Long Shingle Poems
Long Shingle Poems. Below are the most popular long Shingle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shingle poems by poem length and keyword.
Dixie Cup Memorial
by Odin Roark
How small it is
this bottom of the Dixie cup
looking skyward
holding high the torch
the unemployment check
of another kind
Held aloft with no regrets
Half full
Half empty
All the same
Someone had to shoulder the orders
Now in desert camo-dress
his prosthetic hand holds forth
watching fingers pass over
some manicured
with pennies
some scabbed and scarred
with singles
even children's innocent fingers
dropping their nickels and dimes
Many have acknowledged this
His back-home identity
His calling card
His shingle
His name plate
The mind huddles close now
few copper and silver
no blankets of green
no ingots of gold
A note floats downward
swathing reality
Thank you for your service
Would you like a job?
What are your skills?
Can you relocate?
Sure
he says
his eyes lingering
upon his severed legs
each knee projecting its solitary reality
Purple Heart pinned securely to the right
Just let me gather today's windfall
2 pennies
1 nickel
3 quarters
1 subway token
Relocating again
Travel
Enough to get me there
Pocketing the Dixie cup
his hook and knuckles pull forward
surging his mover's dolly
transporting Faith's hidden hope
Ahead
looking back
his benefactor strides onward
his missing arm yet another lost appendage of honor
his smile a projection of comaradery
his Ooh-rah a respect never ignored
Not far he says
Not far
Let not the cares of everydayness
Deface the your fair mien with woes,
Your beauty shall outlive the throes
Of scarcity and momentary anguish.
The gold of your uncommon features
Wins you a thousand bright tomorrows.
Set your present struggles against your looks
And you win the clash and forget the sorrows.
From far men shall place their shingle at your feet
Hoping to purchase choice gold with passing sand.
Be not thoughtless to barter your queenly worth
For the valueless gravel of the worthless land.
Who at a loss ever sold their merchandise?
They have honed their scam on charming girls
With the spare of their ill-amassed grit,
Their aim to vanish with their divine pearls.
I went to school,
Learned the stuff;
Did my residency,
Suffered enough.
Got my license,
Put up my shingle.
Can I pay my loans?
Will the register jingle?
Six patients an hour,
Ten minutes each;
Assembly-line medicine:
No time to teach patients
What to do,
So they can benefit
From what I learned in school.
Gotta move on
Into the next room;
Another case of sniffles!
For this was I groomed?
I'm not saving the world,
Just saving myself;
The wolf's at the door,
My dream's on the shelf.
So it's back to business,
Better not tarry;
Gotta make a living:
I plan to get married
Before I am buried
H-A-N-D!
Ciao!
The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.
Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.
Above my flying coat,
the crag huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
and more will come back,
as if ancient voices
returned to us from the deep.
Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.
Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone under
a gulping spell of myself.
I love to walk barefoot
along the shore
the imprint of my footprints
follows me like a shadow
I know they’ll vanish
as each wave breaks
rushing over the shingle
tickling my toes
I stop
and turn to face the sea
hoping to espy a seal
suddenly a little wave appears
and a black head pops up
bobbing up and down
in the ocean
Alas,
this magical moment
is marred
by squawking seagulls
circling overhead
as they follow a trawler
heading home
with catch of the day
I wave to the fishermen
and continue on my walk
''W'' New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
11/24/21
If we were a beach
then you would be the sand, diamond warmth,
and I the shingle underfoot.
If we were a pen
then I would be invisible ink,
and you a permanent marker, fluorescent.
If we were wine
you would be the vineyard, the grape, the wine list itself;
I a bottle unopened, left corked.
If we were a theatre
I am the playbill of a show cancelled and unseen;
you, the stage in spotlight: golden, applauded.
I the tile and you the whole mosaic
for us as a Roman floor;
I a shattered pane and you the handle
with us in the shape of a door.
As clothing – you a shiny button, me a thread to be snipped.
As hair – you a photographed trend, I a ponytail clipped.
If we were a couple,
Then you would be blind.
If our love was a tape,
I’d forever record, pause and rewind.
If we were a cake
you would be the fingertip licked icing
and I a batter filled lump.
If we were a body
then you would be the heart
and I the blood you pump.
Dark clouds belie, such desolate eyes,
Nebulous in mind, approaching the void,
Bereft of love, what might have been,
Nightmares, are unrequited dreams,
Drawn towards oceans, dark and deep,
Traveled to the coast, now within reach,
Around my neck, placed rosary beads,
Don’t know why, just felt the need,
Pockets laden, filled with stones,
I jump off the pier, into salty foam,
Collected shingle along the beach,
Random ballast, brings me beneath,
Will I see God, beyond duress,
Sinking down, to certain death,
A wasted remnant, broken and weak,
Mind’s in collapse, still no peace,
Lungs are burning, screaming ‘breathe’
I acquiesce, inhaling the sea.
By
David Kavanagh.
(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who
learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman,
the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a
"common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.)
The Candyman Can’t
Some legal battles have the power to thrill,
while others never have, and never will.
Some touch on human themes which really matter,
and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter.
This present case is hardly OJ Simpson:
it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on
listlessly, with abstruse reasoning,
no sex or violence to give it seasoning.
One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets,
in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets
its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine
of our salvation, two lives intertwine
when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms
around the corner. Disagreement looms,
for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s
destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind.
The law of nuisance really is quite funny.
It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”.
What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and
defer the dollars? How to countermand
the duty-breach-then-damages regime?
Suppose we interpose a better scheme?
Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”,
we stop the harm? The problem goes away!
This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions
by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions).
So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds
by order of the court, and Bridgman found
his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel,
for no good reason. What to do? Appeal!
(For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs
drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!)
Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes
for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes
because some quack dislikes the earnest hum
of my devices. Why, then, did he come
to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility?
Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery!
I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges:
it’s swallowing his antimony purges!”
But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel
that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel
enough. Their Lordships said behaviour
that’s unacceptable around Belgravia
can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter
has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter
if they have noisome noise, and have to live
in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.
I saw the sun rise over the North Sea
Accentuating coloured fishing boats.
The beauty of the dawn gave hope to me
A restful pleasure made my soft eyes dote.
The peace of this small town has caught my heart.
Scenes from ancient times come close again
The gulls swoop down and sketch their flying charts
Remote as ever from the realm of man.
The shingle beach, the Church where Britten lies
The in and out of tides of salty sea;
An exact match of houses, hill and skies;
The amber shop, the chip shop, the oak tree.
In my mind I walk in love again;
Though of the two, a single one remains
Forever won’t understand those who can’t stand sand between spanned toes
Clever bands of hourglass strands slows & then through fanned hands flows
Whatever woes foes weather throws our duty never this beauty booty forgoes
Skilled kids build guild of silica Basilicas in a row the sea rids closes in overthrows
Waves then mow rave to & fro saline scarves pave new paths the ocean bestows
Commotion heightened emotions brightened notions enlightened its potion glows
Kaleidoscopic schools of iconic rock pools colours flock shock as almost tropic
Views & hues don’t falter just alter won't halter as an altar to ease those blues
Tidal tows doze then rose grows tease with unctuous but rambunctious blows
A beach can preach beseech as each single shingle does mingle in a stony knoll
Seaside stroll as sea gulls glide white caps roll & ride then a lull soothes the soul
Flattered Neptune’s role shattered shells scattered or is it Poseidon’s control
Webbed ranks of ebbed sandbanks lapped by lullabies our own private atoll
Thanks for phalanx of mirth & pranks from mother nature’s glimmering vaults
Shimmering seals leave their berth heave their girth then those crests do surf
Dolphins fins spin big grins senses halts & assaults with immense somersaults
What riffs could be a good as being stood in a neighbourhood of driftwood
Whiffs of whimsy as swells rollick for shells we fossick our elemental tonic
Cliffs adorn scars of scorn by time foreshore gentry stands sentry well worn
Don't mourn as from dawn till dusk forlorn foresworn somehow feel reborn
Sniffs sublime seaweed frolic fish like stars sunbeams & daydreams bucolic