Short Pails Poems

My poetic well,
Tapped internal resources:
Pails of poetry....

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shovel in her pails
carefully sorts shells…. 
moist sand in her nails...

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sandcastles built by

     small hands with pails and shovels

    ...... the tide is the foe...

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   Our playgrounds have faded
     swings stilled, sandboxes unfilled

   Where are the shovels and pails ~
     replaced by profits and sales
...

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I bought fish at one of PetSmarts sales
I feed them fish food that I put in pails
Back and forth they go
So happy I know
Because they are always wagging their tails!...

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the garbage man comes
picking up yesterday’s memories
in plastic bags
and wooden boxes

leaving behind 
empty tin pails
to be filled up again 
with today’s remains...

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He was born Alex Wanton Wells -
A healer of the incurable and a remover of spells,
Died chasing his insatiable appetite for quails;
He’s not there, for he kicked the pails!...

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Shells
waiting
on the shore
for children's hands
pails overflowing with summer treasures

Summertime fades in September's last hour
memories gained
shells in pails
wait for
June...

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As soon as we got to the county fair
The country odor got through my nose hair
Coz above some milk pails
We encountered cow tails
Which filled our senses with their dairy-air...

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soft shore breezes
suntan lotion glistening off bodies 
umbrellas fluttering  
sand castles and sand pails
shoes scattered on blankets
sail boats on the horizon
beach time perfection...

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along the lane
my friends and I
pick raspberries. . . 
as robins chatter

we head back home -
with red pails filled . . .
sun - now crimson
saturates the sky

sept. 4, 2019  
Brian Strand's 'COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (8)any form any theme' Poetry Contest...

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Winds
blow sand
through the park
and crystal grains
fly

Sand
castles
built by two
small hands forming 
it

Kids
laughing
and sliding
down big and small
slides

Sand
pails
with shovels
filling them with
sand ...

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It was 
a graceful exit
with audacious idiocity.
A cyclops was going 
for a dress disaster.

Visitation 
of flesh, mars the beauty.
Cheating starts
between the pails of tears.
I start hitting the planet.

Let the bride
sleep in fog. A volcano
was going to shed
the sperms on your
shirt.


 Satish Verma...

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Time paces
-tick, tock-
life trudges between its
tick, tock.

hurry, hurry
-tick, tock-
rush to all the garbage pails
each minute means
another few cents
stalling means
no job to pay the rent
tick, tock

eat, eat
-tick, tock-
slender meals and bitter thoughts
of life and all its tick, talk....

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Windy wild wind whipping flailing and cutting through
You bring us together like invisible glue

Holding hats and huddling hands clasping crunched capes 
Jealous soul you bold barometric beast

Hairdos, skirts, scarves, hats and pails blown away in envious fury
If we could capture you you’d be in front of a jury!...

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I have no nails to hang my sale of pails in a board. Otherwise my employer will wail and say that my fail would sail his business off course. Dear friend, will I ever make a good sale if I am narrated in every tale to be ranked as tail?
I need you to recover me from this fail or otherwise I will go to where I hail from....

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Hs worn hands, they tell a story --
   The furrows where his trusty saw rested
The closed wounds from rusty nails
   The bent fingers from flinty hammer blows
The swollen redness from carrying metal pails

Once soft and smooth, now creased and hard
   His hands may well be old and worn
     ~ Yet his conscience remains unscarred...

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jiggling juggernaut jockeyed judo
katie’s Korean kitties killed with kudos
lively llamas listened, learning Latin
Mischievous miscreants misused satin
Needless nimble noodles kneaded themselves
Opulence and opals were seen in land of elves
Paralyzed parlor poodles paraded past purple pails
Quarrelsome queens quickly collected quick quails...

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last wisps of summer

float along the empty shore 

a cool mist slowly rolls in 

ready for change 


school bells ring   

lawn mowers silent 

squash left in the garden 


shadows get longer

waves catch soft light

sand pails abandoned  

beach plums wither 


along the shore line

sandpipers scatter

carrying summer secrets...

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The tracks long abandoned now
  weeds growing between their rails
tracks that once brought sheep and cows
  thousands of workers with lunch pails

The stockyards closed 'bout seventy-one
  technology spelling their doom
Buried beneath those acres of grounds
  stories of blood and guts and passions bloomed

A spectacle they were to see
  Their niche in history sure to be...

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Wild grapes
plump and juicy
we plucked along the lane -
my sisters and I, carrying
large pails

Dusk’s sky
turned violet.
From far away we heard
our grandmother calling us to
supper

The night
bled a wine hue
as swinging our pails, we
ran with glee on that sweet day of
purple

April 17, 2023 
for Sotto Poet's Traditional Cinquain Contest...

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even with an upturned boulder
sitting solid like Gibraltar
the blazing fire 
has not been quenched
Too many pails
have been drenched,
punctured and patched 
while drawing out water
to douse this blazing fire
from raging into a fiery sun
blistering the skin
scorching the minds
while intending 
to obliterate the soul
making the man meaningless
because of your own dark souls...

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Sunglass water pails
The cover up, never fails
Draining water from her 
Heartbroken pools
A screaming silence
Blocked behind her 
Tinted view
With a blink, rivers flow
She is lost and all alone
Who is there ?
When there is nobody else
Beside her.

She feels
As separated as her tears
As they are falling
Hope disappears
Collecting pain
Where the hazel pools drain
In her
Sunglass water pails.....

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The bottles sat, empty, clean,
timelessly transparent upon the purity
of a chalk walkway;
antiquated memories 
of morning milkmen linger.

The hollow hourglass shapes 
lacking the grains of time,
reflecting, and refracting lemon light
dollops of cream, buttermilk dreams.

Devon Red herds await 
the bottles empty state,
to fill with froth, to zing tin pails,
to drowse to the lilt of a milkmaids’ aire....

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Red statues bestirring beside sturdy brown
   Golden yellow tassels, the talk of the town  
Rich green blanket spread as far as meets the eye
   The idyllic scene framed under the bluest of skies

Textured white ripples rise and fall in silver pails
   Perky, pale curlicues wave, pretty pink tails
A color-splashed canvass greets Mr. Farmer every morn
   As he wends his way to and from the faded red, rustic barn...

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