Best Outhouses Poems
We who remember outhouses
consider flushing toilets
the next thing to heaven.
Yet, we know, in heaven—
no need to search—
they do not exist.
The Apostle Paul said,
“We shall not all sleep,
but we shall all be changed.”
No freckles,
no cowlick,
no twisted bones,
no missing members,
no lack of understanding.
Questions will all be answered.
As we enter that pearl-encrusted gate,
as we gaze through those transparent
golden streets, never again
will there be a need to flush.
Why should I remain a family house
If I am dilapidated, shattered and tattered
In this summer of old age.
Why should I remain a family house
If the house garden bears a barren look
Tearing away its leaves and flowers.
Why should I remain a family house
If the birds do not build their nests
Migrating to some other places.
Why should I remain a family house
If I don’t have to wait for birds’ return
In the lonely colorless evenings.
Why should I remain a family house
If the inhabitants are in the outhouses
Dangling like a jaundiced curtains.
Why should I remain a family house
If I am not cheered by the chirping
And joyful songs of my little birds
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Date 17-1-14
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form: Elegiac Form
Third Place Win
Contest: Loneliness by Frank H.
This is an autobiographical poem. I wrote this poem in the year
2000 when the last of my children left for Canada and USA.
Two-ply in roses of yellow and pink
rolls and sings to the touch
of fingers on its faintly-scented folds,
giving miles of pleasure to soft seats
on hard covers all in the name of
modern convenience which is a change
from old catalog sheets housed in
quarter-moon outhouses
behind homesteads.
Two-ply greets us in grocery stores,
all the pretty ones sit on the front row,
purring at our squeeze test,
begging to be brought home,
heaven forbid if you buy the plain,
all-white, skinny two-ply which sits on the
bottom shelf looking forlorn because of
Its unscented homeliness.
Two-ply dies a million deaths each day,
lost in the vortex of flushed toilets,
killing its suppleness and sweet fragrance,
headed to the deep, dark sewers waiting
to be processed in the jaws of the
sewage treatment plants which do not
discriminate against the bland,
anorexic and hard-to-the-touch.
Why should you remain a family house
If you are dilapidated, shattered and tattered
In this summer of old age.
Why should you remain a family house
If the house garden bears a barren look
Tearing away its leaves and flowers.
Why should you remain a family house
If the birds do not build their nests
Migrating instead to some other places.
Why should you remain a family house
If you don’t have to wait for birds’ return
In the lonely colorless evenings.
Why should you remain a family house,
If the inhabitants are in the outhouses
Dangling like a jaundiced curtains.
Why should you remain a family house.
If you are not cheered by the chirping
==============================
Dr. Ram Mehta Contest: Beloved Poems by Giorgio Veneto
This is my autobiographical poem.
I wish outhouses were still in fashion
For I would be sat in one right now
Away from the hypocrisy that is you
But still close enough
So when I hollered your name
You’d still answer
By God I don’t know how your mother managed
She must have the patience of a sculpture
For 21 years, to raise the man-child that is you
Cement in her head I tell you!
For if you were my child
I would have asked for another one
But boy does she have some good genes
I can’t for the life of me possibly fathom the thought
That any other girl than me could subject herself
To the hysteria that is you
I don’t know how I do it to be honest
I must have sinned in a previous life
But the biggest mystery of it all, my dear boy
Is if I woke up one late Sunday morning
Not finding you wrapped around the entire duvet
With my teeth chattering
Well, that would be the greatest catastrophe of all
The child I was, so long ago
Knew not of Halloween.
The sweet treats that are now bestowed
By me were never seen.
The preacher at our church denounced
Halloween as evil.
Celebrating it, he said, was
Honoring the devil.
Of course there always were the teens
Who parked buggies on barns
And tipped over the outhouses
On the neighboring farms.
Some of these were brothers of mine,
Just wanting to have fun.
Daddy sent them to atone for
All of the mischief done.
Halloween now finds me ready
With a big bowl of treats
To hand to the children coming,
Just looking for some sweets.
By: Joyce Johnson with 4ft-3 ft.meter, Ballad style.
Written for contest "Halloween Fun" won a 3rd
Kids nowadays don't know the fine art of staging Halloween tricks,
(Though they are very adept at fleecing me for candy to get their kicks!)
Tricks we did as kids would no doubt today land us in the slammer,
Causing outrage and rancor by folks for our hides with great clamor!
Obviously, we didn't hang around to collect a tasty treat,
But did our dastardly deeds and made a very hasty retreat!
A favorite prank was upsetting outhouses and the havoc that created,
Causing the hapless owners angst and leaving them somewhat agitated!
Another silly trick that raised a stink that we did with great dispatch,
Was to place a bag of manure on the porch and light it with a match.
We'd knock on the door, then run like a bat outta you know where,
Watching the guy stomp out the fire and you shoulda heard him swear!
The tamest thing we did was to soap window panes with a bar of soap,
Leaving naughty witticisms for which the occupants had to cope!
In the autumn of my years I reflect on the Halloweens of my youth,
And wonder why my pals and I acted so buffoonish and uncouth!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
A flea market called the outhouse market
is located just outside of York Town.
And an arrow sign nailed to an old tree
points you to the best flea market around.
Cause it's hidden behind some outhouses
folks need to look for it, it's hard to find.
And yet, it has quite a reputation
as the place ... to find those one of a kind.
You'd think that its unsavory locale
would mean business would be non existent.
And to eke out any kind of living
you'd have to be pretty darn persistent.
But the irony is... profits doubled
since the vendors moved their businesses there.
For it seems that people think it’s kinky
and therefore, it’s always a crowded affair.
(Quatrain)
Mar.16, 2018
A Hidden Market - Poetry Contest
Julia Ward
Clyde Pucelli was known as The Rembrandt of The Great Midwest!
He was an itinerant painter, esteemed as one of the best!
With his brushes and well-blended oils he'd render a masterpiece;
His fame spread since he specialized in hues of white and cerise.
He traveled in an old shay with his faithful horse Dan at the helm,
Brightening the households of Hoosier Land, Clyde's singular realm.
It took a couple of days to complete a painting then he'd move on,
Leaving folks to marvel at his handiwork long after he was gone!
You'd be surprised to learn he didn't do oils to display on a wall;
No, he painted ramshackle barns, outhouses and sheds, that's all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
ON SPIRITS, SAINTS AND SPITTOONS
If you want to love me but find yourself unable
If that is buried deep within you about me
First of all don’t put a setting for me at the table
And for Christ’s sake, just take back the key
This whole palace is your’s and your’s alone
Bedrooms with pink sheets wAND a comforter to match
And when I’m gone and you know it’s me don’t pick up the phone
Lock the windows, lock the door, and double check the latch
I see love in your eyes but surrender in your voice
It seems you’ve succumbed to a wish you hold in your heart
I must admit, knowing myself as I do you are given very little choice
Just make certain to do all the things you need to do whenever I depart
I’m a spirit of spittoons and a Saint of outhouses and such
While you’ve two cars, one you don’t drive, and are oh so very rich
I remember the first time you said ‘I need your gentle touch’
But now I can opine that you’re father’s a coward because he takes bulls**t from your
mother, the bi**h
© 2011.….Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
Two-ply in roses of yellow and pink,
rolls and sings to the touch
of fingers on its faintly-scented folds,
giving miles of pleasure to soft seats
on hard covers all in the name of
modern convenience which sure is a change
from old catalog sheets housed in quarter-moon
outhouses on homesteads.
Two-ply greets us in grocery stores,
all the pretty ones sit on the front row,
purring at our squeeze test,
begging to be brought home,
heaven forbid if you buy the plain,
all-white single-ply which sits
on the bottom shelf looking forlorn
because of its unscented homeliness.
Two-ply dies a million deaths each day,
lost in the vortex of flushed toilets,
killing its suppleness and sweet fragrance,
headed to the deep and dark sewers waiting
to be processed in the jaws of the sewage
treatment plants which do not discriminate
against the bland, anorexic and hard-to-the-touch
Rainy Day Sonnet.
It is so quiet here in my village when it is raining
dogs in outhouses are overtaken by melancholia.
It appears so useless to bark and their dream might
be of an otherworldly nature knowledge they are
unable to share the sense that their servitude status
a clown for us to laugh at is not dignified.
Once they were equal to other beings that roamed
the forests and plains the camaraderie of the flock
now their existence is in your hands, and it is a burden
we must carry gently
Yes, light rain makes me moody, my loneliness hurts
yearning for a mythical past, I think like the dogs there must
be something more to life than sitting in a cabin waiting
for the sun to shine and warm old bones.
a question of definition
camping?
luxuries au wilderness
juxtaposition
air conditioned lassitude
with untouched raw nature
three piece baths
next to outhouses
wheels rolling through trees
electric lights break
the pristine dark
camp-fire-crackle ambiance
food microwaved
hot running water, lakeside
even the chipmunks shun
mere bread
for more sumptuous fare.
As the burning bush astral signals
impale me all at once
I climb Jacob's ladder before I plummet
running from the siren song
That billows beyond waterfalls and the journeyman's sighs
Its unbearable lying among cranberry leaves
the ivory cuts me to sheaths
Beyond embryonic sheets I cry for a spiritual sleeve
To wipe my jaundice tears
I'm a derelict trespassing
the backtrack on twilight throng
I'm in a cranberry thicket
where cherrywood dies before sundown wrong
paddling among particles of saw-dust hay
gulping mildew in cavernous outhouses
just to sober up today
Singing, rhapsodizing
how you blew the whistle on my bluff
About how I was the liar
clinging to craggy rock and moss
Its just the coyote blitzing the canyon
and the raven in my cannon
That remind me of the briars I use to dodge.
Now I find comfort in their lodge. ...
A funny thing happened one day
A hurricane came by our way
Our kittens said snee
We ran out to pee
Outhouses had floated away