Best Shed Poems
between the plant pots and the trays
the cobwebs had seen better days
and for all the wood and damp and soil
the smell was one of paint and oil
as flies and wasps lying in state
were curled up past their fly-by-date
and nails and screws and metal hooks
shared space on shelves with brewery books
beneath a clock with broken hands
where time stood still amongst the cans
and jam jars full of pip-like seeds
stood next to things that no one needs
and while her tears had stained the glass
that looked out on the unkempt grass
upon the floor amid the mess
..a letter
and her wedding dress.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
Ronald was a tough old ram, the biggest of his breed
Daniel was a clipperman, renowned of shearing deed
Many sheep were sheared that day and woolless they had fled
Before those two met in affray and battled in the shed!
Ronald, he had seen old Wallace wrestled to the floor,
Mugged of his dignity and fleece, and knew that it was war
And seeing that his turn was nigh, his hooves he dug in deep
He'd fight and though perhaps he'd die, at least he'd die a sheep.
Daniel had no time to waste, he'd quotas set to keep
And unprepared, he reached in haste to take the waiting sheep
But Ronald steeled himself as Daniel took him by the horn
And, rearing, pulled himself away before he could be shorn.
Off-balance, Daniel stumbled, to Ronald's great delight
Onto his knees he tumbled as the shears flew out of sight
And Ronald now unhanded felt his victory increase
Protecting his sheep dignity and, likewise, his sheep fleece.
But Daniel was not beaten yet, he knew that he'd faced worse
His mind was still determined set, he rose up with a curse
But still he was unsteady and Ronald was a ram
His head was lowered ready and he charged the clipperman
Ronald's head met Daniel's side and toppled him again
This time headfirst and to collide his head against the grain.
Leaving, stunned, the clipperman upon the wooden floor
In final victory, the ram strolled out the open door.
But, alas, 'tis not the way that sheep triumph at last
And Daniel would not see the day that any sheep got past
Despite Ram Ronald's victor's pride, the shearer would not yield
So followed a less dignified pursuit around the field.
Ronald, he was fast and he had four legs matched to two
So Daniel was outclassed, if that was all that he could do,
But he also had a sheepdog and so Ronald was defeated
He would have had the victory, if Daniel hadn't cheated.
THE SHED
Down there in the shed I know,
There is something that I need.
I haven’t seen it now for ages,
But I know it’ll do the deed.
Whether it's a bit of steel that’s,
Sort of, shaped like this.
Or a little plastic fitting
That’s easy for me to miss.
Each time I clean the shed up,
And put my things away.
I know where I put them,
But this is another day.
My wife, she offers to help
Me to do a decent job.
Make it nice and clean she says,
But that would make me sob.
The things she’d want to throw away.
It’s all good handy stuff.
It’ll be of use one day, but still
She’d try to call my bluff.
No, It’s ok now my dear,
I’ll clean up by myself.
I’ll just put these things over here.
I’ll have to build another shelf.
The trick you see, is to sweep the floor,
And move things round a bit.
Just so you can reach the door,
Without a claustrophobic fit.
The working space is the size I need
Cause that’s all the room I got.
If it was any bigger,
I’d probably lose the bloody lot.
I’ve cupboards full of bits and pieces
And a heap of electric tools.
It’s enough to write a thesis,
On how to make shed owners drool.
But you see it doesn’t really matter,
If the shed is clean or not.
The main thing is you’re happy
In your private little spot.
Cause when you’re in your shed
The world can pass you by.
I hope that when I’m dead,
There’s a shed up in the sky.
---------------------
Peel 'em and eat 'em,
All you want.
To yo table straight from da Gulf.
Cooked wit corn and taters
an' sausage dat's smoked.
Buy 'em today while we're stoked.
Paw Paw caught 'em in his lil shrimpboat.
Maw Maw cooked 'em in dat big 'o black pot
outside on da fire dat was so hot.
Tante Rose made some sauce
wit mynaise 'n ketsup.
Den she added da hot sauce to spice it all up.
So y'all come and get you some.
Dey big and dey fat.
Paw Paw's Shrimp Shed is where it's at!
By: Carole O'Terry Duet
Copyright: May 15, 2017
"All Rights Reserved"
Oh how he watches me in the shadow of his tree,
strong, bold and blocking out the glare of the sun.
He claims I shine like the stars, the moon, brighter than them all,
A blazing comet, a speeding fireball.
He stands close and my sparks ignite a fire,
They shower down upon his figure,
warm and yet his skin does not singe,
Nor does he burn or go blind when staring at my radiance.
When first he lay eyes upon my naked form,
Heart mangled and organs thrust out into the world,
My skin quivered as fear closed a dark cloud around me.
He pushed through it with a soft light,
Barely gleaming so as to not hurt my eyes.
Gentle touch to my cheek with not pity but understanding,
Like a Shepard to a lost lamb he tended to my wounds.
He spoke with intelligence and honesty,
and watched as slowly I stood and then grew.
Shedding the shadow in which I had once lived
He tended my soul until I bloomed
Galaxies away I felt the touch of his love,
He threw his faith and his hope at me,
Feeding from the power he saw.
A hummingbird to nectar,
And I was his flower, growing high in the sun.
He whispered great stories to me
saying, oh, powerful one,
Live in beauty and laugh often,
Ride through the winds like a spoken memory,
Pictures engraved in the heart of a tree,
Be the beauty, the power you wish to be.
Oh yes
I recall the shed to this day
the scent of old wood
and dust floating in the air
cobwebs in corners
sun flooding in through a window
a scarred wooden work table
and tin cans lined up with nails and screws
a coffee cup forgotten . . .
I would bring precious dandelions and buttercups
to be placed in some old can or jar
and would sit watching for hours pondering
the sketches and grand ideas . . .
later we would sit on the porch swing
talking the afternoon away
and I held his hand so tight
never wanting to let go . . .
sadly life had a plan written
and who am I to question destiny
so, I had to let go
after the funeral I stood in the shed
thinking, who will want the rusty tools
of an old man
then I closed that creaky door
forever . . .
_______________________________
May 3, 2017
(Edit from April 14, 2013)
Brian Strand
25 lines
First Place
Will Shed a Tear
Woke up this morning to a new dawn;
Looked outside and Autumn had gone
Winter was here and the wind did blow
Then everything was covered with snow.
Old year had gone and new one neared
Following Autumn that had disappeared
With colorful leafs beautiful had been
Soon will be able to see them again.
About Autumn, what do I like the most?
In Halloween they always have a ghost
But still does remain such a pretty scene;
Leafs covered grass which once was green.
Autumn to many has been known as fall
Then under Christmas tree will be a doll
This will be my favorite time of the year
And now that it is gone will shed a tear.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
Welcome friends, I know you will be most excited
with tonight's special guest that we have invited.
So, let's give a round of applause and a cheer.
Punctuation's star, Exclamation Point, is here.
Welcome. It's good to see you, Exclamation Point.
Yes! Let's do it, Johnny! I just got out of the joint!
My goodness, I was going to say, you're looking trim.
Tell your fans what kind of mess you got yourself in.
I guess I got too excited, opened my yap,
and told Comma he's lost, falling in the wrong gap.
I impetuously started a barroom fight,
my sentences struck him, with raw power and might.
I'm innocent, but somehow, I stir up commotion.
I'm just excellent at expressing emotion!
Hmm, tell us about the emotions you can express.
For example, what about happiness?
What a great question! Glad you asked it! I'm ecstatic!
What was I saying? Whatever, I'm emphatic!
But was it anger that landed you in the can?
Shut up, Johnny, I'll rip your bloody face off, man!
I guess subtlety is really not your ball of wax.
Do you do sadness? Yes, I weep and do my income tax!
Exclamation Point, it sure has been a pleasure.
Thanks, Johnny, I've enjoyed myself without measure!
and remember, Question Mark asks, and Comma will pause,
but an Exclamation Point thanks you for your applause!
We purchased a shed for our yard.
To fill it was not very hard -
The sleds and the bikes
And the things no one likes
With a flimsy old lock standing guard.
To mice, it's a winter retreat
And last summer, we thought it was neat
When a fox made her bed
For her kits there instead
Of the groundhog, who left in defeat.
All the shed holds is useless old junk
And this fact gets my spouse in a funk
But it gives us a peek
Of some wildlife unique
And at least we've encountered no skunk!
Candlelight flickering waves on skin
shadows on tile in dance begin
artistic motion of lathered emotion
flame soft caressing the fuse of explosion
Lotioned bubbles being spread with care
glistening reflections we each to share
mirrored beauty of love to drip
humming sensations brought forth from lips
Meltdown will happen to candle before
these two lovers unremitting ignore
from tub to floor,to carpet to bed
candlelight flickers continue to shed.....
verdant colors in the horizon call to my heart
my step is livelier now
for my she-shed is ahead,
waiting for presence and truth, mine
there is no writing like outdoor writing
active anticipation resonates in my brain
I can leave the bumble bramble of the city
and the evil naysayers in their concrete crypts
trees sprinkling acorns and walnuts give a whistle
day is breezy, sky an over-washed denim blue
ideas are promenading in the outskirts of my dendrites
Thoreau-like passion toward nature brings me home
My son is out fixing up the shed.
Winter is coming on. Needed doing he said.
He had the time and the bound-to’s.
I’m not used to this thought process, I’m not. Not from a child.
I watch him for a while.
Opening and closing gates as needed.
The dust, sifted into powder from summer’s heat, poof’s with his steps.
The heels of his jeans dragging strings on the ground, erase the tread of his
boots.
The shed is old. There is algae or lichen on the north side boards,
where the wood is splintery gray.
Some of the lichen florets are the color of sage, some the color of a bright orange
rust,
Circled with gray ones and black, their life cycle played out.
He hammers nails and screws in screws while holding boards in place.
Sweat glistening where skin is exposed, making long dark stains in his black
shirt.
Veins standing out against the strain, and
Muscles laboring to prove he can do the job well, without a mother’s help.
While he works I think about his father and how differently they work.
His father preferring team work and orchestrated smooth motion
working side by side, no extra movements – and he whistled.
My son needs to prove his skills first – alone.
The shed is done and it will brave another winter, keeping the horses sheltered
from the elements.
The wind, snow and horses milling about, will obliterate the trail of pant cuffs,
Along with the memory of one cool day at the end of summer,
When a man worked hard to rebuild their shelter.
A ball of twine, a washing line
A bag of peat, an old dust sheet
A rope
Some wire
An old flat tyre
A roller-skate, a garden gate
Some dry grass seed, a millipede
A sack of sand, one glove, left hand
A torch
A mallet
A painters pallet
A cracked fish tank, a broken plank
A headless gnome, some dried out loam
An old bike bell, a snail shell
A spade
A fork
A champagne cork
The dogs toy bone, a traffic cone
It's cleared away, it took all day
I find it is, quite safe to say
It used to fit, But who knows how
My garden shed is empty now
The yards behind the shearing shed are overgrown with grass
And the fence posts look a little worse for wear
There’s cobwebs on the tractors that are sitting all forlorn
And a farm cat snoozes gently on a chair
The boards have not been trodden by a shearer’s boot for years
But the remnants of their trade lie on the floor
A dull and rusty hand piece was left hanging on the wall
And an old grey fleece is draped across a door
A fridge that held refreshments for the shearers long ago
Stands rusting in the corner on its own
Some wool bales from the final clip are sitting in a pile
And the wind whips through the rafters with a moan
The only sign of movement is the farm cat getting up
It must be time to go and hunt for tea
As she slinks between the barrels that are holding up the floor
It’s time for mice to hide, or turn and flee
A drowsy looking blowfly buzzes lazily around
And the morning slowly turns to afternoon
Then the purple shades of evening slide across the waving fields
And the shearing shed is bathed beneath the moon
Then somewhere in the darkness you can hear the shearer’s ghosts
you can hear them clipping long into the night
Cries of ‘fleece off!’ are competing with the bleating of the sheep
but silence reigns again come morning light
And the shed just goes on rusting underneath the summer sun
And the termites come and chew upon the boards
And the spiders in the tractors go on spinning silken webs
And the shearer’s ghosts are undisputed lords
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"