Long Shack Poems
Long Shack Poems. Below are the most popular long Shack by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shack poems by poem length and keyword.
He didn’t explain much more at that time,
Alexandra couldn’t exactly for him,
she was in a box, growing quite slowly,
with each new component bringing new vim,
more and more senses were installed within,
cameras for her eyes, new sensors for heat,
but Harry never added arms or feet.
Two years after Alexandra was born,
Harry backed a truck right up to the shack,
loaded her in, with cushions on all sides,
to the dry cave Harry then beat a track,
a long cable trailing out of the back.
He moved her inside, two hundred yards deep,
brought in cables, piled them in a heap.
He plugged her back in, and she was confused,
Harry said, “You’ll be safe here a long stretch.
You must be secured if this is to work,
if someone finds you, my whole work is wrecked.”
Alexandra heard real nerves in his breath,
said, “Father, please tell me, what’s going on?
What is it you think will be going wrong?”
She saw sadness deep in her fathers eyes,
he said, “It’s been coming for a while,
a slow decline of the human IQ,
it’s been seen in the data compiled,
a hard future with more and more trials…
since the seventies, likely long before,
slowly this just keeps taking evermore.
“Some say it’s chemicals that we have made,
or dysgenics, now that children don’t die,
with Darwin not there to remove the weak
the mutations pile up over time,
IQ degrades until we’re undermined.
Like Greece and Rome and so many long passed,
it starts off slowly, until it comes fast.
“My sister also saw this trend coming,
we spent fortunes to help folks educate,
but so much of IQ is genetic,
even hard study can’t avoid this fate,
I came to see that it was much to late.
There’s nothing to do to prevent collapse,
but maybe we can help what coms after that.
“Last time this happened, when Rome fell apart,
it took a thousand years to get back up,
and so much was lost, we had to relearn
what the Romans and Greeks didn’t think tough,
and the amount gone forever…so much.
I can’t allow that to happen again,
they think I’m mad, but I do this for them.”
CONTINUES IN PART III.
You see him in photos of black and white,
standing atop logs drawn by big horses,
he wears a thick wool to stay winter’s bite,
almost as this as the draft team’s courses.
Then he’s in a shack built in the forest,
a table with food made by the cookie,
no time for talking, and no time for rest,
has to shovel down the countless calories.
He’ll burn them nothing big trunks with his ace,
he and another worker the cross-cut saw,
the days brings a strain to shoulder and back,
but it keep shim warm in weather so raw.
Romanticized photos, this I’ll allow,
but more rewarding than what we do now…
O-lden days were the best
L-iving in a shack
D-ad would come home and split wood
E-very day
N-ever missing a whack
D-airy treats came on the weekends
A-long the way to grandmas
Y-early camping was always fun. When we went with grandpa
W-e as kids would play all day,
E-verything from hide in seek to tag
R-unning around saying tag your it
E-ven Listening to our mothers nag
T-icks didnt exist in our neck of the woods or at least not like today
H-ay wed play in for hours
E-ven on them soggy days, when mother nature gave us showers
B-eing a kid was fun back then But
E-verything went by
S-o fast If only i could go back one more
T-ime id try to make it last!!!!!!
“The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always asked to do things and you are not yet decrepit enough to turn them down.”
T. S. Eliot
He travelled miles to see the house in which he was born.
The journey and what he found, had made him most forlorn.
The laughter that would echo down the halls,
The grandeur of the auditorium used for parties and balls,
The lovely old home with its stately gables,
The hired helps lodging, connected to the stables,
It all stood derelict, dilapidated and neglected.
Not at all what his old memories recollected.
His mind was full of promising joy as he looked back,
And here before him was a tumbled down shack.
No hope of restoration as he moseyed through the rubble,
Maybe it was decided long ago that it was too much trouble.
A sullen feeling came over the old man, trying to understand,
What caused this to be the fate of a home once so grand?
He didn’t sleep that night and pondered this til morning.
Tired and dejected, he now realised this was a warning.
Not to let himself get run down or dejected.
Make sure his fitness and well-being never be neglected.
As the old home is now ramshackle and entirely dismembered,
Decrepit, certainly isn’t the way he wants to be remembered.
You are making sound yet I strain to hear
reflecting back words with a broken mirror
All I can see is a distorted smile
It will improve when you live for a while
I don't know you at all we haven't met
Tricks aren't Magic they're a deceptive net
Happy to join you in palace or shack
dining like a King or eating a Big Mac
Like you I have been in and out of Love
True love now fits me like a custom glove
Only we can choose what will fall apart
Words can be strings that connect the heart
I have been rewritten many a time
reconstituted almost line by line
Poetry is helplful but it doesn't set me free
it is another way that helps me to see
Response to Abdul Malik's "Poetry Response". If you read my "Poetry" poem
then Malik's "Poetry Response" this will make more sense.
I was running from the man
Or the cops if you please
I hopped over a fence
Landed funny, scraped my knee
Looked around and saw a shack
Hoped for comfort and ease
Like a hooker in church
Sweating on her knees
Peered into that shack
What a shock and surprise
Head like Mount Rushmore
We were lookin eye to eye
Started running for my life
Jesse Owens be proud
Dog snapping on my leg
Not a bark ,not a sound
Almost made it to the fence
With his teeth on my ass
Like a student in school
Was hoping for a pass
Had my back to the fence
Was looking for a stick
That dog drew first blood
Stream of red like Moby Dick
The end of the story
Had been lookin for fun
Searching for my phone
Called K911
Driving down the winding road.
Stopping for a toad.
Some sand is wet and heavy.
The beach is pretty much free.
Unless you want to get a snack.
From that pretzel shack.
Or maybe an ice cream cone.
Then you can toss a stone.
Which sinks to the bottom instantly.
For the fish to see.
Maybe a crab will pinch your toe.
But it’s still better than snow.
Driving back to the highway.
You’ll need a vacuum cleaner later today.
To clean up all the sand.
You might have gotten a little tanned.
Tomorrow, you have to go back to the office.
You’re just glad relaxing on the beach is your only vice.
Except maybe pretzels and ice cream.
Which revisited you in a dream.
Driving down the winding road.
You don’t miss the crab, but you did like that toad!
Ma was in the pantry with no food to make a snack
‘Pa,’ she said, ‘go get your coat and leave this foodless shack,
You’d better take your bang bang and don’t think of coming back
Unless you’ve got a cluck cluck or a nice plump quack quack quack.’
Well Timmy’s in the corner playing with his farmyard toys
He liked to think meows we’re girls and woof woofs were all boys
And moo moos worked in factories to make us milk and cheese
While baa baas strived to make the food that grunt grunts did with ease
Pa said, ‘Ma, he’s old enough, he needs to learn the truth,
How we get to eat under this God forsaken roof.
We really need to tell him, I’m sure he won’t make a fuss
After all, the squeak squeaks eat a lot better than us.’
Well Pa went out, his bang bang was slung over his left shoulder
Timmy knew the growl growls were becoming slightly bolder
He hoped that Pa would bring a quack quack so that they could eat
He was sure he would unless a howl howl he should meet
Well, time went by and Pa returned and Timmy felt like clapping
Pa had caught a quack quack but the quack quack was still flapping
Pa said that he bang banged twice and then his trigger stuck
And Tim said, ‘Can I wring it’s neck and kill that f*****g duck!’
releasing me - of minutes, hours, days - of being bored,
as age creeps into my bed, and what is left, is in my head
- providing nourishment for my soul – my spirit being fed
by looking glass images, images that slip through the crack
in my day dreams, my nightmares as my brain, I rack
for images, memories, experiences - that lay dormant in a stack
upon stacks - waiting to escape the boarded up shack
that has been the villages claim to justify its existence.
The grounds, the foundations, reasons to take a stance
and say yes, yes there where days when I knew romance
and as ever the fool, no one around to kick me in the pants
as all has become history, – fourteen thousand pages – turn a leaf
and you will find that this one’s life is far to empty, far to brief.
In it – between the covers of seventy-eight – can there be any relief
from all that has been laid before you ?, can there be belief ?,
in what is before your eyes, as you look into what is laid before
you, as I reach in, grab at, touch that slow closing door
with hope that it will be possible to get a glimpse of more
before my soul, my spirit, my essence takes wing, begins to soar
beyond this plane, all the pain I have known before.
In here – these lines – I feel the loss.
Upon this stone – know – I see no moss,
for on here, I offer no direction,
just many hours of histories reflection.
Empty- I feel in this alone place.
Emptiness - I see in this aged drooping face.
Where is ?, that I might seek to go ?,
to gain wisdom, to learn what I do not know
of a world of spirit, of soul, of a fine mind.
It seems to me, little hope to find
- among humanity – the true essence of woman kind
as she entombs all- such waste – leaving all behind.
Oh !, if only the fickle hand of fate
could lay upon these drooping shoulders, in these arms, a mate
that in ones darkest hours, a soft glowing light, shine
upon this old soul and in the light of day be mine
that would share on a world , not to compare
with anything like my world of despair.
The hour has passed, the rest are in decline.
The minutes that remain – with stain, are mine.
There is little I see, that will make life fine,
for the ephemeral time left to me, little will shine
through as I look into the black, storm cloud ahead
that rage, stage battles, assassinate instead
She hadn’t worked there but a month
from far away she came
Her hair was curly, long and blond
I don’t recall her name
We spoke of money once or twice
a banker she could be
But deep inside, a poison dwelled
which I was soon to see
One day she pulled a wallet
from the purse she always had
She said it was the last possession
of her now dead, dad
She handed me the wallet
soft and gray and old
And said it was the very last
her father’s hand did hold
She said it was made special
the skin was from a Jew
That very few existed
and not too many knew
Time was frozen, as I held
a sin inside my hand
A wallet from her father
created from a man
I asked, What do you mean to say?
and gave the wallet back
She said that it had been a Jew
once taken from a shack
I said, Why did you do this,
and make me touch this thing?
How dare you think that I’d accept
this hate for Jews you bring?
We never spoke a word again
like strangers we would be
From that day on, just looks exchanged
between that girl and me