Best Back Country Poems
I love to spend my October afternoons walking ankle-deep in dried, curled leaves.
They cover the back country roads, the forest floor, and my own front yard.
But, I cannot bear to rake them away, or burn them.
The dead, gnarled leaves drift down around me like confetti.
Some are in shades of red and maroon and crimson.
The color of country barns you pass by, when you are going home for Thanksgiving.
Or, those crisp apples, waiting to be picked from the orchard's trees.
And, taken, to be pressed for cider, or dipped into warm caramel.
Some are in shades of yellow and gold and butterscotch.
The color of dried corn husks and stalks, bundled together to decorate porches.
And, the fields full of bright sunflowers, guarded by straw scarecrows.
Or, like the buses and the #2 pencils, waiting for the children to come back to school.
Some are in shades of orange and amber and burnt sienna.
The color of pumpkins sitting in patches, waiting to be carved out for Halloween.
Or, like the sun setting on a cool, September, Indian summer's evening.
Or, a full harvest moon when it rises, late, into the night sky.
Some are in shades of brown and chocolate and pecan.
The color of fragrant cinnamon and nutmeg, sprinkled within my Mom's apple pie.
Or, like maple syrup dripping from my pancakes, on a November morning.
And, those acorns, fallen from oak trees, inhabited by squirrels and owls.
Autumn lasts for maybe, three months, but to me it feels like only three minutes.
So, I take it all in while I can.
I look up through the branches,
where the golden sunlight beats between the rustling leaves.
My heart beats with warmth and joy at the sight.
Even though, the wind chills me to the bone.
A long winter will soon arrive, and the world will be nothing but white and gray.
Yet, the rich, unforgettable beauty of fall lingers within me.
Because, sometimes, when the snow finally fades away in the spring,
I can still smell those decaying, dead leaves.
Then, instantly, my mind returns to the autumn days that took my breath away.
There’s a billy on the open fire
Piles of beech wood by the door
Smokey stains adorn the iron roof
Wax drips on bench and floor.
Old cobwebs drape the windows
Dog-eared cards upon a shelf
The half a dozen Readers Digests
Will fill the evening by yourself.
Outside the rain is pouring down
As you brew your cup of tea
A candle betrays a subtle draft
But you're warm and quite comfy.
Bunks line against a single wall
You see where mice have chewed
Checking socks upon the mantelpiece
Again enjoying the pleasing mood.
As you sign within the guestbook
A chance to read the travellers tales
Of epic journeys, in stunning land
Huge success and classic fails.
Lives saved by simple shelter
To casual stops along the track
Unplanned stays for many a day
Seen as palace, a villa, and shack.
And to you this place is special
It’s a place you just adore.
And though you’ve never visited,
You know you've been in here before.
*The NZ Department of Conservation manages a network of over 950 huts of all shapes and sizes. They provide unique places to stay, refuge from bad weather, or rest and recover while experiencing the great outdoors.
The old jalopy feels unloved and unwanted.
Many years now she has languished
in this long-abandoned junkyard.
Unhinged, she is an utter wreck.
She had been kept for her "parts" but now, not even for that!
Very rarely, a young boy wanders by.
He sits inside her frame, pretending to be her driver.
But nobody can take the place of her Johnny.
All these years rusting away, dreaming of her yesterdays,
she recalls the cocky handsome lad named Johnny
with the slicked back hair and foot heavy on her pedal-
the one who belted out "Great Balls of Fire"
or his favorite,"Johnny B. Goode," which played on the radio
as he careened with her down the back country roads.
How sweet his voice became when he crooned "Love Me Tender."
There is no more love for the old jalopy now.
Something new has happened recently.
Large machines have been making a horrible racket.
Today they approach her area of the old junk yard.
Soon the shell of her - like her soul - will be totally demolished.
July 25, 2019 for John Hamilton's the 'NA rerun-2' Poetry Contest
N/A when judged 7/27/19 in The Old Jalopy Contest
(if you mean, our best of N/A's from only the year 2019, I would choose this one)
A SEASON OF INDIGENCE
This drought and curse
Of hand to mouth;
An unrepentant encroachment of pauperism
Impregnating our back country
Discern,
Our bigwigs in back country
Stand aloof
While,
Season after season
Millions of Pickneys
Flourish with kwashiokor
I,
A son of the soil,
A citizen of the world
Peruse no light
At the end of the tunnel
Jet age swarmed us with gusto,
An age when birds
Learned to flutter incessantly
Criss crossing the Atlantic and Pacific oceans
Ushering in a pretence
In social change
Only to abscond
With it's tail between it's legs
Information age,
Just stirred from it's slumber
It's lazy eyes struggling to adjust
To our flickering fluorescent
Hard drive here....flash drive there.....
Mouse click left....mouse click right....
Still,
I see no light
At the end of the tunnel
Robots are now delegating affairs
Our barns are empty
Our children famished
Poverty is now an opium of humanity
Alas,
Third trimester of harbor, now in labor,
The Surgeon's predigious epidural hype
Adjudged below the belt, still born!
Enter Contest
Sponsored by: Michael J. Falotico
Paladin, have gun would travel,
The wrongs he’d sort, to unravel,
Fortunes soldier, no armour for him,
Didn’t need the judges gavel,
just a colt .45 and a grin
Where would he roam ,
In the back country alone,
Sleeping by the fire he did own,
Sleeping on his saddle.
Rattlesnake for brekky, soon,
Toasted on the fire, in June,
Gunfight, 45 plonks away,
Straight shooting Paladin,
This I say.
Role model long past it is him:)
Don Johnson
"Paladin, Have gun will travel."
The Demise of a Good Keen Man
The Good Keen Man was a hunter in Government employ
He lived back in the Bushland where none could annoy
He had no use for compasses or modern stuff like that.
He needed only the sun that shone upon his back
Caring not what day it was, for it mattered less
Than if the sun was shining or if the bush was wet.
You might think that he, was not so very bright
But compare your life with his, and see him in the light
That his Back Country hut asked no rent or fee
And he owned all the land that his eye could see
There were fish in the river and meat on the hill
Working not to a time clock, he came and went at will
He carried a pack upon his back and never asked for more
Than an audience of one or more, and a beer as he entered the door
He had an endless stock of stories, both true and make believe
For by his own admission, truth he could take or leave
But the world is that much poorer for the loss of such as he
For characters are fewer in this world where nothings free
In the rugged mountain passes
Of the western Carolinas,
Just west of Hendersonville and east of Kentucky, USA,
In the land of the foothills and steep valleys down,
Exists a remote land forgotten in time.
Steeped in country legends, handed down long ago -
A matchless region the locals, call Christmas Tree Mountain.
Thousands of trees spread, over the lands -
boundless pines, spruces and firs;
Home to mountain families at one with their land.
In these broken foothills in the lands of the mist,
On steep, rocky outcrops, barren but for the pines,
Rising above the lowly, bottomland plains,
Far above pedestrian highways where the grizzly roams free,
And the Winter's freezing cold,
With its fierce winds whipping through the trees.
On the Carolina hillsides is where it all begins;
Conifers contorting in the harsh mountain gusts.
Edging their way skyward one inch at a time;
Twelve inches a year the extent of their growth.
Like emerald clad sentinels oft standing at arms,
Like boundless militia watching o're the valleys below.
Seasoned veterans awaiting, their clarion call,
Their final, fateful, farewell, fore' their Christmas accord.
An all-too-short harvest's complete by Autumn's end;
If yields are bountiful, all cuts will, be bundled and penned.
Warmly dressed buyers trekking these remote mountain farms;
Back country charms tempered by the winding, rugged passes.
In the Fall the Scouts come - heeding a higher call;
Selfless endeavors to help earn much-needed funds
To support an ever growing contingent of troops.
Finding a world of fulfilment in these simple deeds;
They learn the values of good stewardship and all its rewards,
While learning to respect all of God's lands and all His designs.
End of the Season finds the mountain families gathering in prayer;
Thanking their Creator for yet another year.
The sky royal blue as it overlooked king louie's castle
Tucked away serene in the back country
Not a knight out of place not even a distressed damosel to be saved
Even the dark musky dungeons were seeing their better day
War was at hand, but everyone stayed calm
Honest king louie with his massive blue eyes
Flashed his brow twice and the war was dismissed
All his followers chanted his good name
Give cheer for the king and his court
As he reigned on his throne beside the beautiful queen
Alls well that ends well in this medieval scene
July 27, 2013
I was in a bar in Texas,
in the eastern back-country,
with three beers already inside
and another draining quickly.
It was a perfect redneck bar,
the kind of place I love,
with sawdust on the floors below
and taxidermy up above.
A man drank in a corner,
wearing a battered hat.
he said nothing to no one,
and I was thankful for that.
For in the center of the bar,
a loudmouth proudly raged,
boasting of his magnificence,
impervious to pain.
He mocked folks obnoxiously,
as drunks are wont to do.
His three friends only laughed,
three sheets to the wind too.
The braggart faced the corner,
said,”Hey, it’s the yodeler guy!
I saw him last Oktoberfest,
his voice is womanly high!
“Come on now yodeler,
show this bar what you’ve got.”
The yodeler said,”If you don’t mind,
right now I’d rather not.”
But the drunkard only fumed,
and slammed his hands on down
on the yodeler’s lonely table,
sending his beer to the ground.
Yodeler got up very slowly.
“That’s better now, my bro,”
said the drunk as he got up,
“Give the good people a show!”
Yodeler broke into a song,
bight and clear and full of grace,
then he shot a tree-trunk jab,
right into the drunkard’s face!
The drunkard fell, his friends charged,
Yodeler threw out his elbows,
knocked two down and the other
he grabbed by the throat.
Quick jabs rained upon the man,
until he could not see.
He fell to the ground hearing a
“Yodel-eh-hee-hee!”
Yodeler stomped one who rose,
and another then ran away,
But the drunk had come around,
and glowed red, flush with rage.
But Yodeler kept yodeling,
and waived the braggart in.
Braggart charged, Yodeler swung,
catching him on the chin.
Three men lay on the floor,
the yodeler stepped over them.
That night I learned never to cross
a true yodeling champion.
Not a lesson with much use,
that I readily will admit,
Much like the time I learned clog-dancers
don’t take kindly to bullspit…
I
The form we take
In the shape of a life
From trumpet birth blasts
To the final shadow sighs
The faithful leap
From a Dayton hill
To silver supersonic flight
A mountain of yellowing
Paper words and work
Of worn shoes
Discarded styles
An inland lake of soapy water
A dark, cool mystery mine of sleep
A warehouse of frozen glimpses
Catalogued and filed
A hurricane of curses
Sneer-spital and hot tears
The back country
Mood changed
From bright desert
To dank moor
All and all wiped kitchen clean
A few dark drops and fingerprints
Remain of this victimless
Crime scene
II
Every valid morning
The escape committee
Meets in the yard
To talk about
Terms & conditions
Cooking up plans
Set to fail
Next week
We will turn
Into smoke
& float
Through the ventilation
Or maybe become
Water, no wait..
Tears
Yes tears
Used to seal
Weekly envelopes
Sent back home
III
No fuss
No movement
No heat
No perspiration
No credit
No charge
No shame
No refund
No record
No scar
No signal
No breeze
No traffic
No morning
No bed
No room
No sheets
No clothes
No water
No ceiling
No air
No doubt
No blinking
No past
No night
No sound
No return
IV
Something seen once
At the roadside
Shining like a lost jewel
Amid the rusted out
Beer cans
Greasy fast food wrappers
Could´ve been a
Lost crown
Or a busted hubcap
That was so long ago
But not forgotten
Like a comet
Coming back around
You should´ve stopped
But what would have
Happened
One less mystery
The world was
Expanding then
Outwards & out
Few of us notice
The point when it starts
To shrink back
The tide turning
At some atomic level
But it does
And here you are
On this life raft
So, so much ocean
And so little left
Of you
V
And suddenly
Some movement
Thinner than paper
The void
At first
Abstract & Foreign
Takes on some form
A voice you always knew
A blood voice
Begins it´s
Forever song
Perchance
I'll never know his name nor assume his thoughts,
This man I saw perchance today
Approaching from a distance I paid not much mind
Closer yet, the eyes adjust to features I have known
This man perchance I've met?
His walk is slow, and carefully he treads
The pavement's edge on wooded back country road
No smile graced his face, but simple warmth did so exude
This ragged man I met perchance today
No words exchanged, just one perplexing gaze
As quickly I sped by
This world of mine, this world of his
Perchance they do collide?
I wonder now if I had stopped and gathered all my thoughts,
Engaged him in the spoken word within his world and mine
What would I learn perchance?
Would I learn that men are not created equal?
That all men are intertwined somehow?
I judge not men by countenance alone ,
but by the spoken word
I listened with my heart to words unsaid
An honest man I think perchance I met
By the side of the road this day
And me the poorer man for sure
Perchance, perchance, perchance
I.
When Sullivan ‘Reno’ Richards rode into
the small, northern Utah town of Stillman,
he’d been unemployed going on three months
since he’d left his job as a hired gunhand.
He’d turned in his badge to the agency
when his brother Samuel had been killed,
and after settling things with his family,
he’d rode off to put to work his skills.
Reno would see that real justice was done,
he’d find the bastards who had done the deed,
and though his family looked down on it,
Reno was good at making bad folks bleed.
His father had disowned him for this fact,
Samuel had been his favorite child,
the man had expanded dad’ baking empire
way out west in the great desert wilds.
Dad had no respect for a ‘mere gun-hand,’
and wouldn't speak to Reno to this day,
but Samuel had not shared these beliefs,
and nothing ill of his brother did-say.
For that understanding, Reno now rode,
to the only hotel in this small town,
he’d sworn to his family that he would
put poor Samuel’s killers in the ground.
When settled in he went down to the bar,
ordered whiskey and took the sounds in,
listening for gossip that could be a clue,
when a young stumpet walked right up to him.
She said,”Hello, my name is Meredith,
and I can tell from the look of your eyes
that you must be one of Samuel’s kin,
you should know I was to be his wife.”
Reno looked at this woman in great surprise,
he had not heard Samuel planned to wed,
so he said to her,”I am his brother,
I came as soon as I heard he was dead.
“I’m here to take care of his affairs,
though I fear it might take me a while,
I understand he held the mortgages
of half the ranches within fifty miles.”
She smiled,”I’m glad somebody came out
to take care of the things left behind.
If you would like, I can take you out to
the grave where my poor Samuel lies.”
He nodded solemnly, and they walked to
a plot laying behind the town’s small church,
the dirt was still fresh, the stone not yet done,
there’d been no time to finish the work.
Reno asked then,”How did it happen?”
Meredith frowned, and then told hit the truth:
“Bandits bushwhacked him, in the back-country,
They took everything, even his shoes.”
Reno just nodded, took down his broad hat,
said,”I hope that the sherriff is on it.
My brother and I sometimes disagreed,
but he did nothing deserving of this…”
A crude young fellow from upstate New York
He never learned to handle a fork
He jabbed at his food
In fact, he was quite rude
And he behaved like a back country dork.
Written May 29, 2022
10/10/6/6/10
Warm mug of joe
And a back country road
Tune softly sung in my ear.
I waited for you
To finally get through
And into my life reappear.
It makes perfect sense
I've got no defense
And never a doubt my dear
That my love is for real
And I just hope you feel
The same way I do when you're near.
Dear Papa,
Sad, my siblings and I,
Never got to meet with you;
You left us too soon,
Out in this cold, dark and unjust climate;
Out in the deep ghettos and jungles;
In the hands of conmen and wolves
In sheep's clothing;
In the hands of those
Who have turned a house of refuge
Into A den of thieves
With no proof of roof
Over our bruised heads
The fence you mended
Has caved in
Your old, durable coat
Of many colors
Has frayed at the edges
Refusing to be mended
Father,
If we had known
When the thief
Would stealthily saunter in,
We would have guided our loins
Now,
Men have lost their fate
A good name is no more precious
Than gold and silver
Even when there is a way
There is no more will
Men have rolled up their
Goat skin mats,
Tucked away in rafters
To be fanned by smoke
And feasted on by rats
Men have hidden their drink horns
Refusing to tap wine or commune
Feigning to be temporary
Rather than contemporary
The glories of yesterday
Have been washed away
By memories too battered and faint
To remember your charge
Staten Island is being renovated
But they feign ignorance
A grave yard is more presentable, appealing and serene
Than our back country
Dogs now feast on fellow dogs...
Father, please don't look back in anger...
A child's hand is not scaled
By the hot piece of yam bequeathed by his mother;
Only a man who has not been
To his kinsman' s farm assumes
His father's farm is bigger
Mandiba,
Tomorrow is pregnant
We do not know what it will bring forth....
Today is here, alive with us
Our hope lies in the fidelity
That one day,
Perhaps one day, we Will get it right;
Smile and call you Mandiba