I would like to find poems about Cherry Pickers and Broken Lights. If there aren't any I will accept made up ones.
What a weird request! Care to explain?
Stephen
Sounds like a challenge!
Is that you, Stephie?
Jack
Stevie-
Just to get this straight, when you say "cherry-pickers" are you referring to Mexicans or machinery?
(C'mon, LIGHTEN UP!)
Mexican Jack
I'm flattered that my madness is worthy of such treatment
I have cheered up a bit so far so good however we will see what happens..
Here you go:
[www.saltpublishing.com] />
There is a poem titled, "Road workers picking cherries" in a book by Michael Hulse.
Les
Post Edited (11-14-04 13:02)
There are many poems about "broken lights".
[www.schillerpoetry.com] />
Les
My Sister's Sleep
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweighed
The pain nought else might yet relieve.
Our mother, who had leaned all day
Over the bed from chime to chime,
Then raised herself for the first time,
And as she sat her down, did pray.
Her little work-table was spread
With work to finish. For the glare
Made by her candle, she had care
To work some distance from the bed.
Without, there was a cold moon up,
Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
The hollow halo it was in
Was like an icy crystal cup.
Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
And reddened. In its dim alcove
The mirror shed a clearness round.
I had been sitting up some nights,
And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
The stillness and the broken lights.
Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,
Like water that a pebble stirs.
Our mother rose from where she sat:
Her needles, as she laid them down,
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled: no other noise than that.
"Glory unto the Newly Born!"
So, as said angels, she did say;
Because we were in Christmas Day,
Though it would still be long till morn.
Just then in the room over us
There was a pushing back of chairs,
As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose.
With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o'erhead -should they
Have broken her long watched-for rest!
She stooped an instant, calm, and turned;
But suddenly turned back again
And all her features seemed in pain
With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.
For my part, I but hid my face,
And held my breath, and spoke no word:
There was none spoken; but I heard
The silence for a little space.
Our mother bowed herself and wept:
And both my arms fell, and I said,
"God knows I knew that she was dead."
And there, all white, my sister slept.
Then kneeling, upon Christmas Morn
A little after twelve o'clock,
We said, ere the first quarter struck,
"Christ's blessing on the newly born!"
Les
The Cherry Tree
When I first asked
the groundskeeper about picking fruit,
a lascivious grin crossed his face.
I noticed that many of his teeth
were missing,
and wondered about his wife
and children.
I knew he had recently buried
his mother and a still-born
with his own hands;
I'd expected grief
to lend him more dignity.
All the same, he seemed harmless,
and even carried the ladder
to the tree.
I pointed the way, and he sweated
and grunted,
grinning all the while.
He whistled through his airy mouth
and set the ladder
against the tree.
As I began to climb,
my dress pulled up a little;
I had to strain
to keep my composure.
I looked at him sternly,
then he disappeared.
As I rose
to the lowest bough
and tried to grasp a gleaming cherry,
the sun bewildered my eye.
Everything beautiful
seemed suddenly out of reach.
I don't know why or how long
I watched the light
pass over the hill.
--Don Share
I have worked in a warehouse where floorspace is at a premium. In this situation the stock shelves go UP, and you need a machine called a cherry-picker to lift you up to those higher (20-30-40 ft.) locations. It is advisable to drive it at floor level until you get where you need to be THEN go up. But some people won't learn. They insist on elevating to 30 ft. or more, and driving around in this elevated configuration. It is an excellent way to break lights.
I know this is a LOT more info than you were looking for, but I never got an answer to my politically incorrect question.
Jack
I know this is a LOT more info than you were looking for, but I never got an answer to my politically incorrect question.
Jack, my guess is that Stevie never intended for us to give it a second thought. I could be wrong, but usually when we get questions like this it's just for fun. Just like the sonnet piece next door, it's just posted to spark interest
and cover the points we might otherwise miss.
Les
Post Edited (11-14-04 21:04)
Cherry Pickers and Broken Lights
Ah, reminds me of the bad old days
when I was making a living
bouncing around
a not so well-lit warehouse,
tripping over
empty cherry pickers
at three a.m....
oh those long legs
just stick out so far,
and those bruised knees
beneath the broken lights,
all that's left
at the end of the week
and me
not even old enough
to drink.
Peter
Post Edited (11-14-04 23:06)
pulling us each in our own direstion, the girl in the cherry tree... This paints a scene as old as the orchards.
Post Edited (11-14-04 23:01)
Like the poem posted in Dutch.
The Flag by George Murray
Quick: it's happening again,
the red lips of the cherry picker are once more
calling to report a theft.
Are we missing some shadow
when we exit through that darkened door?
Is an opportunity being taken
to shoulder past us?
Is there a chance to speak a moment,
a chance to pass on this wisdom?
Realistically, whether the wings
are made of wax, feather, or steel, when we fly
close enough to the sun…
If admission is free,
you should probably bring a friend.
It's too late for surrender now.
It makes more sense to use
the white flag we've saved as a tourniquet,
and when we peel it
from the empty arteries of the dead
its mottled stains will sign a next, lonely nation.
Sing to the new children:
O children leaping from our heads,
O birth without pain, O minds emptied quick
as tipped urns!
Might we touch one another and be
revealed? In the murky dark between rooms
the business of inheritance continues.
Hold your tongue, my hands seem to be full.
Yours in gratitude
Stevie