Banjos Poems | Examples

hillbilly hoe down

hllbilly hoe down
hard piece of straw in each mouth
bibbed overall dance

banjos and fiddles
potluck of fancy desserts
arkansas ham hocks

hound dogs on the porch
homemade corn liquor from gramps
square dancing parents

loud bluegrass music
pink taffy pull for the kids
toothless grandmothers

Appalachian Homecoming

You were born here,
Blue Ridge foothills,
spirits of Cherokee in 
Appalachia's olden heart and veins.
Scots-Irish influence of beloved
bluegrass,
moonshine of the drinking kind.

Your parents weren't the responsible
type,
as you and your three sisters spent
your childhoods in foster care and were
once left with your mother's cruel friend
for two years,
you went through so much.
Your single grandmother Robbie
did the best she could,
a beautician on her feet all day.
Her white farmhouse with no
indoor bathroom,
and an outhouse in the yard.
She fried okra better than anyone,
grew an acre of tobacco.

You were living in Texas,
joined the Navy at nineteen,
and it became your home.
We met within its ranks,
survivors of child abuse.
We wed, weren't wealthy.
We raised our daughter after
returning to your hometown.
You walked her down the aisle,
and treasured our son-in-law,
and grandchildren too.

You passed at the age of
fifty-nine,
interred by a gentle stream
in the Veterans Cemetery,
where someday I'll also be.
Appalachian Homecoming,
as banjos and dulcimers play softly. ~

A Musical Pointer

A musical pointer up in Grants Pass
just can’t get enough of bluegrass
To the banjos and strings
he prances and sings
but still misses the woodwinds and brass

He's One-Year Old

A boy with a toy, a girl with a curl
  each more precious than a necklace of pearls
Birthday boy's face all covered with cake
  blew out the candle, then took a break

Mommy is hopping from kitchen to table
  Dad's helping too, as much as he's able
But grandma and grandpa are the stars of the show
  Playing 'Happy Birthday to You' on dueling banjos

Of Its Own Volition

Bluegrass banjos
fueling the vision

Death
is hard to take
sometimes

but it’s not
like we 
ever had
a choice in the matter

It happens
of its own volition

Doorbells Twinkle In the Door Less

A banjo is playing in the bodega.
A door proclaims its ding and dong
voltaic birds bounce to its tintinnabulum,
flickers of auricular featherings
wipe shelves of a million years of dust.
The banjo is at prayer and you are there
as you peal with its cadence and quiver.
The bodhisattva
they that dynamo the sonic tides,
the waves,
air waves, sounding and soundless,
who sparkle
in the high deep heavens
and in the low wallows
where ankles are the muddy roots
of wind chimes and cow bells.
Sounds unleashing
the knelling thunder of peace.
Alabaster hands poised in mid-air
signaling an elemental perfection.
The kinetics of gesture and stillness,
as doors open their choiring mouths,
as banjos mimic the sounds
of all practicing avatars,
and we hearing
only the ding yet missing the dong
unthinking un-ring Gods temple gong.

In the Land of Old Pajamas

When a ladder leaps like a lady bug
and the patterns turn away
Where the coffee needs an electric plug
now on any given day
Will the sun outlast it’s father
as the field comes round the bend
Till the winds forget to bother
and the season calls an end

Collected like a postage stamp
that's far too sharp to lick
Or a Sunday at a summer camp
just pulling off a tick
Found along some checkered highway
in a bag thrown in the air
Can you count the lonely buttons
that are tangled in your hair 

Now I feel the lamp light burning
as the banjos start to wail
When the stars at night are churning
and a comet cuts its tail
Will you stand beside me waiting
for the promises I keep
In the land of old pajamas
that shall find us in our sleep

The Mouse In the Sydney Opera House Nursery Rhyme

In the Opera house
Is a tiny little mouse,
Everybody knows
Of the tiny little mouse,
The tiny little mouse in the
Opera house!

He watches all the shows
Sings all highs and lows,
Everybody knows- 
He likes to play banjos,
The tiny little mouse in the 
Opera house!!

The tiny little mouse
Is a superstar,
Everybody knows-
He plays pianos
Backing up the shows
In the Opera house !!!

The tiny little mouse
Likes to do a little dance,
Kicking up his feet
Turning up the heat,
Always keeps a beat-
For you to have a seat
In the Opera House !!!!


-15th March 2021-

Choice Is Sweet

Since 5 or 6
not picked up twix
A Wagon wheel
All round appeal 
Only club for me is LFC
My name isn't kit
I don't own a kat
Blue is not bad so 
Wrap a ribbon around that
Not the star at the bar
Haven't ran a Marathon 
to mars
Banjos not plucked for years 
Galaxy's are safe
They won't crumble or flake when looking at milky-way stars

My Banjo Is Broken

my banjo is broken and i don,t know what to do, 
i played all day and all night when i am with you,
i plucked it hard, i plucked it fast,
till it broke i had a blast,

i am sad my banjo is down,
can,t play with it when you come round,
i played with it for many a years,
and now its broke its my worst fears,

i heard there is a banjo doctor in town,
i am going to see him just right now,
i hope the doctor can fix my string,
so once again i can play my thing, 

he fixed it and i have a smile, 
playing my banjo makes things worth while, 
so will not play with it as hard,
just in case my banjo does not last, 

i cant wait till i see you again, 
i will not put my banjo down again,
the sounds of fun and sounds of joy,
will give you a shot and show you why,

why banjos are so good,
when you know what to do,
after i finish, you will play with my banjo to, 
so now the time is just right, 
for us to play with my banjo day and night,,,,

You Can Become Dreamy In a Spa

”You Can Become Dreamy In A Spa”
(by Rainbow ?? Promise)


Soft Erie-like musical strains  -
Guitars, flutes, banjos, violins 
Float in the Air with rhythmic flare.

With rhythmic flare you lay bare,
Soft lights, candle lit, flicker there,
As Erie-like strains drone on.

As Erie-like strains drone on 
Facial being done, masques run
Dripping, nostrils squeezing, squeeze.

Nostrils squeezed, can you breathe?
Hot chemical-filled towel like a wreath
Placed in triangular form, chin to nose 

Triangular form chin to nose 
Droning, Recurring soft music you pose,
in solitaire,
O, a Spa can be Erie like a Morgue!

Untitled

we were
once
dueling banjos

i am
now
a lonely cello

If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On

Scott Joplin, Paul Simon and the Beatles pop,
The Stones, Dire Straits and, Yes & ZZ Top.
Bob Dylan plays his heart out, Northern Soul,
Rod Stewart, The Traveling Wilburys do their stuff,
And as if that isn't enough, there's Jeff Wayne,
With his War of the Worlds in a musical vein.
Cajun, Bluegrass and Dueling Banjos to boot. 
I got Spike Jones & his city slickers, what a hoot.
Bill Haley, Leo Sayer, and some Monkeys abound,
Each one giving out their awesome own sound.
Now Meatloaf is a band I love to hear.
Coming close behind is the great Chris Rea.
Eric Clapton always stops me in my tracks,
Charlie Parker and Stan Getz on their Sax,
Some great big band sounds at their backs.
All this and more on my headphones tonight,
Just listening to music has been my delight.
I have cleared all the shelves, nothing is left,
All on my spare hard drive, I'll not be bereft.
I hope the charity shop this stuff can sell,
So more folk can enjoy this music as well.
© Dave Timperley 25/10/2018

No Country Mas

There's something so unsettling about nails on a chalkboard.
I cringe whenever I hear the tapping of pencils.
As obnoxious as loud breathing.
As disturbing as a bad Disney movie;
Nothing could be worse than off-key singing and untuned banjos.
Popcorn kernels in my teeth, legos underneath my feet-
Would be more pleasurable than hearing the grinding of country twang. 
I'd rather be friends with quitters and cheats than sit with country on repeat.
As miserable as being bed-ridden after having my teeth ripped out,
These southern tunes are grilled cheese from the school cafeteria. 
The whining and complaining are endless, but nothing can compare
To the burning of my chapped lips, dehydrated and cracked.
The awkward middle school "ugly" phase is the wardrobe of the band.
The tearing sound of satin and silk are the cringe worthy falsettos.
Depressing and lonely is my ended childhood.
It is sand at the beach that scratches my skin and won't wash off.

The Seasons

Natures bugle call to action 
Daffodils trumpeting springs arrival  
Bluebells sprout  from hidden tubas  
Spring is playing us its  symphony   

Battling banjos played on  sunny porches  
as the sun sets you can imagine a cello recital 
or guitars played by camp fires 
summer times   Renaissance

The years clock is beating out on a tin drum
Leaves falling softly making the sound of a  tambourine 
played softly by the ghost of Karen Carpenter 
Autumn drops on us like a drum  roll at the end of a song

Lift your voice at winters arrival 
sing carols to your god  and celebrate his son
a choral celebration of the years end 
sing songs  of the seasons 



comp entry 03042016

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