Best Barleycorn Poems
He served as a deacon in his church and was as pious as they come.
(But on the side, he sold whiskey from a thirty-gallon drum!)
He taught the junior high Sunday school class and was a Bible scholar.
(But on the side, he 'stilled' moonshine way back up in the holler!)
He was faithful in tithing ten percent of his ill-gotten gain.
(For his John Barleycorn he used only the best obtainable grain!)
He occupied the same pew every Sunday listening with attentive ear.
(It was rumored about that he also brewed some very potent beer!)
He proffered an "amen" at appropriate times and wore a suit and tie.
(He was renowned throughout the county for his very delectable rye!)
His tenor voice blended well when singing, "I Love Thy Kingdom, Lord."
(On back roads he did a bit of bootlegging in his hopped-up V-8 Ford!)
He was the first to offer succor to widows, orphans and others left bereft.
(He'd run his still for years - at evading "revenooers" he was very deft!)
When folks were needed to serve on committees he was first to volunteer.
(When asked his occupation he replied, "I'm a 'Spirit'ual Engineer!")
At Yuletide he was generous with the parson giving him a beef, cash and pork.
(At the annual church picnic he surreptitiously passed a bottle to uncork!)
There couldn't be found a finer saint in all of Boondock County, Kentucky.
(He'll continue to "minister" to parched throats thereabouts - if he's lucky!)
Entry for Tania Kitchin's "Primiere Trophy Contest" Contest
This poem is worthy of a Primiere Trophy since it won First Place in the Poetry Soup International Poetry Contest in April 2011. (Won $50 and an Outstanding Poetic Achievement Certificate).
Moon In Auburn
As the stars were heaped upon a mantles Shangri-La
The miniature toy town beneath its cape
Quiet hung in yellow golden windows lit
So silent in the dales and woods blanket
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
Crisp and cloudless chill less coldness
With the twin of the moon fluxed silver blue
In the tiny handmaidens mirror of reflection
Natures dark slept beneath the shadows of her hand
And she crept in dreams
Within the tip toe of cats
Rendered the night through amber eyes
Glistening on the turns of lovers kisses
For all the endless that she misses
Arched above an eternal sky
She is drawn to the moss of rocks
And clings in branches hung with lichen
To the feathered damp of leaves
Which catch her spark
Just a whisper footfalls breezes shifter
In the country lanes of ancient mazes
By stone wall and rabbits foot
Close upon the dandelions head
With all the disguised colours leaping on unseen acoustics
Were hidden amongst rivulet beds
Catching the silver blue
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
And swung out the flax upon the stars
Fingers traced their destiny within those pinpoint suns
A pattern constellation traits of has; she was born
The atonement of steady reckoning he had
Cut in trough on the ploughed earth
Where all the seeds of tomorrow had been scattered
With all their promises of a seasons ripening
Old songs sung of proud man “John Barleycorn”
And the distillation of his bone and marrow
And while the stars piled high on their Shangri-La
Recounted the lost tales of lovers in forgotten times
All the memories fell in auburn locks
And swept upon the Luna light shores
The twin she fluxed in silver blue
And the dog fox cry echoed from the moon
I never round-or-flatly disagreed
with Johnny Appleseed,
so red, so crisp, so...quite.
Never in the dawning, evening dawn
did I fly up or s*it upon...John James Audobon
in the evening, morning night.
Ah, I'd never be rude or eat the food
of the pulchritudinous Johnny B Goode.
How could I?
And why would I harm
odorless, flightless John Barleycorn
or give him Spanish flea?
I'd sail the vast untarted sea,
or play drums obstreperously,
with that flapjack, John Paul Jones,
but what kind of pancake would I be
if I revealed I was bigger than, by three,
that wunderkind, John Holmes?
Would I ask Johnny on the Spot
for a rag to wipe my snot?
Unindubitably!
Would I surprise him with mascara,
or do the backstroke in marinara
like a mushroom in a noodly sea?
I'd be on time for Johnny Come Lately,
and eat bon bons till I sat, oblately,
under the midday moon.
I'd tell Johnny Carson, "That's a wrap"
and neatly wrap my dog's crap
up with cellophoone.
What about John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
that diaphanous, novelty hit?
Would I blast him with the guns of Navarone
under a sky that sticks like the glue
of a colorless, humid, hue?
Would I deny him a raisin scone?
No!
When Johnny Comes Marching In gets home,
I'd serve him grits and iridescent cornpone,
and sit him on my knee.
Then I give him a lavender shout,
and set up an appointment for my gout,
superciliously.
Would I ask John the Baptist to convert?
No, I'd offer him some camembert
and crackers!
And the sprightly John the Apostle?
I'd offer him a waffle.
and crackers
(for dessert).
Oh John Keats, dear clapboard poet - you left too soon,
before I could offer you a macaroon,
or anything that leaves a crumb.
There's a reason I asked you for tea.
Give me a sign. Tell me honestly,
do you think I'm a doofus - dopey, dippy, daft and dumb?
Would I pull the leg or make fun...or steal a tart, chocolate eclair, pineapple upside down cake or cinnamon bun
from the beetle, John Winston Lennon?
Nope, I imagine I wouldn't, in truth,
but I'd surely pull the tooth
of the weevil John Wilkes Booth
under the midnight sun.
Carrie Nation was renown for her scorn
For the havoc caused by john barleycorn
She wielded her axe causing dire consternation
Wrecking bars with what she termed a "hatchitation"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Thinking of my youth
when we rode around
in a light green VW beetle
Listening to Stevie Winwood
and the boys sing John Barleycorn
Soon enough my friends scattered
Some gone down South
Some out to L.A.
Some upstate
No more basketball
No more all night parties
like the one we had when
the Fillmore East closed
Winter has morphed into spring
Soon hot summer
bringing Coney Island nights
and Riis Park beach days
Now I live on the Lower East Side
New friends, maybe new lovers
in the offing
Fall will soon arrive with the High Holidays
I'm still here!
He served as a deacon in his church and was as pious as they come.
(But on the side, he sold whiskey from a thirty-gallon drum!)
He taught junior high Sunday School and was a Bible scholar.
(But on the side he 'stilled' moonshine way back up in the holler!)
He was faithful in tithing ten percent of his ill-gotten gain.
(For his John Barleycorn he used only the best obtainable grain!)
He occupied the same pew every Sunday listening with attentive ear.
(It was rumored about that he also brewed some very potent beer!)
He proffered an 'amen' at appropriate times and wore a suit and tie.
(He was renowned throughout the county for his very delectable rye!)
His tenor voice blended well when singing, "I Love Thy Kingdom, Lord"!
(On back roads he did a bit of bootlegging in his hopped-up V-8 Ford!)
He was the first to offer succor to widows, orphans and others left bereft.
(He'd run his still for years - at evading 'revenooers' he was very deft!)
When folks were needed to serve on committees he was first to volunteer.
(When asked his occupation he replied, "I'm a 'Spirit'-ual Engineer!)
At Yuletide he was generous with the parson giving him beef, cash and pork.
(At annual church picnics he surreptitiously passed a bottle to uncork!)
There couldn't be found a finer saint in all of Boondock County, Kentucky!
(He'll continue to 'minister' to parched throats in the county - if he's lucky!
Won First Place in the Soup International Poetry Contest -April 2012
They buried him two inches deep
and for months there wasn't peep
And then with barely a sound
he forced his head out of the ground
For months he grew tall and grew straight
until it was time for his fate
In his prime he was cut to the ground
and then with his comrades was bound
They beat him with flails and with whips
until, in his skin, appeared rips
Then they laid him down on the floor
and over him, water, did pour
They boiled all his juices away
and left him alone for a day
Then they sealed him away in a vat
until he grew cold and quite flat
Next they poured what was left in a keg
with the essence of white of an egg
They then left him once more for a while
and moved him for many a mile
In a dungeon so dark and so cold
with walls that were covered with mould
they left him a day and a night
until his condition was right
Then they pulled him out into the light
and he looked such a beautiful sight
As brown as the robe of a monk
John Barleycorn finally got drunk
Furst night in Brockton
new guy in town
Again
lost in a sea
of Nauthinaz
I'll get my bearings
I'm an Ex-Sailor
used to course less
wanderings
no boundaries have i
aimless
no to john barleycorn
born to nowhere
drawn to the sea
Choose moment foiled
Over moment gone or none.
Penance paid all bard alas anon.
Bars of boxcars rolling down
Canals of clotted wax;
These are the facts
As I know them to be;
Sum total me.
Scratch barleycorn
For earth and inch for truth.
All tiny, tiny words
In huddled masses gathered,
Shouting to lexicons of legion
To be heard;
Dismissed among the ignorant,
Ravished by the mute.
Small signs a-stirred,
Greater eye to bear.
Greens of noble painted
On a dolly rode in blush.
Gathered, huddled masses moaning,
Leaders gone in rush.
Each laddered youth
Hurled and hurtles trying;
Downward where were depths
Of others dying.
Stalwart soldiers any age,
Refrained of vigor,
Each enabled page to what advance,
Their worried families charge.
For some day one be stored
In someone’s garage,
To this day or that,
This club or bar
Or water cooler chat,
Between the sips and drips
And pressing, passing lips
Of death stood still.
A word of faded quill.
Sometimes times will reach
Into each soul
To wrench a tear;
Not so often fear,
But poised and posited,
Twirling dance
Of darkened hope.
Spoke and spake
And speak and leak and leave;
Never grieve for what it never was.
And huddled, muddled,
Gathered masses weep and cheer.
Gasses bottled. Grasses mottled.
Leopards changing spots.
Dots connected,
Sinners unprotected;
Searched until their eyeballs bled
Yet could not see their own with same
That flicker once, until the flame be out.
Done by water cooler spout
And with the masses tiny, huddle now.
September noon was hot
I sat alone in a crowd
My counterfeit leather boots were cheap vinyl,
Like traces of gas in a puddle,
They shone an iridescent rainbow
I wanted faded “501’S” but wore
“Monkey Wards” counterfeit denim
My skin no longer fits; I was alone in a crowd
The bleachers flanking the Hollywood High Sheiks
were unfriendly that hot September lunchtime
Not only did my skin not fit
it crawled with self-disgust
Eric wore long hair and a tie-dye tee shirt
His answer was correct…he knew…I followed him to the palace
The walls were decorated in 70’s black light contemporary
Quadraphonic stereo held the 8 Track Tape,
As the Juke holds licorice pizza
Dark Side of the Moon was the wedding song
Mary Jane became my wife, John Barleycorn my best man
I settled into the warmth of the altar, my skin fits better
Unwind.
As a tiring day
Unwinds
And goes to rest
Blue skies turn to grey
Closing the lid
On natures bountiful
Treasure chest
Blackbird on high
Bids farewell
With it’s sweet
Retiring lament
The wild daffodil
Closes delicate its petals and folds
Now the day is spent
And the lilac tree gives off
It’s heady scent
The air still warm
Clings to the night
As a caressing breeze stares
The barleycorn
Wiry trees provide an eerie sight
Void of exposing daylight
The creatures of the night creep
Amongst the foreboding shadows
The silver river still runs deep
While all creation sleeps
Within the stillness
The night waits
The wakening sun at daybreak
And another day born
Once more painting the lush landscape
With vibrant colour and spender
Now night has rendered
The Blackbird on high
Now celebrates the birth of day
With joyful heart and reprisal song
As a new day story
Lingers on.
Peter Dome©2019.