand years ago.

(the unbearable lightness of being)

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Death, Inevitable Death

Death, inevitable Death.
So now You come to show Your world,
Hence the blackened cloak – unfurled.
And peering down upon my form
– Bereft of pity – Your eyes of storm.

Death, inexorable Death.
‘When? ’ The only question out of Thee.
My dream retorts 'But ne’er for me! ’
But now awake, I bid you so –
My giving tears cry ‘Where to go? ’

Death, adamant Death.
You cast Your spell and guide me 'way,
For life and I have had our day.
And what of me? I prey You, tell!
Be glorious in Heaven or gnarled in Hell?

Death, ineluctable Death.
Oh wiry ghoul, I'm here to follow –
I leave my body grey and shallow.
‘Come! ’ You bid in thund’ring tones,
‘Beg farewell to shattered bones.’

Death
Death death
Death death death
Death death death death
Death death death death death
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Death death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Broom, the Shovel, the Poker and the Tongs

The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and Tongs,
They all took a drive in the Park,
and they each sang a song, Ding-a-dong, Ding-a-dong,
Before they went back in the dark.
Mr Poker he sate quite upright in the coach,
Mr Tongs made a clatter and clash,
Miss Shovel was dressed all in black (with a brooch),
Mrs Broom was in blue (with a sash).
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
And they all sang a song!

'O Shovely so lovely!' the Poker he sang,
'You have perfectly conquered my heart!
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song,
I will feed you with cold apple tart!
When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound,
You enrapture my life with delight!
Your nose is so shiny! your head is so round!
And your shape is so slender and bright!
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
Ain't you pleased with my song?'

'Alas! Mrs Broom!' sighed the Tongs in his song,
'O is it because I'm so thin,
And my legs are so long - Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
That you don't care about me a pin?
Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room,
Ah! why don't you heed my complaint!
Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom,
Because you are covered with paint!
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
You are certainly wrong!'

Mrs Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang,
'What nonsense you're singing today!'
Said the Shovel, 'I'll certainly hit you a bang!'
Said the Broom, 'And I'll sweep you away!'
So the Coachman drove homeward as fast as he could,
Perceiving their anger with pain;
But they put on the kettle, and little by little,
They all became happy again.
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
There's an end of my song!

poem by Edward Lear
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Death Alone

There are lone cemeteries,
tombs full of soundless bones,
the heart threading a tunnel,
a dark, dark tunnel :
like a wreck we die to the very core,
as if drowning at the heart
or collapsing inwards from skin to soul.

There are corpses,
clammy slabs for feet,
there is death in the bones,
like a pure sound,
a bark without its dog,
out of certain bells, certain tombs
swelling in this humidity like lament or rain.

I see, when alone at times,
coffins under sail
setting out with the pale dead, women in their dead braids,
bakers as white as angels,
thoughtful girls married to notaries,
coffins ascending the vertical river of the dead,
the wine-dark river to its source,
with their sails swollen with the sound of death,
filled with the silent noise of death.

Death is drawn to sound
like a slipper without a foot, a suit without its wearer,
comes to knock with a ring, stoneless and fingerless,
comes to shout without a mouth, a tongue, without a throat.
Nevertheless its footsteps sound
and its clothes echo, hushed like a tree.

I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly see
but it seems to me that its song has the colour of wet violets,
violets well used to the earth,
since the face of death is green,
and the gaze of death green
with the etched moisture of a violet's leaf
and its grave colour of exasperated winter.

But death goes about the earth also, riding a broom
lapping the ground in search of the dead -
death is in the broom,
it is the tongue of death looking for the dead,
the needle of death looking for the thread.

Death lies in our beds :
in the lazy mattresses, the black blankets,
lives a full stretch and then suddenly blows,
blows sound unknown filling out the sheets
and there are beds sailing into a harbour
where death is waiting, dressed as an admiral.

poem by Pablo Neruda
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A Fresh Endeavour

So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.

I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour – we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Mrs Snorer

Mrs Snorer
Went to School
Fell asleep in the classroom
Her teacher woke her up with a
Broom, broom, broom
As she snored, snored, snored

Mrs Snorer
snores like a
Horse, horse, horse
She took a ride on the
Bus, bus, bus
and missed the last stop
As she snored, snored, snored

Mrs Snorer
Went to bed
Lay down her big head
Turned her body round
And shook the whole house
Down, down, down
As she snored, snored, snored

Mr Snorer
Snored at home
With each snore
They had to shut
All the windows and the doors
As she snored, snored, snored
Mrs Snorer was a
Bore, bore, bore

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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En.Citatepedia®.ro

Related quotes

I Am Not Your Broom

Brooms Witches And Mothers

Pick Up That Broom and Sweep, Boy

A Happy Ending

It's Death Again

Disingenuousness

Deception

Death and I

Broom Tree

Nothing But Death

You can sleep, sleep in my arms....

Death, Inevitable Death

The Broom, the Shovel, the Poker and the Tongs

Death Alone

A Fresh Endeavour

Mrs Snorer

En.Citatepedia^®.ro