Sick of Shoveling?

our path into the park.
Photo by PoPville flickr user norbert

From a reader:

“I know there has been many names for this storm but I’m calling it Moby Dick.
If I have to shovel one more inch…

… to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.

Yep big, white and a pain in the ass”

Awesome! Your poems welcome in the comments!

11 Comment

  • Snow is flying up
    Shoveling is damned pointless
    Need another drink

  • Falling snow, despair
    This horror seems eternal
    Winds scatter white death

  • Prince Of Petworth

    Those are both awesome!

  • Not a poem but guaranteed to put our troubles in perspective – this is from “South” by Ernest Shackleton. He and 27 men have just spent 15 months stranded in Antarctica, camping on ice floes,eating seal, penguins and their own dogs, then 7 days at sea packed into 3 small open boats. They have now landed on Elephant Island and are camping on frozen penguin shit.

    “I and my companions in No. 1 tent were not destined to spend a pleasant night. The heat of our bodies soon melted the snow and refuse beneath us, and the floor of the tent became an evil-smelling yellow mud. The snow drifting from the cliff above us weighted the sides of the tent and during the night a particularly stormy gust brought our little home down on top of us. We stayed underneath the snow-laden cloth till the morning, for it seemed a hopeless business to set about re-pitching the tent amid the storm that was raging in the darkness of the night.
    The weather was still bad on the morning of April 19. Some of the men were showing signs of demoralization. . .”

  • I can’t remember which time it was, what time it was, or how many were there.
    Streaming together, screaming together,one flies away, another arrives lost in the crowd.
    It’s temporary and fleeting I tell myself as I try to find the one.
    All giddy they just go along together, flittering with glee.

  • Beyond the city walls lay unpredictable encounters with wild things, including other humans. Hans Peter Duerr argues that for the medievals the boundary between wilderness and civilization was permeable and often-crossed, like a low fence. In the country, at least, invitations to the wild lay at every turn. Strange animals roamed there, and at night the vast panorama of the skies opened up. Even the blossoms of the yew tree under which one might fall asleep were mild hallucinogens. An afternoon’s nap might turn into a trip to the Venus Mountain. But now the animals the yews and the vastness of the night are gone, and the Venusberg is the stuff only of opera. Sometimes the wild is deliberately eradicated, as for example when our civilization deliberately chopped down the ancient world’s sacred groves. The wild potentials that remain are pushed behind what Duerr describes as a solid, steep prison wall. (Source: Litter ART)

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