Long Bungalows Poems
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1977. Was the Queens Jubilee,also eventfull year
flew down from Teeside to London Heathrow,for an overnight stay
an onward journey to Kuwait, my father prime in the proffession he did
scaffolding coordintor,myself and sister Tracy were only kids.
Not many children get an oppertunity, stemming a family memory
weeks rolled on, settling into school,became normality.
I couldn`t put into perspective,developing indepth
pining for home,muslim life portraying what i missed.
However,amongst the feelings of uncertainty,and meeting my new mates
building dens behind bungalows,from old shipping crates.
We would attend The Hubara Club,an update leisure complex
untold amounts to occupy youths,skateboarding main context.
Not forgetting my mother,and mundane everyday tasks
muslim laws preventing,normality, has to ask
simplicity took for granted,from showing arms of pale
amongst kuwaiti public,the women wearing veils.
Christmas that year, will be forever etched
an altercation between perants,that i`d rather not fetch.
Kuwait a beautiful country,Twin Towers of Ahmedi
without sounding ungrateful,home i`d rather be.
Paul Beadnall for
Sponsor Paula Swanson
Contest Name Opened Doors
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Picnic.
Funny thing happened on way to picnic close to a jungle.
Taking twelve people three cars started simultaneous.
Cars going in queue, front- one, driven by my uncle.
We were in joyous mood, singing loud in chorus.
On road side, morning walkers were practicing jog.
Through military campus road led to our destination.
All the bungalows showing warning ‘Beware of dog’.
We were relaxed and car running in slow motion.
Haply from a house, came out a running Alsatian,
just to commit suicide on hit of our car.
With a rifle rushed the owner, a military man.
All were frightened to deal with the disaster.
My uncle got down, apologized, ‘just to mention,
I have no fault, please try to understand.
Excuse us Sir, take this money as compensation.'
Stern looked officer hesitated, but stretched his hand.
‘Ok. Fine. Accepting your ‘Fine’ as you are feeling sad.
Killing the rascal, you have done a great favor.
I am going to shoot him as he has gone mad.
Never mind. In future, be a cautious driver.’
06/30/18
Third Place
Funny Memories
Contest by Natasha L Scragg
When winter months become morose
And everything around is blue and froze
Gets disheartening even for the eskimos
Their morale starts to dwindle and decompose
They tread most lightly on cautious tippytoes
For fear their neighbors will become bellicose
They bite their tongue rather than use such prose
As ‘up your nose, my friend, with a rubber hose’
It is uplifting to dream of colorful scenarios
Any warm place where the blazing sun glows
Where the desert air gently blows
While ocean waves roll in sultry rows
All agree a trip down south would be most grandiose
Trading bikinis for their parka and heavy winter clothes
By pools they’d feign being divinely comatose
Drink in hand adopting the hot vacation pose
Stretched out on their hammocks eating pistachios
Laying back being busy counting colored rainbows
Hey CabanaBoy we’d truly really hate to impose
But would you please massage us from our head to our toes
Before their fair skin burns and redness undergoes
They all head back to their respective bungalows
Wondering should they dress go catch one of the shows
Or rest in bed before calling on one of the local rodeos
While visiting the souvenir shop one decides to propose
To send home a postcard showing tropical buzzards and flamingos
With a heartfelt message that needs not be verbose
For sure they’ll be the envy of both our friends and foes
AP: 1st place 2021
Sandy was the scariest storm of the season
with gigantic waves rising and battering shores
as violent winds lashed houses and trees;
there was no safe place for someone who knows
how frightful and real is Nature's wrath watched from a window,
and until it left, faith brought me to my trembling knees;
I still cuddle up in a warm blanket and await the sunrise's first glow,
not thinking of death, but surviving for a good reason!
Boats and yachts in the Long island Sound were secured with anchor's chains
and rocking they withstood the surge's massive force resisting doom,
but the small bungalows along the roaring shore
gave into the rushing waves that advanced like a warrior!.
How awful they looked without doors and windows!
How sad were the pitiful shrieks of fleeing seagulls and raves!
Those rain shawls, accompanied by steady wind, kept on lashing the soaked dunes...
till they disappeared into the ocean's twenty feet tides controlled by an unseen moon!
The devastation of Sandy has left its anguishing memory in me,
and being afraid it will return...I shiver thinking of another catastrophe!
Bazaar,
Storing all a"s,the bazaar,
Of the three one is profit,
Bazaar like the heart of the township,
Supplying noise commodities to the ear consumers free,
A place buying richness and selling poorness,
Most of the sellers only with minds but hearts,
Money is like blood running all over the Shop nerves,
Some buys,some sells,some bags and some begs,
Also some bugs drawing blood in the down town,
The debt rolling like wheels,
Very busy like only today no tomorrow's,
The merchants of Venice sits,
Shylocks carrying fault scales to weigh flesh,
Bazaar,the chased satan's official bungalows!
My brother wrote a story
Based on childhood, when we went
To the Catskills for the summer;
Those were joyous times we spent.
In his telling, though, he mentioned
“Night patrol,” which caught me short.
I’d forgotten all about it,
Something memory did thwart.
On the weekends, when the fathers
(Who remained at home for work)
Traveled up to see their families,
What awaited was a perk.
For at night, in the casino,
(Like a clubhouse party space)
There was music, booze and dancing;
Lots of fun was taking place.
All the children, unattended,
Stayed inside the bungalows
While some older teens on “night patrol”
Strode up and down the rows.
Everything was walking distance,
So if something was amiss,
Like a crying baby or a toddler
Needing mommy’s kiss
Night patrol came to the rescue,
Someone fetching dad or mom,
While another night patroller
Stayed and kept the kiddies calm.
Those were different times, for sure;
Doors were unlocked and not a soul
Ever worried ‘bout a problem,
Knowing there was night patrol.
In the quiet whispers of the night,
I hear the impending dawn chuckle
a shadow verse
of glimpse of soon-coming,
like a white horse, hero of a romance looming.
Blue sides echo with turn,
a long standing joy taking burn.
But down in the water below,
Leviathan stealths, deep and low,
in demi-urge- surging,- mingling with
the flowing pangea of dreams,
a birth pang showing.
mirrored creation phi relativity.
As I listen to the water's song,
On nights where reflection reflects strong,
It seeps into my being, magnetically long
Becoming part of my very throes in ideallic throngs.
The quietness creeps into every nook,
worn sense lingers in each shadowed look-
looking back.
A heavy burden I must brook,
cup it into my hand at my appearance took.
Yet in the midst of all the pangs,
pancreatic paleolithic lithographic phi heart strings.
Smoking jackets - storybook glistening spines,
nightcapped bungalows of review and time.
Love still shines through- in endless flame,
in projector rewind of black and white
memories seeking colors divine.
Life, though fleeting, is not in vain,
though it endlessly tortures me,
it also brings lights and
thunder and quenching rains.
What truly matters, that is what will be,
bee to remain for my queen.
Through avenues of the dead intertwined with mine?
In this life, my purpose I find-
sticks and stones, haphazard bones of
nothing but stark reality, alone.
That is, what we will sea.
The Deep,
of matters keeped.
My thoughts of rose- picked by hues of meter
by my sense of prose in
magic's clothe s.
Or is it salt-peter.
The images plucked from a full soft drive like over blown berries
threatening to fall……blasted to the humus. Swing chains creak.
The high-backed, heart carved, chalk white, front porch swing sways;
to the kicking of your feet. Beside me, you sit in spankin’ new school clothes singing.
Together wrapped like pretzel dough, we warble, annoying the sparrows.
The bumble bee yellow and black stripped school bus is late.
The dreamy cottage bungalows’ screen porch perches like a tree house ledge
over the four story drop off. Hundred year old sentinel pines tower still above us,
limbs house hug. The occasional cone drop ricochets down the trunk
to a soft needle landing, and a bouncing roll before falling off the retaining wall
We own the world. King and Queen of the Mountain are we. I sing “Ducky Duddle” to you.
You laugh. All the joy in the world in such a small sound. Oh, how I loved to make you happy.
Two short years before, even your name was new to you..my boy, Jamie.