Best Roofed Poems
Written for the contest
MORE SONG LYRICS
Have you ever seen, the sun setting down
Upon this red roofed town
And hear the sound of love begin
I have never found a more perfect place
Than, when I see your face
I simply fall in love again
Don't ask me which way the wind will blow
Or the tide will flow
Or even where, our love will go
I just know there could never be a place
Where I can’t feel your warm embrace
With those lips I love to taste
Have you seen the mountains rising from the sea
That’s where I want to be
With you eternally, in grace
We hear our tune, carried along the wind
Strummed on life’s violin
As a tear rolls down your face
Don’t ask me why the good times seem to fly
Or why some passion dies,
Or how lovers, can say Goodbye
All I know is when I leave this tropic heat
I am filled with the Latin beat
Until the next time on this street, we meet
Categories:
roofed, desire, goodbye, love, paradise,
Form:
Lyric
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.
Categories:
roofed, autumn, nature, silence,
Form:
Sedoka
Nature's beauty is exclusive
Rivers flowing water somewhere
Is there a booming sea
So is that the calm lake somewhere
Nature's unique ever
Ever moving shadows
Then sometimes silence
Nature is exclusive
Sometimes sky turns blue, red, yellow
Sometimes it's clouded by black and white clouds,
Nature is exclusive
Sometimes the sunshine illuminates the sun
So sometimes within the dark night, the moon stars twinkle
Nature's love is exclusive
Ever dry dust blows
So sometimes a sheet of greenery is roofed
Nature's love is exclusive
Somewhere the sun hides during acorner,
So it comes out of the opposite corner startling,
Nature's love is exclusive
Categories:
roofed, art, autumn, nature, peace,
Form:
Free verse
His life proceeded as before
even though she left his door
he still got up at half past seven
ate his gruel and prayed to heaven
he still went out to plow the fields
and calculated all the yields
from cows and chicks and eggs that hatched
he mended fences,wove the thatch
that roofed his hut in from the cold
but subtle changes could be told
he used to sing the cows back home
and whistle when he was alone
he brought her daisies every night
but now they wilted in his sight
his hair turned ashen and his eyes
paled their blue to winter skies
a tremor started in his hands
he wrote her name out in the sands
out beside the garden gate
and on that night
she chanced to wait
deciding love beneath the pines
and there behold she saw these lines...
"she left because I would not say
the words I'm writing here today,
I love you
seems so very small,
for when she left
she took my all."
Categories:
roofed, lost love, people, love,
Form:
Couplet
The Storm
Black rimmed skies,
Clouds with no lining of silver,
Gusts of wind,
Trees protesting,
With a dance on the horizon.
Rumblings of thunder,
Flashes of lightening,
Animals and humans,
Caught up in the melee,
While scurrying to the shelter,
Of their de-roofed abodes.
A deluge of wetness,
Spattering on the pavement,
Cascading into drains,
Loaded with the debris,
From a disenchanted metropolis.
Steering-happy drivers,
Punishing crying jalopies,
Meandering through the gridlock,
They almost knock down children,
Glorying in the rain.
But the end, was also the beginning,
The damage done: great!
Before any got home,
The sun was up smiling,
In adulation for the rain,
For a job well done.
Categories:
roofed, humorous, rain, sky, sun,
Form:
Narrative
The initiate was in a highly decorate room and on the walls were past presidents of the society. Above him the ceiling was roofed with the heavens and the sun was surrounded by the 12 zodiacs.
The initiate stood below and by the altar in the center of the hall in front of him were three light lamps for the Sun, the Moon and Mercury.
The initiate was at 40 degree parallel to the land and right angle of the Sun and was in front of the arc which ran from South to North. Next to him was a deity name Langford who was Lord of the Land or the Earth.
The initiate watched as Langford exercised a ritual to active the lay-lines on the Earth via the 40 degree parallel that connected to other lay-lines that connected to other lay-lines and so on.
The initiate and the people in the hall who watched his initiation their energy were added to that of the ritual performed by Langford.
The initiated felt light-headed and confused but he did agree to the ceremony and was ushered into the myster of the bar of the mysteries.
The initiated was never to be heard from or seen again.
Categories:
roofed, allegory, dark, fantasy, heaven,
Form:
Free verse
Bought at an antiques store for a song:
unframed print #225 of 750, signed by the artist
Number III of the family name, all painters,
(presumably) Those forbears hard to discard--
"Stay Awhile" its title, hospitably captioned by
a country boy, like my father, perhaps-- posing
beside his favorite horse on the back roads
of Race Pond, Georgia, his playground by
birthright, the Okefenokee Swamp.
Staying awhile, I place myself in the painting,
its cool morning mist in the hills beyond.
The white clapboard house, red-roofed, six
front windows, one dormer peeking out
from the eaves; four steps up to the porch
from the under-the-house black earth the house
was built on; its checkered slats at the base
prohibiting the crawl space where the doodlebugs
hide. Kitchen matches to be left untouched,
heeding the grownups chide. Only to the bugs
is it dire: "Doodlebug,doodlebug, hurry
on home--your house is on fire.
Two Christmassy trees hug at opposite ends
of the house, awaiting December decoration.
A grassy knoll rolls down to masses
of white and yellow sunflowers in a frenzied
welcome. Past the grayed barn where
tools are kept and the horses are tethered,
I place myself in the painting, flying Superman style,
spread eagle, arms out, facing downward
past clapboard house, barn. Then, into the hills
with their pale promise of perennial dawn where
there is no sorrow, no pain, no heavy heart
unshared, no loss we cannot bear.
Categories:
roofed, imagination,
Form:
Blank verse
A mind of plane mirrors reflects rays of goodness.
It is weightless and indeed stainless,
in it right has a huge castle decorated in flowers of deeds,
roofed in kindness and painted in honesty.
Corruption knows it’s a waste of time
when it comes with its convincing lips and encroaching limbs.
Selfishness eavesdrops on all activities
to plan a way and snatch any opportunity.
Then the fall occurs as hands get dirty.
A heavy load is now placed on the inside,
guilt building a desolate and unkempt street
and its lash felt each time its victim’s name is mentioned.
All these run the batteries of conscience,
making wrong have a flamboyant exhibition.
Not to worry, trouble mind!
This is just a cleanable stain on the wall
of which it hasn’t eaten any solid structure yet.
A true confession and an honest repentance,
stimulated by a bitter drive coming intrinsic,
makes everything look new once again,
confirming the nature of being human
but not any flaw from a good conscience.
Categories:
roofed, image, imagery, imagination, innocence,
Form:
Imagism
In a remote village I
recently visited,
houses with tin roofs
over wooden trusses,
ekra bamboo walls,
mud plastered
and humble.
At the roadside,
a community water
tab stands,
a lifeline for all.
Nature here,
untouched by the
relentless march
of humans,
whispers of a
simpler time.
I paused for a moment,
feeling myself drift back
to the era of tin-
roofed houses,
to the conventional
agrarian landscape
of my childhood
long ago.
16th Nov.2018
( The poem written after visiting the S.C village of Pheiyeng )
Categories:
roofed, nature,
Form:
Free verse
the event occurs at the call of nightfall
like the Pied piper it attracts gallant souls
drum beats,hooting,shouting,pep talks
all the fancy one would meet in a circus
all paths trail to the house on the hill
contestants converge at his Majesty's abode
the trophy is displayed to the beholding eyes
an art of beauty and elegance like the Mona Lisa
the magnificent princess the colossus of the event
and this means war for any by the name..."MAN"
she hath a charm that would make one slay a dragon
if that were the avenue to winning her heart
The kings arrival stirs every spirit
echoes of gusto engulf the atmosphere at hand
with immense pride he wields his golden spear
a symbol of authority and power for he that claims the throne
and that marks the prologue of a remarkable event
manifested by an heavenly ballet
stars thousands across the heaven roofed coliseum
Agana the Kraal champion stands his ground
like the legendary Minotaur he's quite a scene
blood shot eyes,wrinkled face,he posses for a challenge
and the answer to his quest............."grave silence"
not a single"MAN" is brave as
to lose his head in the hands of Goliath
not a single soul felt David worthy
Categories:
roofed, africa, courage,
Form:
Narrative
The old ruin sat near the brow of the hill
it had been there for centuries forgotten
none now knew for what purpose it had been used
not even the elders who had many suggestions
A not unattractive looking building of stone
and that in it's self only added to the mystery
for these stones were not locally quarried
the nearest place being over 170 miles away
Yet here they had been dragged, then hewed
wrestling them into place quite some task
an imposing building nestled in the hillside
and the views surrounding it post card perfect
Inside was airy and light with most of the roof gone
a strange hearth in the corner of the main hall
large enough for a man to walk into upright
Bread ovens built into the walls and a sitting niche
This was all that was left apart from one roofed room
in here it was dry and warm even a single trundle bed
admittedly very rockety but still it was usable
I decided to camp out the following night, it would be fun
The following evening I climbed the hill as the sun set
tonight it would be a full moon, already the air chilling
I settled in with my few belongings and lit the fire
soon it was roaring, with crackles, hissing and spitting
It was a fine clear night and the heat wonderful
so I made up a bracken bed in front of the fire
I laid back enjoying the stars and a comet shooting past
lazily I slipped not realising into a strange sleep
I found the building restored though it's use still not clear
only a long table and chairs in here, beds in the rooms leading off
then a man came into view, he did not seem to notice me as he passed
he stirred the pot cooking on the fire and set the table
Soon more men came in and sat down to enjoy a hearty meal
I realised from their armour that these were soldiers
so the ram-shackled ruin had once been a lookout post
I woke in the morning well rested remembering my dream
As I walked back down the hill I looked back at it
drenched in sunshine it seemed to gleam a wisp of smoke
curling up from the chimney it looked as if once more alive
not an old forgotten ruin moulding slowly into the landscape
I used the word ram-shackled recently and it struck me as a good theme
for a poem so I wrote this.
Categories:
roofed, house, moon, night,
Form:
Epic
Do not go back he said and for what.
To a childhood time many moons ago in Ireland
In a field of cocks of hay and a very hot summer day
Being stung by two bees on the palm of my hand as I pressed against that hay
I would love to run again crying to the house
And that granny would be there with the witch hazel and a loving embrace
To a time when my Aunt Nancy who cried when I would be leave for England
Always producing clothes pegs of wood she had painted for me each visit
To her house and the Ava Maria played from the ornamental statue of the Virgin Mary
And her neighbours who were two young daughters
Who fought with each other over a bucket to take me to the well
Phil and T.C. I seem to recall were their names
And their mother known as baby Brehoney made the best potato cakes ever
I remember the pipe smoke and old granduncle Mark
In their corrugated tin roofed three room house
The black kettle and crook and the permeating turf smoke
To wife Baa as she was known and her 'Not a bad word' would she say about anyone
As children thay always called us Agra.
Chocolate bars for us children that were fry's mint and whiskey for Dad
To well I remember the two lonely first cousins of my father's who were bachelors
And their stiff plastic table cloth that would rise above our heads in each corner
when pushed from below the table
The dinner table itself was pushed against the stair case
Where the tea the sugar the salt and pepper were left on each yellow ascending step
And the spit laden flagstone floor more concentrated around the ray burn
But that ceased when visitors came calling
Too fondly I remember the long mountain top drive from
Arigna to Corn and our destination beside Dad's old collapsed homestead
Along the way the augments with Mom as to who lived in each house
Who married whom, how many children they had and what jobs did they do
The remote church where we stopped to view the best view for 50 miles round
And to pray at our Ladys grotto. And an occasion when there were so many inscets
inside the car that they consumed half the interior volume of the car.
Categories:
roofed, family, funeral,
Form:
Jesus Christ and Karl Marx seek lost children in the City of Gold
In shackled shack with weight of broken bricks on tin roofed promises
she rest her head against the precious paraffin cooker empty and cold
Five children to feed no milk in once beautiful breasts life sour and rancid
abused and battered and her husband long gone in yesteryear’s crossfires
‘Tulinagwe’ is free from luxurious troubles plods on no fancy resides in
her township a voyage no carrier of progress and a storm with no sail
‘Mawuli’ lives close liberated from hardship quite posh in his mansion
a world away in marvellous marble box tree hedges protecting ascent
He rose manicured hands roses lawns perfumed clothing no sweat while
his gardener reaps thorns and oppression from inside walls’ dwelling
Born free after the fall of Apartheid his stars and his God have sheltered
adorned crowned zenith’s success a story from another page in the book
‘Mawuli’ lives resolute on ‘Tulinagwe’s shoulders brethren in union while
her dreams have dissolved and yet my free flight of fancy calls resurrection
For both in their names Christ shed his nails for Christ’s sake or for their
blood so let us be reminded that revolution does never start at the top
Has either read Shakespeare or for that matter the bible when ‘Tulinagwe’
has no privilege to read while 'Mawuli' browses his browser brokers his shares
Two sides of a hopeful reminder that Marx still inhabits money and freedom
and that the burden of change contains a message for all children of God
06th May 2017 written for ‘Fancy Free’-Contest
Categories:
roofed, change,
Form:
Free verse
He drifts into town on his
faithful quarter horse called Moose
who has a three-legged gait
which gives him saddle sores
when riding miles from place to place.
A desert wind storm hits them hard,
he pulls his cowboy hat down his face
so the sand won't sting his deep-set brown eyes,
he sees a faded sign in red lettering advertising
" EL ROJOS CANTINA " as it bangs against
the cracked adobe and tiled-roofed building.
A pretty senorita dressed in a ruby-red dress
greets the unshaven drifter as he stumbles
through the double-saloon doors,
the cantina is dark and dank with smells of
stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey,
hunger and thirst overwhelm him in that
he ignores the stench of the bar and eatery.
The brazen and sultry woman sits at his
table and begins to sing in a husky voice
while a man with a guitar accompanies her,
male patrons smile at her flamboyant low-cut
dress as she begins singing in a seductive mood:
Stranger you are handsome to look at
as I stare at you and purr like a cat,
let's get together and see
if something develops between you and me,
my name is Ventura, a lucky charm,
I want to be your woman and mean no harm,
please take me away from this place,
so I will not die here in disgrace.
It didn't take much convincing,
Ventura and the drifter rode off together
into the red sunset after the sand storm
on a long and bumpy ride on Moose with
his three-legged gait while the senorita
hung onto her billowing dress which
blew over her face.
Years passed and Ventura lying down and close to death,
confesses she loved a man named Hildago who left her
at the altar and filled her with humiliation before
family and friends until a drifter swept in and saved
her from mortification and disgrace,
her man of many years weeps for the woman who was
his lucky charm wearing a red dress whom he met at
El Rojos Cantina during a tumultuous desert storm.
August 8, 2016
Categories:
roofed,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Saturday's Pub garden,
littered with a thousand twisted cigarette butts,
the scattered smouldering tombstones of last night's drunken dreams.
Here birthed the Friday madness wild,
thirsting gin soaked mind of child,
like infant nourishment craved consumed,
the gun within was there exhumed,
a firing squad of gin bemused,
revellers revelling, devillers devilling,
swirling whirling plastic smiles,
pavers quivering raindrop tiles,
summer rain seeping in vain,
from neon roofed city's inane,
to wander country lanes insane,
a blind walk of the drinker's train,
speeding locomotive taught,
relearning burning ethanol thought,
tearing selfless selfish death,
the last epiphany with one last breath,
before the darkness deep draws down,
the flickering light beneath the frown,
where the suicidal businessman drowns,
his sorrows borrowed from newspaper dreams,
that filled the once fragile mind with screams,
in descending begging please,
release him from social unease,
moments lived but to appease,
a fathomless confusion clear smoke screen,
that flashes with the cursor black,
it's wires snigger behind your back,
while slack jawed starring swearing you,
convinced you are one of the few,
who knew but never said a word,
beguiled you smiled, brush muse away,
the stroke left blood for them to play and pay and stray inside your mind,
soul secrets there in stealth to find,
and all forgotten rotten,
men in white wheel you away,
they say poor soul's gone round the loop,
and there you sit in a rocking suit,
pinstripe straight jacket just for you,
and all that's left after their scoop;
is the popular poisoned and once bitten fruit..
By David Nickle Read
All Rights Reserved By The Author
Re-Released 21/11/2017
Original Release 3/6/2017
Categories:
roofed, appreciation, irony,
Form:
Free verse