Best Gunny Sack Poems
Blue-checkered curtains are faded and drawn,..
after the years since she made them from gunny-sack cloth
The Singer, long idle, now gathers more dust,
with its needle still threaded and the treadle at rest
As I clear out the room, I think of long hours
of foot-peddled power, and strength in her soul.
She would unroll the fabric of roses and flowers,
with determined resilience in dark circled eyes.
But prudence, endurance, would salvage a way
Abandoned and left in a sea of lost dreams
She picked up the pieces, of patterns and hems
Making a living, and raising her kin,
didn't come easy, but she had to win
A life left unraveled, she must sew up again.
Working past midnight. Spindles would spin. Somehow rekindled
to live once again.
Making ends meet. Selvedge edges and hems
Sowing her heart, sowing her skill, and sowing her soul
Sewn together again
______________________________________________________
4/20/18
Ambling thro' the museum today an object caught my eye,
Inviting me to pause and reminisce about a time gone by.
'Twas an old oaken icebox standing there on display.
That ancient relic served as the family refrigerator in its day.
I recollected that we had one like it when I was a tyke,
Growing up on the Hoosier farm on fabled Farmer's Pike.
It cooled the milk and cream and butter that Mom made,
To spread on fresh-baked bread with a tad of marmalade!
What a refreshing sight on a sweltering summer's day,
To see the iceman's truck slowly meandering our way,
Along Farmer's Pike, crystal-clear ice stacked on the truck,
And anticipating a sliver of ice to chomp on and suck!
Mom put a card in the window to show the amount of ice required.
The iceman took note of this and delivered the ice desired.
He'd carry a hundred-pound block of ice on his burly back,
As nonchalantly as if toting feathers in a gunny sack!
Iceboxes served their purpose and in museums they now repose.
Once in awhile you'll find them at flea-markets and antique shows.
Fancy refrigerators now cool the grub and make the ice.
The iceman's logo I yet recall, "Iceman's Ice Is Twice As Nice!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
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
Form:
Born here girl, I swear I’m never coming back,
Too light town got lost beside a railroad track,
Rhythm of the rails inside my gunny sack,
There may be no cure for what it is I lack,
Promises to be my nymphomaniac,
Sugar pills can’t cure the pain of lumberjack,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Where I’m going girl you cannot come along,
Barely have the room for even Country song,
Never really meant to ever treat you wrong,
Though this may seem mean I ain’t no Vietcong,
Trying hard to never be your enemy,
Truth just isn’t always what we want to see,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Trains just keep on rollin’ don’t care what they do,
Following steel ribbons till the day is thru,
Hope I can do better choosing my guru,
Life can sometimes steer us down wrong avenue,
Still a song could be the way to set things right,
Music that comes on to me without a fight,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Homeless boy just singing what he feels inside,
I ain’t asking no one to give me a ride,
Not too proud to make use of a coming tide,
Don’t give a rat’s ass for life that’s amplified,
No need to extoll a lie that’s right for you,
Caring for my own is all I need to do,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Brian Johnston
June 5, 2015
A barefoot boy on an old dirt road
Kicking dust up as he went
His lips all puckered, whistling a tune
He was happy and content
He carried a bucket by the bail
Had a cane pole on his back
And under his arm, all wrapped up tight
Was a burlap gunny sack
“Where are you going with all that stuff?”
I asked as he skipped on by
“I’m headed down to the Jack-Knife Creek
To catch Crawdads for a pie”
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXII
for Carlos Bousoño, the eminent Spanish critic, poet and professor
who maintained that if you don't like the "humorist",
you're not likely to find much to laugh at in/with his (sense of) "humour"
IF ever I had a country, a country where every TOM-Cat, Dirty-DICK and Royal HARRY wrote what his fellows called POESY
And if ever I were the only SON of a GUNny Sack-Bag incapable of pouting lines to an astronomically non-sensical degree
And as punishment thereof - sans appeal - if I were to be appointed by the Supreme Inter-Galactico-Cosmo-IL-logical Council of the Arbiters of Tyrannic Taste the one and only ARBITER and JURY
And should my fellow-poets ever so much as utter or let escape a squeak on, relating to or about what they cook-up as stew or porridge of
un-hermeneutical ETERNAL VERITIES which they print publish post (ne’er you mind: plagiarize) and/or pander to their pridefully painted images potpourri
I would first and foremost issue an EDICT - nay, even a DECREE - to CONFINE each and every one of my bumble-bee constantly buzzing comrade BARDS, purveyors and promotors of mutually unintelligible verse within their own ivory PENTHOUSES of phantasmagorical (a)musings
under pain of summary banishment - should they ever so much as "peine in poiein » - to the GREAT ATTRACTOR WALL of GALAXIES and so be it, I pray thee
And this, even if I were to be confined to my very own solitary dungeon and be condemned to listen to - against my will, day and night, for ever and ever - the ethereally soul-uplifting poutings of the Poetasters of Isphahan in their wordy giddy swirls of SUFI
And even if I never ever had no country where POETRY had need of mutually EGO-BOOSTING commentary
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 5, 2020
My Boyfriend is, the Cat’s Meow, a Fat Cat.
He stays Busy as a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, think of that..
He says the way I look is like: “Two Tom Cats in a Gunny Sack”.
It’s Raining Cats and Dogs but we need a snack.
We were Busier Than a Three Legged Cat in a Sand Box,
but I opted to go for Bagels and Locks.
He Was On That Like a Pack of Dogs on a Three Legged Cat.
I kept thinking While the Cat’s Away the Mice Will Play.
When I got back he Looked Like the Cat who Swallowed the Canary,
He was Nervous as a Long Tailed Cat in a Room Full of Rockers.
Well, There’s More Ways to Kill a Cat than Choking it With Butter.
I got him busier than a One Eyed Cat Watching Two Mouse Holes.
Cat Got Your Tongue? I cooly extol.
When he finally Lets the Cat Out of the Bag,
I tell him to take his Alley Cat Morals and Scruples of a Snake,
and Quick as a Cat, vacate, don’t lag.
Take that Cheshire-Cat Smile and Walk His Last Mile.
© Apr 10 2010
The storm clouds came rolling in across the autumn sky,
I was moved to dig a hole but didn’t know just why.
And as I finished squarin’ up the hole the rain came pouring down,
If someone were to fall in it there’s chance that they could drown.
Just about then an Indian on a horse approached me from the back,
The brave promised me a ten dollar coin if I’d bury his gunny sack.
What’s in the gunny? I asked of him before reaching for the coin,
The face he made was just as if I’d kicked him in his tender loin.
He hesitated for a minute and then said that it was totem pole,
He told me that it would fit perfectly inside my fresh dug hole.
It didn’t take me long to take the deal the hardest part was done,
I’d cover it up then ride into town for ten dollars worth of fun.
Then he lit out like a man possessed and it made me stop to think,
And his ghostly howls as he rode away made me thirsty for a drink?
So I looked inside the gunny sack and understood why I’d dug a grave,
Because the totem that I found inside was the body of the brave.
I thought I had gotten away from this part of my childhood,
but I turned at lettuce and ran into my cousin Linden
in the grocery store last Thursday.
He was delighted and dragged me back to their house
to observe more of their childish games.
Unlike in the movies where they pop a gunny sack over your head
and capture you,
Linden enticed me in a different whole-hearted way that made me
want to be dragged back into their drama.
With methodical guilt that appealed to
my niceness, and the reminder we are “blood” after all,
my notoriously personable
first cousin coaxed me back into his brother Tweedle-Man’s troubled waters.
I sat mesmerized, watching them do all the stuff they used to do,
when we were kids, only harder and meaner.
This used to be my circus, but I had long ago given up the three rings.
They are going on sixty, acting twenty-two, proud of their inflexibility,
and retention of youth.
I admire their eagerness to never change things
that have never in any way worked for them.
They valiantly hang on to a selfish life that has
never created a fulfillment for either of them, and has helped no one.
I resign myself to the socialized fact
That for a few more hours I will sit here,
pretending politeness. I do not exchange phone numbers or tell
them where I am living or with whom.
They do not care. It is all about them.
The ringmaster and the clown.
It would be an inconvenience for them to reach out again.
They are too inebriated and too high in other ways to find me again
Or even remember who I am or that I still exist.
I sit patiently a few more minutes.
Waiting for them to bring on the dancing bears.
Tweedle-man is wearing oversized glasses that light up. “Funny huh?”
Linden falls off the couch, laughing maniacally.
Just a few more minutes…
Written 3-17-2019
Contest: Bring on the Dancing Bears
Sponsor: John Lawless
Burlap and satin went to the dance
It was held at the old Fisher Barn
Burlap wore a fine Gunny sack
Adorned with a drawstring of yarn
Satin sported a shimmery weave
Trimmed with buttons of gold
The glossy attire was flawless
And was quite a sight to behold
Burlap took satin by the hand
And together they started to dance
When a stray strand of jute, caught satin’s suit
Burlap did not stand a chance.
Apologies followed
But the damage was done
Satins glossy ensemble
Had a permanent run.
Their dance quickly ended
Burlap was not Satins ilk
Burlap tangoed with Hemp
Satin went home with silk.
The moral of the story
And a material fact
Not all fabrics blend
Despite how they act
3/21/2018
Yesterday the sun rose slowly
Over the lake glimmering glistening, quietly,
The calm wind took a wink at the blue jay softly
Flying over the fragrant pine trees and allowed the sun to
Burn in the summer morning, whispering, recreation sport, let’s play today.
The clicking of the gentle waves ruffle the boat’s port side,
Loading onto the vessel from the warm wooden dock,
Launched us slowly into the azure blue water,
With sleepy dreaming heads bobbing above color splashing
Forward, outward red, yellow, blue life jackets; and hats.
Slow no-wake quietly moving past the watcher,
Into the blue water beyond where fish jump,
Engine throttling up the only sound, shooting
Faster further, the red and yellow tent camp under our
Flag beacons, I’ll be here upon your return.
Sun water skis upon the feet water underneath motion moving
Forward the rope pulls and the boat goes in the
Directed direction; yesterday.
Summer in the sun thrilling eyes
Going to amusement parks hosting family
Son, daughter, wife, relative, park comfort
Blasting sparks sphere circle color 4th of July
Big bangs and our little one’s hands on ears
With a smile.
Going west State Fair where monster size slide
Striped color hosts gunny sack riders
With sweetheart and daughter zipping down
Together on hills zipping sliding, little one says
Some screams on each crest all the way down
To waiting loved ones, daddy, who hear from a little mouth
Let’s go again.
Laughing, wow, the slide is one that’s liked; yesterday.
Today the sun rose slowly
Beaming another summer morning
On the green grass lush and tall stepping with the mower,
Rays filtering through the solarium
And a new solar month shoots forth a solar flare.
Today the sun rose slowly
Over the majestic rugged mountains to shine a
Summer welcome and to say, come on recreation sport, you’re
Still never too old to play, today.
There are many kinds of wars some make you die some make you cry
when your far away suffused in gunpowder, you learn to live and lie
A red letter day arrived, their baby was born blue, cold and stillborn
he sat in the bunker away from atomic blasts grief soaked and forlorn
Jim walked in and released his gunny sack " dam the war " what you got
stoic and in shock he wheezed, coughed took a drag of cigarette, wot?
There are many kinds of wars, some make you die some make you cry
today was not a day for tears, with a mendacious smile he prayed to die .
July 20, 2022
Sponsor Faraz Ajmal
Contest Name Tears of a Valiant Soldier
A gunny sack was full of bleached skulls.
What now ? Do I attend the auction
of mortal wounds in hidden valley of dust ?
The arsenal of seductive weapons was a snub
to your culture when the fall of extremes
was overlapping the sunset of empire.
I am going to take my walk in the hell of fire
raging in petunias. The emotions are becoming
volatile after the rape of a child. Is there any
medicine for rape ? Nowhere on earth, the violence
stops moving shirtless. The dead century hangs
from the eyelashes, traces the dried up tears.
Some people think, bricks are weightier than
truth. They burn the buses under a weeping
willow. A high caste god will not glaze beyond
the frozen lake of crutches. Belongings on a
striped road vanish in books. A hate gift
drops on tulips.
SATISH VERMA
MAN
My eyes are puffed and wrinkled
And I have a triple chin.
My hair, with grey, is sprinkled
And, in parts, has grown quite thin.
My stomach is extending
And where once was a six pack
There’s no use in my pretending,
It’s more of a gunny sack.
My legs are now as thin as canes
With nuggets at the knees
And smoky blue protruding veins
Like gorgonzola cheese.
And yet my time’s so quickly fled
That I still can’t quite see why
That young girl didn’t turn her head
As I went swaggering by.
And it still pains to discover
That the young women I fancy, rather
Than see me as a potential lover
See me as a second father.
But I’ll not be daunted by time’s meanness
While I still have in my life
That chubby, saggy-breasted Venus
Who agreed to be my wife.
WIFE
My eyes are puffed and wrinkled.
I’ve liver spots on my skin
My hair with grey is sprinkled
And I’ve grown another chin.
My waist is twice its former size
(It was once so sleek and svelte)
And the breasts that once could poke out eyes
Are now tucked into my belt.
My legs are now as thick as trees
With ghastly veins of blue
And mighty dimples at the knees
Hiding my toes from view.
And yet my time’s so quickly fled
That I still can’t quite see why
That young man didn’t turn his head
As I went swinging by
And I still get drunk and try to flirt
With young men who feel harassed
But the alcohol can’t numb the hurt
When they turn away embarrassed.
But all of this amounts to zero
Since my life’s been made complete
By the balding pot-bellied hero
Who swept me off my feet.
Her confidence introduced her by walking into every room first.
Wearing lipstick and eye shadow like Barbra Streisand’s from the sixties.
It would have looked ridiculous on all the rest of us.
We would have looked like trailer trash hookers.
On her, it looked elegant, lovely, unique, and chic.
She could have walked in wearing a gunny sack
And we would have all run out to buy our own.
Sure there were haters, but she did not notice.
She was too busy engaging others in conversation.
The lucky ones who were too busy staring at her beauty to hate her.