She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars --
And then I come away.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Related quotes
Gestapo
You had life so easy...
You thought you were the chips and cheese.
And you mocked,
Those who were not!
You thought it a breeze,
To do just what you pleased.
And you shopped...
'Til you dropped.
You stole what you had,
And you thought it would never stop.
When you thought your life was threatened...
You would call the cops.
Now that things have turned around...
A mess is all you've got,
To show.
And you know...
Your back's broke.
A gestapo is on the march.
Soon to knock on your door...
With a broom and mop.
To clean up your slop!
A gestapo is on the march.
Issuing brooms and mops.
To clean up the slop!
Believe it or not!
And the ones who sit on stoops...
Will be grouped,
And pooped from pushing.
'Lock step! Mops! Push! '
A gestapo is on the march.
Issuing brooms and mops.
To clean up the slop!
Believe it or not!
A gestapo is on the march.
Issuing brooms and mops.
To clean up the slop!
Believe it or not!
You had life so easy...
You thought you were the chips and cheese.
And you mocked,
Those who were not!
But...
A gestapo is on the march.
Issuing brooms and mops.
To clean up the slop!
Believe it or not!
'Lock step! Mops! Push! '
A gestapo is on the march.
Issuing brooms and mops.
To clean up the slop!
Believe it or not!
And the ones who sit on stoops...
Will be grouped!
And pooped,
From pushing.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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April Apron Of Apricot Blooms
April aprons of
apricot blooms
spun by the sun
on his lightthreaded looms
Away petals swept
by wind's feather brooms
for giving tree's free
fruit to make room
poem by Saiom Shriver
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Smoke
Smoke, it is all smoke
in the throat of eternity. . . .
For centuries, the air was full of witches
Whistling up chimneys
on their spiky brooms
cackling or singing more sweetly than Circe,
as they flew over rooftops
blessing & cursing their
kind.
We banished & burned them
making them smoke in the throat of god;
we declared ourselves
"enlightened."
"The dark age of horrors is past,"
said my mother to me in 1952,
seven years after our people went up in smoke,
leaving a few teeth, a pile of bones.
The smoke curls and beckons.
It is blue & lavender
& green as the undersea world.
It will take us, too.
O let us not go sheepishly
clinging to our nakedness.
But let us go like witches sucked heavenward
by the Goddess' powerful breath
& whistling, whistling, whistling
on our beautiful brooms.
poem by Erica Jong
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Generalizations, like brooms, ought not to stand in a corner forever; they ought to sweep as a matter of course.
quote by John Lukacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Fear
No one has ever spoken of it,
But there is a way,
He will never hit,
And will start to fade away.
Snakes, rats, cats, stakes,
They will never scare,
But with spoons, brooms, and lakes,
That He, beware.
Everyone grab some silverware,
And get those sweepers and dock,
For we're traveling to His lair,
At five around the clock.
Don't think we won't,
Because we surely will,
He's just a don't,
We'll plumber Him down the hill.
Let's go great people,
We're going to go take over,
From the bottom to the steeple,
When we find Him,
Plow Him Over! ! !
poem by Mystykka Mysterious
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Mum
Mumbering everyday at her child
Using brooms to hit their child
Me cried a lot
poem by Purdy Poppet
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Gloomy Autumn laps friendly
Here I have come again by the order
And I see a lot out of work.
I am so sorry and I would like to help you
As much as I can.
I pluck all withered leaves from the unhappy trees
And provide you much sweeping jobs.
The sleepy factories, they have to double up their productions.(Rakes, Brooms and required tools.)
Certainly they recruit people.
But please do not blame me
As I am bit warmer than earlier.
* To my deceased poor Mom!
Autumn reminds me her wrinkles and Dark-Circled eyes.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Passion governs
My mother dropped the glass.
My wife dropped the glass.
My servant dropped the glass
My child dropped the glass.
My sweetheart dropped the glass
I dropped the glass.
My reactions are different.
The depth of passion governs.
01.09.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Oh, Halloween Eve
Owls are screeching
It’s icy cold outside,
The wind is howling
Leaves crackle under feet
On neighbor’s porches,
Glowing pumpkins greet
Arms are reaching
For candy baskets,
Kids are seeking
Shadows creep up on you
You almost scream,
When ghosts fly by n’ go boo!
Witches everywhere
On scruffy brooms,
Fly thru the night air
Costumes are a fright
Oh, Halloween Eve,
What a spooky night!
A Poem By Eva (Age 7)
poem by Ray Lucero
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The Drover Of The Stars
IT is little I care for earth's kings,
Its emperors, sultans and czars,
As I lie in the darkness and dream
All alone with my sheep and the stars.
For as dust of the moment are they,
Now agleam and now still on earth's breast;
But the stars, spreading wide in the night,
Travel on, ever on to the west.
My sheep, snugly camped in the dark,
Misty-white with the pale grasses blend;
But where is the camp of the stars?
And whither, O Night, do they wend?
Through leagues of dry distance we came,
Where dust-wreaths, wind-woven, upcurled,
Since Dawn dropped the rails of the east
And let the Day into our world.
Slow-moving we travelled the plains,
Trudging on through the sun and the wind,
Till Day galloped out of the west,
And Night set the sliprails behind.
And now, by my camp-fire alone,
A tryst with pale Wonder I keep —
That mystical Lady of Dreams,
Whose hour is the sleep-of-the-sheep.
Foot-tired in the grasses they lie,
Mist-pale in the darkness, and dumb;
Yet who was it mustered the stars,
And whence and what leagues have they come?
Who keeps them from straying apart?
Who urges them straight on their route?
No answer — none tell me; and lo!
The Night, though it listen, is mute!
Watch 'neath the stars of the Cross,
Orion, and Venus and Mars;
I am but a drover of sheep —
But who is the Drover of Stars?
poem by Roderic Quinn
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The new broom sweeps well
'Yes sir, it's true but when I get old that won't be applicable.
You too seems to be wearied like me by sweeping.
If they do not throw the dirt on streets
Then both of us can stay together freely.'
'Where did you study? ' I asked.
'Boss! You never learn such things in the school
We are brooms and sweep others dirt by heredity? '
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Appetizers Laced
Dozing!
After a feast that fattened their bodies,
And dulling their minds.
They all awakened to find...
Someone demanding those times,
Would be left behind them now.
Struggling to their feet...
Some dazed,
Others amazed those days
Had actually gone.
With their cupboards depleted.
And brooms and mops left,
For them to use to sweep and clean.
As someone they never respected...
and certainly did not expect.
Showed up upon the scene.
Loudly proclaiming,
What from them is expected!
And the days ahead will be long and lean.
Jaws dropped in shock!
To learn they were asked to serve.
Or discover themselves deserted.
Since those who had fed them,
And watched them sleep...
Were treating them with doses,
Of appetizers laced with deceit and treason.
While slipping through exits.
Hoping to leave unnoticed...
Without making a sound or peep!
'The thieves have stolen the cheese.
The Provolone, Swiss and American
Lox and Bagels too! '
Announced the leader,
Of the new maintenance crew.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Even Witches Return
Even witches return,
To straddle their dusting brooms.
Preparing another round of disgust,
With personal strikes and offenses.
Prehaps if given enough room,
To ignite from the bowels...
Of their own gloom,
To fly away.
Maybe the stench left,
Will not be consumed...
Or noticed to associate,
With one!
As cheap and choking perfume,
Does to everyone.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dream scape at night when you were not beside me
Time melts for sure you have seen
how Dali did it once tables float in air
hairs become rain and eyes
can be suns or moons in technicolor
skies like sweeping brooms made of
leafless branches of dead trees
in all these there is one horrible limitation
the soundless passing of images like
fog and mist and smoke and breaths
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Just Tell The Truth
It's a lie! !
So, just tell the truth;
Nollywood,
Bollywood,
Hollywood!
And like the Black Hawk helicopter;
But, this love is from a border town.
Looms, grooms, brooms, rooms, booms, dooms;
And like a crucial meeting in the land of your muse!
But your projected love was seen towards the location of your lover.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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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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Using Brooms With Sticks As Weapons
Priests and monks fighting amongst themselves,
In a sacred place...
To determine which ones are deserving of more space,
With a worshipping done to do of a savior?
Under one roof where their faith is aloof.
Those with the most creative of minds,
Would not find the time to make this up.
And the ones who claim to walk with 'holiness',
Are now reported to be using brooms with sticks as weapons.
When will the truth end all delusions of self righteousness?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fully Fledged Flight Attendants
In the city lies the citizens laid quiet off the ejaculating of
The exhausting angels:
Those pretty demigods that put them to work, and then
Sent them back home again,
Down into the jungles and the purple fjords of their deeply
Shadowed
Cribs: perhaps like heroes defeated by their own monsters,
The motifs of satellites nearly invisible in their rooms:
The footprints of super heroes,
The metamorphosis of Cinderella’s brooms: and they go this
Way by the byways of nocturnal rivers,
Pretending that the night blooming jasmine is the only
Thing in the neighborhood that will keep them
Intoxicated, as school comes,
And the ixora blushes and turns into full hedges
Just in the very same time that the youngest sweethearts finally
Grow up and become so leggy that they leap across the continents
Wearing the finery of the heavens on their strapless shoulders:
They are now fully fledged flight attendants.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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