Short Shack Poems
Short Shack Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Shack by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Shack by length and keyword.
summer around the corner
am a loner
i have dreams
of ice cream
i like it cold and stack
its in my mind rack
the
SUMMER
ICE CREAM SHACK
Be patient my soul for your earthly shack will soon be replaced by a mansion in the sky!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
02 August 2017
it near the hiway
where we uese to play
it was in the south
no doudt
and old house
with no mouse
close to the railroad track
it was home we carry own
fill a love rack
OLD SHACK
i
Such A Plain and Simple Shack
In my long life, any love did lack;
Knew I would have to return back;
Am trying to find,
What I left behind;
Was such a plain and simple shack.
Jim Horn
Modest and Like Living In Shack
Can be modest and like living in a shack,
And what you give out will receive back;
Grass would weed;
Never did need;
On occasion, ability to love you may lack.
Jim Horn
Messages of the heart travel
Instantly
Theres no time or space
Airport delay
Mind confuddles betwixt
Then, there, and maybe
But, he cant be blamed
Just a sentient antenna
Call radio shack
The discount is back
We're in season
To stock the shelves with
New Belief
The run down shack
Out in the woods
Boards missing
Graffiti
But that lock on the door
Hasn't stopped anybody
From breaking in through
The windows
What they don't know
Is that you gotta be
A special kind of person
To actually see
What the inside really looks like.
There's more to it than meets the eye.
Pretty brick-a-brack on the old shack
across the porch all the way to the back
delighting Zack who has a design knack
next to the door was a fire place plaque
I looks like rickrack said my cousin Mack
There was no slack, or any décor lack
The fine snack served seemed a bit out of whack
I kept one of these chocolate cakes in my knapsack
Never have I been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve
Longing for love but too afraid to of cupid’s arrow malady
My heart is on the market, but I’ve stowed away the key
From dusk till dawn I search for a sign that love is meant to be
But I have slowly come to realize love’s bitter sweet irony
Is that to love with all my heart, I must first start loving me
I looked at him sitting there
With his head back in a stare
He had a meal and sat right back
And died that way as a matter of fact
In a shack near the beach
He built it when youth was within his reach
And I wondered at his last thought
When his heart gave out in its retort
We placed him on the stretcher then
The rigor mortis without a bend
And a sheet across his face
Into the ambulance for his last race.
© Paul Warren Poetry
I grew up in a one roomed shack
a king size Coca-Cola space
crammed like Marlboro cigars in a pack
a place I ran to for defense
my home which some see as a plight
where my family had to find the right way
it was my bedroom at night
my mother's pantry by day
a lounge where my dad like a doc upon a cadaver dissected
The Star while his kids goggled at Luxor television
I grew up in a shack protected
by corrugated irons walls of a mansion
Near the river Jane,
there’s a little shack plain.
Not much my dear to see.
Come and share it with me.
Bring your little dog, Poke,
who’s the color of smoke.
And a cushion for sleep
that at night warming keep.
The roof doesn’t have leak,
new floor’s pine lacking squeak..
Bed of oak with springs neat,
quilt down comforter’s heat
Job is steady at trade,
where broad sheets are fast made.
There’s employment for you,
live with me plans come true.
I adore sweets and that's just pathetic
cos' for ten years I've been diabetic.
When that pie rolls around
or the muffins are crowned
my desire for them grows quite kinetic.
There are wrappers hidden under the bed
and there's leftover banana bread.
Every year I vow
to stop eating somehow.
If I keep this up I could be dead!
So I'll ring out the old-start anew.
I can do it if I think it through.
Throw the sugar away
and start over today.
Eating rabbit food's what I'll now do!
Shagged in the back of a shotgun shack
at night by moonlight
peeping past curtains of burlap sack
such a sore sight
surrounded by fields of green
willing as she'd been
tho' torn
she surely wasn't about to be seen
with a child out of wedlock born
so with a bun in the oven
she had her Dad invite he
who did the dirty deed
and plant the seed
the Father-to-be
down south way out on the steading
to shape up show up and in the end
attend a shotgun wedding