10 Best Famous Joes Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Joes poems. This is a select list of the best famous Joes poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Joes poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of joes poems.

• All Famous Joes Poems

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--

--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past--

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial-- modern--all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown--

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos--all these

entangled in your mummied roots--and you standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen,

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

 (co-written by Sharon Robinson)
Everybody knows that the dice are loaded 
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed 
Everybody knows that the war is over 
Everybody knows the good guys lost 
Everybody knows the fight was fixed 
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich 
That's how it goes 
Everybody knows 
Everybody knows that the boat is leaking 
Everybody knows the captain lied 
Everybody got this broken feeling 
Like their father or their dog just died 
Everybody talking to their pockets 
Everybody wants a box of chocolates 
And a long stem rose 
Everybody knows 
Everybody knows that you love me baby 
Everybody knows that you really do 
Everybody knows that you've been faithful 
Ah give or take a night or two 
Everybody knows you've been discreet 
But there were so many people you just had to meet 
Without your clothes 
And everybody knows 
Everybody knows, everybody knows 
That's how it goes 
Everybody knows 
Everybody knows, everybody knows 
That's how it goes 
Everybody knows 
And everybody knows that it's now or never 
Everybody knows that it's me or you 
And everybody knows that you live forever 
Ah when you've done a line or two 
Everybody knows the deal is rotten 
Old Black Joe's still pickin' cotton 
For your ribbons and bows 
And everybody knows 
And everybody knows that the Plague is coming 
Everybody knows that it's moving fast 
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman 
Are just a shining artifact of the past 
Everybody knows the scene is dead 
But there's gonna be a meter on your bed 
That will disclose 
What everybody knows 
And everybody knows that you're in trouble 
Everybody knows what you've been through 
From the bloody cross on top of Calvary 
To the beach of Malibu 
Everybody knows it's coming apart 
Take one last look at this Sacred Heart 
Before it blows 
And everybody knows 
Everybody knows, everybody knows 
That's how it goes 
Everybody knows 
Oh everybody knows, everybody knows 
That's how it goes 
Everybody knows 
Everybody knows

 I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish----
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.

 COME, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H O N. and L L. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see,--
Your fist, old fellow! off they go!--
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,--
They talk like fellows in their teens
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"--
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!--

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,--
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,--
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill;--
'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears;
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

 HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv’d!
In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae swerv’d
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv’d
 ’Mang heaps o’ clavers:
And och! o’er aft thy joes hae starv’d,
 ’Mid a’ thy favours!


Say, Lassie, why, thy train amang,
While loud the trump’s heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang
 To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
 But wi’ miscarriage?


In Homer’s craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus’ pen Will Shakespeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin’, till him rives
 Horatian fame;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
 Even Sappho’s flame.


But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They’re no herd’s ballats, Maro’s catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin’ patches
 O’ heathen tatters:
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
 That ape their betters.


In this braw age o’ wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd’s whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air,
 And rural grace;
And, wi’ the far-fam’d Grecian, share
 A rival place?


Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan!
There’s ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
 A chiel sae clever;
The teeth o’ time may gnaw Tantallan,
 But thou’s for ever.


Thou paints auld Nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtle twines,
 Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
 Her griefs will tell!


In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonie lasses bleach their claes,
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
 Wi’ hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s lays,
 At close o’ day.


Thy rural loves are Nature’s sel’;
Nae bombast spates o’ nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
 O’ witchin love,
That charm that can the strongest quell,
 The sternest move.

 Well, Mabel, 'tis over and ended---
The ball I wrote was to be;
And oh! it was perfectly splendid---
If you could have been here to see.
I've a thousand things to write you
That I know you are wanting to hear,
And one, that is sure to delight you---
I am wearing Joe's diamond, my dear!

Yes, mamma is quite ecstatic
That I am engaged to Joe;
She thinks I am rather erratic,
And feared that I might say "no."
But, Mabel, I'm twenty-seven
(Though nobody dreams it, dear),
And a fortune like Joe's isn't given
To lay at one's feet each year.

You know my old fancy for Harry---
Or, at least, I am certain you guessed
That it took all my sense not to marry
And go with that fellow out west.
But that was my very first season---
And Harry was poor as could be,
And mamma's good practical reason
Took all the romance out of me.

She whisked me off over the ocean,
And had me presented at court,
And got me all out of the notion
That ranch life out west was my forte.
Of course I have never repented---
I'm not such a goose of a thing;
But after I had consented
To Joe---and he gave me the ring---

I felt such a ***** sensation.
I seemed to go into a trance,
Away from the music's pulsation,
Away from the lights and the dance.
And the wind o'er the wild prairie
Seemed blowing strong and free,
And it seemed not Joe, but Harry
Who was standing there close to me.

And the funniest feverish feeling
Went up from my feet to my head,
With little chills after it stealing---
And my hands got as numb as the dead.
A moment, and then it was over:
The diamond blazed up in my eyes,
And I saw in the face of my lover
A questioning, strange surprise.

Maybe 'twas the scent of the flowers,
That heavy with fragrance bloomed near,
But I didn't feel natural for hours;
It was odd now, wasn't it, dear?
Write soon to your fortunate Clara
Who has carried the prize away,
And say you'll come on when I marry;
I think it will happen in May.

 I'll tell you a seafaring story, 
Of a lad who won honour and fame 
Wi' Nelson at Battle 'Trafalgar, 
Joe Moggeridge, that were his name. 

He were one of the crew of the Victory, 
His job when a battle begun 
Was to take cannon balls out o' basket 
And shove 'em down front end o' gun. 

One day him and Nelson were boxing, 
The compass, like sailor lads do. 
When 'Ardy comes up wi' a spyglass, 
And pointing, says "'Ere, take a screw!" 

They looked to were 'Ardy were pointing, 
And saw lots o' ships in a row. 
Joe says abrupt like but respectful, 
"'Oratio lad, yon's the foe." 

'What say we attack 'em?' says Nelson, 
Says Joe 'Nay lad, not today.' 
And 'Ardy says, 'Aye, well let's toss up.'
'Oratio answers 'Okay.' 

They tossed... it were heads for attacking, 
And tails for t'other way 'bout. 
Joe lent them his two-headed penny, 
So the answer was never in doubt. 

When penny came down 'ead side uppards, 
They was in for a do it were plain, 
And Joe murmered 'Shiver me timbers.' 
And Nelson kissed 'Ardy again. 

And then, taking flags out o' locker,
'E strung out a message on high. 
'T were all about England and duty, 
Crew thought they was 'ung out to dry.

They got the guns ready for action, 
And that gave 'em trouble enough. 
They 'adn't been fired all the summer, 
And touch-holes were bunged up wi' fluff. 

Joe's cannon, it weren't 'alf a corker, 
The cannon balls went three foot round. 
They wasn't no toy balloons either, 
They weighed close on sixty-five pound. 

Joe, selecting two of the largest,
Was going to load double for luck. 
When a hot shot came in thro' the porthole, 
And a gunpowder barrel got struck. 

By gum! there weren't 'alf an explosion,
The gun crew were filled with alarm. 
As out of the porthole went Joseph, 
Wi' a cannon ball under each arm. 

At that moment up came the 'Boat-swine'
He says 'Where's Joe?' Gunner replied... 
'E's taken two cannon balls with 'im, 
And gone for a breather outside.' 

'Do y' think he'll be long?' said the 'Boat-swine' 
The gunner replied, 'If as 'ow,
'E comes back as quick as 'e left us,
'E should be 'ere any time now. 

And all this time Joe, treading water, 
Was trying 'is 'ardest to float.
'E shouted thro' turmoil of battle, 
'Tell someone to lower a boat.' 

'E'd come to the top for assistance, 
Then down to the bottom he'd go;
This up and down kind of existence,
Made everyone laugh... except Joe. 

At last 'e could stand it no longer, 
And next time 'e came to the top.
'E said 'If you don't come and save me,
I'll let these 'ere cannon balls drop.' 

'T were Nelson at finish who saved him, 
And 'e said Joe deserved the V.C. 
But finding 'e 'adn't one 'andy, 
'E gave Joe an egg for 'is tea. 

And after the battle was over, 
And vessel was safely in dock.
The sailors all saved up their coupons, 
And bought Joe a nice marble clock.

 He'd been for years in Sydney "a-acting of the goat", 
His name was Joseph Swallow, "the Great Australian Pote", 
In spite of all the stories and sketches that he wrote. 

And so his friends held meetings (Oh, narrow souls were theirs!) 
To advertise their little selves and Joseph's own affairs. 
They got up a collection for Joseph unawares. 

They looked up his connections and rivals by the score – 
The wife who had divorced him some twenty years before, 
And several politicians he'd made feel very sore. 

They sent him down to Coolan, a long train ride from here, 
Because of his grey hairs and "pomes" and painted blondes – and beer. 
(I mean to say the painted blondes would always give him beer.) 

(They loved him for his eyes were dark, and you must not condemn 
The love for opposites that mark the everlasting fem. 
Besides, he "made up" little bits of poetry for them.) 

They sent him "for his own sake", but not for that alone – 
A poet's sins are public; his sorrows are his own. 
And poets' friends have skins like hides, and mostly hearts of stone. 

They said "We'll send some money and you must use your pen. 
"So long," they said. "Adoo!" they said. "And don't come back again. 
Well, stay at least a twelve-month – we might be dead by then." 

Two greybeards down at Coolan – familiar grins they had – 
They took delivery of the goods, and also of the bad. 
(Some bread and meat had come by train – Joe Swallow was the bad.) 

They'd met him shearing west o' Bourke in some forgotten year. 
They introduced him to the town and pints of Wagga beer. 
(And Wagga pints are very good –- I wish I had some here.) 

It was the Busy Bee Hotel where no one worked at all, 
Except perhaps to cook the grub and clean the rooms and "hall". 
The usual half-wit yardman worked at each one's beck and call. 

'Twas "Drink it down!" and "Fillemup!" and "If the pub goes dry, 
There's one just two-mile down the road, and more in Gundagai" – 
Where married folk by accident get poison in the pie. 

The train comes in at eight o'clock – or half-past, I forget, 
And when the dinner table at the Busy Bee was set, 
Upon the long verandah stool the beards were wagging yet. 

They talked of where they hadn't been and what they hadn't won; 
They talked of mostly everything that's known beneath the sun. 
The things they didn't talk about were big things they had done. 

They talked of what they called to mind, and couldn't call to mind; 
They talked of men who saw too far and people who were "blind". 
Tradition says that Joe's grey beard wagged not so far behind. 

They got a horse and sulky and a riding horse as well, 
And after three o'clock they left the Busy Bee Hotel – 
In case two missuses should send from homes where they did dwell. 

No barber bides in Coolan, no baker bakes the bread; 
And every local industry, save rabbitin', is dead – 
And choppin' wood. The women do all that, be it said. 
(I'll add a line and mention that two-up goes ahead.) 

The shadows from the sinking sun were long by hill and scrub; 
The two-up school had just begun, in spite of beer and grub; 
But three greybeards were wagging yet down at the Two-mile pub. 

A full, round, placid summer moon was floating in the sky; 
They took a demijohn of beer, in case they should go dry; 
And three greybeards went wagging down the road to Gundagai. 

At Gundagai next morning (which poets call "th' morn") 
The greybeards sought a doctor – a friend of the forlorn – 
Whose name is as an angel's who sometimes blows a horn. 

And Doctor Gabriel fixed 'em up, but 'twas not in the bar. 
It wasn't rum or whisky, nor yet was it Three Star. 
'Twas mixed up in a chemist's shop, and swifter stuff by far. 

They went out to the backyard (to make my meaning plain); 
The doctor's stuff wrought mightily, but by no means in vain. 
Then they could eat their breakfasts and drink their beer again. 

They made a bond between the three, as rock against the wave, 
That they'd go to the barber's shop and each have a clean shave, 
To show the people how they looked when they were young and brave. 

They had the shave and bought three suits (and startling suits in sooth), 
And three white shirts and three red ties (to tell the awful truth), 
To show the people how they looked in their hilarious youth. 

They burnt their old clothes in the yard, and their old hats as well; 
The publican kicked up a row because they made a smell. 
They put on bran'-new "larstin'-sides" – and, oh, they looked a yell! 

Next morning, or the next (or next), from demon-haunted beds, 
And very far from feeling like what sporting men call "peds", 
The three rode back without their beards, with "boxers" on their heads! 

They tried to get Joe lodgings at the Busy Bee in vain; 
They did not take him to their homes, they took him to the train; 
They sent him back to Sydney till grey beards grew again. 

They sent him back to Sydney to keep away a year; 
Because of shaven beards and wives they thought him safer here. 
And so he cut his friends and stuck to powdered blondes and beer. 

Until the finish came at last, as 'twill to any "bloke"; 
But in Joe's case it chanced to be a paralytic stroke; 
The soft heart of a powdered blonde was, as she put it, "broke". 

She sought Joe in the hospital and took the choicest food; 
She went there very modestly and in a chastened mood, 
And timid and respectful-like – because she was no good. 

She sat the death-watch out alone on the verandah dim; 
And after all was past and gone she dried her eyes abrim, 
And sought the head-nurse timidly, and asked "May I see him?" 

And then she went back to her bar, where she'd not been for weeks, 
To practise there her barmaid's smile and mend and patch the streaks 
The only real tears for Joe had left upon her cheeks

 She phoned them when the Round was Eight:
 'How is my Joe?' they heard her say.
They answered: 'Gee! He's going great,
 Your guy's Okay.'

She phoned them when the Round was Nine:
 'How is my hero in the fray?'
They yelled: 'He leads; he's doing fine,--
 Joe's sure Okay.'

She phoned them when the Round was Ten:
 'Is it still Okay with my Joe?'
Reluctant came the answer then,--
 No Ma'am, KAYO.

 When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, 
On a spur among the mountains stood `The Bullock-drivers' Rest'; 
It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, 
But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -- 
Just a quiet little shanty kept by `Something-in-Disguise', 
As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise. 

City swells who `do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low, 
But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know; 
For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men, 
And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again. 
You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise, 
With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise. 

'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road, 
And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load; 
And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light, 
Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night; 
And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes 
On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise. 

And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats 
As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats; 
And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire, 
As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire. 
Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size, 
When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise. 

They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago, 
While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below; 
Poor old Jim was in his glory -- they'd elected him M.C., 
For there wasn't such another raving lunatic as he. 
`Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!' shouted Something-in-Disguise, 
As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise. 

There is little real pleasure in the city where I am -- 
There's a swarry round the corner with its mockery and sham; 
But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls 
In a party up the country with the jolly country girls. 
Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies, 
When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise. 

Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, `Go along!' 
But he shouted, `Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a song!' 
And at first I said I wouldn't, and I shammed a little too, 
Till the girls began to whisper, `Mr. Swallow, now, ah, DO!' 
So I sang a song of something 'bout the love that never dies, 
And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise. 

Jimmy burst his concertina, and the bullock-drivers went 
For the corpse of Joe the Fiddler, who was sleeping in his tent; 
Joe was tired and had lumbago, and he wouldn't come, he said, 
But the case was very urgent, so they pulled him out of bed; 
And they fetched him, for the bushmen knew that Something-in-Disguise 
Had a cure for Joe's lumbago in the Shanty on the Rise. 

Jim and I were rather quiet while escorting Mary home, 
'Neath the stars that hung in clusters, near and distant, from the dome; 
And we walked so very silent -- being lost in reverie -- 
That we heard the settlers'-matches rustle softly on the tree; 
And I wondered who would win her when she said her sweet good-byes -- 
But she died at one-and-twenty, and was buried on the Rise. 

I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago, 
And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know; 
My old chums are in the distance -- some have crossed the border-line, 
But in fancy still their glasses chink against the rim of mine. 
And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies 
In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.