A Little Chimney Sweep
For Duncan Wyllie
Who suggest I write this in a comment he once made.
Back in the 1800’s
in a large city in England
there lived a seven year old
and I will call him Tarn.
His hair was matted with soot,
his face and hands were black.
His clothes were old and cast offs
and didn’t fit too well.
His trousers had holes in the knees
and the elbows of his shirt were gone.
His skin was black from head to foot
from climbing chimneys
each and everyday.
He could work sometimes sixteen hours
before he finished for the day.
He never got educated,
nor did he play with friends.
He had no childhood
for as soon as he was old enough
to walk and climb out to work he had to go
to earn money to be fed.
There were no luxuries that we enjoy today.
Everyday you worked from dawn to dusk.
He didn’t smile or laugh,
just scampered up and down chimneys
to clean the soot away.
On one fateful day he found himself
wedged and couldn’t move.
No one heard his cries,
or if they did, they just ignored them.
Day after day, he struggled to get free
and all the time getting weaker and weaker.
He was soon forgotten about
and slowly his life expired.
He must have died in agony
more than most of us will ever know.
His body lay there for over a hundred years
before it was discovered by accident
when they renovated the old house.
poem by David Harris
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Related quotes
The Little Chimney Sweep - Victorian Times
What is above all these chimneys, I asked the young lad,
The chimney sweep boy replied,
Why Sir, it's the sky which is sometimes so blue,
That when I look up and glance at the view,
Such glory cannot be denied.
What lies in that sky then, I asked the young lad,
The boy gazing up now replied,
Oh Sir, clouds and sunshine, at night moon and stars,
Planets like Jupiter, Saturn and Mars,
What wonders out there can be spied?
Is your work very unbearable, I asked the young lad,
Most times Sir, it is, he replied,
From dawn until dusk, I'm climbing to sweep,
The soot from the chimneys, for my food and my keep,
My Master cannot be defied.
Do you 'welcome' the sky, I asked the young lad,
When I'm climbing, I do, he replied,
It's my friend when it's dark and the way up is hard,
Because sometimes I get burn't and then badly scarred,
There's many a time I have cried.
What then do you wish for, I asked the young lad,
With yearning, he slowly replied,
I would love to be free and fly like the birds,
Way up in the sky, and if I had the words,
Write about how I'd feel like inside.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Chimney Sweeper
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, and in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl'd like a lamb’s 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, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!—
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and 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.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Doll
The Doll
When mum went to work at the fish factory, there was no
money for baby-sitters; she gave me a black rag doll, to play
with. The doll, called Tom, was a caricature and today would
be seen as an insult. We had no radio or TV, and in the long
hours, when it rained and I could not go out, Tom became my
friend. Mum didn’t believe me when I said Tom could talk, but
only when we’re alone. School began I had new friends, and
boys don’t play with dolls; Tom ended up at the bottom of
a drawer. Forty years later I found Tom, in a shoe-box in
the basement, his fuzzy head rested on a pillow. I thought of
the time when he could talk. I put him back in the box and
taped the lid. Tom is dead, so is my childhood. In the stillness
I hear winds of coming chill, blow leaves along the asphalted
lane and far from where it all began.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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And Santa Got Stuck In The Chimney
It was Christmas Eve
and across the rooftops,
he flew, popping down chimneys here and there
delivering presents and good cheer.
Awakening the dreams of better days
as he and his reindeers and sled
sped on their way.
He came to a chimney
whose opening was small.
As he tried to get down old Santa got stuck.
He wriggled and struggled,
but to no avail.
He was firmly stuck
in a chimney on Christmas Eve.
Oh my, what was he going to do?
He still had lots of presents to deliver.
He whistled for Rudolph
the bright red-nosed reindeer
to find a rope to pull him out of there.
Rudolph nodded twice
with his nose so bright.
A half an hour passed
then Rudolph returned.
He tied the rope to the sleigh
and then passed the other end down to Santa
wedged in the chimney.
Santa grabbed the rope
and held on tight.
The reindeer gave
the sleigh a tug
and few up into the air.
Santa came out of the chimney
with a big pop
followed closely
by big cloud of soot.
Once free he carried on again,
only this time
he used magic
to get down the tight chimneys
he found, as he flew on his way
with a jolly Ho Ho Ho.
So, that concludes the story
of one Christmas Eve
when Santa while doing his rounds
got stuck down a chimney.
Now all that is left to be said
is a Merry Christmas to all
and a very, very Happy New Year
in the year ahead.
poem by David Harris
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You Are The One I Been Looking For
Out of every guy is you
You answered all my questions that I couldn't do myself
You are angel come to save me from this broken road and
Lead me into right direction
You are the one I been looking for
You make me understand life
I feel so alive and free
I couldn't feel like this if it wasn't for you
I'm changing all the time because of you
I care about your opinion and what you think about me
You know I like you
I shouldn't have write on there
If I'm not going do anything about it
I never meant to hurt, make you jealous, and I was never mad at you
I was dumb for what I done to you and make you think different of me
You are different out of every guy in good way
I enjoy your laugh, jokes, smile, and goofy sides of you and who you are
You are the most wonderful person I ever meet
On negative side if worst that I have to deal with your friends think they know who I am
You want to found out about me and what your friends think about me
You want to test me, practice me in certain areas, and subjects
I get why, but I didn't realized at time
This was way different than I expect out of you
I am blushing and smiling around you
It's been long time
Everything is because of you
I can enjoy life, see how much I miss out, and have fun again for first time
I want to take risks, do things I never do before
No more sad songs or past
It's you I see now
You are the one I been looking for
I feel so bless to found you
Thank you for everything
You are always one person there to make me feel better when I'm in bad mood and
I start laughing and smile all because of you
When we smile at each other
I get all this sparks back and is was good moment
I just no way to approach you and this time is different
You have a face of famous person even if you are not one
I will not cry anymore if this doesn't work out
I know to let it go and learn from this
This is life and life is not fair
I get it and know better
I should realized what did I got myself in first place
If like this with you, how you feel about this situation, and
I put myself though something that end like this
There is nothing left to say
You are the one I been looking for
poem by Christina Phan
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Stairs (Fun Poem 58)
Everyday we climb stairs,
up we go and down we come.
Have you ever stop to think
how many steps that you actually climb.
Today I started counting just how many steps
in stairs I climb most everyday.
I was amazed
when I totalled them all up.
It came to just over four hundred steps
I go up and down each day.
At the beginning of the year,
I was six foot seven
and now I am six foot three.
If this goes on at the rate it’s going
at the end of the year I will be a pygmy.
1 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Shrinking
Have you ever had that feeling
you are growing,
or is it your clothes are shrinking?
You know when your trouser bottoms
start creeping up to your knees,
or your shirt sleeves
start climbing up to your elbows,
or your waistline begins to grow,
but your belt hangs loose,
or your chest is expanding
because the buttons keep popping of your shirt.
Oh yea, I know that feeling ever so well
as it happens to me all the time
just after my wife does the washing.
She follows the instructions to the letter,
but still they begin to shrink.
Nothing is unshrinkable when she goes to wash,
except once.
There always has to be one exception.
I had a nice towelin shirt
and when she had finished with it,
the shirt touched my knees
and looked like I was wearing a skirt.
Here I am six foot three,
yet my clothes will fit someone three feet three
and a lot thinner than me.
Now I am at my wits end wondering just what to do.
It feels like playing Russian roulette
when the next wash begins.
31 January 2011
poem by David Harris
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Tears Of Years
As the years do come
And the years will go
And the years keep rushing on by.
Will you have done for me,
What I have done for you
Or will I just sit and cry.
No limit has been set,
From me to you
As the things my soul say I must do.
So the sky is your limit
Money and work will be no obstacle,
For I, truly do love you.
When you look back from years
You will look back with cheers
Reflecting back, to me and my deeds.
You will remember them all
As them always you will recall,
liken the Gardener who plants His seeds.
For again they will grow
With each smile and laugh you show
Everyday and every year of your life.
Then you will look into my eyes,
As though to erase tears I have cried,
Knowing mine weren't nourished, so they died.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Today; Tomorrow
Today
It’s been five years since I have heard your voice.
Today
It’s been five years since I have heard your laugh.
Today
It’s been five years since I have seen your smile.
Today
Is the saddest day for me.
Today
I still remember like it was yesterday.
Today
I feel numb just like how I felt five years ago.
Today
I can still remember how I ran and didn’t want to stop.
Today
I still feel the emptiness of knowing I won’t ever see you again.
Today
I try and smile for you knowing that you are watching over me.
Today
I let my tears roll down slowly down my cheeks.
Today
I remember how you were so happy to be home.
Today
I still know that you didn’t have to suffer no more.
Today
I still try hard not to blame myself why you left my world.
Today
I sit here and remember the memories I have of you.
But tomorrow
I will still smile for you.
poem by Kimberly Santistevan
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This Is Payment Price This Poet Pays
My friend is a salary man luckily gainfully employed
five days a week for eight hours a day he earns his pay.
I also for decades worked my days for weekly monthly pay.
I studied hard put in extra time to fully earn my worker pay,
years sped by I worked and worked to earn hard earned pay,
now for a time a time and a half I do not work this way.
I write I write each day by day or through long night.
I work far harder than I did employed in salary fight.
I live on savings hard earned to earn a right to write.
I charge not chance reader read or read not just as you like.
I work I sacrifice to give gift of love as free as stars above.
I give in time in thought in words in wisdom I give in love.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sorrow
I walked into the park and saw a young man sitting by a flower bed
I asked him why he looked so miserable and this is what he said,
“Sixty years ago I fell in love with a beautiful girl and now she has to die
I knew her time would come one day, but the years have just flashed by.
I knew that it was wrong to love her, but my heart ruled over my head.
I was there when she was born at home and I stood by her mother’s bed.
As the years passed I watched over her, and proposed when she was sixteen.
She was so young and beautiful then, and everyday we lived a dream.
She didn’t know that I was different and I just couldn’t bear to tell her so,
but she had suspicions as her hair greyed, and my age didn’t show.
And now my heart is breaking because I want to die and be with my wife,
without her my life isn’t worth living, and I no longer want this life.
For sixty years life has been wonderful for me and my only true love,
but soon I must take her up and leave her in the heavens above.
I don’t know how I’m going to take the woman I adore from my side.
I’m sorry for sharing my sorrow with you, ” and as he left he cried.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Years Do Come
As the years do come
And the years will go
And the years keep rushing on by.
Will you have done for me,
What I have done for you
Or will I just sit and cry.
No limit has been set,
From me to you
As the things my soul say I must do.
So the sky is your limit
Money and work will be no obstacle,
For I, truly do love you.
When you look back
You will look back with cheers
Reflecting back, to me and my deeds.
You will remember them all
As them always you will recall,
liken the Gardener who plants His seeds.
For again they will grow
With each smile and laugh you show
Everyday and every year of your life.
Then you will look into my eyes,
As though to erase tears I have cried,
Knowing mine weren't nourished, so they died.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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You Have Travelled The Distant Places Of This World
your work is confrontational with
a lot of faces and races
you have a hard time with the black ones and
the yellow ones
and their accents you call as barbarians
of your age and taste
you struggle to move to the top
to control and be the master
it is like
everyone is an enemy and
there is always the suspicion that this friend
is here to kill you
for he too must go to the top
without you
you are getting bald
on the side of your head the white hairs are popping out
you need a walk by the shores of the sea
you need this Confucian walk for a hundred years
to think and be whole
amidst the wars you have created
or imagined
you have travelled the distant places of the world
and you are holding the globe
with your hands
the red dots the stars marking the lines
the shapes of cities
are all in your head
and then you confront me and plainly say
you are unhappy fighting this
kind of war this tugging of ropes
among countries
on a Sunday morning you call me by your cellphone
you are back to your father's ricefield
the one he plowed when he was still alive
the mud that grew the rice grains
the one that sent you to the national university
you say you want your feet bare
and be muddy you say you want to learn how the farmers work
what their hopes and dreams are
you laugh with them
you are learning now
you are whole again you are telling me
you finally found your home this place where they do not know
how to write
and speak english
your brothers like you now
you are eating rice with your bare hands
you are walking their soil without your rubber slippers
then i said i have to go i too have lots of things to do
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Always a Loss When A Friend Is Gone
Brother Jackson died a few moons ago. It is a loss.
It is a finale; it is the final curtain.
Everyday is a loss, tomorrow is uncertain.
Take several deep breaths, do as many toasts
That your heart and soul desire.
Stare at the moon, walk in the sun, play in the rain, and admire
The trees, the plants, the leaves and the flowers.
Smile with, wave at, and chat with your neighbors.
Everyday is a loss; sweet moments move quicker than the thieves
Of Penzance. Appreciate and enjoy every second of the day.
The Cardiologist is in jail; it is a loss
For our community. There no winners,
Only losers. Life is short and precious.
Enjoy the plains, the mounts, the valleys and the rivers;
Never be vindictive and malicious.
It is always a loss, when you examine it deeply.
There are no winners, only losers.
Smile with, wave at and forgive your neighbors.
It is always a loss! Pray for Brother Jackson, and have pity
On the adversaries. Enjoy and appreciate every second of the day.
Smoking Joe Frazier, a great boxer, recently passed away.
Steve Jobs, a genius, died; so did Andy Rooney.
It is always a loss, when you examine it deeply.
Don’t stop praying for our friends, foes and brothers everyday.
Smile, laugh and enjoy every second of the day.
poem by Hebert Logerie (07 November 2011)
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No Food
I wake up every morning
stomach growling
No food to eat but
Momma won't let me tell nobody
Not even Jesus
When Momma leaves I'm happy because
For a second I think
That when she comes back
She'll have something to eat
But still-no food
The Roman Noodles are gone
Momma ate the last pack this morning
And I'm getting weaker
By the moment
Because there is no food
And when I get to school
I sneak to the bathroom and cry
My friends ask what's wrong
I tell them it's something in my eye
And- they believe me
And when I go home
Which is this abandoned house off in the woods
I hug my Momma because I know she did
The best she could with what she had
It just didn't work out
I didn't blame her because she
Put her trust in a man who
Not only verbally abused her but beat her, too
Which is why I entitle this poem No Food
She apologizes to me everyday
I ask het the reason why
But all she does is close her eyes and cry
And I wash those tears from her eyes
No food
Momma there's no reason to cry
I tell her; and she holds my hand
As tight as she possibly can
And says one day I will understand
And still- we have no food
She dies
Right there in my arms
Ironically the same place she held
Me- in her arms
The day I was born
No food, no lights,
No one around to hear
Finally, all her pain is gone
After all of these years
poem by Ebony Davis
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Braiding
1.
We two sit on our bed, you
between my legs, your back to me, your head
slightly bowed, that I may brush and braid
your hair. My father
did this for my mother,
just as I do for you. One hand
holds the hem of you hair, the other
works the brush. Both hands climb
as the strokes grow
longer, until I use not only my wrists,
but my arms, then my shoulders, my whole body
rocking in a rower's rhythm, a lover's
even time, as the tangles are undone,
and brush and bare hand run the thick,
fluent length of your hair, whose wintry scent
comes, a faint, human musk.
2.
Last night the room was so cold
I dreamed we were in Pittsburgh again, where winter
persisted and we fell asleep in the last seat
of the 71 Negley, dark mornings going to work.
How I wish we didn't hate those years
while we lived them.
Those were days of books,
days of silences stacked high
as the ceiling of that great, dim hall
where we studied. I remember
the thick, oak tabletops, how cool
they felt against my face
when I lay my head down and slept.
3.
How long your hair has grown.
Gradually, December.
4.
There will come a day
one of us will have to imagine this: you,
after your bath, crosslegged on the bed, sleepy, patient,
while I braid your hair.
5.
Here, what's made, these braids, unmakes
itself in time, and must be made
again, within and against
time. So I braid
your hair each day.
My fingers gather, measure hair,
hook, pull and twist hair and hair.
Deft, quick, they plait,
weave, articulate lock and lock, to make
and make these braids, which point
the direction of my going, of all our continuous going.
And though what's made does not abide,
my making is steadfast, and, besides, there is a making
of which this making-in-time is just a part,
a making which abides
beyond the hands which rise in the combing,
the hands which fall in the braiding,
trailing hair in each stage of its unbraiding.
6.
Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.
The trees grow tall, some people walk away
and diminish forever.
The damp pewter days slip around without warning
and we cross over one year and one year.
poem by Li-Young Lee
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The Shorter Week
I worked for fifty hours a week,
And someone said to me,
'Don't be a serf! Throw off your chains,
And show the world you're free!'
So I cut down my working hours
And found, upon the whole,
The leisure time I had to spare
Good for my body's carking care,
And better for my soul.
I worked for forty hours a week,
And someone said to me,
'Release your bonds, you shackled slave!
Show all the world you're free!'
So I reduced my working hours
And found in leisured lull,
The more I sought to play, the more
Amusement had become a bore,
And life was rather dull.
I worked for twenty hours a week,
And someone said to me
'Awake, you mutt! Snap out of it,
And show the world you're free!'
So I cut out my working hours
And found that joy had flit.
Upon black melancholia's brink,
I sometimes used to sit and think
And sometimes merely sit.
I worked for not one hour a week,
And someone said to me,
'You lazy coot! Arise and shine!
You call this being free?'
So I resolved I'd better far
Rejoin the toiling mob.
But when I rose and looked around,
To my intense digust I found
Someone had pinched my job.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Trying To Find A Job
Trying to find a job at fifty-three
Too old to work, too young for social security
They all want someone in their early twenties
That will go to work for mere pennies
I've got a twenty-five year old mind
But most employers don't want that kind
Going for interviews and they don't call
They think someone twenty has it on the ball
So I sit here and write poems all day
When my house works done I can play
You can't make money writing words
I enjoy it so, but this is for the birds
There is only so much house to clean
Can't get a job, because I'm not a teen
I have a good life, don't want to complain
I guess at my age, you're not to supposed to have a brain
I think I'm going to have to retire
After all it's not me they are going to hire!
poem by Donna Nimmo
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At The Time When Mother Left For Ozamis
i remember now
it was at that time when mother packed her clothes
and left my father for good
back in the little village where mother
was raised by grandmother
as a naive girl
keeping things to herself.
she dwells in a house of silence.
it was at that time when father said
that he loves her very much
that losing her would mean his death
but mother was no longer in the house
where we grew.
and of course, mother did not really believe him.
she died ahead of him, and he got drunk everyday, and
he put her picture on top of his chest and he cried all night long
staring at her face, black and white, her hair her mouth.
he died a year after and he was buried just beside her pantheon.
i still wonder if mother would believe him.
the silence is overwhelming. no one sweeps the heaps of leaves
and no wind is strong enough to clean the mounds filled with thick grass.
come summer time, i see white daisies blooming, and a black butterfly
hovers to stop a while. I watch closely this new turn of events.
it is like poetry. Some metaphors. Symbols, and hints. Love's mouth
wanting to say all over again, what the heart has constantly hidden.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The DREAM
I went to bed the other night
And woke up with a terrible fright
I dreamed I saw Christ the Lord
And I helped nail Him to the board
Pain and agony in his eye
And me a wishing He would only die
For what kind of GOD could he be
If He even couldn't set himself free.
The hours for Christ went slowly on by
Jesus surely must wish to die,
Some people began to laugh and some to cry
This man named Christ must surely wish to die.
Then lightning shown and thunder was heard
Christ began to speak a word
My body my blood I just have gave
So your souls they all could be saved
Some people quietened and some began to cry
For our salvation Jesus Christ must die,
But now there emotions they must hide
For Jesus Christ had just then died.
The years for me went slowly on by
And I was on my death bed awaiting to die.
Then death it came into my house
It crept so quietly in just like a mouse,
Then I awoke in a terrible sweat
I dreamed GOD Almighty I just had met
He said you didn't accept Christ my Son as your salvation
So in HELL you shall burn in damnation
I began to shiver and to shake
I didn't want to burn in Hell's fiery lake
So I wrote this dream into a song
So in salvation you couldn't go wrong.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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