Long Shingles Poems
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Upon the hush of winter snow
That glistens while the moon hangs low
A wind stirs up a blanket white
It quakes and rattles through the night
On chariots, with mighty steeds
It comes to scatter driven seeds
Decaying leaves and branches shed
With surge as storm moves overhead
It shivers cold upon the hill
To chill my heart much colder still
A tempest howl or'e chimney tops
The whipping sounds, forgiving not
Each gust comes strong with howling fierce
Through window sash, on knives that pierce
Knashes teeth, with biting cold
Shaking shingles, grabbing hold
All hover near a fire's hearth
While sleeting wrath, with fury's heart
To wait till winter's breath is spent
Tomorrow's rise, the final vent
Angry screams and threatening shouts
Peaceful dreams are tossed about
With dawning skies, a breathing sigh
Soft gentle breezes say goodbye
At last the wind has played with us
The game it won, with eager lust
There's nothing but a murmer now
Like spoiled child, it takes a bow
When winter calms, the anger ends
And brings along a peaceful bend
A tranquil peace will soon abide
~~As winter's rage is satisfied
The sibilant wind blows
over frosted shingles of cracked porcelain.
Passed chain link a fissured road
wends the dry creek of my mind;
downtown the stars are charted
at a four-way stop of plywood windows,
oxidized copper's turquoise matte.
The poetry of rolled metal
wheezes mortal prose among tall weeds,
the crumbling concrete of promises.
I see it all from my window as if in trance,
a séance with the clock ticking
lifetimes of stanzas in one minute
as a For Sale sign clanks its chant on the fence.
Memory's verses were shipped ahead,
away from draped shadows
of bloodless marquees.
Sweeping remnant words
is like herding tears found in shards
of a broken tea cup.
A hiatus appeared in life's narrative,
but syllables in the tome are my amulets.
2/21/19
Maria is a Scot born in Dunbar,
With fine, neat Cerebral Palsy,
Spastic diipelgic CP is her car:
Mum got shingles in pregnancy.
She’s only sixteen years old,
So goes to Dunbar Grammar,
But a running club did her enfold,
So with a WR she set the bar.
At the tender age of just twelve,
At the 2012 Birmingham Games,
Maria into her vast bag did delve,
To post 32.72mins - she had aims.
Classesd as a T35 competitor,
She took part in Fezaa’s games,
In 2014 to win 100m gold for,
Herself, to prove her best flames.
In that same year in Swansea,
At the Euros she collected, tall,
Two golds for the 100’s sea,
And for the 200 metres call.
Then 2015, the Worlds in Doha,
And she won silver for the relay,
Plus bronzes for the sprint tar,
Of the 100m and 200m way.
At Grosseto in Italy in 2016,
She swiped the boards in style,
Taking 3 golds, the total queen,
For the 100, 200 and T35-38 file.
Rio came not too soon at all,
And Maria won two bronzes,
Plus a silver for the relay’s hall,
‘Cos she’s coming up tops, is.
SISTERHOOD OF AVON
Oh how I miss the sisterhood
the brrr...ringing of a bell
a catalog and a smile in hand
the scent of sweet cologne
nearly met customers at the door
miraculously in their own flavor
jingle jangle of jewelry
not fine but touchy-feely
and collectibles how i miss them
and the sweep of my youthful skirt
i was God-blessed with territory
— assigned not chosen,
a secondary job
i recollect three households
heaven sent, angelic psalms
as if I had travelled beyond earth’s borders
first woman, straight-laced, strict
believed every lady should wear skirts
a Christian, perhaps too pharisaical
Brr...ring at twilight and a gruff voice
a man barks, “who is it?!”
taken aback, “the Avon lady…”
a lovely woman practically
knocks over her husband, to answer
the door, sporting silver hair
she invites me in and we chat
over a quite different setting
— relaxed
Christian wearing pants,
so cheery and warming
— the bite of her husband mosquito-like
And now I’m not joking —
Christian sisters living next to each other...
do you see the theme of my life?
this dear woman’s married to a dermatologist —
certainly woman do tip their hat of facts
so i go off to water aerobics and notice my skin
has a rash
so i call
and being young and brash
ask
if i can ask her husband’s advice
the next morning i tell my boss — a naval Master Chief
that i needed to see a dermatologist,
and he laughs, “you’ll never get in”
i say, “sir, i already have an appointment”
so i had shingles, just on the cusp,
and was saved from much pain
for God is good all the time
all the time God is good
and when i step over the border into the heavenly realm
i will still sing of his goodness!
Brr...ring i miss the fine company and the singing
of customer’s doorbells
and one day i will hug my fine
sisters
12/21/2018
Who Is Knocking At My Door
Who is knocking at my door?
It is 4:00 am when sounds come harsh
Imagination wonders on the soulless bog
No one for miles can hear the tapping noises
My covers can't protect me in the solitude
Isolated land, dark emptiness and mysteries
The marsh has secrets too deep to bury
The cold outside creeps in through window cracks
Floor boards and shingles ache
The shack trembles with wind and rain attacks
Clearly someone wants inside
Some enigma beckons with repetitive cadence poundings
Through a peep hole in my door I see it standing
Alien red eyes glowing by its outer worldly craft
A giant metallic beast entreats me to let it in
To borrow a cup of sugar is surely not the plan
It landed here for much more than that
I yelled in dire fear
Who is knocking at my door?
Fragile old wood was not the only barrier
I think it speaks another language
It appears to be not from here
*Authors note: I missed the deadline for this contest. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Created on 12/28/15 for - Tammy Reams - 'Who is Knocking at my Door' Poetry Contest
The clouds begin
off on the horizon shaping, taking form
images clutching at the season's evolution,
darkening grays once pure white scatterings,
slivers now full, blackening along the edge
of a clouded windswept dream sky,
restless winds stirring,
an awakening within
once hidden now in open view;
wrangling leaves from every tree
rattling the shingles on the rooftops
vibrato threats of the impending storm;
there's a cry, a waiing along the branches
a howling that shivers in the shaking
knocking entry at the windows and the doors;
abrupt wild tossing in its twists and turns
tumultuous spews of rain, lightning, thunder
echoes prelude to the distant storm.
Hindered by the depth and breadth of winter
Cliffs dangle just outside the bungalow
With clear icicle mysteries remote
Hanging over shingles for dear life
Inside, imprisoned safe and sound
The hunter counts his rounds of ammunition
Riffle nestled useless by the common fire side
No chasing prey this season
Sleep takes its place
Why shoot the snow without a reason
It would only blow around and settle somewhere else
Outside the storm brings misery
Three feet of snow to block the door
Wind rattles windows to claw inside
The cabin remains remote, imprisoned
Embedded in the snow
More inches rise with no where else to hide
But down on frozen lakes on powder blue
Cold holds on to banks of solid earth
All those inches piled high for what
Filling up the landscape with so much white
Pines cling on to memory of ice below the tundra line
Like all good trees they freeze but never die
Over sleeping keeps the bears in dens
No need for hunting them
It would only mean their end
The realization of how quickly drifts can rise
Accumulations conspired by cruel natures wrath
Shear numbers of snow flakes conspire
Wind and sky hold up the nights good-bye
Now stuck inside the simple shelter fixed
Winter bound, oats are hunters sustenance, companion
Along with tea and lemon, honey makes the best of company
Will see him through to doomsday, till things turn about
Closed in on times advances
A captive audience of one
Now waits in winter wonder
On snowy mountain counting down the hours
Like an abandoned house in dire need
of care, it stands amid the tangled weeds
which hide from it an open, brighter view.
The boarded windows keep inside what's in
and out what's out, like eyes and ears shut tight;
The only passage is the rigid door
which bears deep wounds from angry winds and rain
that lash and pound to leave huge splintered gaps.
And all around the rotted shingles show
decay from sad neglect of timely care.
These signs of death negate the days when once
it harbored life, and light shone from within.
Let's cut the weeds which block the broader view;
expose the rolling hills and valleys too.
Take down the boards; leave open windows free
to breathe each season's air, and clear the dank
and static haze. Let's mend the weathered door
with stronger wood, impervious to wind
and rain. But let it swing both in and out
to stabilize the hinges' stress and strain.
Let's tend to rotted shingles, and replace
them one by one to build a brand new look.
Let's make the time to care, renew, and then...
let's live...and let the light shine once again.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: 2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 13
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Judged: 01/30/2019
~2nd Place~
Contest: Screwed IX
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 12/24/2015
I am broken glass
waiting to pierce your feet
To bloody you up and see your pain
For I am in so much
I want to spread it around
I am on fire, my teeth are sad.
My gums hurt, and I want to share this
with thousands of others
Wailing is what I am doing now
for shingles has consumed my body
My ankles are thick, my throat sore
Food comes back up,
in an untasty way.
I am broken, I have been stepped on.
Kicked to the curb, I lie in wait,
for you
But dare you come?
I would not if I had a choice
God did not deem that for me.
Choosing for me.
Which causes me anguish
Comes out as wheezing
The wind comes through, trying to sooth
but my mind is set against all hope
I am broken glass, waiting to pierce your feet.
Sopheceles studs chorale the Martyrdom call 'ems
ant-chant Thyme dash and Cheyenne bled-cles
and Mud Squadrorns dove colorblind
Link on-a-role spiked with trail and errs past
Prosed Persident Mar. Argo near Key Bask Lame
22kay ears like Bugs Sunny and Share sin-Gold
may-jar-of-tea of her punched shingles made
class sick of nerds of those Stolen Wars
They kicked-dirt-eyed others
The Survivors Tell-A-Cast close familiars were
Cons in tents and I-glues and tippies of homelessness
that Pros address, re-Moat of the Capitol Hill
Masqued based on perverts of those floral nature
hyper-ethical breathes a gnu presence
that will halve all life kind existent
clueless to the verve climb
The prophetic reel cavity of the Whooping Cranium
hell-bent, Como tally vu: Straght dope,
Comme-ci comme-ca: Same-o same-o,
Je parle un peu francais: Do you speak French?
Heaven-sent, Das ist richtig meinen freunde:
That is right my friends, "Danke schon dahling
danke schon": Thank you darling thank you,
Sprechen si deutsch: Do you speak German?
Affect boredom-lain, racial sophistry
as skin tones raze issues tossing shade
a constant advent for hair-raising accidents
electrocution and the radio activate channel
Kamehameha lost his underwear
and feared the recent conversion of his mythological
ancient high priest HewaHewa of the old gods
heeded Missionaries to overthrow the Heiaus/temples.
My ohana/family Heiau Waha Ula/Red Mouth is Pele's
temple where human sacrifices were done by warriors,
placing those sacrifices' heads on a large rock in the middle
of the Heiau and bashing their head with a heavy club.
Waha Ula Heiau was the last torn down fearing Pele's curse.
After his warriors destroyed Pele's Heiau, on their return
to Kamehameha's Kohala home, several hundred
of warriors died in the lava pit, immortalized in Volcano.
OMG? Can I use MayDay in the month of June?