Best Shingled Poems
The lake was still sleeping
a light mist rose above,
a weathered dock could be seen,
its aged wood; full of memories.
The air crisp, breeze light,
trees majestic; watching all.
Squirrels busy scampering,
as a flock of geese soared above.
Way over yonder
clear across the still lake,
shining brightly were yellow shutters,
on our cabin; our special place.
We had toiled the garden
planted yellow roses with great care,
we had painted the old wood shutters,
yellow paint; speckled our hair.
The roof we re-shingled,
one painstaking nail at a time,
we even counted the ouches;
when our hammers got out of line.
With nothing but smiles
on our weary, aching bodies,
we held hands, and went running,
into the still of the lake; giggling.
We swam out to the dock,
it was a race; he won,
my hand he took laughing;
as he quickly scooped me up.
Our toes dangled playfully
sending ripples in the lake,
as we gazed at our cabin;
yellow shutters; fresh with paint.
The trees swayed slightly
as if nodding with approval,
for our cabin by the lake,
was our private sacred jewel.
As we cuddled together
warmth filled our souls,
for our bright yellow shutters,
symbolized, our love's blossoming growth.
It was on this very dock,
air crisp, breeze light,
when he gave me a yellow rose;
and asked me to be his wife.
the injustice of
the powder blue box
standing proudly
on the corner of
fifty-seventh and fifth
A symbol of division
extending the partition
between wealth and
everyone else
back around the way
the old shabby
half shingled house
was home to the
second hand charlie brown
size thirteen shoes
worn by
the size thirteen girl
sitting on the second
stair stoop
when she was just thirteen
no one heard her scream
no one saw her run
and hide in shame
under the rough wool
of poverty that had never
comforted or warmed her
her playgrounds were
clotheslines for volleyball
and cracked tarred side streets
for hopscotch
forced to scratch and climb each day
up through that
crammed and crowded pit
fighting to reach the light before
the trap was sealed shut on the door
there’s a quota, you see
only some will be allowed
a chance to be free
everyone knew
most will not make it through
the others doomed
to return and make do
forced to accept
false narratives and
live by corrupted rules
but just remember
the megaphone
fed down into the abyss
is an acoustic indoctrination
and it never ceases to play
“two plus two
equals four”
a deliberate
echo to trance
the suffocated poor
yet one percent
know the real truth
two plus two
equals anything
you want it to
entrenched in power
they refuse to let go
protecting the system
they must maintain
the status quo
so she stands in line
to make the climb
determined to reach
the top in time
she knows her freedom
is just beyond that light
as she hears the trap door
slam behind
she feels the warmth
of destiny on her face
knowing that countless others
are left behind
trapped in a sinkhole
of poverty and oppression
in a mental cage
that denies their rights
If I write down words
that pour from me like
water rushing from a rusty gutter
carrying my cries in the flood
with decaying leaves and
the smattering off the roof
of droppings from so many
prominently perched pigeons,
is that a poetry of sorts?
If the aged shingled roof leaks
at its eaves (like my eyes)
when wind blows the rain
nearly horizontal and the house
beams creak and sound like
corroded hinges when
seldom-used doors are opened,
has a trope occurred?
And, is anything -- honestly --
more than almost senseless patter?
Does it really even matter?
River Findings
The Ohio winds around hills
and streams down the hollows
passes steel mills, brick yards and scrap yards.
It carries tug boats, pushes barges, and hauls
black coal stripped from the mountainsides.
The Ohio’s littered banks
are home to train yards
filled with graffiti-covered box cars
rusting relics of the Southern Pacific
and the Norfolk and Southern railroads.
Erector set bridges span
the murky river and link Ohio
to “Wild, Wonderful, West Virginia,”
the Weirton Mill,
and Homer Laughlin China Company.
In towns called Powhaton Point,
Shadyside, Bellaire, and East Liverpool,
houses are stacked on hillsides
with an array of slate,
tin and asbestos shingled roofs.
Ball fields and corn fields,
concrete parking lots and shopping malls
are full of busy people
who fail to appreciate
the river’s charity.
There are roads with cryptic names like Goose Run,
Pinch Run, Riddles Run, and Rush Run.
There are towns named Brilliant,
Costonia and Calcutta,
each with their own secrets.
North on Route 7 bars advertise Karaoke
and all you can eat fish fries.
A plethora of car lots and gift shops,
bait stores and gun supplies
dot the countryside with
a never-ending display
of marketing profanity,
but the river rolls on
never compromising her dignity
never surrendering her boundaries.
White-steepled churches
stand like beacons of redemption,
while billboards promote“Hell Fire Fireworks,”
“Gentlemen’s” clubs, sleazy motels
and the “Forbidden Zone Exit.”
Still the river moves along
around the hills and down the hollows
proud and powerful
chanting and rippling with satisfaction
a stalwart testament to her tenacity…
Tinkling sounds of rain falling on shingled roofs
wild winds and chestnut horses galloping with hooves
Spruce trees breathing in the navy sky of June
Shimmering stars of heavenly bliss scintillating view
Rivers gurgling aside the brook as dusk arrives
A solitary lotus floating on the waters of China
Japanese lanterns and crepe paper magic
Night songs of longing and bravelings that cry
May I invite you for a walk across my wish bridge
together we can find the syncronocity of life.
The cedar towered above the shingled roof,
Its tapered branches hiding squirrels and birds
until the day when Hugo swept the hills
uprooting poplars, whipping wind-wilted
leaves against the parlor window.
The cedar fell, its prodigious bulk
flattened against the sodden earth.
For years it lay along the gravel drive.
The neighbor though we ought to cut
the cedar into pieces--use the oval slabs
for stepping stones or perhaps for firewood.
The gard'ner groaned and said it was a nuisance.
One summer day we thought to drag it off
to slice away the limbs, the falling needles.
But the honeysuckle had wound around the trunk
as if to say how much it was not in the way.
A chameleon slithered, dark against the trunk,
a ground sparrow squawked and fluttered in alarm
while chipmunks hurried to guard a nut-filled hole.
We put the chain-saw in the shed
and planted flowers in the tangled roots.
A cedar tree, after all, is indestructible...
Grandpa’s rustic, once crimson red barn sheltered so much and so many different things
From biting bitter cold, to cyclonic winds, and hard-drenching-down-pouring rains…
Great memories lie heaped, buried in antique red rubble and sifted gray ash
Decaying on open flat grassy plain along with the historic Civil War past…
The red barn was where I learned about his cranky, short tempered, milking cow
Never wander too close to hind legs for they will surely send you tumbling down…
The weathered red barn held fabulous hiding places for rodents, snakes, and me
I know its brave red heart protected me from countless accidents and waiting dangers…
I acquired great joy sliding down its majestic shingled low-sloping roof
Continuously riding into insidiously giant pillow-soft snow drifts…
Sacred memories of childhood absorbed in knot holes and immense pillared rafters
Echoing in the attached silo and milk room where laughter gathered non-stop…
Along the country roadside, down a pot-hole filled gravel dirt road, were neighboring farms
But not one barn could match the strength or beauty of Grandpa’s weathered red barn…
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Fifth Place Winner ~ "That Old Red Barn” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Rick Parise
Dec. 10, 2010
Heading east on 16th Street
where the road becomes a “T”
it’s the last house on the south side
that means so much to me.
Pine shrubbery up to the windows
giant cottonwoods stand guard
an arch above the driveway
an eighteen acre yard
Wrapped in warm wood siding
inviting young and old
“Come! Sit upon this porch of mine!
Such stories yet to be told!”
The shingled roof, though worn with time
still boasts unyielding strength
a red brick chimney standing tall,
giant windows down the length
I helped to plant those giant trees
when we were both still small
and pulled the weeds from every inch
of eighteen acres....ALL!
I’ve climbed out of those windows
some punishment to escape
I’ve run across that rooftop
donned in a long red cape
I’ve crawled under that porch
upon my hands and knees
to rescue baby kittens
or little brothers for to tease
I’ve chased the dogs around the house
upon my faithful steed
who was just a Shetland pony
but always up to the deed!
Within those walls, and out it seems,
many lessons there were learned
and in the process of it all
the memories, on my heart, were burned
Though things change, as all things do,
there, most things stay the same
like love and laughter flowing ‘round
and calling out my name
Now, when I’m growing weary
and need a place to hide
I jump into my trusty car
and go out for a ride
‘cause
Heading east on 16th Street
where the road becomes a “T”
that last house on the south side
means so much to me!
Trudy Diane Rider
10-2003
I crept softly upon a dream today
in a wishful walk, my heart
filled with joyful play.
Soft green air plants, blooming in
the misty breeze.
Lush, rich and green was the path
that lead me.
The sky was evening touched, by
the creeping fog.
The trees were looming over the yard
and fallen scattered logs.
Encircled around it an old, wooden
fence. Amber lights glowing from its center
filling me with suspense.
A cottage shingled way down its long
peeks. Old English style, mirrored, stained
complete.
Rippled with a pebble, the water within
the well. Dropped gently my penny wish like a
bucket into the swell.
I understood the dream beautifully unfolded
From peeks to scattered logs, this was
my dream home.
meow
at still's darkness
caterwaul thud whine snarl
cats hiss differences at midnight
thud growl caterwaul rapid light footsteps
on top of the house wail screech shriek
sibilant with comrades
on shingled roof
meow
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Contest: Sound of Emotion
Written by: Sara Kendrick
Date: May 28, 2012
Recollections of childhood
when life was simplistic,
brings to memory, days
filled of toilsome work
and long hours.
Yet in its own way, bestows
feelings of warmth, safety
and at given times, even
conceived to be glitzy,
shimmery.
Children, courteous
and respectful
executing daily chores
and in attendance
at church on
every given Sunday.
TV, computers,
I pods or CD's were
unheard of. Merely
an old Motorola radio
in a corner of the sitting
room. Kept perfectly
dustless and neat
for visitors.
Absolutely no children
were permitted,
with an exception
of Saturday eve, as all
gathered closely together,
listening to The Lone Ranger
and Silver....Hy Ho...Away!
Thursday nights
in summertime,
brought truckloads
of youngsters
piled in the bed of an
old green pickup truck, going
to enjoy a movie
on a large white
screen in the center
of a cornfield.
Christmas was, oh, so
special. Picking a
pine tree from a
million others to cut,
hauling “it”back
to a tattered
old gray shingled
farmhouse.
Decorations of popcorn
and cranberry strings, chains of
colored ribbon, paper cutouts
resembling bright, white
snowflakes, and of course,
a magical angel atop
this magnificent tree.
In retrospect,
it was felt we had so
little, but we had so
very, very much.
Children helped
with the chickens, cows,
gardening, whatever
instructed to do.
Riding ponies, the
county fair, marvelous fun.
School days were spent
learning the three R;s...readin,
ritin, rithmatic,” as well as
a history of George Washington
and the Great Depression of
1929,,,,,,,
Grandpa recounting stories
at the supper table of the
stock fall, unemployment,
farmers losing their worth,
wars of senseless deaths.
We were so blessed.
to have been born
after these arduous times.
Looking forward to a
new year, 2012--
Computers, I pods,
Cell Phones, Absolutely
Astonishing inventions,
technology.
Today stock-markets
are fluctuating, businesses
closing and many
people are going homeless
and hungry.
Jobs being at an all-time
low.....such advanced
progress,yet such similarity
of previous history.
“Old timers”
will survive from
what was
taught throughout
their childhood.
What happens now -
will we all survive?
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
Grey nimbus in sky
Ominous feel, rocky cove
Precipitation?
Walking shingled shore
Shiny stones, relentless sea
Horizon obscured.
Elements no friend
Merciless waves, tidal swell
Noisy Herring Gull.
Walk wet empty cove
Steep granite rock, seabirds' roost
Precious time alone.
Sloth-toed ivy flutters
in lissome breeze,
each pentagram the pinion
of a jade butterfly
clustered on a brick wall.
In the throes of spring
they sojourn
from dark loam
toward shingled firmament,
past celestial windows
pewter with light
as they besmirch
diaphanous peril,
imagining
when they reach heaven
they will repose like angels
in the shimmering damask
of God's aura.
5/23/18
Tears... emboss old memories
Reminiscence, floods troubled mind
My eyes... slow leak as floodgates
Fighting nightly tides, that rise to blind
My sorrow drowns an aching throat
The uncontrolled dance of trembling chin
Stinging blur forces eyes tight closed
Salted lash swells tequila rim
And in that moment
Of surrender
Alone... I cry
Alone... midst dancing shadows
Cast by firelight and drifting mind
Fireside cheek... bathes in embers warmth
Whilst outer face no comfort finds
Polar mumblings, the unheard suffering
Self-inflicted, my addictions rain
Souls shingled beach, no stone I leave unturned
I search for comfort, seeking not to blame
And in this moment
Of isolation
Alone... I cry
For a life... raped of colour
That lies opaque Neath shades of grey
To beg for peace of mind... amidst sad sands of time
Where colours Godly, paints final day
I have never wished for my many years
Yet still I fight to suffer more
For the loved ones that I would leave behind
Should I walk through final door
So in this moment
Offer comfort
As I cry
Help soothe this mind
Of bipolar kind
Please God, just try