A Better Way
There’s a better way of digging
Than that, Uncle said, taking the
Spade from your hands and showing
You with a craftsman’s touch how
It should be done. You watched in
Wonder how with ease and skill he’d
Made the trench begin to shape far
More quickly than your frail work
Produced. He handed you back the
Spade and you noticed the calluses
That years of using spades and other
Workman’s tools had made. He took
Hold of your hand and turned it over,
Gazed intently and smiled and shook
His head. Such lily-white hands were
Made for pen not spade or hoe or rake,
He said, finish what’s started, lad, then
Return to your studies and pen instead.
poem by Terry Collett
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Related quotes
Spade
The beauty spot was borrowed
Now my sweet knife rusts tomorrow
I'm a confession that is waiting to be heard
Burn your empty rain down on me
Whisper your deathbeat so softly
We bend our knees at the alter of my ego
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
All my lilies' mouths are open, like they're begging for dope and hoping
their bitter petal chant, "we can kick, you wont be back"
Im a diamond that is tired, of all the faces i've aquired, we must secure the shadow ere the substance fades
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
And we said 'til we die
And we said 'til we die
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
And we said 'til we die
And we said 'til we die
song performed by by Marilyn Manson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spade
In my heart, my love fades
To the small corners of dark color spades
I see it fester in its pointed edge
And to its death I solemnly pledge
"Kill my love, kill my heart"
then I smash the spade, till its love falls apart
Now all that's there, is sable ink
And into its fluid my hand does sink
I write with it all love's gain
And all we seek all in vain.
Love is not defined by anything
But a broken heart that cannot sing
In morbid ink, my soul I dress
And to love, my love I confess
My love of love, a dark spade
That kills my heart, the spade it made
I fade....
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Well, Say It As You See It
it is nice
yes, always the feeling is nice
when you call a spade a spade
lets your heart out
nothing tightens
or chokes
nothing to vomit
at the end
nothing hidden
well, they laid the principle
of candid honesty
say it as it pleases you
not as it pleases them
always, yes, always
call a spade a spade
that is rule # one
honesty, that lonely word
well, i learned it by heart
learning to say
what is in my mind
but what do i get?
nothing
everyone is displeased
with my honesty
that i am one tactless
form of shit
this monstrous mammal
this elephant with a tusk
this snake with a venom
this mischievous child
laughing at the
naked emperor
without clothes
well, yes, i still say what i see
calling a spade always a spade
and what do i get?
yes, this one,
nothing but this one
this poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Call A Spade A Spade
at that very young age
you were taught to call a spade a spade
and a square a square. There are no exceptions to the rule.
There are no compromises with the truth.
Then you grow to be a very nice, self-made man.
You practice what was taught to you.
And you meet pain and disappointments.
And you suspect that the teachers are wrong.
Time teaches you.
Squares sometimes become rectangles on an extension of a principle
to accommodate a compromise of a certain shape.
A spade need not be a spade depending on who gets axed.
A square peg you sometimes put in a round hole and it does not matter
really what happens next. You are simply told to do so as ordered.
And what is important is that they like it.
You survive the hazards of this life.
You become successful on the science of compromise,
the art of plea bargaining, the techniques of human relations.
You get some plaques for a lessened self-restraint.
You get the awards and recognitions for being their man of the year.
And one day you look at yourself in the mirror.
You see a different face and you do not like it anymore.
You quit and hide. You go away. You want to be left alone.
You want to reinvent yourself and listen to the voice.
Carefully, you cure the sickness of success.
All you need is a self who accepts yourself. All you need is the touch
of your hand. The applause has become pain itself.
And there you are, finding the truth again.The real meaning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Big Kid and the Tall Tale
The big kid stood
by the garden shed
with others kids and you
the horticultural teacher
was down by the beds
with some other kids
whom he was showing
how to dig
and the big kid said
I had her
back there
up in those woods
at the end
of the playing field
the other kids
moved in closer
to get a better grip
on the tale told
you stood on
the perimeter
of the crowd
one eye
on the big kid
the other on the teacher
bent over a kid
showing him how
to hold a spade
and you know what?
the big kid said
she was some goer
the other kids
looked at him
then at each other
some plump kid
with spots laughed
you looked over
towards the woods
by the playing field
a quaint woodland
over by the fence
and near the road
and you know
what it's like? Huh?
the big kid said
the kids nodded
you noticed
their eyes large
and their tongues
at the corner
of mouths
it was like slipping
into a warm bed
the big kid said
on a cold night
the teacher made
his way towards
you and the kids
by the shed
the big kid
made gestures
with his hand
and the boys sniggered
half catching on
to the gesture's tale
the big kid's hands
went into pockets
out of sight
the other kids
moved towards
the teacher's
calling voice
you followed
unwillingly
having little choice.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Metaphoric Garden...
all the while, literalism
is wished. Why bother with some
allusions? One can be direct
to the point and be
understood point-blank,
no holds bar, black is black
and white is white,
a spade is a spade is a spade,
the cause is that which the cause
is caused,
bluntly, candidly,
what the heck is this
going around the bush
and figuring out
what is hidden through
symbols and
concealed through some
metaphors....
but my dear, this
is the realm of what we want you to know
and on the other hand
we also want you not to know
so well....
and that is, precisely
this thrill, remember those imaginary
toads in the
real garden?
or those real toads in the
imaginary garden,
feel them, they are all here,
hear them, but my god, by god,
you cannot see them
here... not yet....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nearby
Say a spade
a spade
see all fade.
Face the sky
find everything
nearby.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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My Backyard
He was digging deep into my back yard pages
using questions for a spade;
the over-turned soil started to pile high
deep dead flowers unearthed there
and who, and what phrases came from him in clumps
of queries
and gripped I was with how much
I can, could or should reveal.
'Was he your boyfriend.? How long were you two together? '
These kinds of soft queries come with hidden barbs and sharp edges
if the answers lead on to more spade queries and deeper digging into my
backyard history.
Each clunk! into that deep soil just might dig up memories long buried there with no time for censorship to dust off the dirt and clean them up and evaluate what he had found there.
I was not trying to hide but I was frozen by not being able to see in advance what lay there before I was presented with it and hesitant, had to instantly think about what to own and what to conceal.
How many backyard artifacts should each of us reveal to New Love who has no context to understand and thereby forces you to own or conceal.
I took each shovelful he presented me and simply smiled mysteriously saying 'Your questions bring up so many memories and I can't decide right now which to reveal and which to leave unsaid until I know how you deal with backyard memories; and that might take time, lots of time, for me to see, or guess why and what, you think this ecavation means.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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I may die
I am not the one who will ditto,
Seek someone else to serve your purpose,
I call a spade spade,
If you compell me to do so,
I may die,
For the burden is unbearable
To my heart.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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My pride is…
I earn within which I eat and wear.
No jealousy, no begging either.
Calling a spade a spade, I’m content..
My pride is to live within my means.
10.07.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sonnet: All Creatures are Equal ‘fore God’s Eyes
‘What mammoth frame, ivory tusks, I’ve got! ’
‘No forest-king or beast dare challenge me! ’
‘I lift tree-trunks and battles too I’ve fought! ’
‘I stand and sleep: eat grass, green leaves only.’
The Ant that heard the Elephant’s words said:
‘Tho’ small in size, I labor hard, day/night! ’
‘I eat the biggest beast and men who’re dead! ’
‘I disappear in small cracks out of sight! ’
Each one on earth has merits/demerits;
God made all beings with purpose innate;
One can’t compare the poets that have writ,
Nor can we harbor jealousy or hate.
God expects just some things for which we’re made;
A heart’s a heart: a spade always a spade.
9-13-2002
poem by John Celes
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Perhaps I Will Never More See Him
Perhaps I will never more see him we shook hands in saying goodbye
He seems to be getting quite feeble he turned seventy four last July
He suffers of asthma and emphysema the years on him are taking toll
Time does not wait for anybody and growing old is beyond our control,
A generous and kind hearted old fellow and one who
has a 'heart of gold'
And wise in the ways of the World 'tis sad to see him growing frail and old
I am leaving soon for to live elsewhere and him I may never more meet
The old bloke who lives in the one room flat in the retirement Village off of the Main Street
On shaking hands with him in parting the tears I struggled to contain
Perhaps this goodbye is forever and perhaps I won't see him again
He smiled and said see you soon I answered surely at such a time one has to pretend
For his sake I hid from him the way I was feeling to me he is such a dear friend
I must say he looks rather feeble and is showing every one of his years
We shook hands and as I walked homewards my eyes misted over with tears.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Figs he calls figs, a spade a spade. [Said of a man who speaks with sincerity and means what he says.]
The Spirit Medium
POETRY, music, I have loved, and yet
Because of those new dead
That come into my soul and escape
Confusion of the bed,
Or those begotten or unbegotten
Perning in a band,
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.
Or those begotten or unbegotten,
For I would not recall
Some that being unbegotten
Are not individual,
But copy some one action,
Moulding it of dust or sand,
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.
An old ghost's thoughts are lightning,
To follow is to die;
Poetry and music I have banished,
But the stupidity
Of root, shoot, blossom or clay
Makes no demand.
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Not to call a spade a spade
Don't call her a concubine.
Say she in live-in-relationship.
Don't call her a harlot.
Say she has many companions.
Don't call her adulterous.
Say she is with easy virtue.
Don't call a spade a spade
Lest it should be offended.
15.05.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Snowball
My baby took our love
And then she rolled it up
Rolled it up a hill
Like a ball of snow
Like a snowball grows
Until it gets too big
Until she lost control
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
She took a tiny bit
And rolled it up again
Slower than before
She went a step too far
She had to let it go
I saw it go straight down
My baby turned around
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again
Eyes were made for looking
Hands were made for holdin
Hearts were made for lovin
Lips were made for kissin
Legs were made for walkin
Tracks were made to follow
Thats what Im gonna do
Two tracks
In the snow
Two tracks
Up that hill
My heart broke
When my baby left
Two tracks behind
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The scare crow
was always scaring me
near the big
tamarind tree
never thought I would
encounter it
at the graduation
I had failed to qualify
and my intellectual abilities
had defeated me
and calling a spade
a spade
can be misleading
when it is actually
a magic carpet.
The scare crow
is a test of
others' courage
where as a Jatayu
is courage himself.
poem by Prathibha Nandakumar
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