Best Hobos Poems
On this peaceful solitude I stand
A barren golden area trampled by me
Miles and miles and miles I’ve walked
Empty-handed, broken-hearted, mind-numbed
Relentless destiny, you’ve fooled me
I’ve found nothing to fill my hands’ void
Hearts are hobos and souls are minxes
Both have abandoned me in the darkest corner
Thorn me in my chest, you enemy of mine
Sweet me not if a vow of silence I shall take
Fur me at night finger tipped by your presence
Foretell to me like Cassandra would
Remind me not what my ears won’t hear
Minds are jesters and tongues are vipers
Both have taken me under their wings
Like a swallow during its night flight would
Hopeful hope rain down on me
As teardrops of a widow’s mourning
Running across her cheeks
Armful arms, sun on me
As diamonds hanging off a chandelier
Illuminating a ballroom floor
Alas, I wander and wander through Realworld
I’m still searching for what I don’t have
I know one day I’ll reach the moody skies
And kiss the ground of Dreamworld,
Oh silver-lining dream of mine, ever be.
Northern winters harbor harshness.
Freezing confetti and sun lit bottlecap.
Snow angels can never warm the backs
of cinderblock children and gray eyed cats.
Northern winters push the hobbled hobos...toward the equator.
To nibble the candied ribbons of warmth.
Sashay the deer and goldfinch trails.
To pretend they're a white shoed, flower breasted tourist for an afternoon.
Mind flirting with women in thin- pastel skirts.
Comb beaching for shiny dreams...
Making sand dollars.
Even poverty can't deny them this.
Gypsies garbed in colorful robes
fortune tellers on the seaside boardwalk
sneers they get from nonbelievers
“Vagrants,” they call tramps
hobos from Hoboken to Alcatraz
quietly passing the bottle to all in the boxcar
don’t confuse thieves with gypsies and tramps
we can say, “No,” to gypsies and refuse handouts to tramps
the desperate who steal find a new home in jail
*Entry for Lisa’s “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” contest
Some people are of the belief, that teacher come from one place
From a school or university, with degrees all over the wall
Know great big fancy words, recites Shakespeare
With IQ's a mile high, that would put most to a disgrace
When in reality, have no common sense at all
Have read all the books and can pass any test that might appear
Which is all fine and good, but there is a limit to everything
Like a preacher needs to practice what he preaches after a sermon
Like a teacher, should be able to use what he teaches in the field
If they cannot, all that knowledge doesn't mean a thing
Or he did not learn from his lesson
Therefore not much in his overall yield
I have been to a university and have a degree
It is just a piece of paper, not sure where the diploma is at
Vietnam War was going on and seemed like a good thing at the time
It was BS and so was the degree
Their version of ranching did not fit under my cowboy hat
But were ever so happy to take every nickel and dime
My best teacher have been old hobos and old cowboys
The ones that rode the rails and have been on a bronc or two
Knowing quitting time is when the job is done, not punching time clocks
Not saying a word for days at a time of making Saturday night noise
Working with what they had and doing what they had to do
THE REAL PROFFESSORS OF THE SCHOOL OR HARD KNOCKS
Drunken Moon Haiku
smokeless tobacco
seeking light from another
mooching off the sun
loitering in dusk’s
drunken aura of darkness
last call at sunrise
a lone wolf’s farewell
song of life’s broken spirit
hobos serenade
round moon – square window
cold framing whiskey’s wisdom
red cheeked aftermath
John G. Lawless
7/3/2015
written for prompt of DRUNKEN MOON HAIKU
In our neighborhood during the second world war
At the side of each house were a porch and a door.
And, believe it or not, it was always unlocked
When a tradesman or stranger or visitor knocked.
Around dawn men arrived who at doorsteps would lay
All the baked goods and milk patrons needed that day.
And the women would once a week purchased their meat
From the truck of a butcher who stopped on our street.
Before fridges, remembered by we who are old
Was the ice box in kitchens that kept the food cold.
Using tongs, blocks of ice were delivered by men
Who before they had melted would come back again.
Also, door-to-door salesmen would try to persuade
All the wives that their products were best ever made.
And our neighbor would daily come by for a spell
To a recipe share or with gossip to tell.
In the middle of autumn, the coal truck returned
To replenish the piles that the furnace had burned.
Down long chutes made of metal would tumble and roar
Tons of coal that filled bins on our bare cellar floor.
Roving hobos quite often would rap on the door.
Without jobs or a home, they for food would implore.
The depression still lingered, so mothers would feel
Sympathetic and always provided a meal.
And to parents'displeasure, the screen doors would bang
As kids hurried from houses to be with the gang.
We would gather on lots that were vacant to play
Or would wander the countryside nearly all day.
When it rained, on a porch that was covered we'd meet
To with checkers or Clue or Parcheesi compete.
We swapped marbles, pitched pennies, played poker for fun,
And our comic books read till return of the sun.
At the back door we'd weekly the paper boy pay,
And the mail was delivered then two times a day.
If it weren't for the doctor who'd come when we call,
We would never had needed a front door at all.
BOBBY MCGEE - THE POLICE REPORT VERSION
Unemployed and destitute in Baton Rouge
Intending to steal an illegal ride on a train
Feeling tired from too much drink
Bobby sexually allured a truck driver to stop
He took us to New Orleans in the rain
I withdrew my harmonica from my filthy scarf
And played some chords while Bobby sang
For the entire duration of the journey
We lived like hobos from coast to coast
As close croneys and illicit lovers
But she decided (wisely)
To abandon me at Salinas
And try for a more meaningful life
I would (foolishly) exchange my entire future
To return to that past hand-to-mouth existence
And especially the illicit sex with her
Freedom simply means all is lost
“Nothing” itself is valueless, therefore free
Feeling good was an easy option, and that
Seemed sufficient to us both then
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Just a fun piece, written by a devoted fan of
Kristofferson, writer of many great songs.
I have tried to paraphrase the story as closely as possible.
It was a long lonely night at the lumber mill
Just listening to a whippoorwill
In the dark beside a logging road.
I’ve got fifteen cars of timber on my load.
The yard stinks of bleeding sap and cut pine.
Roll on, roll on down the line.
I’ll be on my way before the dawn
Through the bottoms and the swamps.
Before first sun light on the timber lot,
Backwater sloughs and cypress knots.
On rusted rails I’ll be making time
When the horizon winks a thin gold line.
I’ll be rumbling down this long steel track,
Somewhere between porch light and pitch black
While coyotes call out for the night.
My engines will be roaring around the bend
As the night bird’s song comes to an end.
Roll on, morning train, roll on.
Then day break will lay on morning dew,
As the logging town fades out of view.
I’ll give my whistle a blow, blow
To make the farmer’s rooster crow.
By the time the sun has warmed me,
Old men will be drinking their coffee
As I roll through the station.
I ask you leave an open car
For misty eyed hobos and runaways.
Let them know the clotheslines, highways,
And countless telephone poles.
Sunshine and shadows clicking time
Beside the graveyards, grain silos,
And other lonely places.
They’ll be greeted by multitudes of sparrows,
Smiling house wives in their bathrobes,
Unwashed cars and graffiti
Behind the back yards of society.
They’ll find comfort in the rhythm of the day
Beside the dusty dirt roads and alleyways.
Roll on, big freight train, roll on.
It does my heart good thinking of childhood memories
When the only thing that was important were families.
Friends made at a young age have now become old friends.
But the family bonds that were made will never end.
With five brothers, a sister and very colorful parents
We had the ability to stand proud despite our appearance.
We lived south of town, many referred to as the boondocks
Our clothes came from catalogs and never store bought.
Father played guitar and harmonica, quite the music man
Every weekend at our home was gathered a different band.
My love for music came honestly from my dearest Dad
I would fill in playing instruments when no one else was to be had.
Mother had a heart of gold and people all around knew
If you walked in she'd ask, "Would you like a drink or some stew?"
Hobos from the train tracks would wonder to our doorstep
Knowing they'd be fed with hopes my father wouldn't catch.
Exciting were my summers spent with my Grandmother
She chose to take only me and never the others.
Her Irish ways and stern body of healthy stature
Made her a hard soul to understand but I so loved her.
Most of the friends of my parents had many children also
It was a pleasure to see them as they come and go.
My siblings were the only companions with which to play
So when company came over always one child would stay.
The Ohio River had many wondrous things to offer as a child
We would swim, fish or skip stones and then stop for awhile.
All gathered to drink Kool-Aid and eat sandwiches Mom made
Then back to the water and later begging to see who stayed.
Christmas holiday was especially joyous at our home
My parents would scurry to hide toys so not one was shown.
The many toys left by Santa underneath a fresh cut tree
All these warm memories of family are very special to me.
Note: For "Heart's Warmth" contest
As I was peeling this orange it whispered an epiphany
"You must first be taken apart to gain strength..
seek out the purist of storms
dive into the cyclone,
be cleansed be reborn."
I followed the advice of the newly flayed orb
and got what I asked for,
Tracked down that cleansing wind,
In its billion unrecognizable forms
Chased a shattered constellation.
On the edge of starry town.
Cracked thoughts stretching out.
Nibbling wildflower- gathering strength.
Weaving a metal skin made of sun.
Devouring the sweet winter rain...
Life then began with to hum, then a roar.
Soul ignited by spectacular -undefined things.
Star dust of the mind, gathering clarity
Now the bright fields of life flash eternally
It's time to leave the old snakeskin to the weeds.
A new constellation rising into the night sky,
Broken hobos and coyotes dancing in delight.
laughing, cascading so rich in their dreams.
What name shall be given to this infant skin.
This gathering of pristine baby stars?
Stoking The Dream Machine
by Gabriel Magno
the rocking horse stood idle, the tricycle had rusted,
the grown up children had their share, and now are well adjusted.
Virginia mountains’ hollows, filled with dirt poor children playing,
in blue jeans stained with red mud, as grandmas sat crocheting.
the knock-kneed mailman suffers, as he walks through Winter’s blizzards,
the hobos near the railroad track, place bets and race their lizards.
the last train passing through, arrived at noon from Corpus Christi,
with sailors who had made a run, to barrooms serving whisky.
and me I’m passing time, as I try hard in understanding,
how crows atop the mayor’s car, did such a perfect landing.
here comes the ice cream truck, the silver bell is ringing,
the children playing in the park, drag feet to stop their swinging.
In droves the town folks came, to see the tiny tight rope walker,
the ticket seller smiles, as ladies swoon to this fast talker.
the bluebird circles in the air, to gather monarch butterflies,
If this a dream I’m floating in, I hope and pray it never dies.
I sit, think; catch a quick wink as the ship sinks.
My instinct is to lip sync till the slip’s pink.
Can’t win fights when my chin swipes reach only shin height.
And when kin likes taking Schwinn bikes to my wind pipe.
It’s useless. I’m an aloof spruce, I’m fruitless.
The looseness of nooses is becoming a nuisance.
Screw this. Hope has gone the way of the dodos.
I pack my bindle full of beans and hop a train with the hobos.
In a way that lease we broke is a good thing you see
We can travel forever now, it only just set us free
We can see the sights outside the city lights
Come on with me sweetie, we'll soar to new heights
We can go to the ocean and put our toes in the sand
Wish upon the stars and sleep in the Caravan
There are truck stops with pretty good Dinners
Nothing to stop us, unless we get flat tires
I can make some money there playing my guitar solos
We'll keep basically to ourselves and ignore the hobos
I know a interstate highway that runs west
We'll save money bathing as we're dressed
We could lay out and drip dry on the shore
And then never want for anything more
Lets get that sixty two dollars out of the bank
It will be more than enough to fill up the tank
Just you and me against the open road
We can search the beaches for lost gold
Just pack up the van with only our clothes
In no time at all, we'll be smelling like a rose
Both Freddy and Frieda Flea
Had an itch and felt the need
To leave their home on Beagle back
So they packed their bags while Fido napped
They'd heard magical tales of the Big Top
Since their larva days on top the pup
They weren't here this time to clown around
As they found themselves circus bound
They hitched a ride in a hobos beard
Too no telling who knows where
But one thing that is perfectly clear
Both those fleas are outta here
Along the way they purchased needs
In a marketplace made just for fleas
Like underwear and mint toothpaste
Soap on a Rope to wash their face
Plus deodorant, quite a bit
You need a lot of it when you've got 6 pits
The rumor mill can be very mean
Fleas, after all, are fairly clean
After a day of personal shopping
It was all aboard for more beard hopping
Riding that hobo from coast to coast
In this their new hairy chateau
As circuses go they started their own
Advertising on the hobos back cause he never turns around
Over time their acts they've modified
As the flaming hoops set the hobos beard on fire
Now with Freddy as Ring Master and Frieda on trapeze
They are the Greatest Show On Earth, at least among fleas
Good times
Joe does alot of crimes
he robs hobos
He likes to wear a bows
He got beat up by a girl
For trying to steal her perl
Then he tryed robbing a old hag
He got kicked in the punching bag
Joe did some bad things
He likes looking up bad things on bing
Joe is a bad guy
He ate some pie
Then he chocked on it
He was playing super smash bros and he was pit
He dropped his suite case
He began to punch himself in the face
Joe survived with only a few scars
But he no longer steals cars