Best Dusty Poems
A book that I plucked
from an antiquity of books
filled my nostrils
with a smell that I will always know
and always love.
This love cannot be explained,
but neither could any indifference.
At the back of the hall,
distant from and opposite to
the comical speaker's rostrum,
behind rows of chairs filled
with the attentive and the obliged
and the hands raised in angst
to express righteousness
and cleverness
(look at me ! hear me !),
I, too, would be righteous
and clever some day
(wasn't that clever ?),
but those dusty old books !
And who could forget God's hand ?
It thrust earthword,
its sword gleamed
a split second before cleaving
a wicked man in two,
skull to groin,
a dusty old book
among dusty old books,
explored with petrified daring
by fingers so tiny they're forgotten.
A platoon of books competing,
all to be explored in turn,
some more readily than others,
all old, all dusty, all so rich in scent,
none to be forgotten,
never to be forgotten.
5th July 2020
Long gone are the golden
Dusty days!
Where once, like Blazons
On Armorial Shields,
The gathered bronze sheaths
stood -
Cut through at the stalk...
Raised from time honoured
swathes.
Burnished like brushed copper
By high summers slanted rays:
That were sliced so thinly
From the thickening air,
As they brightly
Caught the hot glare,
From the grass mowers blades.
For the singing scythes,
Once wielded so ably
By strong, capable arms,
Are standing abandoned and
Forsaken:
Blunted, left rusting,
Languishing alone
In damp, dilapidated barns.
Now their songs are forgotten -
Lost within a woeful winds
lament!
Blown far out
From the green meadows;
Separated from their verses
Once sung so heartily
With purposeful,
Lusty, well practiced intent.
So think you all well,
Next time you pause
Your drawn eye,
Upon Englands rich harvests
Of ripened barley,
Yellow wheat, and stiff rye...
To dwell on the lost seasons
With melancholy tears...
And think of the old reaper
Who cuts back at the years!
As the lovers begin to slowly slip
from each others tightly locked grip
out of each others arms they fall
into the public world and all
realizing exactly where they are
a busy station where trains go far
as one of them boards the dusty old train
Im sure I can feel their hurt and their pain
They really do look so much in love
as one of them places a bag up above
sits on down and looks outside
as the other looks on the old dusty ride
Soon the engines will have to start
as the train prepares ready to depart
their faces look like they belong
and being apart for them is wrong
Its too late now to change their mind
the trains pulling off and ones been left behind
I watch a tear as it leaves her eye
and she stands all alone and waves goodbye
Poor pygmy dust how long would you hide?
Every side your brethren never died
Possessed the wand of lady fairy
If the mood of weather is rainy
Sweet in every foot who touched its cheek
Approach the French kiss, feet drowned by trick
Really often ignore the dust's use
But without it truly no soil use
My friend dusty dust I'm insecure
Your freedom to live always secure
A glacier like a cowboy sat
Upon the foothills. And just like that
The climate changed from hope
To glad. And just like that a bar of soap
Was drawn from the rhinestone-clad holster.
With pink and orange stones it did stir
The emotions pride and reverence
But didn’t make sense
With its raven claw and bunny paw.
That type of injustice should be against the law.
To bathe with soap upon the skin
With water warm and a glass of gin,
Made cold with glacial ice, those are nice
Experiences to have. And then to roll the dice
Into the saloon and pollute the soul
With games of chance. Such a toll
Does pleasure take upon the Puritan
[for those believers, anyway]. A ban
Would ameliorate, if self-imposed.
Unfeeling cowboys are never so disposed.
There's nothing we can do, the doctor said!
It was December, nineteen-seventy.
At once, those words exploded in my head
and pierced my heart- which broke in agony.
How could this be- she's much too young to die
at fifty-four, and I, just thirty-two?
Convulsed in tears, I begged the question, why-
please, doctor, tell me, please- this is not true!
To lymph nodes, bones- the killer-cancer crept-
too late for surgery or chemo now.
The doctor's sad, dark eyes said, please accept
this news I give- which we can't disavow.
She passed away late summer, the next year;
those long nine months- such painful reveries.
Though, forty-nine years now- I still hold dear
my loved, missed Mom- in dusty memories.
July 31, 2020
Contest: Dusty Old Memories
Sponsor: Constance La France
Each night my darling, I put on my red high heel shoes,
these sexy night shoes are reserved just for you
I know you will come gliding
you always do with a swirl and and a twirl
in the dark of night from your deathly resting place
I have put on a soft chiffon red gown
my long raven hair is a river flowing
and my lips are dripping cherries
and you my darling will be dressed in your black suit
your night shoes shiny black
and the music is a waltz
you take my hand and spin me around and around
I am laughing out loud
smiling at your handsome face
a dip and a leap and we are like birds flying
how long do we dance?
how long do we kiss?
until the dawn touches my window
and you fade, fade away
and I tuck my red high heel shoes under the bed
___________________________
May 20, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/My Dusty Dance Shoes
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1145-537-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
This old house is a mystery,
it is filled with lots of history.
It needs to be cleaned out,
now what are we going to talk about?
Let's go to the big closet,
mom made this her big bank deposit.
Look a very old dusty shoebox,
wow!!! is it Ralph our pet blue fox?
SEARCH FOR ME on the dusty bookshelf,
in this room filled with very old books.
I sit here waiting to be chosen,
needing to be read by a reader.
Do you know it is hard to find me?
Old books standing cover to cover,
wait for a reader to SEARCH FOR ME.
I long to be in your loving hands,
and being read by your loving eyes.
The Hill Country is dry and you can forget about California
Filled with dying live oak and mesquite
There’s a seven-year drought upon us
And momma says it’s going to get worse
Red ants on the tire trails
They don’t seem to mind the heat
The Southern Pacific blows out of the west
Heading east with a pack of coyotes behind her
Suckling pups yapping at the Estacado winds
They know a meal ticket when they see one
Sooner or later that cattle is going to need to be fed
And that pack of half-baked desperados will be waiting
They are on the trail because hunger drives all creatures
And the heat curling up from the caliche
Will wilt the best of the arid crops
Leaving nothing but jack-rabbits and mice
They look up and growl when my boots hit the ground
The dust clouds up and the scorpions scatter like quail
I walk out toward the old water tank to see if she’s still pumping
Tepid water and nightmares of creatures that couldn’t escape
They float rotting and ghoulish in the foul water
I fish them out and throw them off into a cedar break
Rules of the desert: leave the dead and the wounded behind
The flies begin to gather and the buzzards are on the wing
Nature is taking its course.
It must eat.
I see the coyote’s skitting through the low brush
I drop a bead on one with my old 30/30
But I got no reason to kill him
I haven’t raised cattle here since 92.
He stops and turns his head toward me
And for a moment we both understand
It ain’t me against him or him against me
It’s just us trying to get through this life
A life carved out in many ways
About learning to live, die, sing, and dance to the rhythm of life
A. W. Nutter
Walking along the dusty road
The boy in me begins to unfold
Transforming into a barefoot child
Escaping home and running wild
Leaving my troubles far behind
Out of sight but not out of mind
Dust clouds cover but can not hide
Mental cells where the demons abide
Painful thoughts I refuse to embrace
Happy memories I try to retrace
The magical pond suddenly appears
Trying to hold back foolish tears
The cooling water engulfs the skin
Loving caresses from an old friend
Basking in the pool of tranquility
A childhood haven from reality
A place to heal when under duress
Evil memories blocked from access
A spiritual place helping me transcend
As out of the darkness I try to ascend
Thinking of Dusty and Singing with Slim
By Kevin Fairbrother, 17th of August 2013
As I travel the roads on the great outback
My mind takes the pictures of what I see
I wave to the travelers that wave to me
And I listen to Slim on my country CD
My mind wanders back to the Gulf travels I’ve been
In Company with Dusty, the girl of my dreams
We would laugh and joke, have a beer or two
Round the campfire, beneath the blazing moon
The family stories would come to light
Each hoping that one, would break the ice
For love was in the air, it was on my mind
Dusty sensed this, and said goodnight
AS I lay in my swag by the fire glow
My mind raced of ways that I could let Dusty know
Of how I felt, what I could say and what I could do
As I need to tell her in my own special way
Like the song of lost love in Camooweal
I’ve missed the chance to tell Dusty my story
For I’m left with heartache and feeling despair
For Dusty had gone and I know not where
So I travel on thinking of Dusty and singing with Slim
As he tells his stories of life in the great outback
For the words in his songs, they ring so true
That life in the bush is not for city people
But Dusty and Slim will forever be with me
Inspiring me to look forward and not back
For the long road ahead, I know not what it brings
But I will be thinking of Dusty and singing with Slim
amidst my walls
a discolored rose
a wedding photo
a collection of memories
a discolored rose
a moment of mourning
as fragile as life
a wedding photo
of lovers once parted
united in the beyond
a collection of memories
coalesce together
a collage of juncture
i found this form online and wanted to experiment with it...
Trimeric
Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik\ n: a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines and
the last three stanzas have three lines each, with the first line of each repeating the
respective line of the first stanza. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
“Within a room, all wrapped in a comforter of cobwebs and dust, a vacuum full of memories.” Quote by _Poet
Her grandmother's attic she walks into,
Full of cobwebs, dust, and boxes in her view.
Excited of the treasures that have been stored.
Her imagination wanders as she went toward.
Thrilling look, to unexpected findings.
Valuables amid dusty boxes bindings.
Forgotten belongings, waiting to be discovered.
Nostalgic memories what laid inside to be recovered.
She sits in front of a cardboard box with layers of dust.
The word, pictures, written on the side, open she must.
A photo of an old 1939 coupe, grandma
In grandpas embrace, looking at each other in awe.
Another of gramps holding my dad's small hands
As he takes his first steps, watching or his fans.
A spirit of memories that have been lost for years.
Old family photos and love letters brought tears.
A dusty road have I walked,
over the many years I have lived,
seeing many friends along the way,
that is no longer here.
Life passes us by so rapidly,
time does not stand still
for anyone.
Family fading away to
just memories now I have
of most of them.
A dusty road have I walked,
over many years now in the
past. Was my life lived in vain?
Or will I be just a memory
and a name on a tombstone,
to be forgotten along the dusty
road that I walked.
Written 8-8-11