Digging in his vault of loam
Seldom have I seen a Mole
Digging in his vault of loam
His hands unworthy of a prayer
As he lumbers above the earth
Heavenwards ever so rare
Threshing he makes a dome
St Paul's cathedral is his home
A sacramental hole, alone
In his earthworm, bowl...
poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
I Pulled Out My Shovel (Quatrain)
I Pulled Out My Shovel (Quatrain)
I pulled out my shovel
And dug a little hole
I dug even deeper
Trying to kill a mole
The digging was easy
The hole grew more and more
Then I thought to myself
I should have used my bore
I dug into the den
But the mole wasn't there
It was almost as if
It vanished in mid air
Then I saw a tunnel
It veered off to the right
So I thought to myself
I'd dig into the night
So I kept on digging
Until it petered out
Then I grew quite angry
So I had to shout
I never found that mole
But I did dig a hole
And filled it with a pole
Then formed a grassy knoll
Edwin Tanguma (10/4/2011)
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fallen In
She promised me a
“Better life”
As we moved in there
I hated it
Something’s don’t change
For nothing will be the same
After we moved in I lost something
Something so vital in
My upbringing
That I would not be the same person I am today
That something
Would be my family
They turned into just
People I live with
Day to day
The longer we stayed
The longer we got comfortable
The bigger the hole got
And the littler the latter got
At one time the latter was only half as tall as the hole
But we kept on digging and digging and digging
To where the hole is to big to deep
To climb out of
Now it’s as if we all are stuck in the middle
Big hole with no way out
So someone is smothering us
Since we all have
Fallen in
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Down In The Hole
Watch your head on that root
Got to let your eyes adjust
Im sorry about your suit
Cant do nothing about the dust
Welcome down underground
Hunker down a spell
Gets to feel like home to me
Though I know it looks like hell
(chorus)
Down in the hole
Lord, its deep and the sides are steep
And the nights are long and cold
Down in the hole
Light and love and the world above
Mean nothing to the mole
(dont mean nothing to the mole)
Never gets real hot down here
Fifty five degrees
Its always a little bit damp, I fear
But Ive never seem to freeze
Mushrooms and earthworms
Fancy stuff to eat
A world of quiet comtemplation (oh, yes)
Just below the street
- chorus -
Im in a hole
Since I lost my baby
Living in a hole
Since I lost my girl
Would you play in the moonlight
Woul you dance in the dirt
Come home way past daybreak
Cockleburs all stuck in your shirt
Come back home to twilight
Come back home to me
Subterranean river you are
Meets the molten sea
- chorus -
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Conversion
Tall, fit and strong
the player stands.
Waiting.
The stat#dium, like
a grand cathedral,
hushed, heads bowed.
Other players wait and look,
a sacramental moment.
With his heel he makes
a space, . as meditation.
Then pacing back he waits,
around he looks,
the silent prayer is made,
the crowds are dazzled,
dazed.
And then.
He moves and kick lifts
the oval ball
over it goes.
Amen is said in cheers.
The colored vestments raised,
and unity is done
in public prayer.
The priest,
is carried,
cheered around the aisles,
and fellow priests smiles,
satisfaction has ben gained
the previous losses
no longer ordained.
poem by Bernard Kennedy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Who Goes Home?
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Who Goes Home?
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Away The Bowl
Our grateful hearts with temperance burn,
Away, away the bowl,
From dram shops all, our steps we turn,
Away, away the bowl;
Farewell to rum and all its harms,
Farewell the wine-cup's boasted charms,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
See how that staggering drunkard reels!
Away, away the bowl;
Alas, the misery he reveals,
Away, away the bowl;
His children grieve, his wife's in tears!
How sad his once bright home appears!
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
We drink no more, nor buy nor sell,
Away, away the bowl!
The grog-shop's offers we repel,
Away, away the bowl.
United in a temperance band,
We 're joined in heart, we 're joined in hand,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
poem by John Pierpont
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Nonsense Poem - a Villanelle
A little mouse sings in a bowl
A little fish runs on a wheel
A little worm hops in a hole
A little hat has lost its sole
A little petal has no peel
A little mouse sings in a bowl
A little dog dances a reel
A little frog jumps on a mole
A little fish runs on a wheel
A little boat rings out a peal
A little bell loses its keel
A little mouse sings in a bowl
A little rock slips on a seal
A little perch walks on a pole
A little fish runs on a wheel
A little card shakes on a deal
A little sigh fancies a meal
A little mouse sings in a bowl
A little fish runs on a wheel
poem by Alison Cassidy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Diggers
The diggers are digging, and digging deep,
They’re digging and singing,
And I’m asleep.
They’re digging and singing and swiftly they’re swinging
The flying earth as it falls in a heap.
And some of it scatters and falls on my head;
But the diggers dig on. They can only dig.
They can only sing and their eyes are big,
Their eyes are big and heavy as lead.
They dig and they sing and they think I’m dead
The diggers are digging, and filling the hole.
They’re sighing and singing.
They pray for my soul.
I hear what they say, and from where I am lying,
I hear a new corporal calling the roll.
But the diggers dig on and fill in my bed,
They diggers dig on, and they sweat and they sweat.
They sigh and they sign, and their wyes are wet.
The brown earth clatters and covers my head;
Then I laugh and I laugh, for they think that I’m dead.
poem by Leon Gellert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
That Hole Is Not Of Our Making
Although their fingerprints appear,
On the shovels used to dig themselves...
Into a hole so deep,
Those still digging can not be seen...
The ones standing above it and looking below,
Wish to have the ones they have deceived...
Believe they had nothing to do with it.
'But it is clear to everyone,
Your fingerprints appear on the shovels.
And your hands and pockets are covered with dirt.'
~We've only come to sample the richness of it.
But that hole is not of our making.'
'Can you explain why the ones in the hole below,
Have chosen to scream out your names?
Begging to be rescued from their predicament? '
~We too are mystified just like you.
However...
We have come together to insist,
Everyone should participate...
To free us from this embarrassment.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In A Deafening Stubbornness
A resting temporarily,
From a digging of a hole
Dug deep,
Is no cause for celebration.
For those blindfolded,
In a deafening stubbornness they keep.
Especially if the digging done,
Is away from and not towards the light.
And those who enthusiastically dig,
See themselves as making progress.
A progress only they believe,
Can be achieved
Without listening to others,
Standing above them in silhouette
Against the rays of the Sun.
A digging like this continued
Out of listening distance,
Has long ago begun!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Voice & The Snake
(curly m.c./f.gregorian)
.
The first bowl on the earth
The second bowl on the sea
The third bowl on the rivers
The fourth bowl on the sun
The fifth bowl on the beast
The sixth bowl on the stars
The seventh bowl on the air
.
And the earth turned grey
Sea turned black
The rivers turned red
The sun turned cold
The beast turned pale
The stars turned fast
The air turned to poison
song performed by by Enigma
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Voice The Snake
(curly m.c./f.gregorian)
.
The first bowl on the earth
The second bowl on the sea
The third bowl on the rivers
The fourth bowl on the sun
The fifth bowl on the beast
The sixth bowl on the stars
The seventh bowl on the air
.
And the earth turned grey
Sea turned black
The rivers turned red
The sun turned cold
The beast turned pale
The stars turned fast
The air turned to poison
song performed by by Enigma
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Of The Mole In The Ground
The mole's a creature very smooth and slick,
She digs i' th' dirt, but 'twill not on her stick;
So's he who counts this world his greatest gains,
Yet nothing gets but's labour for his pains.
Earth's the mole's element, she can't abide
To be above ground, dirt heaps are her pride;
And he is like her who the worldling plays,
He imitates her in her work and ways.
Poor silly mole, that thou should'st love to be
Where thou nor sun, nor moon, nor stars can see.
But O! how silly's he who doth not care
So he gets earth, to have of heaven a share!
poem by John Bunyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A simple grateful thought turned heavenwards is the most perfect prayer.
quote by Doris Lessing
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Star-Nosed Mole
Mole, angel-dog of the pit,
digging six miles a night,
what's up with you in your sooty suit,
where's your kitchen at?
I find you at the edge of our pond,
drowned, numb drainer of weeds,
insects floating in your belly,
grubs like little fetuses bobbing
and your dear face with its fifth hand,
doesn't it know it's the end of the war?
It's all over, no need to go deep into ponds,
no fires, no cripples left.
Mole dog,
I wish your mother would wake you up
and you wouldn't lie there like the Pieta
wearing your cross on your nose.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Only The Bowl!
i am only the bowl!
i am not the rice.
i am not the fire.
i am not the rain,
nor the sun that gave.
i am not the fertile earth.
i am not the human hands
that gathered, that prepared...
i am not even the hand that offers.
i am not the table, not the chair,
i am not the spoon.
when day is done,
and my place is known...
i am only the bowl!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Irish Hill
Bury me at Irish Hill
a shroud of linen on my face
do not embalm my mortal flesh.
or box me in expensive wood
Find me a place beneath a tree
once I am senseless like a stone
return me to my mother's breast
return me to my quondam home
From dust to dust the preacher says
It's right and just what he intones
return me to my rightful place
beneath the rich and fertile loam
And when the sun shall shine again
I will make a flower grow
A flower with a fragrance rare
its petals joined in silent prayer.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
No Letters From Home!
A stranger lies ill, in a distant city,
With no - - letters from home!
The glances that meet him, in lieu of pity,
Are querring, "Why does he roam?"
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twere better
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twer better I
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
Like messenger doves, from across the mountains,
Cream tinted and golden and white?
Like the clouds that have sipp'd at the Eastern fountains
For thirsty land to take flight;
So come the dear missives--but ah! the stranger
Receives none to lighten his gloom;
In this time of sickness, this hour of danger,
Not ever one letter from home!
He moans in his slumber "Why did I ever
So far - - westwardly roam;
Oh, must I lie down must I sleep forever
With no loving letters from home?
My bones you may bury where winds are lifting
Pacific's broad billows in foam;
Or there on Lone Mountain, where sands are drifting,
But first, bring a letter from home."
"From the 'Golden' up to the portals pearly,"
He murmurs, "Oh can it be far?
On the sunset domain, in the morn how early
Will glimmer the Orient Star?
What light is the melting my shade like fetters?
What birds are those circling the dome?
Those messenger doves are my long sought letters
My flock of kind letters from home."
"They heed my request," says he, "best of debtors,
Their favors are whitening the dome!
Sweet messenger doves are my long sought letters,
My flock of kind letters from home."
poem by Henry Clay Work
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!