Best Burrs Poems
Notice how the birds sing long after we listen.
We oft’ are engulfed with our trampoline thoughts.
With gossiping beaks, they chirp and they flap.
We mimic their tweets, in our minds, as we beat
out the negativity of tenacious tumbleweed and burrs.
When wings catch the air - either we can’t breathe
or we catch commonsense & attempt a sound mind landing.
The canal, closest to the great outdoors, detects signals
of the sweetest sounds, beckoning the eavesdropper -
reminders of a mother’s cradle drop; will we fly?
Let go; indeed fly. Flap those wings. Give it a try, baby bird.
All ‘round, the spellbound flight of robins, bluejays, sparrows.
Rain is brewing;
black clouds hang over the Cockpit Country.
Them rainclouds have a habit of shifting colors like a lizard.
The smell of the pending shower is strong on September’s breath;
the sun take a well-deserved break.
Mango season is long gone,
and bellies are tied up in knots.
Naseberries; they accompanied the mangoes.
Them guys from abroad,
who bought the government land across from the football field,
slaughtered them faithful guava trees.
They build condos,
but poor people can’t eat condos.
How inconsiderate them big-shot government boys are.
We (me, Footloose, and Squealie) device a plan,
when our bellies start telling us something must be done,
but we have to wait ‘til darkness falls,
‘cause bushes have eyes in sunlight.
While everyone sleeps in the bosom of the night,
we put on our birthday suits,
and scale the barbed wire fence at the back of the house.
We are now one with the blinding shadows.
We race carelessly across the open pasture;
burrs biting at our tender flesh,
and mosquitoes humming maddening music in our ears.
We tip toe on the dry leaves,
using our hands as shields
to fend off the razor-sharp edges of the cane leaves.
We drop down on all four, bellies on the ground;
we navigate the rows like them American marines – naked and all.
We ate our full,
and Squealie wet the bed that night.
Them sugarcane have a way of making us hyper.
Footloose fell from a Poinciana tree and fractured his hand,
but we stayed energized that fall.
In Memory of Jimmy Dale Still, Barrel horse rider, KIA, Song Be, Viet Nam, 1/1/70
Old Bill,
swaybacked, sand burrs in his mane.
He stands no longer hopefull by the fence up near the house,
but follows the shade around the shed,
switching flys.
Nearby the dented barrels
rust rank and file akimbo,
no longer equadistant prey
of steed and gladiator.
Hay in a self feeder.
The last time Jimmy came to break a bale,
carrot in his pocket, bridle in hand,
they were both young,
impetuous,
fearless,
bullet proof.
Bill's walked a trail, deep,
along the fence to the old arena.
Quiet now; full of weeds.
A place for breaking horses.
I am a dandelion and my world is a big meadow.
I'm growing on a cliff-side, I like to live on the edge.
Just blooming away, soaking up the sunlight beaming at me.
Needing a purpose so I can be everything I was made to be.
I was handcrafted, not a mistake.
I was placed on this earth, on the edge of this cliff to show others that I'm not afraid of heights.
To show all the people that ever put me down for being a weed,
That I was made for a reason.
Maybe to choke up plants, sure. But this weed has feelings too.
The burrs on my stalk hold me down. These furry things, I don't know what to make of them.
I seem to grow more and more and I can't get them off of me.
I'm trying to grow higher and higher but they're holding me down from my potential.
I see my fellow dandelions,
they're naked and happy.
Nothing holding them down.
They keep telling me about this breeze. A strong wind to prick the burrs off their stalk. And then an idea comes to me. So now...
I'm just waiting for a strong breeze to come pick me up and cast away all my fears and worries that I call dandelion seeds.
< once there was a man named trader Joe
could do nothing with hair so let grow
under big coonskin hat
fleas tick and his pet rat
mercantile's just say Oh Hell No
once there was saloon name lucky spur
where traders brought in their hunted furs
in walks old trader Joe
miss Molly said let's go
now both itch scratch from leftover burrs
Each summer my parents would take us to my grandfather’s ranch in Southern Texas to help with different jobs. It might be branding cattle, digging fence post holes, or picking cotton! My parents had told us stories about the cotton fields as I grew up. I wasn't old enough yet to partake in this miserable job.
One fine morning my brothers and I were awakened before daylight dressed, fed, and taken a mile down to the cotton fields! We were handed heavy cotton ducking sacks, they were over twice as long as I was. Diligently we all started filling our sacks with cotton. Under the hot summer day sun, which was beating down? The field was elegantly plowed with neat rows, lined with brown dried plants, with beautiful fluffy white soft cotton and seeds in bolls. A protective vessel that does its job with sharp burrs that make picking cotton by hand quite painful, and bloody.
I walked up and down the cotton rows dragging my heavy sack. With blistering sun overheating my body, I had begun to ache, getting weaker, the sack got heavier every minute My hands had swollen up with cuts that were bleeding from removing the cotton out of the bolls. After a while I started feeling faint, running a fever, heaving, and then I collapsed to the soft plowed black soil. My family runs over wondering what had gone wrong. I had developed heat-stroke!
I was never again brought back to the cotton fields.
©By: Eve Roper 12/8/2014
Contest Name : Jobs 12/ 11/2014 Honorable Mention
HAPPINESS 101
squishing mud between my toes
icky fingers in my nose
frogs harrumphing in my pocket
worms and bugs and itchy things
lumps and bumps the scratching brings
bugs and snakes and critters all
long and short fat and tall
funky muck from willow pond
exploding tops of willow fronds
feathers floating everywhere
willow angels in my hair
sticker burrs and sapling glue
painted cheeks of berry blue
munching on crab apple snacks
following a bunny’s tracks
humming drone of dragonfly’s
butterfly’s of any size
lying flat in lush green grass
shaping clouds floating past
a summer day, a dog, and me
John G. Lawless
8/30/2015
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.
A September chill pierces the morning
cutting through my open window.
Sharp air nips past naked ankles
as Autumn nibbles into my day.
Wasps sift September with regret
buzzing the fading scent of roses.
Tart apples sweep mellow branches
savouring a wind sweetened rain.
Chestnut burrs bristle spiny green
pregnant with mahogany clusters.
Crumpled leaves huddle in garden corners
crunching crooked for warmth.
MMC © 2011
I opened the top drawer of my mind
and carelessly took out some words.
I threw them about with little thought
of where or on whom they might land.
Many bounced when they hit becoming scattered and lost;
Some stuck like burrs holding fast where they fell;
A few jabbed like barbs causing prickling and itching;
One flew straight as an arrow into the heart of a friend.
But I was amused at myself and filled with conceit,
there in the midst of an admiring crowd.
Caught up in the wonder and pride of it all
I gave no thought to the missiles I'd fired.
But wait, the crowd grew quiet, and
suddenly I knew something was wrong!
They were all looking at me with disbelief and fear;
then the circle parted and I gazed on a terrible scene.
My words had become visible, each ugly one of them,
glinting and mocking me everywhere I looked.
I ran from the crowd, from their jeering delight
thinking only one thing, disappear, disappear.
It was then I saw my friend.
Fighting for breath and losing the fight;
impaled and dying on my careless word.
I cried, "Oh my dear God. Please, what have I done!"
And I ran to my friend saying, "please, please hold on."
Then I opened the bottom drawer of my mind
and carefully, so carefully took out some words.
I carried them to my friend and gently held them out
hoping, praying that they would be enough.
My friend lived that day, no thanks to me,
and forgave me for my awful deed.
But oh what I'd give if I could recall
that word and the pain that it brought.
To you who, like I, have been careless in your talk,
take care what you say, set a watch on your tongue.
Else you too some day will see effects you never meant
from words you can't get back, ever.
Submitted 5 Sept 16
Oh God, expand my narrow, cluttered, room!
And clear the clutter out, so I may see!
And still my Seas, as You did, Galilee!
Life threatens to collapse in, with a Boom!
Like Aspen, that arise after a fire,
Or ground-cover that sprouts from ash and dust
Or sweet alyssum permeates the must
About the room, through window of desire,
So, pray I, browse the pages of my mind,
And grope for answers to luck, fate and hope
And grub for words, and wish I were A. Pope...
There is a solace, that I sometimes find
That tells me, Love is easier than this
O! HOW can Love be EASY, when it spurs?
O! How an outside dog be free from burrs?
And yet, I know it's true! How soft the kiss
My Love gave me, that made me blow the motes
Away, swing wide the sash, let in the day...
Away! With all the piles that naysay!
And sheaves of papers bearing scribbled notes!
...Some say Tolkien, himself, could not sort well,
He lost some of the Ring in managing...
He buried his notes, his housekeeper did fling
Some part of Frodo's past? (I'll never tell!)
________
UPDATED/FIXED/REWRITTEN IN A FIT OF DESPERATION 2/22/2019
Submitted for: Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
He drove up to the Triple "T" Ranch in his brand new Cadillac!
In his air-conditioned trailer wuz his Arabian steed an' the finest tack!
He'd dreamed uv bein' a real workin' cowboy since he wuz a tad,
So he fitted hisself out with the latest fashions there wuz to be had!
On his Tony Lama alligator boots he wore a pair uv silver-plated spurs.
Over his Calvin Klein jeans he wore deerskin chaps to stave off the burrs.
He wore a hundred dollar Stetson hat an' fancy vest uv top-grade suede,
An' slung low on his hip wuz a 44 in a leather holster uv the finest grade!
His git-tar wuz slung on his back - across his shoulder wuz a coiled rope.
The grizzled cowpokes chawin' their terbaccy saw in this feller little hope!
They wuz loungin' 'round the corral railin' not believin' whut they saw!
He strolled their way remindin' them uv rhinestone cowboys on Hee-Haw!
First thing he said wuz, "When do we dine and I prefer silk sheets on my bed!"
An ol' cowpoke in scruffy boots an' jeans asked, "Whut wuz 'at you said?"
(The thoughts crossin' them cowpuncher's minds had best be left unsaid!)
"Son, you'll sleep in the top bunk tonight an' beans an' bacon you'll be fed!"
The ranch foreman trotted over to see whut the hullabaloo wuz all about.
"You fellers let me handle this! Ya'all git back to work!" he said with a shout!
He sized the lad up sayin', "Son, I ain't impressed with all them fancy lables!
Begin yer career with this here manure fork!" an' he sent him to the stables!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Metamorphosis
Tracing footsteps in the overgrown field
where sunlight and raindrops date
Counting sticker burrs like lemon drops
in a candy counter display
Hitchhikers I remember them called,
lovers of socks and pant legs I think
Each with their own story to tell,
minute worries clinging to that last hope of life
The path, familiar but then again not,
it leads somewhere else now
Dragging shadows like kite strings,
knotted in the weave of its boundaries
Taking in my surroundings and releasing them
for another may find them useful as well,
I find still no sign of that last phrase,
spoken softly but misunderstood…is my understanding
A collection of stone and gravel stew
finds my shoe souls imaging in the dry dusty paste
Outlines of thoughts, perhaps poetry in oblong shapes and
perfect tread patterns stamped and posted,
showing no indication of my ever being here
Staring now at a cocoon on a lone branch, I see
what my life had been, dark and lonely, dreaming of the colors,
feeling confined but grateful for the transformation
You smiled, I smiled, my wings appeared and I flew,
as might a rainbow on a balloon, soaring until the tiniest speck
in the sky could be me or just something on your glasses
Light headed in a good way, free at last to define love,
the metamorphosis of my heart,
the changing of a man into more than he could hope to be,
seeking and finding that blossom,
sweet nectar, a sugary substance, love deep in the petals of life
Though, no one told me of the life span before hand,
no calendar hanging on my wall with circled dates highlighted in red,
nor a stamp of expiration anywhere on my heart,
good if used by…used by, funny I should write that now
as my attention rests still on this cocoon,
wondering where I went wrong,
somewhere on this path lies the answer…
for I once was a butterfly, just as you will be small cocoon,
at which time you will learn…
it is easier to fly with a heart that is unbroken
An old cowboy still wore his spurs
As he entered the cool dark bar.
He brushed his jeans of cockle burrs,
Waved his hat for a whiskey jar.
He looked 'round at the Friday crowd,
Smiled and recalled his younger day.
And then he heard him brash and loud -
A young cowboy with hell to pay.
He slammed through the old batwing doors,
Sat down at the old man's table.
He said."Pop,I'll give you 'what fors'
If you don't leave while you're able."
And then the old man kinda smiled.
He said, "Son,I'd leave were I you.
Things 'round here are 'bout to get wild.
You're 'bout to lose a tooth or two!"
The young cowboy leaned back and grinned
As the old man swung the bottle.
They swore that you could feel the wind
As he hit the chin full throttle.
And then he laid there 'neath the table
With a changed view of these old men.
Don't take on more than you're able -
You don't know where these guys have been.
4/17/2017
For contest And Then..
angel face hovers the room
offering halos
ringing sweet yet silent,
the howling burrs of blue
a smile half hidden by rose tinted locks
swirling silent desires-
satin soul smock
her hand is petal, sacrifice to wanting lips
heat slowely circling {anticipation} as the light dims
scent of forever on the nape of her being
lust is blind cloudburst
pink coral unravelling....
love - eternally seeing
in the tangles of morning,
angel face awakens
turns her head toward
the ghost of the leaving
but she's stronger than selfish
flattens every ball of his hate
growing wise as sunflower
on wildfire glade
there'll come a moment
when angel meets a true mate
when time captures
the sprinting spirit of her faith