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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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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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'
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
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New broom sweep clean, but de ole broom know de corner.
A new broom sweeps clean, but an old broom knows the corners.
A new broom sweeps clean, but an old broom knows every corner.
A new broom sweeps well, but the old broom knows all the corners.
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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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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Broom Poem
a history of the broom
a short one, or long
will see us down on the floors
in the streets and the corners;
a little excursion to the theaters
of farce and wayward husbands
beaten by outraged wives;
and if we included this poem
in this sweep of history
I hope a poem with a broom
does not fire the same ignorance
as beliefs did
conjuring women with brooms
supposed witches who flew in the sky…
you burned them, remember?
and you would again, given half the chance
poem by Raj Arumugam
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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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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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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
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Tis Time, I Think, By Wenlock Town
'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The golden broom should blow;
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow.
Spring will not wait the loiterer's time
Who keeps so long away;
So others wear the broom and climb
The hedgerows heaped with may.
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The unvarnished commoner's untold truth
He born to a helpless needy family
Anyway his parents bring him to a certain extent with a great difficulty.
He finds a part-time job and draws a lump sum earning
And later on he gets a devoted partner,
Hand in hand they walk onwards with their offspring
And in their dark shelter they breathe like others quietly.
He never studied politics but a handsome politician gives him a promise and takes his finger prints for a fairyland.
This off color skeletal innocent never sees a fairground until he reaches his nameless tomb.
Postscript
* I remember that my deceased loving mother who reminds us when the election comes nearer; 'Son, please hide that hairless broom in a corner, certainly the chalky candidate would bring us a new broom and he sweeps the kitchen well.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Juggler
A ball will bounce; but less and less. It's not
A light-hearted thing, resents its own resilience.
Falling is what it loves, and the earth falls
So in our hearts from brilliance,
Settles and is forgot.
It takes a sky-blue juggler with five red balls
To shake our gravity up. Whee, in the air
The balls roll around, wheel on his wheeling hands,
Learning the ways of lightness, alter to spheres
Grazing his finger ends,
Cling to their courses there,
Swinging a small heaven about his ears.
But a heaven is easier made of nothing at all
Than the earth regained, and still and sole within
The spin of worlds, with a gesture sure and noble
He reels that heaven in,
Landing it ball by ball,
And trades it all for a broom, a plate, a table.
Oh, on his toe the table is turning, the broom's
Balancing up on his nose, and the plate whirls
On the tip of the broom! Damn, what a show, we cry:
The boys stamp, and the girls
Shriek, and the drum booms
And all come down, and he bows and says good-bye.
If the juggler is tired now, if the broom stands
In the dust again, if the table starts to drop
Through the daily dark again, and though the plate
Lies flat on the table top,
For him we batter our hands
Who has won for once over the world's weight.
poem by Richard Wilbur
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Her Broom, Or The Ride Of The Witch
My broom
with its tufts of roses
beckoning at the black,
with its crown of thistles,
prickling the sky,
with its carved crescents
winking silverly
at Diana,
with its thick brush
of peacock feathers
sweeping the night,
with its triangle
of glinting fur.
I ride
over the roofs
of doom.
I ride
while he thinks me safe
in our bed.
My forehead
he thinks that scraggly
other broom,
my hips that staff,
my sex that stump
of blackthorn
& of twine.
Ah, I will ride
over the skies-
orange as apricots
poem by Erica Jong
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There should be less talk a preaching point is not a meeting point. What do you do then Take a broom and clean someone's house. That says enough.
quote by Mother Teresa
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wildy Ones
The sheep are in the silver wood,
The cows are in the broom;
The goats are in the wild mountain
And won't be home by noon.
My mother sang that olden tune
Most every night,
And to her newest she would croon
By candle light;
While cuddling in the velvet gloom
I'd dream of cows
That sought each dawn 'mid golden broom
To gently browse.
Or I would glimpse the silver wood,
The birchen glade,
Where pearly sheep in quiet mood
Cropped unafraid;
But how I loved in lapsing drowse
The mountain wild!
The goats were more than sheep and cows
To one wee child.
For cows and sheep are shelter-wise,
And love the lea;
While goats have starlight in their eyes,
In cragland free . . .
And now on edge of endless sleep
Wryly I note
How less I'm kin to kine and sheep
Than rebel goat!
poem by Robert William Service
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At Best
a poet, at best,
is merely the bridge
between the small child
inside each of us,
and the Mother's breast!
the simple striking
of the common match,
that lights the fire,
the broom that sweeps,
yet has no name or need...
the words of the prayer
we pray with every breath!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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