Best Hovels Poems
A candle burns its life away;
sacrifice to it, is sweet;
it is a candle’s lot in life.
Candles gift, a light dark cloaked;
beacon burning bright;
candles warmth and charm are unmatched by
anything else, man has made.
Candles birth soft memories;
lend rest to the eyes and romance to the heart.
Candle has sung many centuries;
a companion in dark ages; on dark nights,
its glow can hold childhood terrors, at bay.
Candle songs kept aging sailors company on raging,
storm-ridden seas. No bullying leviathan
would ever cross candle’s path willingly.
Even sea monsters fear its burning breath.
Candles glow, a dancer on the air,
dances for everyone;
candle-tango brings passion to lovers.
No one is alone when candle is near,
such a light-companion,
draws others to its domain.
Candle has gathered friends together in
taverns to celebrate;
in hovels, for warmth and at parties of celebration.
By candles gift, we find our way home;
its welcome warmth, a song of love on an empty, cold night.
When you burn, burn bright and long;
your light is the warm love that you leave to the world.
No bulb, LED or solar panel can bestow your gift.
When your flame is gone, when your torch has been passed;
your legacy will light another’s way to
faith, hope and love.
On sandy beaches and along fertile riverbanks,
In fecund soil and in lush green plantations,
Coconut trees stand tall towering into the sky.
They are benevolent palms at the service of generations.
A coconut tree is a marvel of creation, every part of it can be used.
Its umbrella like crown of leaves shades us from sun.
Its circular, heavy cluster of fruits enrich our bodies.
From coconut husks, coir mats and ropes are spun.
The milk-white kernel inside the coconut shell,
Is used in curries, cookies and for extracting oil.
The water inside is a healthy, delicious drink.
Its vast net work of labyrinthine roots holds the loose soil.
Its sturdy trunk is used as a support for anchoring small boats.
Coconut shells in the hands of a craftsman turn into attractive curios.
Palm fronds are used for thatching small hovels and sheds.
Thus, from foot to crown, its uses and charms are various.
If one is stressed, it is therapeutic to de-husk a coconut.
It is a fine exercise and an ideal way to de-stress.
If angry with some one and wish to tear him limb by limb,
Break a coconut and it will take away all your noxious distress.
Still if you don’t feel comfortable and are with tingling nerves,
Scrape a coconut bit by bit and by the time you finish,
All your anger must have slowly gone as steam into air,
And in course of time, you will see it thoroughly vanish!
Born into a life of poverty crime and squalor
where hunger and cold winds bite
and disease is rife
and it was a daily battle to stay alive
and find some food to stay alive.
Uneducated illiterate caught in the poverty trap
drinking polluted water
from the same polluted cholera riddled tap.
An impoverished woman
sells her body for a cheap bottle of Gin
and a lodging for the night
while a pickpocket and mutcher
ever watchful
look for a pocket to alight.
The deafening clunk and clatter
of horses and carts on the cobbled ground
and shouts from the street market traders
echo all around.
Children play and run through the narrow
crowded streets
dressed in rags no shoes upon their feet
The putrid stench from the gutter
and thick choking bellowing
smoke from factories
make one heath and make it hard to breath.
Dilapidated hovels and buildings
covered in black soot
horse manure and raw sewage
under foot.
Beggars with large mournful eyes
reach out pleadingly to the passing gentry
to fill their empty bowls with plenty.
A peeler pins a notice of a forthcoming hanging
at the local Gaol for the few who can read
upon a rusty nail.
A Mother desperate to feed her hungry children
steals a loaf of bread from a market stall
but is soon captured in the sprawl.
The judge sentences her to 10 years
penal servitude far over sea in Botany bay
but she dyes aboard the ship of fever
upon the way.
Her 9 children are sent to the workhouse
for the poor to gain some education
and work hard behind it's hellish door
never to see their Mother or escape poverty
ever more.
Peter Dome.copyright.2012.
bat
echo detective
hanging around hovels
pursuing dwellers of the
night
Seven cities sat* silently in the sandstorm**
Waiting as the wind whipped around wickedly**
Dun walls draped with dirt and dust**
And the darkened sun desperately seeking a dim scenery*
But as the unsecured boards were battered and broken about
Clapping clappers clipping** the next scene
The humans huddle in the hovels hiding and hidden**
From the farce of the ferocious furor, full of fear**
But then, as suddenly as it started, it subsides**
As silence settles** and the sand sifts** down
Down to the ground and gravel
And carefully eyes peek out of slits and keyholes
Seeing the first rays slice through the haze
Defining from pastel to watercolor to crisp bristle brush
Even if the voice of the cities are still hush*
There is a stirring of life
Of hope
In the end of stormy strife***
*personification
**alliteration
***metaphor
Lima has a pulse
arterial and venous it flows…
all the colors of the rainbow glow
in the mist of Pacific sea's
hectic days and disco nights
beat into the sand at the ocean's lea.
Lima's life flows
from Palacio de Gobierno ...
in measured meter from the fountain glow
amidst a Catholic sea
spirits rise of the children of the sun
cleansed of their faith by papal decree.
Lima wealth flows
its chic denizens prance baroque boulevards
barricaded behind razor wire's show
life for the wealthy addressee
distanced from the hovels of El Salvador
and the festive strum of the mariachi.
Lima has a pulse
arterial and venous it flows...
as buses disgorge invaders, colorful, slow
Shamanism lies in a Catholic sea
proud, head held high, clinging to He
beat into the sand at the ocean's lea.
My days in the streets of despair took me from scanty shanties
Intermittent through dreams drinking the syllables of books
Cast before my eyes, I was at the bottom of nooks and crannies
Hiding in barren valleys of bushes, and sometimes cast hooks
Angling the sea for food that did not feed brain alone. T’was then
Eagled in the sky I saw you like a speck of dew swelling up
Latent opportunities kept before my race as pittance in a cup.
Nobody knows the darkness behind the iron gate of hopelessness
Omitting light except to the paler color and privileged ten percent
Registered in the status quo as rich, despair was a sweet callousness
Meandering the streets at the edge of destructive explosion, pent
Anger muted by the false theories of our worthlessness. We let it
Nurture rebellion in rock steady songs, and battled on playfields over it.
Michael Manley meant more than a man, or regular politician
Anthem in my thoughts, a new hawk against the glitter of crown
Nurturing the trodden down with wand of words, a magician
Letting us believe in the self like an abeng picked from the ground
Entering the new day I campaigned alone to bring it to pass
Yielding nothing in the struggle to the old power of caste and class.
Intelligent, gifted orator, compassionate servant moved by solemn creed
None is left like you since death fragrant you with our native weed.
Men do not write their history alone without lead from God’s intention
Ending the culture of disbelief democracy had its breathless chance
Ministering to the hovels of colonial cast offs, I saw the raw fission
Orchestrating the destiny of the past, your tongue was a glinting lance
Reneging laws of understanding where some were too comfortable
Interestingly filling the place of the great house lord, and regrettable
Another excess of the left, disbanding Africa for blind white theories
Meaningless to our negritude, still you linger in fireside love and sweet stories.
I, who now sit alone by this barren shore
Looking vainly out to sea as if
I thought I could espy distant Crete,
Have become a source of ridicule
Among these lesser men,
Who strut and title themselves architects
And brag of the hovels they erect and call palaces,
Built for the king of a land that knows no better,
But, ignorant of Geometry and of Number,
Are merely charlatans and young fools,
While I (an old fool) sit here unused and rusting.
I, who built the dread Labyrinth by command of Minos,
Where he imprisoned the monstrous Minotaur
And every ninth year sent seven girls and seven boys,
Tribute from a defeated Athens,
To their deaths in its dark depths
To be devoured by that mindless thing.
But when Ariadne asked for my help
To save her lover Theseus from that fate,
Foolishly I gave it,
And Minos turned his rage on me,
Imprisoning me and my son inside that very prison.
In my arrogance, I devised a plan
To escape from that which was inescapable.
And this I did, but still was trapped by the sea
And by Minos’ black ships that roamed it.
From wax and the feathers of seabirds
And by my knowledge and craft I devised wings,
And we soared into the cloud-flected sky,
Away from that island prison and free.
For hours we flew on our wings over the dark sea.
I took care not to fly too low,
Else the sea spray dampen the wings and make them heavy,
Nor to fly too close to Phoebus
In his daily journey across the sky,
Less the wax melt.
But my son forgot my warnings,
(Or perhaps I forgot to warn him; I can’t remember now),
And he flew too high and the wax melted
And he fell and the sea swallowed him.
I flew on then, alone,
Until I reached this primitive land
Far from Minos’ reach.
I burnt the wings,
And kept my name and my knowledge
Hidden from the people of this land.
And so I sit here idle,
While above me the birds fly
Where, once, I flew,
And gaze out to the sea
Where Icarus lies.
OF THE COMMON SEAS
"We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths, for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought upon our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice." **
Truth need not be found
in philosophers' musings,
or complicated by thoughts bound
with theorems and words, fusing,
nor within the intricacies
of mathematical proofs,
as one and one may indeed
not equal two; un-truth is truth.
Truth becomes vast in life,
and like the pearl, can be found
as beauty captured, in seas rife
between the common oyster's gown,
Or found within the common leaves
of books written by common men,
discovered by those literates who read.
Truth is simple, now and ever been.
I stumbled on such a prize
In Dana's autobiography;
of common men on common seas
living truths of common humanity.
** Dana, Jr., Richard Henry, Two Years before the Mast, World Publishing Company, 1946, p. 283
1
Like a moth to a candle flame
I pondered the perceived right
of those of wealth, culture, piety and fame
to control and lead the common blight -
(the average, struggling and forsaken souls);
yet have never descended to the lowly station
to learn the culture of these earthly ghouls,
their dreams, their pleas, their damnation.
As gods atop their cloud draped mountain
how dare they, in their empiric quackery
force the masses to their impure fountain
to drink of the laws and life that they decree,
yet having not trod the tracks of the plebian path,
having never felt the sordid plebian passions,
but worshipping instead their comfort and wealth,
adorned in decadence and richly clothed fashions,
how can they govern those they do not know,
minister to anguish they have never felt
or heal their sickness of body, heart and soul?
How can they play the cards, to them never dealt?
Are they leaders, statesmen, kings and lords,
or simply counterfeit men full only of themselves,
vainglorious peacocks, strutting hordes
deceiving not a common man, only just themselves?
We have them here, in this land of the free,
politicians, preachers, corporate men and judges.
None have suffered and worked, you see
yet dare to rule, when by common men begrudged.
The pedestrian kettle steams on to the Capitol pyre
With a weight watcher tonic; more lean legislators to sire
The Grand Old Party a taste of the aromatic brew doth require
Medicinal tonic blended to alleviate bloating gout of every Democratic squire
Preferring their watered-down, generic brand, constipated digestive tracts go haywire
The savy financiers sit on the sidelines in their cozy markets ignoring the taste test flier
The partisan grit clogs the filter producing a quagmire
The vitriolic ingredients boil over causing a rancid fire
The billowing smoke rises and streams to the patrician choir
The generic master brewer in his white house stews in the demagogic mire
Commercial winds sweep in fanning the flames causing the heat to reach dome's spire
The regurgitated grounds spewed forth to every intoxicated shire
Democratic gainsayers scare the elderly that the side effects are so dire
The rest of the squeamish plebians in their depleted hovels continue to sip their Common Roast with ire
Cowboys in the Badlands
The horses need be reined tightly
lest they show better judgment
and head back to the barn. The
cowboys, driven by the dust cloud
of following hoof beats, were less smart.
A Gila monster smirks as they pass
knowing what waits ahead is to be
more painful than the rope they flee.
Driven by the torments of a lost war,
a lost home, a lost dream, they had
lashed out at the hunger, fled the
hovels of a shanty town and swore
to exact payment any way possible.
The consequences of the decision
pursued them, consumed them,
as they rested the horses. The horses
must rest, they never would.
They stood overlooking the badlands,
shimmering heat’s forever fallacy,
that somehow you would cross to
safety, find an oasis, escape. Oh,
you may escape the posse, maybe
even the past, but you will not
escape the bitterness of these
bad lands and their unforgiving
demands. Few have come here
willingly, fewer have remained
once tested by the dryness, the
drought, the wind, sand, and
anger of a land seeking to be
left alone. And so they rode into
the abyss of sand and stone
leaving only the hoof prints
of fading memory. Bandanas
covered their faces, hat brims
covered their eyes. They rode
until the horses fell, unable to
continue. Horseless, they staggered
in the shifting sands laughing
as they recalled staggering from
the saloon on that awful night.
The night they gave up, the night
they gave in to the desperate desire
to be free. A desire that was now
to be fulfilled in these Bad Lands.
For Isaiah Zerbst – Cowboys in the Badlands poetry contest
9/15/2014
There's a duck of high renown,bred and reared in my county town.With orange
feet and plumage light,of culinary fame,this bird snowy-white.Neck so fine and
feathered crown,kept in cottages now tumble down.Reared in hovels and
shack,a deep breasted duck.with ample back.An early layer,ready for
spring,plucking feathers so tiring,boxed in flats on Lodon-bound carts,each
Saturday as clockwork did depart.A Victorian food luxury,the main product of rural
Aylesbury.A duck of worldwide renown,a noted product of my home town.
While reading the ADMIRABLE novels of *Maugham
My mind drifted to the enchanting streets of Paris.
Teaching the plays of Moliere, my roamings started
Over CAVING *National theatre of Paris, or the Globe.
Next day reading aloud the poem “My luv was like a red…”
The captivating poem of the bard Robert Burns of *Eyre
Shifting to Dublin to feel the BOUNTY of *the Abbey
And the play School for Scandal of Richard Sheridan.
There are patterns and patterns of fascinating dreams
And I knew creativity and genius do face monolith
Like Mark Twain I had no unpleasant or stressful HOVELS
As is said daydreaming or dreams are derided zarebas
But can be constructive in some contexts of fine arts or science
Proved to be TRANSPARENT realities in the later years of my life
Visiting all the dreamed-of-places of my day-dreaming raptures.
But still daydreaming has not left me as I have still dreams of
Visiting the entrancing lands of Anna Karenina and *Nora Helmer.
+++++++++++++++
Date:2-4-14
Form: Free Verse
Eighth Place win
Contest by Shadow Hamilton
Traveled the globe For many years My haunting memory Are the children`s tears Tattered rags To keep them warm Roadside hovels Shelters from the storm All they have is a mother`s love Hardly enough When push comes to shove From dawn to dusk In the street Pleading to strangers For something to eat The horrible truth No one cares to see Only a fortunate few Exist long enough to be
I set out on a long journey by train
That spans from end to end
Out through the window flashed past
Assorted scenes one by one
Sky scrapers and mud hovels,
Steaming cities and peaceful hamlets,
Row upon row of maize and wheat,
Bent down under the weight of grain
Cars gliding along crowded streets,
Children school bound in crisp uniforms
Cattle grazing on distant hills,
Cadets on parade beside their tented camps
Smoke coiling up from tall chimneys,
Sizzling cascades from the heights
Swirling streams and glistening rivulets,
Silky meadows and tall mounts
Disposed not to enjoy the scenes,
My mind moored to the final halt
Saw nothing before, but the destination
My fellow travelers – a flaunting menagerie,
Communed with few, connected to none
At every halt, some exited out
And strangers came in to fill the space
But all to myself- my eyes far set
Damning the distance, I waited on and on-
A wretched lone traveler, like a sailor lost in the sea,
Restless I was to reach the shore,
My ears agog to shouts of welcome
My body eager for the warm embrace
I paced the aisles and counted the miles,
Impatient and irate, I grew
I dreamt, my life - a jig saw puzzle,
The pieces neatly fitting together
On arrival after a tedious trip
Once and for all, at my terminus
With my gaze fixed beyond the horizon,
Caring not to see what lies before
I continue to travel miles on end
To a place that outdistances me ever!
March.21. 2022
Form J- Just Write Me a New Poem
Sponsor- Constance La France