Best Bungalows Poems
On the bank of the James River,
Virginia Colony,
a proposal was conceived to constrain the African fire.
The ploy, a real achievement in the West-Indian settlements.
In Rome, bodies were paraded along the byways,
to make a statement.
My Massa used ropes.
We dangled by our necks like roosters in a slaughter house.
When the pining for liberty was stirred up in the marrows of our bones,
we set ablaze a few bungalows,
and murder some dumb beasts.
The statement we made was called an uprising.
The fields were abandoned, the livestock ran wild,
and the slothful young mistress had to breast-feed her own child.
The scheme had the ingredients of breaking a mule,
and Virginia Colony was the first lab for creating fools.
A prophet’s blessing was given to the merchants,
and black diamonds were shipped;
they were purged of the soil of the mother land.
A new being was fashioned, dependent on Massa.
A man was set against his consort and his seeds,
and the whips wrote rules on our backs in their faces;
our pride drained from the gorges in our hides,
and respect slowly seeped from their eyes.
The bond was broken;
a ***** was concocted
without the spirit of Ghana, the Warrior King,
and the Ashanti, the pre-colonial backbone.
Should we not push as a woman in nativity for the renaissance?
What If?
What if guppies and goldfish could swim through the air?
What if birds could only relax by sitting in a chair?
What if spider webs looked like charming bungalows?
What if cheese sticks had to be hunted out in the jungle-os?
What if curtains were carefully hung up in the Maple trees?
What if cookies only came from buzzing little bees?
What if horses were allowed to take rides on our backs?
What if skateboards could take a ride on the rail road tracks?
What if Saturdays came more than just once a week?
What if at your birthday presents you could take a peek?
What if alligators played music every time they’d sneeze?
What if teachers taught Algebra to the chimpanzees?
What if delicious gumballs grew out in the yard?
What if scoring soccer goals wasn’t all that hard?
What if arching rainbows were something you could touch?
What if with each of the colors you could skip Double Dutch?
What if the medicine that the doctor gave you tasted like ice cream?
What if you and your best friend could go to sleep and dream the same dream?
What if all of these things were completely true?
It wouldn’t matter at all to me because I would still love you.
I perch on a rock
by white teal-roofed bungalows,
resting after my journey.
Autumn's early bloom
is a choir of falling leaves
by a quiet rippling stream.
The silence deafens
as bright notes waft like snowflakes
to earth in Fall's madrigal.
I, a songless bird,
rejoice in observation.
The rippling stream chimes for me.
O'er fields strewn with harvested evergreens,
There ventured a marine from Queens,
His flesh were a slight inky, his clothing was ragged,
No more alive, flowing in dread and haggard.
All around him darkness loomed quite blue,
Once a fair surround, radiant and imbue,
In the light he walked there, shadowed by fear,
But tragic winds did jinx his heart severe.
Then wondering thro' rain and stormy clouds,
Opaque in brittle hues, ghostly in shrouds,
With white shades of bubbling horror his evermore,
A mere ripple in earth's waters he'd deplore.
Onwards thro' the crushing storm he trekked,
The landscape ahead was defiantly suspect,
Its dour horizon presented a challenge to survey,
Where the sounds of thunder it rapt his day.
In raucous rumbles the marine heard the sky,
As frightening, with spawns of black fly,
Memorialized in his sleep, to haunt him evermore,
Then have brews of mystique he'd explore.
And a bejewelled goose would decorate his path,
There draped in quaint linen it felt his wrath,
Murmuring quietly the water bird flew into the light,
As bright as the sun, in some alluring plight.
To dream of despair, tenebrous in its imagery,
Hypnotic, muttering of death and infinity,
There with the wink of an eye he let the sunshine in,
His mother then smiled at her miracle kin.
She'd been there all along thro' his tribulation,
That struggle of low bumps and amputation,
Rosemary oil bid him comfort there as he woke,
From a coma it were, but horrors did evoke.
Down the pallid rush of melancholy misfortune,
A marine was reunited with life all impromptu,
His will to live it were strong after what he'd seen,
So two bungalows he obtained from a queen.
The images plucked from a full soft drive like over blown berries
threatening to fall……blasted to the humus. Swing chains creak.
The high-backed, heart carved, chalk white, front porch swing sways;
to the kicking of your feet. Beside me, you sit in spankin’ new school clothes singing.
Together wrapped like pretzel dough, we warble, annoying the sparrows.
The bumble bee yellow and black stripped school bus is late.
The dreamy cottage bungalows’ screen porch perches like a tree house ledge
over the four story drop off. Hundred year old sentinel pines tower still above us,
limbs house hug. The occasional cone drop ricochets down the trunk
to a soft needle landing, and a bouncing roll before falling off the retaining wall
We own the world. King and Queen of the Mountain are we. I sing “Ducky Duddle” to you.
You laugh. All the joy in the world in such a small sound. Oh, how I loved to make you happy.
Two short years before, even your name was new to you..my boy, Jamie.
When winter months become morose
And everything around is blue and froze
Gets disheartening even for the eskimos
Their morale starts to dwindle and decompose
They tread most lightly on cautious tippytoes
For fear their neighbors will become bellicose
They bite their tongue rather than use such prose
As ‘up your nose, my friend, with a rubber hose’
It is uplifting to dream of colorful scenarios
Any warm place where the blazing sun glows
Where the desert air gently blows
While ocean waves roll in sultry rows
All agree a trip down south would be most grandiose
Trading bikinis for their parka and heavy winter clothes
By pools they’d feign being divinely comatose
Drink in hand adopting the hot vacation pose
Stretched out on their hammocks eating pistachios
Laying back being busy counting colored rainbows
Hey CabanaBoy we’d truly really hate to impose
But would you please massage us from our head to our toes
Before their fair skin burns and redness undergoes
They all head back to their respective bungalows
Wondering should they dress go catch one of the shows
Or rest in bed before calling on one of the local rodeos
While visiting the souvenir shop one decides to propose
To send home a postcard showing tropical buzzards and flamingos
With a heartfelt message that needs not be verbose
For sure they’ll be the envy of both our friends and foes
AP: 1st place 2021
Everything Changes
It is still winter and
roadside snow banks lead me.
I drive the pre-highway
backroads of another time, when
‘no dumping” warnings
lined the thick woods.
Now stand subdivisions
modern sewers and gas lines.
Some old bungalows by the lake
remain, reminders of summers
when I was small and
the forest was eternal.
As the final hat is tipped
the velvet curtain called,
all who remember gone,
who will keep the memories?
Kathryn McL. Collins
February 25, 2014
A walk to school out of the backdoor, through the homemade back gate, through a narrow alley,
Cars parked on the curb, guarded by paraffin lamps, no garages, no parking area,
Walking down my road, past the bully's house, all is very, very quiet, careful
Then the front door opens, a big kid comes running and chases me down the road.
Near the end of my street was a large piece of wasteland, called "the logs"
Huge logs cut down hundreds of years ago, grey, split, tall trees chopped down,
Stinging nettles in large clumps, cars abandoned, a play ground for children,
Into a road full of bungalows, the posh side, people looking through curtains.
About a mile down this road, there was more wasteland, with a muddy shortcut,
Shoes covered in mud, trying to clean them with an old bit of paper, no good,
Out of the wooded shortcut, past the entrance of a railway, through a tunnel,
On the other side, up steps was a sweet shop, looked through window, no money.
Past the bank on to a main road, told many times to look left and right, careful,
Walking up another street, then a short cut through, an old mansion falling apart,
Down the coke covered road, into a road where huge flats were being built, ugly flats.
The into my school play ground, seeing class mates, queuing up to go into the school.
1977. Was the Queens Jubilee,also eventfull year
flew down from Teeside to London Heathrow,for an overnight stay
an onward journey to Kuwait, my father prime in the proffession he did
scaffolding coordintor,myself and sister Tracy were only kids.
Not many children get an oppertunity, stemming a family memory
weeks rolled on, settling into school,became normality.
I couldn`t put into perspective,developing indepth
pining for home,muslim life portraying what i missed.
However,amongst the feelings of uncertainty,and meeting my new mates
building dens behind bungalows,from old shipping crates.
We would attend The Hubara Club,an update leisure complex
untold amounts to occupy youths,skateboarding main context.
Not forgetting my mother,and mundane everyday tasks
muslim laws preventing,normality, has to ask
simplicity took for granted,from showing arms of pale
amongst kuwaiti public,the women wearing veils.
Christmas that year, will be forever etched
an altercation between perants,that i`d rather not fetch.
Kuwait a beautiful country,Twin Towers of Ahmedi
without sounding ungrateful,home i`d rather be.
Paul Beadnall for
Sponsor Paula Swanson
Contest Name Opened Doors
Across the table from an empty chair,
I sat and tried to sound interesting,
She stood so close and we discussed ice cream,
And Cornflakes, and bourbon, and the art scene,
The fact we both have lived in bungalows,
We had seen each other twice before this,
The second time was in a crowded hall,
In a house with a Latin band playing,
I never asked her about a fourth time,
Because wouldn’t that just be so cliché,
She smiled at me again and left me there,
Outside of the artisan ice cream shop,
Across the table from an empty chair.
Michael F. Lewis
02/03/2013
One night before I finally fell asleep,
I found that you my beloved spiritual sister,
led me into the heavens.
We are blessed with these super luxury bungalows.
These white bungalows are all next to each other,
upon a grassy knoll,
with a swimming pool, a large one of course, located
in the middle.
My bungalow is something you my dear sister helped to get
ready for me.
With lots of purple and violet colors which I like
to the extreme.
These bungalows have their own kitchens, bathrooms,
and family rooms.
I noticed my sister that you are always bringing food over, lots
of yummy treats.
Then you started to walk with me while holding my hand
through the outskirts of the actual city. It is as you said,
"Sounds like EDEN! That's where God is taking us NOW!"
So as we walked towards this city, the New Jerusalem
if you will; Jesus was walking there with us, and His appearance
kind of reminded me of those bishops you might see on chess
boards, except Jesus like you had previously pointed out to me,
my beloved sister has a blue glow about Him at times.
It was a most joyous occasion as I was reunited with people
who forgave me, and whom I had forgiven... and of course our
families and loved ones were around too.
But you and the other King's Daughters are my favorites
to hang around with even there.
So thanks my sister for the tour.
It transformed me even further for the Kingdom, so I can continue to
assist in our Father's agenda.
SKY
It slides down silently
From the naked branches of tree
Hanging bats of shadow
And creeps incessantly
In the barren alleys
When the hearsay of the sun crosses
The western sky
From the womb of the horizon
From bamboo grooves
From the meeting halls of villages
From running sewerage
From balconies
From bungalows
From palaces
From castles
There sprout numerous streamlets
Of stinking vices
And immense wings of darkness
Interweaving itself
Make a hefty nest
On the blunt conscience of population
Where numerous tongues of desire
Getting algebraically multiplied
Every day in comparison to the last
Put a garland of upheaval
In the neck of silence
And there accumulate
Thousands years of old benevolence
Heritage of customs
And worn out dreams
Sparkles attached with gut
And taking fire in its gall
Slowly and steadily
Sky begins to shut in hut
Tasmania
Wool of the sheep in Tasmania is full of soot a fire has
destroyed the farms they belonged to. They have gone
feral now grazing where there is any grass left…
In a country where insensitive incomers stupidly killed
off the Tasmanian tiger, sheep are safe, no predators,
but man. Tasmania, this land of bungalows, sheep and
white immigrants seeking an Eden sans fear, then came
the big fire and people had to flee into the sea to avoid
getting burned. I was in Hobart once, it must be classed
as the most boring town in the world; and to my utter
disgust they sold margarine made of sheep´s fat. Think
of if fish & chips cooked in THAT FAT. People who live in
a secure society do not improve their culinary taste or
and their culture ,tend to be provincial and they love fat
sheep meat; an adoration which is typical for a people
who lives in a cultural cocoon.
Bazaar,
Storing all a"s,the bazaar,
Of the three one is profit,
Bazaar like the heart of the township,
Supplying noise commodities to the ear consumers free,
A place buying richness and selling poorness,
Most of the sellers only with minds but hearts,
Money is like blood running all over the Shop nerves,
Some buys,some sells,some bags and some begs,
Also some bugs drawing blood in the down town,
The debt rolling like wheels,
Very busy like only today no tomorrow's,
The merchants of Venice sits,
Shylocks carrying fault scales to weigh flesh,
Bazaar,the chased satan's official bungalows!
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Picnic.
Funny thing happened on way to picnic close to a jungle.
Taking twelve people three cars started simultaneous.
Cars going in queue, front- one, driven by my uncle.
We were in joyous mood, singing loud in chorus.
On road side, morning walkers were practicing jog.
Through military campus road led to our destination.
All the bungalows showing warning ‘Beware of dog’.
We were relaxed and car running in slow motion.
Haply from a house, came out a running Alsatian,
just to commit suicide on hit of our car.
With a rifle rushed the owner, a military man.
All were frightened to deal with the disaster.
My uncle got down, apologized, ‘just to mention,
I have no fault, please try to understand.
Excuse us Sir, take this money as compensation.'
Stern looked officer hesitated, but stretched his hand.
‘Ok. Fine. Accepting your ‘Fine’ as you are feeling sad.
Killing the rascal, you have done a great favor.
I am going to shoot him as he has gone mad.
Never mind. In future, be a cautious driver.’
06/30/18
Third Place
Funny Memories
Contest by Natasha L Scragg