Long Shanty Poems
Long Shanty Poems. Below are the most popular long Shanty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shanty poems by poem length and keyword.
The Shanty town had running raw sewerage
covering the lanes, people with horrific sores.
Leaking tin roofs gave little shelter but
baked in the hot African sun by midday.
The Politian's will tell you food and supplies
are getting through but they need more.
The shanty people will tell you no, never
have they received food or vital medicines.
Fat diploma tics getting richer as people
die like flies left with little or no hope.
Tempted in by promises of well paid work
to find there is none just squalid conditions.
Deprived of all comforts and nothing to do
some turn to drink then most to crime.
The dullness of their eyes show defeat
their spirits are broken for profit.
written 02/19/2017
for contest what lies beneath the lies
Some return to their villages in the bush
here a person can live like a human.
For the souls that remain no future beckons
just another day of misery until the end.
it is a hovel now, due to the work of a poltergeist
once a home, it is plunked in the middle of despair
the copper wiring was pulled out ten years ago
it is a vacated domicile which probably still house the jokester
no one has been inside for years; too many horror stories
We approach it from the east; in the background we see orange
at first I think there must be electricity, then I realize it is sun up
surely the poltergeist is gone, my companion says.
His voice is smiling, I can hear it.
He does not believe in malarky
There is an ambiance about this shanty I cannot describe
a feeling that has no name; I walk a bit slower now
reluctance is the closest name I can come up with
yet it is not enough; terror and fear and reluctance
I decide not to go inside; feeling the entity is still there
waiting with sharp teeth, ready to climb on my back
I fear he will return to my home and turn it into a lean-to
Atlantic storms had taken the main mast
For seven weeks we drifted helplessly
Fresh water and food were running out fast
There was talk below deck of mutiny.
Hunger, boredom and thirst were taking grip
As a boy I saw the dark side of men
To keep order the captain used the whip
I feared we would never see home again.
A sailor on watch shouted "land ahoy"
The wind picked up and drifted us along
Crew were happy and were now full of joy
Some sang the shanty, the wanderer's song.
Captain Smith cried out "it is the Azores"
The beautiful sight of its distant shores.
Written on 19th June 2018
Cowboys in the Badlands
The horses need be reined tightly
lest they show better judgment
and head back to the barn. The
cowboys, driven by the dust cloud
of following hoof beats, were less smart.
A Gila monster smirks as they pass
knowing what waits ahead is to be
more painful than the rope they flee.
Driven by the torments of a lost war,
a lost home, a lost dream, they had
lashed out at the hunger, fled the
hovels of a shanty town and swore
to exact payment any way possible.
The consequences of the decision
pursued them, consumed them,
as they rested the horses. The horses
must rest, they never would.
They stood overlooking the badlands,
shimmering heat’s forever fallacy,
that somehow you would cross to
safety, find an oasis, escape. Oh,
you may escape the posse, maybe
even the past, but you will not
escape the bitterness of these
bad lands and their unforgiving
demands. Few have come here
willingly, fewer have remained
once tested by the dryness, the
drought, the wind, sand, and
anger of a land seeking to be
left alone. And so they rode into
the abyss of sand and stone
leaving only the hoof prints
of fading memory. Bandanas
covered their faces, hat brims
covered their eyes. They rode
until the horses fell, unable to
continue. Horseless, they staggered
in the shifting sands laughing
as they recalled staggering from
the saloon on that awful night.
The night they gave up, the night
they gave in to the desperate desire
to be free. A desire that was now
to be fulfilled in these Bad Lands.
For Isaiah Zerbst – Cowboys in the Badlands poetry contest
9/15/2014
A fiddler and a frog once met one eve
by a small shallow pool near to the sea;
each one attracted by a mating sign.
The crab was wading lazy in the brine;
the frog just had a feast of flies for tea.
Neither meant the other to deceive.
"You have, dear sir, a truly mighty claw."
opined the ardent frog; "I could not help
but notice as you waved it in the air."
"Well, well, dear frog, you have a voice so rare
it full stopped short my forage in the kelp."
Weighed in the crab, "from such a wondrous jaw."
Said crab. "I'd like to dance if you would sing,
Perhaps a little shanty or a jig?"
Croaked frog "the moon is full, the night is young."
All night the fiddler and the frog, they swung;
of differences, they didn't give a fig;
the two; they simply had a harmless fling.
The Fiddler and the Frog Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Date wrote: 20th January 2023
The Whittlers
The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a columned Greek Revival, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.
Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to talk of memories and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.
They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd trot out all their stories and tell them all again.
There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.
And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.
"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.
Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”
If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
Other folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.
The stately county courthouse still stands upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers carved and held their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.
© December 28, 2013
Memories of a bookworm. Considerable poetic license taken.
My day began with mommy
making beef patties all morning
I helped cutting the veggies for
the curry soup while sipping ginger
beer I remembered the curry for her
special curry goat we were preparing
for her sisters to visit from Trench town
my head spending day dreaming about it
anything other than our family tradition
the Caribbean bakery we were the
descendant no if ands or buts about
granddad made home made gingerbread
cookies while uncles peeled sugarcane
the elders brought raw cocoa from the
Mahogany trees coconut husks hung
sparingly as we drank coconut milk
while the storms brewed over the
shanty town of Kingston the cock
crowed throughout trench town as my
cousins played keyboards and guitars in the
street to the the sweetest sultutry sound of
St Elizabeth infamous Caribbean beat
In loving memory of Dad
Caribbean Bakery 1539 Howard street
Chicago Illinois..
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Two vagabonds
With a dozen of dogs
Around the half eaten bread
A boy and a girl
With the school bag and pink smile
The beggar boy and the pigeons look blank
Her boyfriend Collin
Has sent a letter that she
Cannot read with her darkness of illiteracy
Along with the letters
Send some light too in the envelope
Shabnam says
The hunger for the alphabet
The thirst for the sounds of music
All in the sparkling snow beyond their closed window
Through the window
In the thatch roof of the shanty
the moon laughs at and the rains soak the bed
The life remains a tattered shirt
The hungry stomach and empty mind keep filling
The multiple holes
We seek the buds of democracy
We stoke the fires of the wars alongside
The persona at the core of the personality
With the two hands you
Loot our flowers and the carrots
The hunger of the fists never satiates
Still we wait for the morning
Some Che Guevara will come and say
Come with me for the pigeons in the blue sky
We will recognise the wall
We will demolish the deliberate divide
A black boy will hold the hands of a white girl
The blue pigeons in every courtyard
The yellow roses without discrimination
The dreams of reading together the poetry book
__________________________________________________
April 2, 2018
For Societal Discontent - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brendan J. Simons
The seashore knows, the path I tread.
Records my steps, when I have fled.
In prints I cast, the post-card shows,
The path I tread, the seashore knows.
Gulls see my stance, as swells flash past.
The post-card shows in prints I cast,
As wave surge clears, rushing to dance,
As swells flash past, gulls see my stance.
Seashells snatch sighs, replaying tears,
Rushing to dance, as waves surge clears.
The wind keeps tune, as my hair flies,
Replaying tears, seashells snatch sighs.
In sharp relief, shadows on dune.
As my hair flies, the wind keeps tune.
Blown sand repeats my secret grief.
Shadows on dune, in sharp relief.
Foam sings along, as the wave beats.
My secret grief, blown sand repeats.
The sea shanty, strums I belong,
As the wave beats, foam sings along.
February and its much-vaunted chill
comes down with vengeance, and does what it will,
this lake that in summer jams full with boats
is now frozen over, nothing can float.
Most people stay home at this time of year,
and a whole new set of sportsmen appear,
seeing as I walk, the snowmobile tracks,
patterns in the snow, absent where it lacks.
There are lots of trails in the nearby woods,
lots say the sledding around here is good,
I see them out there, riding towards the sun,
a pack of black wolves, having lots of fun,
still here the hum of engines blaring far off,
I think I’d try it, if not for the cost…
A few yards ahead sit a small shanty,
a man drills the ice so vigorously,
uses a hand-augur, this guy’s old school,
looking to find fish in waters so cool…
he has three lines out, now it’s time to wait,
drink beer with his friends, shoot bull half the day,
hoping to see what his efforts will bring,
only the steadfast go for ice-fishing.
Beyond that are tracks, coyote from the looks
the lake now a highway, free of the woods,
you see where they loped, crossing back and forth,
to field and forest, always seeking more...
more rodents hiding beneath the white snow,
the ice makes it much easier to go.
In the distance a town, by the lakeside
blocks of ice formed in a castle do rise,
cut from this same lake, for the festival,
the kids run around it, so life’s not dull,
and by that rises the toboggan chute,
its outrun is the plain of icy blue,
every year folks go down, sometimes quite far,
then walked back, amazed, by just where they are.
I can understand that, making my trek,
as I walk along, I must crane my neck
to take in the mountains, brilliant and clear,
unobscured because no trees grow out here,
the broad, sweeping vistas that we all love,
for me the feeling of that is enough,
most folks stay inside, but I love to take
long walks out upon a well-frozen lake.