Best Historyold Poems
When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone,
They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday,
In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray.
I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years.
I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers,
Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end,
Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men.
Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame,
But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name.
Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone,
Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone.
The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed
And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade.
From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men
To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again.
A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair,
For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there.
And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade,
The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid.
I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe.
I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue.
Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way,
Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday.
Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will,
That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still;
When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone
And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
Now this is quiet a famous little stream, many untold story
The muddy waters run slow, but don't let it fool you when it comes alive
Divides the United States and Mexico, but it is just a line
Old Cottonwood trees and quick sand, some cross it for glory
A history of out laws crossed it fleeing into Mexico, some did not survive
Maybe holding up a bank or stealing from a gold mine
Long yesterdays ago, Pancho Villa and his raiders came
They robbed and killed, then head back to their sanctuary
Some though him to be a hero, to the poor he was a giver
He was an out law, that is where he got his fame
Even today there are those that will argue to the contrary
After he did his damage, he always crossed that river
Those muddy waters have seen a lot and still active
It has been a battle ground, many old cowboy songs sung
But like history, the old river changes too
Sometimes history is not very attractive
Those cottonwoods have seen many horse and cow thieves hung
Back in those days that what they had to do
The tides of the old river have changed. smugglers bring drugs to this side
No longer six shooters, it is machine guns now days
No more cowboys and Indians, now cocaine desperado thugs
Anything goes there, no such thing as pride
And the old river once again has had to change it's ways
It is all because of damn old drugs
Form:
(Charles II after the battle of Worcester, 1651)
They spur their horses from the bloody field,
the battle lost – a story old as time –
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate is sealed
in common soil. And still the church-bells chime.
They spur their horses from the bloody field,
with Roundheads hunting King for every crime
of office and religion. Must he yield
his head now, like his father, in his prime?
His followers will see he’s well concealed.
The battle lost (a story old as time),
the head of state about to be Bastilled –
but no. Just puzzle out this pantomime:
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate not sealed.
They make him peasant, royal face begrime
and so obscured, you see the crown revealed
in common soil. As all the church-bells chime,
they spur their horses from the bloody field,
the battle lost – a story old as time –
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate now sealed
in common soil. And still the church-bells chime.
At the VFW Post in Buang, Philippines they know Macarthur
Staggering off then
Swaggering back onto
These Philippines Islands and the
Wail of Hirohito
Drowning in chorus with the headsman’s gush of
Bloodstained tears
Upon the occasion
Of Bataan
Remembered.
Then in repose off old Mactan, there still smiles
Lapu Lapu in his
Billion particles
Drifting a sea to the
Portuguese dance of
Forgotten melodies while
Sugarcane hills
Rise in symphony for Jose Rizal and the
Three hundred and some odd year smoldering hue of
Senior Legazpi
Clutching the
Sunrise brilliant over
Manila
Gleaming.
For the sand still whispers to the
Prodigal bow of
Yamashita’s gunboat and the
Mindanao lair of two old samurai
Forever glistening in the jungle deep as
God’s Perfection crescendos to the
Indefatigable,
Invincible,
Infinitely indelible thought that
Battle,
Broken in all man can make,
Fades
Forever.
So when does Empire reek
It’s savage
On the splendid meek
In lands long gotten over
Purchased souls as the
Old boys
Master around
Three dollar specials and the
Endless clink of San Miguels join
Hank Williams in an aging jukebox
Carefully laid for one night,
When all the glories of a thousand years are
Wonderfully recited in an
Afternoon when a
Sunglass wearing,
Corn-cob pipe-smoking,
“Look at me now” presence of a
Gangly man
Dashed ashore in the
Post mortem swelter of a
Gallant soldier’s
Passing?
September 2009 Jeff Troyer
In the old days of covered wagons, they were part of the Old West
Called them "Smithy's" back then, don't see them around much anymore
Swinging a big hammer down on an anvil, sparks would fly
Red hot iron from the burning coals of the forge, ready for the test
Shape a horseshoe or build a hinge for The General Store door
An old tradition that time has passed by
Ran the Livrery Stable in every town, a horse hotel for the night
Hay, oats and a drink of water, sometimes a cowboy would sleep there
Back breaking work for little pay, but a job done well
Next day shoe a horse or make a wagon wheel right
Most were strong and stout, would fight a grizzly bear
Work all day, sometimes when there was no Sun
Many joined the Army, when horse were the fleet
Several at every fort, shoeing for the Calvary
Because every soldier needed to ride and needed a mount
Fighting Indians or nailing iron on horse's feet
But those were their orders from the Army
After awhile it did not matter any, they would soon loose count
Times have changed, progress and new inventions are on the scene
And the old Blacksmith shops are gone, the forge and banging sound
The anvil, two pieces of hot molting welded to each other
This was the way it was told on The Silver Screen
But there are still some of them around
Changed their name, now they are called a Farrier
Form:
Tram stops Old lady asks "Am I twirly?"
Conductor looks up tram and shakes his head
On she gets and on we go
As a young lad on the way to school
I often wondered how old one had to be
To be Twirly
Three stops on the way were always empty
Three stops in a row
Trams all stopped
The area was bombed out
No complete houses stood
No one ever asked why they stopped
It made me proud to ride
With folks like that
Twirly or not
You no longer see them around, faded into history
Every town had one, had everything under the Sun
Well for that time anyway
The Ma and Pa type, they all had a story
It was a place for general fun
Some even did business on Sunday
Polished hard wood floor, sawdust scattered all around
Big wooden barrel full of peanuts, throw the shell on the floor
No charge, cause they were free
A place where the lost could be free
There was always a welcome mat outside the front door
Out house round back if you had to pee
The butcher, bag boy and counter man were all one
The ladies would leave their shopping list, come back later
He always wore a long white apron, white shirt and tie
He never quit until all the work was done
Free jaw breakers for the kids, throw in an extra tater
He could tell some tales, but never told a lie
Big pot bellied wood burnin stove, always a pot of coffee brewin
Where old timers could sit, whittle and spit
So they knew who was coming in the front door
Everybody knew what everybody was doing
Always spic and span, don't worry about a little grit
The Old General Store, they don't make them like that anymore
Form:
She was a wily cigar chompin' gambler with the moniker of Poker Alice,
Renowned throughout the west for her skill in many a gamblin' palace!
Poker Alice had a good head for countin' and with her very cunnin' guile,
(Plus her beauty), she mesmerized her opponents, amassin' quite a pile!
Poker Alice worked in saloons across the west as a faro and poker dealer.
She worked in Creede, Colorado for Bob Ford, that notorious stealer!
Because of her pious rearin' as a girl, she refused to work on Sundays,
But she was back smokin' a two-dollar stogie and dealin' cards on Mondays!
She drifted to Deadwood, South Dakota, where her notoriety was well known,
And married a house painter named Tubbs who was a deft gambler on his own!
Later she established a brothel near Fort Mead Army Post with her ill-gotten gain.
The place was small and she needed funds to fix the 'house' on Pleasure Lane!
To expand and recruit 'soiled doves' from Kansas City she applied for a loan.
The banker scratched his skull sayin', "I dunno! That's a risk into the unknown!"
She convinced him notin' that The Grand Old Army had an encampment near,
And for the soldiers' bent for visitin' hog ranches, he had nothin' at all to fear!
Things didn't go well since she plumb forgot The Methodist Preachers' Convention,
Convened each and every year and she hadn't figured on that intervention!
Poker Alice's fame and notoriety followed her well beyond her wanin' years.
She died after a gall bladder operation with her 'house' payments in arrears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Don Johnson's " Your Old Ballad Or Rhyme - Best Of All Time" Contest
July 2011
George Washington an Old Fuddy-Duddy?
By Elton Camp
What image of Washington comes to mind?
In with your money is the one you will find
Right there George is, on the one-dollar bill
And looking humorless, old and extremely ill
No worse portrait could anyone possibly pick
It is showing a man who is aged, ugly and sick
Some fuddy-duddy is just what he appears to be
But that image of him is wrong, as we will see
Most of what we know of him is really incorrect
Now Parson Weem’s lies we’ve come to detect
“George Washington couldn’t possibly tell a lie
No matter if he wanted to, there’s no need to try.”
The parson told us about the chopped cherry tree
That story is just as false as it can possibly be
The Founding Father had traits good and bad
So, exaggeration and lies there’s no need to add
Handsome as a young man as well as quite tall
In a group of men, he towered above them all
In picking a wife, Washington really did excel
Martha was so pretty and also very rich as well
A young army officer, he was ambitious & bold
But not always successful, if the truth be told
Washington lost far more battles than he won
The Fort Necessity surrender surely wasn’t fun
That record didn’t stop his advancement, of course
He became commander of the Revolutionary force
Rather than hole up in a mansion in some big town,
Living with the troops with his wife he was found
After founding a country, he did an amazing thing
By serving as leader, but wouldn’t become a king
After two terms, the presidency George did yield
Return to Mt. Vernon & manage his land and field
Perhaps an amazing fact most folks will now find
Part of his living was from the making of moonshine
How does this fit with all the stuff we’ve been told
About the grim-looking guy inside your billfold?
Another thing about him that gives him greater charm
Washington introduced the mule to the American farm
He was the first president who could be considered green
To him, the advantages of manure as fertilizer was seen
Those Washington stories are enough to make one quiver
Like him throwing a silver dollar across the Potomac River
So no old fuddy-duddy was he or did he ever come to be
It’s that awful dollar bill picture that in our minds we see
Continued From:
3. Quien es?" "Who is it?" Part 3
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195853
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"I find it very hard that I should be the only one to suffer the most extreme penalties of the
law." - BILLY the Kid
- In an interview while on route to his execution in Lincoln County New Mexico where he was
sentenced to be hanged.
Back then it didn't matter who was right or wrong.
What mattered was who had the fastest gun.
The untamed Old West lived by a code back then. "I'll Die Before I Run."
An 18 year old boy wanders into town. All of the locals stare the young stranger down.
All of his instincts tell him to turn around, but he can't turn his back and run.
The youngster can't afford any fear. The kid's found himself much needed work here,
but the competition's greed is ruthless. That's why he wears a gun.
Young William Bonney was just another cowboy
looking for work to earn an honest day's pay.
He rode into Lincoln County, New Mexico as a simple hired rancher's hand,
but he'd ride out to become a legend one day.
Today he's America's most famous bad boy,
but he left us more legend than fact of all he did.
His legend continues to live on in stories, movies, books and song.
Who hasn't heard of BILLY the Kid?
BILLY the Kid's life of crime for many it seems
has been greatly exaggerated to the extremes.
He never robbed a bank, stagecoach or train.
He never harmed an innocent for pleasure or financial gain.
He was just a common stock thief. He'd steal horses and cattle
from corrupt, rich Cattle Barons who'd respond in bloody battle.
It was a lifestyle that Billy truly didn't desire,
but when your wanted by the law employers don't hire.
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To Continue Go To:
5. Billy, the Kid Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195851
I see black people detaching themselves
From their roots
Burrying the truth that once lived
On the miners boots
I see the black youth leaving school
Thinking , damn we’re so cool
Yet they die too soon.
I see red tears flowing out of old black women’s eyes,
They can’t do anything
but cry.
I see black women evolving hate in this hopeless state
Trying to concentrate on giving love
But the one they get
In return is fake.
I see old black women
re-teaching their children how to love and care
but everytime they try
its like they shoot themselves
in the heart with a bullet of fear.
I see black people detaching themselves
From the truth......
Forgetting their ancestors roots.
By. Chris Ngomane
Form:
In Southern Arizona, there is an old cave
A history, does it have a story to tell
More than a hole in a mountain
For many a outlaw it was their grave
Years before the Indians lived there as well
Protected by thorns of the Prickly Pear, that is for certain
Bank and train robber, hid their stolen stash there
Cool their heel and hide from the law
No doubt, that many were shot in the back
Out of greed, in their outlaw lair
Living by their law
Cochise and Geronimo, also left their track
"La Posta Quemada", a cattle ranch it later became
Where cowboys would ride
The mountain was steep and mean, cactus galore
"The Burning Post", by the White man;s name
The thorns would rip the horse's and cattle's hide
And the cave with all it had to store
The old steer would go to the top and hide
Would stay there for years and never come down
To gather them was a cowboy's living Hell
For the horse's armor, around his chest would be wet rawhide
From he cactus thorns and the steer were found
Yes, old Colossal Cave does have a story to tell
Form:
Tick tock, tick tock,
strikes the old clock.
Boom, boom, boom!
roar the sounds of cannons.
Roll, humanity's ship, roll,
cast your net, drag the troll.
Unending curse of history
marches to the same folly.
Tick tock, tick tock,
strikes the old clock.
Boom, boom, boom!
roar the sounds of cannons.
Time slips away, drifting by,
same ending, innocents die!
It rests 'neath spreading sycamores on the small-town square,
A venerable old relic of the Civil War affair.
The sun casts a fleeting glint as it rises anew each dawn,
On the brass barrel of the cannon on the court house lawn.
Oft' on languid summer days I like to pause and muse,
About its past and the brave men who once comprised its crews.
Tho' long silent it still has a powerful story to tell,
As in the heat of battle it spewed its shot and shell.
I wonder where and by whose skilled hands it was made.
Did Johnny Reb or Billy Yank light the fuse for its grenade?
Was it present at Gettysburg, repelling with deadly barrage,
The cavalry of General Pickett's daring but fatal charge?
I proudly recall that my great-grandpa was in the artillery.
Could he have manned it at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee?
Did it accompany General Sherman on his march toward the sea?
Did it witness the surrender to Grant at Appomattox by Lee?
Little children now happily scamper on this stately old piece,
That fought for the North or South and saw the battles' cease.
Old soldiers with far away stares recall its flaming roar,
Watch the children play and silently pray, "No more war!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The Star Spangled Banner gently undulates o'er this noble nation,
The symbol of freedom since this country's turbulent creation.
Though trampled upon and debased by many around the earth,
The flag has become a beacon of hope since the moment of its birth!
On June 14, 1777, The Congress adopted the flag of our nation,
With thirteen stars and stripes representing a new constellation!
Valiant patriots from that genesis down to this very day,
Paid the price upholding the flag and liberties we enjoy today.
O'er many decades, gallant soldiers clashed in awful strife,
In Civil War and upon foreign soil defending our way of life.
Midst the throes of battle and clouds of billowing smoke,
Eyes e'er on that tattered banner, their ranks never broke!
The grand old flag is proudly carried in small town parade,
And from courthouse spires it is prominently displayed.
In the local cemetery, tiny flags decorate a hero's grave,
To honor him for the sacrifices he so unselfishly gave.
The final tribute for which Old Glory is displayed,
Is to blanket the bier upon which honored heroes are laid.
The clarion notes of "Taps" wafts hauntingly through the air,
As faithful warriors are committed to His tender and loving care.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)