Long Shingled Poems
Long Shingled Poems. Below are the most popular long Shingled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shingled poems by poem length and keyword.
It was a hot summer
It was a lonely summer.
In many ways it was
Really a sad summer.
Mother with a new baby,
Dad without a job,
First summer in Connecticut,
Far away from family,
Far away from friends,
Far away from the familiar.
Nine years old and in a
Strange new town with
No friends, no context.
Our big old gray-shingled
Three-story rental was
Beside an alley behind
Stores on the main street,
High hedge of lilacs between.
Firehouse on the other side,
Bar across the street.
I learned the main street.
The little kosher market with the
Wonderful generous owner
Who gave my mother credit
When there was no money.
The candy store where
I watched candy being made.
The flower shop, the bakery,
And, best of all, just beyond,
The Brock-Hall Dairy.
Even though we were in town,
Behind the retail dairy store
Was the dairy farm itself,
The tall barns with the cows,
The sweet-smelling hay,
The smell of country.
I could spend hours there
Petting the big, gentle cows
Watching the milking.
Other times I’d walk down
Putnam Street from Whitney Avenue,
From our house past blocks
Of houses, then the fenced and
Wooded water department land.
A half mile or more and
I would come to the farms with
Summer farm stands where
We bought strawberries
And fresh vegetables.
I wasn’t always lonely
Just because I was alone.
I was more lonely when I
Was left out of things at school
Because I was shy and different.
Not Cheap
By: Tom Wright
6/8/98
Old "Chaps" weathered face,
though wrinkled, had seen.
The good side of life,
when the grass was still green.
Before the drought came,
"Long Bout" seventy-five.
When all of his cows,
and family we're alive
The "leanin" old barn,
had the west side kicked out.
By an "ornery" old mule,
that was somewhere out and about.
There ain't much left now,
of its tack room and loft.
Today it's a real chore,
to keep water in that old "troft".
That sweet water cistern "yonder",
well, it fed off the house.
But you can see for yourself,
It's "drier na" mouse.
Those three white markers,
on the hill near the tree.
That's wife Sarah, son Johnny,
and little baby Emma Leigh.
They all died of the "Pox",
that year it got so bad.
Those were mighty tough times,
"bout" the worst that I've had.
The old shingled roof,
the snow now comes through.
But with just a little "fixin",
I'm sure could be made do.
I sense that for your money,
you think you're not getting much.
But in spite of hard times,
It's always had, God's, touch.
That cradle that you're "rockin",
was used by little Emma Leigh.
That rusty old "double gun",
Johnny kept as shiny as could be.
At night "roun" the hearth,
we had lots of good times.
Thanking, God, for His "blessins",
and just making up rhymes.
So don't think you are "buyin",
only that which you see.
Fact is, what I'm "sellin",
is my life's memory.
Memories cannot be stolen, or sold,
only forgotten. One day they will be all you have.
I crept softly upon a dream today
in a wishful walk, my heart
filled with joyful play.
Soft green air plants, blooming in
the misty breeze.
Lush, rich and green was the path
that lead me.
The sky was evening touched, by
the creeping fog.
The trees were looming over the yard
and fallen scattered logs.
Encircled around it an old, wooden
fence. Amber lights glowing from its center
filling me with suspense.
A cottage shingled way down its long
peeks. Old English style, mirrored, stained
complete.
Rippled with a pebble, the water within
the well. Dropped gently my penny wish like a
bucket into the swell.
I understood the dream beautifully unfolded
From peeks to scattered logs, this was
my dream home.
girl memories now gulped from too much air
I could not save you from feeling water
may a daughter's ashes be in sea's throb
the Diet Coke days, I knew who you loved
moments for awhile are in ocean fizz
I thought in your arms I would never drown
though not you turned your face from me within
strewn glass shingled there before me, and cut
kissie, kissie, my bare little pinkies
we sifted through sand for a chance above
the sandcastle we made sea fell over
disappointment slows to figure out waves
unknowing was I how you ward off storms
absolved eyes were blue enough together
an asylum's toll reached out, the buoy
I grew my two more feet after you left
salt tears only come when madness is past
your footprints making mine, between we share
may a daughter's ashes be in sea's throb
I cannot save you from feeling water
girl memories now gulped from too much air
Red shingled roofs rise and sink,
slickly buoyant with new showers.
Cars drive behind cloud-skyscrapers.
The park is soggy with small dogs,
colorful umbrellas are set aside
beside paddling pigeons.
Dewdrops slide over hanging buds,
while lush leaves
breathe their own green aroma.
By evenings tide, an amber shine,
has walked us through a dripping sky,
we are both empty and full,
beneath the warm spill of moist thimbles.
Above us, the washed-out mural of a rainbow,
remains to fish in low ponds of mist.
Wispy showers spray a disappearing horizon.
A soft falling rain lingers between us and tomorrow,
weeping’s that by the early light are rinsed away
by fresh tree-dancing winds,
and the bright beams of children at play.
Spirit of the Abba Father rested on him -
Perfect wisdom filled his heart and mind to the brim;
Knowledge, like flesh-and-blood, mixed with divinity,
Drew humans into oceans of infinity...!
Power of mysterious godliness entwined,
Beyond mundane; cosmos of compassion combined;
Heaven heralded messianic marvels mingled,
Sacrifice, suffering and salvation shingled...!
Love so tender; love so warm; perpetual; true;
Pure; powerful; beyond mad-love of mother too;
Completion of love's impressions and expressions,
Beyond skies; yet, measures oceanic cessions...!
Amalgamation of these flames kindles mortals,
Conscience and consciousness turn enlightened portals;
Graces fill; flow; shatter every ill behavior,
Physic and psyche turn vessels of the savior...!
26 June 2022
Threefold flame of Christ Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
A blanket of warmth cossets us with calm. The grey of sky & sea melts & meets, Screening the shingled scene as anticipation rises, Eyes strain, expectation fades
Berry stained hands hold the-cups-that-cheer, As we await a revealed curtain raiser, That declares the reality of time & space.
Two lighted ships, bulks unseen glow to confirm Life lives. In the void the power station, Back-lights, the Eastern edges of the stage.
Surely, we’re not abandoning such an emotive ‘play’ for homes! As a once in a lifetime promised Indian summer’s come true.
(Memories of Pett Level. Sept. 2016.)
A lone black crow
sits on a limb of a tree
amongst a crowd of trees
that surround the townhouses.
The trees' silhouettes
are drawn on the brick;
on the shingled roofs;
by the Sun this Late January.
The dark shape of the crow
is starker than the trees' cast
of the night color; it is spectre-like,
within the arms of the spectator-like trees.
The branches are frosted with yesterday's spitting snowflakes.
Their bark is the tint of stones;
or the grains of sand on an Irish shore,
viewed on the one rainy day
of a journey so long ago.
A squirrel scurrying up the tree
is the same color-
of the rough or smooth stone,
bleached by the Sun;
of the wet sand of the shore in Ireland,
whose dunes crouch to watch the tides ebb,
to see the pull of the floating Moon.
The squirrel blends into the mourning dove
tinctures as if he were a captive
of the Winter day..
or brushstroked into an oil painting.
The crow, hue of a cold desert night,
lifts to fly away.
The shadows become new shapes
in the shifting sunlight..
they become charcoal spirits
in her sketch of an agued morn'.
such artistry, tied to two trees
background of a neighbor’s house
which one is mere majestic
you’d say unhesitatingly, the web
but did you know my neighbor
they shingled and painted
their whole house themselves
it was something else
you’d look at it and think
it’s boring brown, but
I see deeper into their lot
the spider’d disagree
my analysis is persistently
annoying because her web
appears as a soccer net
or football for those nuts
in the UK - don’t disparage
you say - but they are nuts
for football, aren’t they
the world wide web would AI
something achingly intricate
but it needs to mind its own
because we all find in small things
something quite beautiful
case in point, fireworks I couldn’t see
but I could hear the one’s next door
as I sat outdoors (and the only time
this year) I saw, lit up like a gathering
of fairies, in my little woods, fireflies
don’t argue, just nod, nod off
and be human instead