Best Bailing Poems
Six feet tall, feisty and tipping the scales
Aunt Eva approached life so playfully
Living in the moment, not fretting details
Even at 80 no harsh wrinkles had she
Just a few laugh lines from a life filled with joy
She couldn’t budget, her spending was free
Her brother (my father) was a CPA
It seemed he was forever bailing her out
When living expenses she couldn’t pay
Her gifts to others were funny as well
A used Bruce Springsteen shirt she bought for me
It was stained, too small and had a strange smell
This aging widow had young men calling
She was their dance queen and rocked all night long
Some may have found her youthful dance dates appalling
Last time I saw her, she stood in the street
Grinning and waving, as we drove away
I watched her fade from view from the car’s back seat
Me, my brother Tom and Uncle Pat were on a fishing holiday
three men in a rowing boat way out in Dublin Bay
we anchored up and cast six rods over a sunken wreck
hoping for the catch of our lives to haul onto the deck
hours passed with the floats just bobbing up and down
Tom fell asleep and Pat sat watching with a frown
a ferry passed by and the swell nearly made us capsize
as I held onto the sides Pat stood there with staring eyes
his float had gone and the rod had bent double
I woke Tom up and told him we were in trouble
Pat grabbed the rod and with all the strength he had
he struck the line which went straight down, oh man this was bad
the boat began to list quite far and water was gushing in
we started bailing out, but Pat held firm he stood there with a grin
he had a bite that was pulling hard the line shot under the keel
only one fish had the strength for this, it was a giant conger eel
Tom rummaged through the tackle and handed Pat a knife
we shouted ‘cut the line’ or this fish could take a life
but he heaved and reeled then shouted ‘get the gaff’
we saw his head and great big teeth and said ‘you’re having a laugh’
Tom grabbed an oar and whacked it’s head, the oar it broke in two
Pat’s foot was in the firing line and the eel snapped at his shoe
the eel it thrashed; we kicked and lashed the eel half out the boat
but the eel was having none of it and was going for Pat’s throat
the screams were heard by other boats who came to our rescue
the next we knew the eel was dead killed by god knows who?
a harpoon in it’s head stuck out and we were showered in blood
Pat saw blood gushing from his foot, then fell with a sickening thud
we climbed aboard the other boat, the eel it was their prize
we lost our boat and rods, half a shoe plus two toes, It’s the truth, I tell no lies….
© 21/2/2014
For Caleb's Contest...Now it has been judged I can say it is all true....
There is a big Eucalyptus tree right behind where I live
The trunk is large, with the branches straight and long
When the Arizona Sun is blazing down, makes nice shade
Even when branches die, they still have more to give
At sunset, a breeze will blow through the leaves like a song
The day is over and dues are paid
One recent summer's eve, storm clouds boiled in the West
A quick sand storm, lighting and thunder everywhere
A hard driving rain all night, streets ran bank to bank
The old tree stood fast, passed the test
A dead twisted limb laid on the ground, like saying a prayer
For the state that it was in, had only God to thank
Out of bed at five, hot cup of coffee in my hand
Went outside to make an overall inspection
Was everything still standing, or had everything washed away?
The early morning air was fresh, rain had bathed the land
Looked up and down the street, then in a westerly direction
The old fallen branch, there it lay
It caught my eye, seemed to be the right size
From past work injuries, my knees would go out every now and then
The branch needed a friend and I needed a walking stick
Picked it up,it was around waist high, I knew I had a prize
My work was cut out, had to give a new skin
Some sand paper, couple coats of varnish would do the trick
Took off the old gray scale, down to yellow wood with brown grain
Patched the cracks, so it would not split, couple of wraps of bailing wire
By God, it was starting to show some character
We started to smile and I had a good cane
Like a miracle, saved from the fire
Now as one, we walk together
My poems are not for leisure
They are guns
Aim at imperial anatomy
Notes slipped to a teller’s eyes
For easy withdrawal
Of ancestral deposits
My poems are not for leisure
They are flowers for graves
Of dead theories and foolish warriors
Who slave for vanity
Flowers cover well the rot
Of lovers’ insanity.
My poems are not for leisure
They are for children
Who have heard the piper’s call
After the elevation of the rats
Who put banks on crutches
Of tarp funds, bailing out
On mortgages where homeless
Families wander
In insensitive arguments of the street
My poems will never be silent
Against Godless lies
And crooks impenitent
In Congress or Parliaments
Striking from the dark of consciences
Bleeding alone in teary trenches
Gasping the green gas
Of laws muting its militant lines
I give you my poem – not anesthesia
Just wine.
See the impacted eyes, heavy
and the frozen heart, begging
to be released; the tongue
dry, but the cheeks like a flume.
See the round table keep things
close to their chest, lest they spill
the fragility, each glass fragment
that stabs, glues together like
a madman’s vase, complete
with a bouquet of black roses.
Indecent the descent of disheartening;
refusal to believe in uncoupling;
what a crap shoot, show, expletive.
See touch, the tangible eyedropper,
mike drop, warm shawl; a momentary
squeeze of a lemon. Lies go down the drain -
momentarily, mightily, momentously;
bubbling up as a panacea when drained
of all kith and kin; their comfort
and understanding underwhelming,
often pitiful, a pittance. what is needful
is others likewise in a sinking boat,
keeping one another just above
the water line; bailing out each
other’s pain; finding camaraderie
in the breaking; the flowers in the vase
turn dark blue and purple - deep.
See the healing begin, for some.
Some run, some squeeze the lemon,
some rely on the lies. See the death mask
tremble, then a phantom’s half;
never quite whole but jewels
replace the wizened half.
See the pain, the cuts, and crimson eyes.
Don’t become a master of disguise.
See the help, the forest through the trees,
remember your honeybees
given to eternity; find them in the honeycomb.
Old tin roof, plastered adobe walls that were melting
Two big Cottonwood trees, junk cars in the back
Cracked concrete floor, covered with oil and grease
Mexican kids running in and out, playing and screaming
Couple of water jugs, covered with gunny sack
In all of this was some sort of peace
Joes Montes was the owner, we just called him Joe
Joe spoke good broken English, had a little accent
Talked a lot with his hands, pointing at this and that
Did not advertise, everyone knew Old Joe
Been there for years, did not pay any rent
Always wore a greasy cap, never wore a hat
Farmers up and down the valley swore by Joe
When a tractor was down, they knew who to call
Jump in his old truck and he was there
Been known to use bailing wire, he would make them go
Cotton pickers to a hale bailer, he worked on them all
Never charged much, was always fair
Adobe wall have melted, Joe has passed away
In that old shop where a lot of memories were made
No telling how many tractors Joe made run
Tractors now have computers, not in Joe's day
The Cottonwood trees make no more shade
Joe was a tractor fixing son of a gun
Thoughts raised questions,
mysteries lead to discoveries.
Nyquist’s analog signal digitalization,
led to the electronic world modernization.
The door to victory is never known.
Opportunities towards success could be blown.
Choosing a path already chosen,
is safe yet done by a dozen.
But a road – not – taken is freshly paved,
which an opportunist considers being plagued.
Victory being unbiased,
could be claimed by an Ant or an Elephant.
A loser who is well bred,
shall rise and shine against any opponent.
Failures obscure a path well led,
leading to the novel achievement
A strategist sets to sail,
without dropping an anchor on failing.
Rowing through storms and paddling,
through the wrath without bailing.
The forest of success,
where flora and fauna are in million.
strategist encountering ferocious lion,
to grab a dandelion,
who dares to use a Venus fly trap,
as his guide map.
These are the life lessons of wildlife,
Engraving wounds of memories like a knife.
A winner with pumping adrenaline first crosses the finish line.
Loser slips the borderline,
racing to create the headlines.
I loved walking in daddy’s boots,
just to trample where he had been;
to track the path of prior roots
and then return them once again.
Some boots were old and some were new;
I loved walking in daddy’s boots.
I could have used any old shoe
but wasn’t fond of substitutes…
Grimy ones had great attributes,
they worked real hard to get that way.
I loved walking in daddy’s boots;
used for battlefield - bailing hay.
Daddy didn’t mind me wearing
if he could use them for commutes
and I didn’t at all mind sharing;
I loved walking in daddy’s boots…
Copyright © 2016 By Caryl S. Muzzey
1/24/16
Fifth Place Winner ~ "Show Me Quatern Poetry" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
Feb.22, 2016
Just an old cowboy
Riding all day
Working the cattle
Bailing the hay
As the end of the trail
Comes into view
He ponders retirement
And what he will do
Will he take to the rocker
Sit around all day long
Whittlin on wood
Sing an old song
He pulls on the reigns
As he gazes upon
A beautiful sight
As he keeps riding on
A sunset so splendid
You'll think it's a dream
As you become
A part of the scene
As the cattle all graze
The day comes to an end
As he sits by the fire
And takes it all in
He makes out his bed
And looks up to the sky
And thanks God above
He is one very blessed guy.
re: Johnsons Antidote by Banjo Paterson a great poem.....
Yes Good morning sir ...maybe it just worked for old goanna:)
We in the 1950's used condys crystal jammed into the snake bite after cutting and sucking the poison out of the bite area.
one poison to beat another they said...others shot a finger off or used an axe to get rid of the offending bite.
my old man had bull terrier x cattle dogs for bailing up wild Scrubber cattle and then he'd bring tame cattle to them and the wild ones would join the herd for safety...these dogs would go snake hunting in the night often, and some would get bit by the 9 foot long Mulga brown snakes they fought...what to do 30 miles from town no Vet either...so pinch up the obvious bulge of the bite and use sheep shears to cut the lump off the dogs hide? dogs survived this rough treatment if bit only once....but were sick for days after....Don
AIR FORCE
There were those times
On long missions over Laos and the Gulf of Tonkin
When a weariness settled over us
Over pilot and navigator and crew
Settled on us like a resigned acceptance
Like the letting go before sleep arrives
Our shoulders sagged
And our voices became hoarse
It was as if we were entering another dimension
Where worry was not a concern.
And then over the radio came the voice of an F105 pilot
On a bombing run over Hanoi
Whose voice sounded the weariest of all
MAYDAY! He called out on emergency frequency
My plane's been hit and I'm bailing out
As if he realized at that moment
That his life hung on more than his parachute
On more than a missing man formation.
your sorrows learned to swim
bailing the water from
the sinking boat
you stand in
your short skirt (metaphor)
you make of it what you will
against the rising tide
of emotion
wisdom comes slowly
time smokes
cracks the pipe
upstream you swim
like sperm
the odds are astronomical
inside your head the intruders
wage war, yes war
one they can not win
in the upper reaches
of your thinking
patience friends
entertain you
some say, wisdom says
that the road is narrow
and that the road to hell
is lined with good deeds
I no longer believe
in any of that.
Most of what religion has to offer,
so to speak, is a delusion.
Time waits for no one, usually
wisdom comes with patience
and all his friends.
sometimes you think it is
a diversion or an illusion
but the knowledge
of what is deep inside
your soul keeps you
from giving up
from rotting
decaying is a different matter
alltogether
propriocetion of an unhappy deltoid
the eyeball flambé of envy
and other itches stitches palsies and gouts
shout give up, throw it in, it’s too much!
such suggestions never make me waver
rather raise a stubborness in my endeavour
ring a bell far out in my stormy sea
inchcape finisterre inistrahull light
oh no stubborness is the star
stops me bailing out
keeps me bailing
in the teeth of howl gales bark
though land and home and sky are out of sight
and my unwilling bark
fills fast in time’s approaching night
and all is mist and sea’s unstable carp.
Ardent galleon cutting foamy high tide
Each sliver born to venture yet farther
Captain and lady, stout crew by their side,
Still hailed by stalled gray frigate in harbor
You’re bailing water again, foundering
Says the unsubtle, frantic semaphore
Wan efforts to stay afloat floundering
Desperate colors, guilt cannot ignore
Ours not the only ship with billowed sails
Sure hands ride in closer proximity
Yet only our craft you insist to hail
Another failure for your litany
Ere, as your crew, began my sailing craft
On fair seas, through inky nights’ frozen rain
How could I surmise, you color me daft,
My apprenticeship owes eternal chains?
Leaks in careworn hull not of our making
A Dramamine rerun, your sophistry
To sail in your wake, sadly mistaken
Your dry dock is not our trajectory
5/9/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
There was a CEO with but one failing
He drank himself sloppy when sailing.
He had three shots at dawn
And drank the whole day long.
Cleaning his yacht took hours of bailing.