Cabins Poems

soul forest

within your forest 
quartz light from your gallant eyes 
surround my ocean 

breathing devotions
my thoughts quiver as earthquakes 
whispers wishes blush 

my soul faints daily 
your robust masculine trees 
my candle mind melts 

wooden bough branches 
build stalwart starry cabins 
from your midnight pen 

wanting fervor waves 
carve sculptures within in my sands
mists around your pines 

August 12th 2025

Ancient Walls, Decrepit Soul

Decrepit Poetry Contest by Constance La France
1st Place

                       
The sad sun, a tired sight, no longer gleams
On the old bones, where life once brightly burned.
A quiet fall now haunts neglected dreams,
And each active color to trash has turned.

The beams all groan, an unhappy, deep sigh,
As garbage eats the tree logs, mild and deep.
A window shade of ruin meets the eye,
Where quiet dimness lasting lookout keep.

No delight stays in cabins dark and cold,
Without sound stirs where chuckle used to play.
A worn story, in vanished lines unfolds,
What once was tough now yields to slow decay.

A decrepit frame, once majestic, proud,
Now echoes secrets to the sacred shroud.

Emerging From The Woods Onto A High Prominence

The trees crowd in along the broken trail,
sunlight tries to push through, but mostly fails,
straight trunks spread out and obscure distant gaze,
there’s eyes out there, watching, afraid they’re prey.
Ahead a break grows larger with each step,
cerulean against the forest depth,
the summit rock cresting half of the peak,
this vantage sought by many weary feet.
Red squirrels chitter and dash as I emerge,
I want to shout, but I restrain the urge,
swellings of peaks spread out like tapestries,
their secrets hid beneath the endless trees,
a slash of gray where earth cuts through in stone,
Mother Nature is lost without her bones,
then rips of blue, a ribbon swaggers slow
to wild ponds saved by being remote,
marsh meadows near sometimes reveal a moose,
but today only mallards are in view.
Beyond this lies a scar, a bigger lake,
fringed by cabins and docks, stretching out straight,
above it all vultures fly on the breeze,
their slow circles effortless and lazy,
to think such birds get this view every day…
Who knows if again I will pass this way.

The Irritable Chest Cold

The sun had risen but could not be seen. 
Still daylight was welcome in her studio.
She stood hunched with pain over her easel.
The landscape was not quite what she wanted.
She had decided to portray the joys of nature,
Lovely cerulean firmament with hazy clouds
Hovering in the background just beneath and around
The majestic mountains of her new abode.

Stately trees dotted the countryside and 
Intermixed with cosy cabins, smoke curling
Into the sky because it was a cold and humid place.
Even inside her cabin, the air was irritating.
Outside, the continual grey rain would not stop.
She felt cold and coughed a lot, as well as chest congestion.
Darn, raining cats and mice today!  She felt confused.
Cats and mice?  Or dogs?  What did it matter,
Once the foul inclement weather would not change?

to be concluded

Our Family Vacation at Pine Tree Inn

    A few scattered yellow wood cabins
       a swimming pool surrounded by pines
    
    a pier to fish from, a lake not to go in
       ‘cept for the stinkpots* and sailboats                *i.e., motorboats

    marshmallow roasts by the campfire at dusk
      a ghost story or two to relate

    along with the hotdogs and burgers that day
      the ghosts evicted whatever we ate

A New World

Minds turned into images
Barren moments, parched feelings
Drowned in haste and unease, 
Self-indulgent and covetous 

Desolate technology slaves 
Imprisoned in closed cabins
Chained to the chairs
Eyes fixed on the screens

Human skeletons with dried hearts
Drained and deserted relationships 
Torn emotions and tainted lives
Emptiness all around 

Ruled by commerce and profit
Turning world in to market
With frozen conscience
Infringing the peace loving souls 

Bred by craze, power and greed
Aimless swarms and awry crowds
Turning planet in to an oven
Yelling advancement and progress

Green turned into grey 
Sky turned into smog
Breeze turned into beast
Violating nature’s chastity

Where are the relaxing rooftops 
Trees and the chattering birds
Clear sky and the morning dew
Seducing sunsets and cozy evenings

Lost in the crew of human creatures
Serene, pure, tender and loving 
Living in isolation and disenchantment 
Waiting for the return of olden days  

Seems a forlorn hope in mighty milieu
Crafted by the self-centered masters
Impervious to human virtues
But, the hope never dies

Alcoholic

Lightheaded I ambled
towards the lonely pub.
Liquor helps sometimes you know.
It burns the mind,
empties it
of niggling thoughts,
of subtle yearnings,
of ambitious aspirations.
 
There she was
redhead and flushed.
A companion in distress.
We drank together,
confessed together,
envied together.
 
Time's up.
Outwards we lurched
hugging each other
towards the beach
where empty cabins
gave us respite.
 
Morning arrived.
She was not there.
Pity!
I knew not her name.
Might as well call her
whisky.

The Red Dirt Road

Follow the red dirt road.
Take it slow, walk it,
this is not an exploration
nor a pilgrimage,
it is a short tour around
the beginning of an idea
and its end.

Move along
past the few rural homesteads,
pass beyond the shacks
and the weather-beaten
tumbledown cabins,
the double and single wide
not so mobile homes
with their rusting trucks.

Hurry past the gypsy encampments.
with their gangs of wild dogs
until that dirt road ends
in a dry long uncultivated field.

This is where the dust
covers the old road maker
and beside his sunbaked bones
see how his maps and plans
are rolled up tight
never to be unrolled again.

New Inspirations

I seek. Like a mystical sailor,
I seek in the infinite corridors,
Of Rudolf Samoylovich, navy blue,
I seek in the peace of travels,

I search without digging the blue nights,
I seek with my hands, in disgrace,
I seek with the power of polar bears,
Without believing I see, without seeing what I see.

I seek. Like a mystical sailor,
Like Jack London, in full or empty cabins,
On the cold ice of the Rudolf Samoylovich,
What am I looking for? New inspirations. 


PS, Rudolf Samoylovich, is an enormous ship in the harbor, i stop by, everyday

Can'T You C, Can'T You C

Close your eyes and imagine with me
Camps, cottages, cabins and trees
High in the mountains or beside rolling seas
Perhaps it’s chateaus and castles you see
Maybe cathedrals grand as they can be
It’s little white churches that I see
Comforting contentment I’m contemplating as we
Consider the many constructs of C

Symbolism

they harvested by darkness
tractors carving through the night
up and down the plantation
guided by the infra red light
and the pilots in their cabins
hidden way down deep inside
watched through the video screens
to control their night long ride

the operation ceased at day break
in case of enemy attack
and the machines converted
pulled cutters in and back
for  the armour to be deployed
and in just a few moments there
they’d made an attack weapon
from  their mobile ploughshare

Composition Class, 2019

Hiz fingrs they did be tray him
   koudn't keep tim to, uh, a beats
  
  Hiz toz about awkwordlee the same
    All left foots, Joe, of sadly sez, wur 

  Wer iz hop, wen kids kant reed or rit
    An if they kant dants, they be to wit



   _________________________________
   This is a composite of what I was dealing
   with as a tutor, pre-COVID, by the way.
   The kid who wrote this is now a high
   school honors student... And if you be-
   lieve that, I sell leak-proof cabins in the
   African Rain Forest you might be inter-
   ested in. ...

Christmas In July

Cottage dreams, wooden cabins and the scent of burning campfires 
Every July we would gather at Vince's cottage to see Santa in attire 
Into the water he would go with his speed boat full of presents  
all the kids would run to see the bearded man with a belly bent   

There was no snow, no mistletoe, no hot toddy, just sweet lemonade 
all the kids would line up straight just waiting for that gifted accolade 
We had never heard of Christmas in July for us this was spanking new  
at night we sat around at fire and sang carols until half past two 

Today I reminisce about those days of Christmas in the summer heat 
we wore flip flops and passed out freeze pops, oh it was all so neat 
Now when winter holidays arrive with cold and winter storms abroad   
we talk about Vince and his Xmas antics, before he left to be with God.   

July 22, 2022
Sponsor	Tania Kitchin
Contest Name	Christmas in July

Freeze Frame

A molt of starlight on new snow
white slough over black drenched fields.

A window captures it all as a freeze-frame.
Glass reflects and takes my picture
through an eyeless lens.

Behind me, a log fire cracks and chirps
in the language of firebirds.
The room chirrs warmly like a fiddle in a ghost camp.
The cabins foundations are structured hollows.
it breaths through its long bones.

I turn to look at where I live, see only the past looking back,
I dwell within a camera.

A Long Winter's Night

tucked away in the rolling hills
a cabin became a snowy resort
piles of fresh snow as light as clouds
hugged the cabins foundation

inside everyone was snug
beneath twill blankets
and feather filled pillows

the fire popped with joy
in the fireplace beneath a 
shrine of family pictures

the family dog curled up
on a brown bear skin rug
a family heirloom handed down

all was peaceful
on this long winter's night
in the middle of now where
no cares in the world

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