Best Chaw Poems
You get to a point where
you can’t read them anymore
and consider yourself a grown-up.
But it wasn’t until I was fifty-two
that I threw them away.
How long could they hide
in a high school brief case
next to a box of sweaters
in the attic?
So…into the Dumpster Doodle-Doo
they went: her Wuthering epistles,
and my Heathcliff’s angst
Risen to the “beep beep beep”
of a trash trawler’s chaw.
By then she was a preacher’s wife
in Pennsylvania, and I was running
Manufacturing trades for a defense
plant in Rhode Island,
a job for which I was
wholly unsuited
They were two new skins
for the both of us
only one of which
had been redeemed.
Night's grassy fields furrowed beneath starry bait,
calls us to cast ourselves upon the straw,
above the Pointillist's daubs spark a hungry slate
to entice our soul while we chew our chaw.
Where we render ourselves like straw
we skew limbs and mimic far-off Orion,
enflame our heart while we chew on chaw
and drink ourselves numb on Milky Way ions.
Limbs askew we guard like Orion,
count falling stars and bargain our wishes,
drunk on Milky Way ions,
we battle mosquitoes with snaps and swishes.
Counting falling stars that grant our wishes,
we poll the planets and ignore Man's moons,
battle free of mosquito's little bitty swishes,
we hope for snipe, snipe and settle for morning loon.
Planet's poll finished and ignored void of Moon,
let's us cradle beneath stardust flaring Bourealis,
until our hope for snipe is settled by morning loon,
when we rise on frozen limbs heated by sun's kiss.
Heart cradled within stardust-flaring Bourealis,
mind drifting on Pointillist drape of hungry slate,
no longer wobbling on limbs heated by sun's kiss,
we're content night cultivated our star-mad fate.
Sheri Fresonke Harper
for Paula Swanson's Pantoum Contest due 12/10/2010
Grandpa and his kin gathered at the mill,
“It’s n’uther thanksgiving, y’all! Eat yer fill!
Hey cuzz Joe Bob, what’s the deal?
Whose turkey did y’all steal?”
What turkey? Y’all be chompin on road kill!
Yes siree y’all might have to chaw some,
But this barbequed swill be awesome!
Be a shame for it to waste,
So salt and pepper to taste,
And feast on some almost fresh possum!
Inspired by :
my poetry friend Carolyn Devonshire. : )
Chocolate Molten Cake dessert for two
Layered Devil's Food Cake fluffy and rich
In the center chocolate oozes through
Frozen vanilla ice cream does the trick
A little to cleanse the palate of sweet
Warm chocolate syrup which can bewitch
Not on my diet, for a taste did cheat
A huge dessert to be shared by just two
Or maybe more, a few bites each can eat
When shared a special dessert's fat won't rue
Eaten with loved ones, savor each morsel
Bid all ill effects a happy adieu
If shared with all at the table, don't gobble
Let sharing fairly be the story's moral
Chocolate can be pronounced with two or three syllables:
chaw-kuh-lit or chawk-lit
Inspired by Alfred Vassallo's contest Terza Rima/about what you like
Written: Monday, September 15, 2014
The ol' saddle warn't much to look at but it was all Buck could afford.
He paid Billy five bucks fer it when Billy died and loped to his eternal reward!
The saddle fit his hoss Dan like an ol' shoe and sat Buck's buttocks mighty well!
Fer twenty bucks a month and found, Buck cowboy'd fer an outfit called Ruby Bell.
The saddle was scratched and gouged from chasin' steers through salt pine brush,
And stained here 'n' there with terbaccy chaw and splotches of muddy slush!
The other fellers made sport of Bucks well-worn saddle but he cared nary a tittle.
He'd jes' grin his boyish grin and loose a well-aimed stream of terbaccy spittle!
He rode many a mile astraddle fixin' bobbed war fences and corallin' stray cattle,
On night herd duty or on the trail in snow, rain and dust but he allus won the battle!
He rode the ol' saddle herdin' longhorns on the Chisholm Trail up t'ward Abilene,
Abidin' cantankerous trail bosses, rushin' rivers and many a perilous ravine!
He and Dan tried their luck calf ropin' at the annual rodeo down the road a piece,
But a wily calf busted the horn off'n the saddle, bringin' his rodeo career to a cease!
Buck found comfort usin' the saddle as his piller 'round the campfar at night.
He'd cuddle it like a dance hall queen he knowed 'til dawn's blindin' light!
Buck was as bow-legged as a pair of pliers from sittin' saddle fer many a decade.
He and Dan and the saddle had become mighty weary and somewhat frayed!
"Boys" he said, pointin' to a knoll, "When I come to the end of the trail and I'm dead,
Bury me beneath that pine yonder along with my saddle as a piller fer my head!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
You think you enjoy the radical,
flaming in the gas jets of astral fumes,
spinning in the ocular midnight of a rabid dogs dream,
yet, I think you know, NOTHING is as it seems.
An all too thorough pondering
of mundane thought comes to naught
as vulgar words don’t necessarily wax poetic.
Talking, writing, hurl, polysyllabic words
across a dot matrix screen in a pixel fight with the Lord
don’t made you a prophet or a prophetess
You just scream now, scream…
show your pain across a global terrain in a globular dream
‘Cause I know, you know, NOTHING is as it seems.
Rebel, rebel hell, damn good for nothing navel watcher
pick the lint out, start a fire, you don’t have to die to mean something
you have to do something, damn, it's not enough to just BE
ACT don’t just bite the dirty hand, green with the bile of your blood
eat the whole arm…chaw of a chunk and spit it in the systemic eye
of a postulate system which MAKES have and have nots.
See that fading grin wink from existence and the twin terrors of
DUMB and DEE saying “Howdy and Fiddle Dee Dee” to the
arses who claim to KNOW, ‘cause I know, you know,
NOTHINGS as it seems………..
*Dedicated to Jeffery Cohen from one anarchist to another
**This would be my Alice poem ;)
When strollin' by the ol' saloon,
on chairs they kept outside,
I spied a dried up, lonsome sort
folks walked by, but eyed.
He had a faithful doggie
with head laid on his knee.
The ol' man stroked him softly,
kind, devotedly.
I stopped an' took a seat nearby,
then shared a cut of chaw.
I thought his story might be good-
he reminded me of Pa.
I asked just where he hailed from,
he didn't bat an' eye-
looked off in space, took one deep breath,
prob'ly thinkin' up a lie.
Come from ever'where, Son,
been places you ain't dreamed.
I settled back to listen.
He relaxed a bit it seemed.
An Indian fighter, I once was,
rode with the Cavalry.
Met ol' Yeller Hair himself
in eighteen, sixty-three.
Was wagon master for some folks
seekin' land to claim,
leavin' homes an' fam'lies east-
thought the West they'd tame.
Had a wife I sure 'nough loved,
two daughters an' a son,
the cholera took 'em all one year,
my driftin' then begun.
Did some drovin' 'hind the herds,
eatin' miles a dust,
catchin' strays, an' keepin' watch
for rustlers we could bust.
Owned a ranch in Texas
but never got no rain,
the drought, it lasted six years,
no reason to remain.
I killed a man in Denver,
the bugger had it comin',
he kicked my dog, stole my horse,
broke the guitar I was strummin'.
Cut trees out in Wyomin',
lumber-jacked a bit.
Camp bully always threatnin',
my throat he'd like to slit.
I rode the rails a piece back then,
an' dern near froze my tail,
sittin' in them boxcars
thru' rain, an' wind, an' hail.
Now, I'm nigh on eighty,
an' comin' to my end.
I thank ya Son for listenin' ,
ya seem 'most like a friend.
I reckon that I've lived some,
an' ain't sure now I'm done,
I just take one day at a time
'cause life ain't easy, Son.
Slim was pigeon-toed and bow-legged from allus bein' astraddle,
Of his faithful hoss Old Dan and his well-worn creakin' saddle!
He'd spent 30 years gazin' twixt Old Dan's ears ridin' the spread.
Now both is retired and he took up writin' cowboy poetry instead!
On the porch of the bunkhouse he propped his boots upon the railin',
To muse upon many things he'd write about in this new unveilin'.
He wrote about Cooky's chuck of the usual taters, bacon 'n' beans,
And dressin' up Saturday nights to do-si-do with dance-hall queens!
Brandin' time in the old corral and fixin' fences he put to verse.
Ridin' herd on stormy nights when he thought it couldn't git any worse!
He wrote about cattle drives and the hell cowboys raised in Abilene,
Drinkin', fightin' and gamblin' 'til marshals drove them from the scene!
He expressed his views on wimmen-folk and why he chose to stay free!
He wrote of lakes, streams and valleys and distant mountains' majesty!
Of how fellers lolled about the camp fire enjoyin' a terbaccy chaw,
And how cowpoke Pete could fashion a roll-yer-own with his 3-fingered claw!
He wrote that he warn't a pious man to be corralled by a congregation.
He preferred to git his spiritual grub from the magnificence of God's Creation!
Fer his final verse he wrote, "I reckon cowboyin' was allus in my genes.
When I come to the end of the trail boys, jes' bury me in my jeans!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
When auld friends meet,
To chaw and waste,
And barmaid brings,
The Lad's the taste.
The more the taste,
The more the waste,
And under breath, the wives will curse when call for grace.
But wives agreed. They took the vows.
And grace can wait on hearth and stone,
Til' Lads' be done and oot and home.
Lad's cause no harm,
And some say charm.
And barmaids' heard,
Much worse the yarn.
Bring more ale!
The Lad's will call.
But barmaid says "No more to all",
She knows for where,
And Lad's know too,
That home is where their hearts are true.
And home come Lad's,
Til' next is time,
When taste is calling,
And waste is fine.
For Lad's work hard,
Complete the week,
But only once for they can meet,
Again to taste and chaw and waste.
Graham Alexander Devenish
Cowboy Howdy the Clown still goes
To town with ten little shoes on his toes
Purple hair and a square blue nose
Ten grey flowers for Cimarron Rose
An itty bitty teeny weeny cowboy hat
Vaquero chaps and a little dogies tat
A plug of chaw and a lariat
Two six-shooters and a shoulder rat
He sure looks silly; he sure looks strange
And he's looking for his home on the range.
Silent sage and chaparral
Gather ‘round the old corral,
Like the cowhands way back then
When the Old West did begin.
Too soon gone are all the days
Of the cowboy and his ways—
He’ll be herdin’ now no more
Like he did in times before.
He’ll soon sell his saddle, too—
Thinkin’ now that he’s all through,
But he lingers ‘round the gate
Still uncertain of his fate.
Though no wages does he draw,
He still works for grub and chaw
And still by the fire at night
He tells stories of his plight.
Too soon gone are all the days
Of the cowboy and his ways—
He’ll be herdin’ now no more
Like he did in times before.
Yet, still he comes ‘round the spread
Like a phantom of the dead—
We let him stay in the bunk
To spin windies and get drunk.
But his days now dwindle fast,
Still sad those times did not last—
But that cowboy never dies
In our songs and words and lies.
Too soon gone are all the days
Of the cowboy and his ways—
He’ll be herdin’ now no more
Like he did in times before.
Silent sage and chaparral
Gather ‘round the old corral,
Like the cowhands way back then
When the Old West did begin.
I am the link to the god all mighty
The grand master of this world
Dollar marks and social security carts
I am the warrior of this waste
The revelator of the word made to taste
The most high, the conduit to creation
The grand motivator
I shake your money maker
The rejuvenator on high
Feel the coming of my fire
The revelator extraordinaire
I am all
I think
I am the word in flesh & desire
I'm here to destroy and redistribute, redesign
Hallelujah, I'm here to tell ya!
The revelation of the revelator
Extraordinaire!
So dig down deep and scrape that coinage
Off that chewing gum and chaw
And give, give the holy dollar in sacrilege
As I rise above the great fanged maw
I'm the holiest of holy all praise the
Orange God, meet the prince, el Presidente
the Anointed One, hallowed be thy name
its kingdom come
on his toilet of golden as it is done
his holy war will be fun...
I'm the revelation the way to his pockets and praise
I'm the evaluator
The motivator
The ecstasy of one
Hollow be thy name
His kingdom is undone
His crown is crashing down
Holy is thy name the grand revelator
NO! Not a sound...!
Your online's only motivator
I am the kink to the all mighty
The grand wizard of this world a' rage
I am the war layer of this waste
The revelator of his word
I do not make haste...
The most holies of high,
The conduit to destruction
The antithesis of one
The grand exploiter
I carry the golden gun
The rejuvenator on high,
The ejaculator between succulent thighs!
Feel the coming of my fire
The revelator extraordinaire
I am all I think I am the word in flesh n fire
I'm here to destroy, redistribute, n redesign
Hallelujah, I'm here to tell ya!
Dig deep and give, give, forgive
The price to heaven, the keys to the pearly gates...OH YESSS....
Between these revelators weather clad highs
I'm the revelation
The elevator
The revival of most high
The master of nigh
Revelations n ruination…
REVELATOR
Surprise!
There’s been a lot of speculatin’
‘Bout the cologne some cowboys wear,
And the toothpaste and the sweet mouthwash
And the way he combs his long hair!
I’s here to clear up the confusion
‘Bout these gallant ol’ equine gents—
And tell ya the gall dern ol’ stark truth,
That will make fer good cowboy sense.
Cowboy toothpaste is black gunpowder
And his mouthwash is rye whiskey—
But we’ll never know ‘bout his cologne
‘Cause getting’ close is too risky!
And if on the subject of hygiene,
He remains silent as a sphinx—
Ya better chaw ya some strong garlic
To cover up the fact he stinks!
Don’t git me wrong on my conclusion,
When some ol’ cowboy smells like rot—
‘Cause others take a bath once a month,
Whether they dern needs it or not!
Arkansas
OK, I hail from R-Kansas
That’s what some call the state
We’re the model of the future
Stuck in 1958
My cousins are your cousins
Our DNAs the same
And sometimes when we marry
We don’t have to change our names
In spite of public thinking
I still have all my teeth
‘Cept for 2 or 3 the top ones
And 3 or 4 beneath
I lost some in a bar fight
The others lost to chaw
My mother was an angel
I don’t even know my Pa
I have shoes but I don’t wear them
‘Cept with Sunday overhauls
We sing praises to our good lord
In our sleepy southern drawls
As for fishin’ and for huntin’
Well that’s a gull-durn given
If you ain’t killin’ somethin’
Then you ain’t really livin’
Don’t knock me for my birth place
I’m just having fun
It’s just the place where I grew up
And now I’m glad I’m “From”
Mdailey 3/31/12
Written for someone on facebook as a joke. I have never lived in Arkansas
A Cowboy's Journal
By: Tom Wright
10/10/98
The old corral stands,
silver and smooth from no care.
From years of neglect,
in the crisp mountain air.
Earlier covered with frost
now black and wet from the thaw.
I saddled Sugar Foot, my Mustang,
then searched my vest for a chaw.
Finishing up with my Mustang,
I checked again old Jack.
He was packed out with water,
along with a full winters tack.
It is Molly's first pack trip
and her load fits like a glove.
Now, it's off to the Line Shack,
beyond the ridge top above.
Snow to Sugar Foots belly,
I had to ride through.
With ice frozen to my stirrups,
but what's a Cowboy to do.
I'll keep the fences mended,
even rounding up a stray.
and on cold winter nights,
keep the Wolves at bay.
Then alone at night,
by the fireplace I'll sit.
Listening to the fire talk,
while I whittle and spit.
As Christmas approached
I had myself a real treat.
For I bagged a big Elk
and had fresh camp meat.
Enough meat to last
beyond next springs thaw.
When I'll pack out my animals
and head back down the draw.