Best Shanties Poems
In the maze of concrete and glass,
where tall buildings reach the sky,
rivers of money flow,
but only to the chosen few.
Below, a shadowy city exists,
filled with hard work and grime,
where dreams are just whispers,
lost in the cracks of old streets.
The rich, wrapped in fine clothes,
dance to the tune of hidden power,
leaders of a silent orchestra,
playing a song of silence and control.
Their laughter, touched with champagne,
drowns out the cries from below,
where rough, tired hands,
reach for fleeting hopes.
Halls of influence, slick with promises,
echo with the steps of the elite,
their words, hidden daggers,
cutting through the truth.
In this theater of lies,
curtains of wealth hide
the machinery of greed,
oiled by the sweat of unseen millions.
From high-rise penthouses,
they look down on a sea of struggle,
where the hungry feast on illusions,
and the thirsty drink from wells of despair.
Marble palaces stand tall,
monuments to ambition,
while shanties lean on faith,
held up by pillars of resilience.
Markets buzz with chaos,
colors blend in the bazaar of life,
where the weight of a single coin
can tip the balance of existence.
Yet, the streets remember,
each cobblestone a witness,
to the dance of disparity,
the waltz of inequality.
Children of the dusk,
eyes wide with innocence,
navigate the alleys of shadows,
their dreams painted in hues of maybe.
In the rooms where fortunes are made,
decisions are inked in secrecy,
pacts that seal destinies,
unseen hands shaping the world.
But in the heart of the storm,
a murmur grows,
a rhythm of defiance,
beating against the pulse of oppression.
Voices rise, a chorus of unity,
challenging the gilded throne,
for in the contrast of gold and dust,
lies the spark of revolution.
The streets, arteries of rebellion,
pulse with the lifeblood of change,
as the fabric of corruption
begins to fray at the edges.
In the end,
from the ashes of greed,
a new dawn will rise,
where the scales of justice
find their balance,
and the city of gold
is built on a foundation
of humanity's unyielding spirit.
A beach or beaches, so many to explore,
Ocean or sea or bay are viewed, some never seen before
Familiar rocks, lighthouses erected to save lives
Seagulls activity, their sounds and out of control flight.
The sea seems to call like sirens from sea adventure tales
Stories of Mermaids, Neptune and Davey Jones locker
The loneliness of sailors as they sail the seven seas
Memories Abound as sea shanties are sang.
Waves breaking as they roll to the shore
Slowed down until they are no more
Soft sand or pebbles dependent of time gone by
Sand to walk on, it squelches between toes.
Pebbles that hurt feet, protect the coastline
Sounds of pebbles moving, as the tide washes over them
Angry waves soothed as they reach the shore
Tides relentless movement for evermore
Fear of watching the sea in the darkness of night
What lays beneath the sea surface?
Another world, all fish species fighting for their lives
Fishermen, why not fisherwomen described?
When do they decide, their catch enough will fill?
Regulations looked after by whom
Fishing boats with massive nets drag the ocean floor
No creature is safe from these marauders.
Restaurant fish meals, eyes looking sad
Better to choose cutlets, no feelings of where from
Feelings whirl as you leave this wondrous haven
Striding through life with new found admiration.
Collective Senryu
Dolphin Pod
white water surfers
dolphin pod squeals sea shanties ~
gymnasts of the sea
KEEPING UP WITH THE DOW JONESES
These here are the indisputable facts
I was born on the right side of the tracks
WITH People who only smiled if their stocks or equity increased
If not they wouldn’t have minded becoming deceased
They had big cars, big bucks and big time class
With a million dollar house mortgaged up the a*s
Their children went to private schools in uniforms
With charming and well decorated dorms
I looked at their faces and wondered why I didn’t fit
That’s when the fire in my belly was originally lit
I had no desire to play with kids from private schools
Nor did I ever agree to obey by their rules
So one day I skipped over steel and these here are the facts
The people I found lived in tents, not even shanties or shacks
But they didn’t have to read Dow Jones in order to smile
And couldn’t care less about having Gucci type style
They smiled at things people ignore like little tykes at play
And somehow or other they AWOKE contented day after day
They had no stocks to watch fretfully fall or RESOUNDINGLY rise
And you could see the easiness in their gleaming eyes
That which I observed in them appealed to me a great deal
The wrong side people taught me how satisfied I could feel
They lived out of back-packs, antique cedar chests and sacks
So if you come a’looking for me I’ll be on the wrong side of the tracks
© 2011.…Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
I’ll take you back, to the old dark times,
To try and paint you a picture.
A tale of a man, just sixteen years old,
Who had a bit too much liquor.
1706, is the year we shall set,
As the young man woke himself up.
He found himself on a sailing ship,
Whilst holding a silver cup.
His clothes were ragged, as was his smell,
As he wearily opened his eyes.
He was lay on some sacks, of wheat and hay,
As he looked up to dark grey skies.
He’d drunk too much rum, the night before,
His head was banging like drums.
He looked down to his feet, then to his hands,
To make sure he had his fingers and toes.
‘Alas, he’s awake!’ He heard someone shout,
As he cradled his banging sore head.
‘Get up my boy, you’ve work to do!’
The voice bellowed as he lay on his bed.
‘Where am I?’ Said the boy, in a shaken whisper,
As he tried to get himself up.
A sailor approached, and grabbed his arm,
In turn, then dropping his cup.
‘Ow! My arm!’ The boy would cry,
As the sailor did drag him along.
‘Captain! He’s here’ the sailor did shout,
As other men started a song.
They bellowed sea shanties, as the ship caught wind,
through a perilous gloomy storm.
“The wind it would cry, with salt in my eye,
As we sailed on till the morn”
‘Get up my lad, you signed for this!’,
The captain grunted his voice.
‘Signed up for what?’ The boy did squeak,
‘Your term of work, You had a choice!’
All of a sudden, the memories came back,
What happened the night before.
The frail young lad, had gone to a pub,
With rum, he kept asking for more.
Sailors were nearby, and saw the boy,
Who was now just lay in the street.
‘Sign this my boy, and we’ll take you home’,
The boy soon signed, on their meet.
The rest was history, as the boy closed his eyes,
to find himself on a ship.
He was now a sailor, a working man,
On his way to an 8 month trip.
The Morning Speaks With Skylarks Singing
....inspired by 'Poem in October' by Dylan Thomas
The morning speaks with skylarks singing
o'er the greening meadows and the pliant pasture,
crisp and clear, like God's first measure of
a holy hymn.
The air alive with
songs of praise, the gentle winds a sacred message,
the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer.
His grand prescription,
like a dream
that streams out from the pillows of the heavens.
I liked to wander by the sea shore,
skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity.
A sudden shower would see me running
fancy free,
between the rain drops,
I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive;
I skittered, happy as a lamb on shaky legs
and tumbled freely,
without care,
'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath.
The halcyon days of youth came true,
when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun,
bedaubed in Autumn blood,
the flame,
a blend of hues
the likes of which would make a young boy doubly blind,
and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields
would blister scarlet,
happy times
that made me see my childhood clearly.
The weather turned again, and shanties
high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting
in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats,
their nets pulled,
nudging at the jetty.
From the sand the village was a hazy spectre,
the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair,
her hair a daydream
falling soft,
O fanciful imagination!
Sentinel never sleeps;
resting upon water thrashed rocks,
this shining beacon of the sea.
Her watch, sees all,
Her stories sung in shanties,
by old salts;
She holds within the secrets,
which ocean confides.
She is a lighthouse and
she never betrays a trust.
12-17-18
“Lighthouse Poetry Contest”
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Have seen an utopian lane, amidst the thicket, latent In the abode of the clouds, in the lap of the tranquil wilderness, far far away from the mundane mist!
A wheezing sparsely inhabited hamlet, Khonoma, a centuries- old settlement, so green, so serene!
Its' pristine unsullied views, lush wilderness, verdant bushes, aromatic wild blooms, resplendent orchids, rippling rills, are untouched and sacred!
The Angami tribes, the thorpes' dwellers lead an uncustomary simple life, crammed with ancient, timeless traditions and practices, with nature's absolute accord!
The unique panaromic cultivation practice, terrace farming, sprawling on the slopes makes the very sight elating!
Look, the remote richest biodiversity region is twirling with the endemic scented native flora and fauna, the boscage are cramming with untamed wild colourful fruits!
The revered cultural bird, the grey-billed Tragpon, is intoning from the bushes, making the milieu frolic!
Myriads of colourful birds are migrating to nestle in the sacred bushes of the mystic rills!
The pellucid drops from the misty mesas of nearby cascades are playing with the colourful pebbles!
Far from the pandemic, the cherubic hilly terrain is bustling with cerulean rills, shrouded by tropical rain forests and stepped paddy fields!
How finite are the rustic folks' wants and needs, the primitive shanties to dwell, the crystal cascades to quench, the crops of the golden fields to feed the mouths, the vibrant fiestas with nature's changing seasons to celebrate!
A paragon of men and nature in absolute harmony, is lying placidly, the transcendental picturesque tableland, Khonoma, the wheezing green hamlet, an utopia untrodden to bless the naive natives of the far flung highland!
" Sometimes in quest of no man's Utopia, we may miss the existing unleashed Utopia in proximity, yet untrodden " Quote by poet
November 11th 2021
Contest: " U" contest, New Poems Only
Sponsored by: Constane La France
wind blew with the strength like a monster on that night.
a creepy sounds ,roar in every corner haunting each ears of those alive.
a big blast pushing each shanties that it passed by, wrecked and destroyed.
the strongest surge came to orphaned a lot of souls,
left thousands breathless cadavers scattered when the sun arose.
a trembling sounds of widow cries for the love that's lost.
on her arms hold the body of her baby ,died in the flood.
an old lady look for a shade to hide, faintedly starving.
another man screaming for his family buried in mud.
a five-year old girl looks for her siblings,her mom and dad.
wounded civilians, dead people and hungry souls,
washed away by the most deadliest storm.
one beautiful paradise, a haven to everyone with life,
has become a wide grave of people sleeping in Sheol.
a broad lawn for a broken hearts, wounded souls.
the sun shines only to dry the tears from their eyes.
and the wind blew consoling a child flying his kite.
** 1st Place Winner in SKAT A.'s Contest : Saddest Landscape **
With brisk - north - wind; lakeside trees yield
along flowered banks and open green field.
Where mountains shed their waters down
and from harsh elements they shield.
Crisp- cold- water flows soft with wind
sudden breeze dips, reflections bend.
Placid depiction that dreams only view
for this moment, mind does transcend.
Shanties sprawl along mountain base
nestled among evergreen that encase.
Splendor with nature; all its rudiment
God did so artistically face.
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Third Place Winner ~ "Any 2011 Poem" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Jan. 2, 2012
Second Place Winner ~ "Use Rubaiyat Form" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Freeman
May 13, 2011
Slenderly community
The land of sobers
Enough for plunderers
Ground of Ivory
Home of diamond and gold
Is now Magufulized
No more embezzling
Lazy are working
Respecting their roles
No more liquoring
This is the land
We all dreamed by
Reviving the airline
Is the biggest witchcraft
7 wings were booked
5 have already landed
I enjoyed several trips
It is a miracle that exist!
The giant is shining
Suffocating capitalist
As much as fraudulent
For they are terribly squeezed
In jail cell like shanties
For they lacked patriotism
By smuggling national cake
Go Magu, go!
Dig down to their pockets
Suffocate them deeply
Till dehydrated completely
Do more, do!
Open the roads for business to grow
Build flyover for traffic to perish
Construct SGR for easy transportation
Do the stieglers to boost economy
Our thumbs are yours 2020
For ant corrupt Tanzania
April 23rd,
The seductive smoky weed descending from Kabiru swept through my nostril
Cracky creepy shanties sneaking
Pulsating stench sneering from gutters
Churning and choky smoke oozing from the BRT buses
Area boys bullying
Police officers begging for spiritual currency
Perputuality and patriotism is our uniform
Confusion descending from the State House
Fashola’s spectacles is missing
Tinubu is snoring
Okada’s boys on rampage
Mama Risikat with assorted bottles of combined
I embraced a cup to shine my eyes
I embraced street live
Growing up in the hood
Swimming with the skally wags and hood rats
My dreams are illegal in Lagos
A meter from my nose
Is a sawmill and smiling garbage as high as Babel
Emeka’s blaring speakers echoing;’ do me, I do you, God no go vex’
Beside me, is a 2 storey house
The city of scam
‘Boys go hamma’
Unliag coconut heads with their effizy
Adeola’s gap-tooth snowballing
My naughty pen crying, ‘chop my money’
At dawn, the muezzin whispering’ Allahu Akbar’
O’ Lagos, your womb is polluted and punctured
Your dreams cut through third mainland bridge
Swaggering and swooning it trails
Lagos, a confuse city.
Written by Awoh Kingsley
Dedicated to Adeola
26th October, 2012
Dry, dirty, dilapidated buildings by day
Become suspicious, spooky shanties at night.
Daytime woods are filled with cute, cuddly creatures,
Yet at night they're forests filled with ferocious fiends of foul intent.
By day the moon is hidden half a hemisphere away
But shines marvelous, mellow moonbeams at midnight.
Invisible entities that revolve around our world by day,
Provide a panorama of planetary beings parading across the cosmos at night.
© 07-14-2012
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.
Food nourishes the prayerful and the blind.
This day no mourning is proper,
but tilted.
Streaming video is no comfort
when the cold howls outside.
Where are you going with this?
Lead on lead on, you farcical clown.
Makeshift shanties will suffice
when cold is not remorse,
and video streams into the window.
Bring up a zephyr from the south
to ease this chill.
My, my sweet prince
who sings to heaven—
Merrily we dance all day
then freeze at night.
The cold is evermore,
evermore.
Tying bubbles to a trampoline
is hopeless, remorseless.
Evermore they sing, and nobody
knows the proper tune.
Exhume the day from night
And peek through the slit of dawn.
The cold is evermore,
evermore.
To face it will crust the cheek
like ice
And bruise the spine with grace,
But my Amen is fixed, terminal.
Jesus will write you in his book
with blood-ink,
And we must drift that way
like a leaf blowing
in the cold wind--
heartbroken.