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How secretly the mole scrapes by in sodden earth and root.
Each slug a wad of calories, a push a pull, a shovelled foot.
His blind unmeasured consequence marked by muddy mound
where proclamations of advance lay surfaced, scattered round.
No concept, sight or knowing plan drives fur and feet afar;
yet fanning out, with purpose clear ,
the shallow tunnels spread each year.
In lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil,
relentlessly the critters toil.
Up above, in sighted world, walks hound and Mole Man, gloved and grassed.
Below in scentless, senseless soil, the velvet digger, ‘til he’s passed,
is still and silent; lest one scrape should prick dog’s ears and give away
his hidden hold beneath the boot, so guile may let him live the day.
Down through the dark a stab of cane;
another, nearer. Blood and pain,
death’s portentous company,
is on him, but to wriggle free
is more than pink spades can achieve.
For sin in soil, there’s no reprieve.
Buried in his own dug grave , the bloodied spike still holds him fast.
Another mole will find him, soon, and skirt around to seek repast.
Who knows which mole produced this pile, this February mound.
Alike, they come and come again, erupting through the ground;
and shallow tunnels spread each year,
in lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil…
I hate them.
Tectak
2017
Posts: 1,325
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 a fun read. Really don't need the last line, the lack of sympathy for the buggers is graphically clear.  Thanks for posting it.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
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(01-31-2018, 10:54 PM)vagabond Wrote: oh.. but they´re so cute.
https://news.nationalgeographic.com/cont...d-mole.jpg
...particularly dead ones.....
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yeah, of course, and funny, that´s why your poem is in fun, no?
...
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(02-01-2018, 12:28 AM)vagabond Wrote: yeah, of course, and funny, that´s why your poem is in fun, no?
...dead right.....
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How secretly the mole scrapes by in sodden earth and root.
Each slug a wad of calories, a push a pull, a shovelled foot.
His blind unmeasured consequence marked by muddy mound
where proclamations of advance lay surfaced, scattered round.
No concept, sight or knowing plan drives fur and feet afar;
yet fanning out, with purpose clear ,
the shallow tunnels spread each year.
In lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil,
relentlessly the critters toil.
Up above, in sighted world, walks hound and Mole Man, gloved and grassed.
Below in scentless, senseless soil, the velvet digger, ‘til he’s passed,
is still and silent; lest one scrape should prick dog’s ears and give away
his hidden hold beneath the roots, so guile may let him live the day.
Down through the dark a stab of cane;
another, nearer. Blood and pain,
death’s portentous company,
is on him, but to wriggle free
is more than pink spades can achieve.
For sin in soil, there’s no reprieve.
Buried in his own dug grave , the bloodied spike still holds him fast.
Another mole will find him, soon, and skirt around to seek repast.
Who knows which mole produced this pile, this February mound.
Alike, they come and come again, erupting through the ground;
and shallow tunnels spread each year,
in lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil…
I hate them.
Tectak
2017
I really like this poem. It taught me a bit about moles, too.
I had no idea they had such a face! I remember once standing
at the edge of a drive at my friends house and I thought my
eyes were playing tricks on me when her sod moved, but it
was that burrowing critter. I hope you find yourself free from them.
Thankfully the soil where we are is thick with clay, I'm not sure
they appreciate that.
I like how the poem built up with angst
like a steam engine!
thank you for a fun read <3
-nibbed
there's always a better reason to love
just mercedes
Unregistered
Haha! When I read this aloud, the sound of 'moles' becomes 'molls' - that's what we call the tired old whores who still paint up and go out on the weekends. There's a whole other fecund layer to your poem.
Thanks for posting.
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(02-01-2018, 12:24 PM)nibbed Wrote: How secretly the mole scrapes by in sodden earth and root.
Each slug a wad of calories, a push a pull, a shovelled foot.
His blind unmeasured consequence marked by muddy mound
where proclamations of advance lay surfaced, scattered round.
No concept, sight or knowing plan drives fur and feet afar;
yet fanning out, with purpose clear ,
the shallow tunnels spread each year.
In lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil,
relentlessly the critters toil.
Up above, in sighted world, walks hound and Mole Man, gloved and grassed.
Below in scentless, senseless soil, the velvet digger, ‘til he’s passed,
is still and silent; lest one scrape should prick dog’s ears and give away
his hidden hold beneath the roots, so guile may let him live the day.
Down through the dark a stab of cane;
another, nearer. Blood and pain,
death’s portentous company,
is on him, but to wriggle free
is more than pink spades can achieve.
For sin in soil, there’s no reprieve.
Buried in his own dug grave , the bloodied spike still holds him fast.
Another mole will find him, soon, and skirt around to seek repast.
Who knows which mole produced this pile, this February mound.
Alike, they come and come again, erupting through the ground;
and shallow tunnels spread each year,
in lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil…
I hate them.
Tectak
2017
I really like this poem. It taught me a bit about moles, too.
I had no idea they had such a face! I remember once standing
at the edge of a drive at my friends house and I thought my
eyes were playing tricks on me when her sod moved, but it
was that burrowing critter. I hope you find yourself free from them.
Thankfully the soil where we are is thick with clay, I'm not sure
they appreciate that.
I like how the poem built up with angst
like a steam engine!
thank you for a fun read <3
-nibbed Hi nibbed,
don't believe all you read about moles....vags illustration was the star-nosed...the common is just ugly...and loves clay....but I'm glad your friend's sod moved for you.
Best,
tectak
Posts: 2,602
Threads: 303
Joined: Feb 2017
(02-01-2018, 04:08 PM)just mercedes Wrote: Haha! When I read this aloud, the sound of 'moles' becomes 'molls' - that's what we call the tired old whores who still paint up and go out on the weekends. There's a whole other fecund layer to your poem.
Thanks for posting.
Hey...steady on...some of those molls are wives....not mine, of course...but some. Fecund...hmmmmmm?
Best,
tectak
(01-31-2018, 10:28 PM)ellajam Wrote: a fun read. Really don't need the last line, the lack of sympathy for the buggers is graphically clear. Thanks for posting it.
I hate the little bastards with every sinew of my being with every drop of my blood with every curse I can muster with every £10 I spend for one poxy bag of worms impaled by the Mole Man on my fence...and don't give me that slop about them catching slugs because they come in to scout and leave without.....ggggrrrrrrrrr
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