Best High Noon Poems
Tex’s shadow defines him—cut-out
from the heat haze of Karnak’s quartz,
a scintillating contrast to Egypt’s questing sun.
He slouches among the other black castings of
denser composition mottled with grays,
and Prussian blues, incongruent in a cowboy
hat. This six-gun scenario’s frame
disrupts the crafted precision of
a chiseled arch.
****-kicker, lizard-skinned, boots point
toward the desert’s dunes—death hides.
Needing no words to enjoy a taste of antiquity,
Tex shuffles sighs and takes a draw on
an American cigarette. With a flick of his fingers,
he deposits the butt alongside the others
in the white sand. His contribution
to posterity.
First Published in Spank the Carp Issue 21 2016
Which Cowboy bites dust tomorrow at noon,
Fighting duel to end, to death the tune,
The sun at noon shows no glare,
Bystanders, time of day fair,
Outside the saloon, a hot day in June.
Poetry Competition Entry: HIGH NOON POETRY CONTEST
Sponsor: Joseph May
Date: 07/05/2022
There was an old cowboy named Stumpy
Who's laugh sounded just like a donkey
He smelled like a skunk
High noon he'd get drunk
And then with the ladies got frisky
Cowboys facing off, feet spread wide
One thing in mind, shoot his raw hide
Blast rips, so it seems
Oh no ! freakin' beans
Now all showdowns, are aired outside
High Noon Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
How many syllables 8/8/5/5/8
04/05/22
with six guns hanging
walked in saloon at high noon
outlaws backed their coats
© Joseph, 1/6/07
© All Rights Reserved
Author’s Comments: The traditional Japanese Senryu format has three lines as
follows: the first has five syllables, the second seven syllables, and the third five
syllables. The pattern is 5/7/5 for a total of seventeen syllables. The Senryu is
about an emotional expression and things in general.
This classic Western, stars Gary Cooper as Will Kane, a newly married man whose wife is a Quaker pacifist. The murderer-outlaw is coming into town at noon to kill his nemesis.
High Noon
/////ll\\\\\\
The whistle of the train, threats coming soon.
Kane’s courage off the track on honeymoon.
The church, filled with chickens.
Kane’s alone - plot thickens.
Outlaw avoided noose, now dies, at noon.
5/7/2022
High Noon
Sponsor: Joseph May
10/10/6/6/10
HMS and Rhymezone
The western days said hang them at noon Why not morning or night by the moon Did wrong you were put in jail You had no e-mail Jail life was bad~you wanted out soon.
Date Written: 5/2/0222
A washed-up Bank robber named Big Dale
Tried to rob bank, near county of vale
He didn’t move as quick
Got hit with a stick
Lawman got word, closed fast on his trail
05/03/2022
Contest: High Noon
Sponsor: Joseph May
High Noon in Downtown Chicago
St. Peter's in the Loop
Two minutes more, Father Cal,
and you will hear another
of my strange confessions.
Right now, I'm outside
watching the rain on my glasses
running in rills.
Once inside I'll confess
the usual stuff
with a few variations,
none essential,
all accidental,
the same plot,
the same ploys,
the same frenetic tale
I have always to tell.
Next week, I promise,
it will be different.
Next week, I promise
I'll fall on the kneeler
and whisper
through the grille,
"Father Cal, it is I.
You know the rest."
Next week, I won't make
another list in the diner
across from St. Peter's.
Next week I'll swig
on a milkshake instead.
Father Cal, you and I
will both profit.
Donal Mahoney
The two men stood in the dusty street,
it was inevitable that they should meet,
suddenly one of them slumped to his knees,
justice had provided one of life' s certainties.
The Marshal strode towards his adversary,
kicked the gun on the ground away slowly,
I went to a party and met a Chinese lady
who phonetically was called High Noon.
She joked about Clark Gable but I told her
that actually it was Gary Cooper, who
recenty had been given a lifetime achievement
award for being such a great trooper.
We met again and so I asked her 'how?'
I said that it must be nearly two o ' clock by now.
It came to pass that in Bethlehem, Judah
God sent a famine with problems most severe.
Mother Naomi and her three men maneuver
to strike out in sync, to leave their home sphere.
Death by starvation was, of course, their main fear.
It came to pass that in Moab, fate won their heart.
Naomi’s two sons took on wives fairly soon.
But, Death by disease broke this family apart;
all three husbands were struck by its sudden harpoon.
One young wife named Ruth had met her high noon.
It came to pass that three women in limbo
made the choice of their lives, likely unhurried.
Our hero, Ruth, the poet, put things in tempo -
“Entreat me not to leave you,” Ruth was worried
for Naomi. “Where you die, I will be buried.”
It has come to pass that over time, well-known phrase,
“Entreat me not to leave you,” which Ruth composed
has become a mantra for those put face to face.
May it never lose the proviso Ruth proposed -
“Your God, my God!” a standard upheld, unopposed.
High Noon Antics
High noon, the time was set upon this arid, sultry day
The guns would set against the other, quick-draw style
In speedy rivalry and bid to have their final say
With keen eyed rapid movement versatile
This Western town could not contain two greats
Fanned were the flames of liquor and land dispute
Thus one would remain, the other to a deathly fate
In quick draw fashion and concluding shoot
The saloon doors yield to the spurred and booted big boys
Holstered guns secured against their denim hips
They walk out with swaggered gait and angry poise
Out from the quieted hub bub of secure sealed lip
A spitting sandy cloud cause tumbleweeds to roll
Across the vacant lot betwixt a row of phantom, cardboard houses
Where twitchy curtains hang, but of people, not a soul
They count the paces for the big encounter
Ten honest steps with one determined turn
And steel eyed stares that cross the shaky divide
With hands that hover o’er the fire arm unconcerned
Now sudden moves determine who might live
Discharged the flash of solar weaponry betwixt the gap
A groan from somewhere denotes a direct hit
On crumpled knees the gun relinquishes its grasp
Now prone upon the dusty earth, a final moan emitted
He took the bullet between the eyes by one more precise
The other just grazed upon the arm, remains unfazed
Blowing smoke from his gun, he revels in the others demise
Only room for one here, he removes his gaze
Tis the late June day
Which bring flocks
Their subconscious intentions
Obfuscated by the lingering dimensions
Flaccid ideals and breezes
Traversing gingerly through
The ancient elms
Seeded by the pulps of history
They pray, with each scrape
Of their prescient footsteps
For the sparkle, the brilliance
Those ghostly matters provide in perpetuity
The heat emanating from yearnings
Executed by minute's drive
From understandings siloed
In the labyrinth of mind's eye and virtue
Bless us, grand tome
Executor of fine minds and savages
Vanquish, release us into the
Banal confines heretofore begging
To improve and congeal
For the worlds remote
Need the godliness
The opaque permissive rain
Quenching thought to act
Towards probable endings
Splendid imperatives
Preserved for those
Who wish to partake.
(6/24/08)
squirrels quarrelling
a large scurry going nuts
shells land everywhere
A STRAND (1065) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
PS 5/7/5
02/03/22
Winter’s High Noon Tease
Shinning in regal glory,
the heat of the sun was cooled down
by misty winds sneaking through
and passing around
outstretched arms
of naked winter trees—leaves gone
to who knows where.
Stunned by it all, we stood there;
goose bumped and shivering.
The trees also stood there—stone faces
of leafless wooden skeletons—
mocking a juxtaposed purgatorial
moment in nature.
Cold, confused and conquered,
we wrapped the remaining warmth
of our chilled, chided challenge
in woven scarves of defeat;
and with great urgency, we scurried inside:
seeking our homemade heat.