Best Livery Poems
It was now growing dark as the sun was going down
When a stranger rode into Soup Creek, a frontier town
No one could see his face, he was all dressed in black
An old boy was heard to say "I think he's come back".
He took his horse to the stable, then went to the boarding house
Before he went in looked across the street, to the town jailhouse
There was a familiar figure sat outside, in a rocking chair
Cradling a Winchester and the stranger, felt his cold stare.
He'd returned after all these years; he had something to prove
And just after a few days back in town, he would make his move
But Sheriff Koplin is no fool and he had planned up far ahead
And had formed a posse whilst the stranger slept in his bed.
Three fiesty girls from the saloon, Jan and Jenna, Tania too
And a Texas ranger called David who was just passing through
With gambler Milton who was deadly, with a colt forty five
And Tom the undertaker who looked more dead than alive.
It was the evening of the showdown; the stranger came out of the saloon
The sun was now setting but the tension had been building up since noon
From his holster he withdrew his pistol and then fired shots up into the air
The stranger was not one for living a peaceful life and he just didn't care.
Sheriff Koplin approached him and said "Hand over your gun"
And the stranger replied "Lighten up man, I'm just having fun"
The stranger was laughing now and looking down at his feet
The townsfolk were nervous and had disappeared off the street.
Then behind the stranger came a shout in a loud Texas drawl
It was Jenna disguised as an old woman, covered with a shawl
"You heard the sheriff " she shouted, "Put your gun on the ground"
The air was now thick with tension and you couldn't hear a sound.
Then from nowhere the rest of the posse appeared pistols in hand
They abhorred bullies and conflict and were prepared to make a stand
The stranger realised he couldn't win and threw his gun down
Walked to the livery stable to get his horse, and rode out of town.
The drama was now over but it could have gone either way
Sheriff Koplin and his posse restored peace, and had won the day
It was now days end in Soup Creek in that peaceful frontier town
All you could hear were chirping crickets as the sun was going down.
Written on 20th May 2022.
With a fresh cup of coffee, I stepped outside to have a peek.
It was another peaceful morning, in the valley around Soup Creek.
I caught the glint of a Winchester, a model ninety-four.
It was across the lap of Jenna, just outside the saloon door.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jan sneaking to the loo.
I could hear her spurs were jingling as she went to take a poo.
In the saloon I heard some laughter, it was Milt just having fun.
At a table dealing stud, a gamblers game is never done.
At the other end of the street, there stood Tania with watchful eyes.
With a pistol on each hip, she was ready for any surprise.
Down by the livery stable was a Texas ranger by the name of Dave.
He was looking for our mayor, who he thought was digging a grave.
There was a rumor of riders coming, and the Creek might be in a bind.
He searched both high and low, but sir Tom he could not find.
Ten miles south of town, with graves dug all around.
Tom had stopped these riders and saved our hallowed ground.
Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
8/21/22
Brody
I bought two new books for you today my sweet boy.
The Wizard of Oz and the Jungle book should bring joy.
I'm very proud of how wonderfully you read.
As an English scholar, I know you will succeed.
I see your picture in the morning when I rise
As I observe your dark hair and sparkling brown eyes
The thought and sight of you really makes me smile,
Although, when I saw you last, it's been quite a while.
I miss watching you laugh and play riding your bike.
I love photos sent of you and Dad on that hike.
You love to have fun in the sun I know, I know...
You race and ride that ATV just like a pro.
Your mommy sends me sweet pictures which makes my day
I would love to find a letter from you today.
You look so dashing in your boy scout livery
With badges bravely sought and won with chivalry.
Your Kung fu lessons have trained mind and body well
I'm proud of you my dear grandson and I can tell
The kind of compassionate soul you will one day be.
I pray to God you will be blessed eternally.
Sometimes tears fall because you live so far away
I long for your kisses and hugs most everyday.
Please don't ever forget how much your Gram loves you.
You have my heart, and with your smile I can't feel blue.
4-9-18
© Connie Marcum Wong
-Poem of the day April 11, 2018~
5th place in Emile Pinet's Non-Romantic Love Contest
All round the ring of Kerry’s highways, people point and cry
It’s 4 o’clock on the very dot and Mick’s rig is passing by,
It has glistening sheens of yellow, with cinnabar spots in red
Rich lozenges of orange complete the livery, as this butterfly forges ahead!
She’s kissing those dew damp breezes, on a morn like an Irish dream
As the sun’s rays like golden spokes
Steal silently; through oaks of emerald green.
lighting up a meadow’s buttercups, that border a hillside stream.
She hauls her load of butter, fresh from the herds of ‘Kerry’s spreads’
To sweeten the taste of a million slices, of European bread!
She’s making good time this morning in passing the various towns,
By 9 am she makes Letterkenny, to lay her cargo down.
Mick checks his trusty wristwatch
He needs to be back in Clonakilty; to make a special call
For by, begosh and begorrah ‘tis Father’s Day ‘n all. and
His sweet Molly will be waiting there, by an ancient rock built wall!
So he spins the painted lady round, to take the south west route,
Tooting to folks he recognises; as along that road he shoots.
At 1 o’clock he’s made it back, and parks the painted lady up
He wanders up the dusty track; just a Dad in working gear
Straightening an aching back, now his destination’s near
He searches the milling kids all around, many colours their faces show
And then he picks out his Molly. as those raven curls she throws!
She runs to greet him at his call, raising her face to be kissed
And she had chosen a painted lady, sure.. He felt how he had been missed!
He swings Molly up on high and they head back to the farm
She showers him with sweet butterfly kisses
As rabbles of the creatures unravel, in clouds and colours of charm!
NB the Painted Lady is an Irish species of Butterfly
The ocean reflected by azure skies
glistens in deeper salubrious shades
enchanting me in a mesmerizing gaze
as the waves heave high and low,
undulating currents courses
distilled into my blue eyes,
giving them a blue sea shade.
A windswept chill recalls many
cold blue lips of drowned bodies
on ships and vessels wrecked at sea.
Blue songs sung to mourn their loss.
Somber souls in sorrow coping,
hoping to lay their loved ones to rest.
Cobalt blue on stained glass windows
in the consecrated Christ’s cathedral
illuminates its mourners in shards of blue.
Officers in blue livery offer reverent respect
at gravesites with flowers in hues of blue.
As twilight’s victory overtakes the sun
shadows fall in somber shades of blue.
2-28-16
United colors:Blue Contest
Sponsor Silent One
*Note: My Granddaughter Carissa, soon to be four,
gave this poem its name after I read it to her.
earth proud livery
doves begin to coalesce
heaven unbinds rain
8/5/2021
St. Elmo's Fire
'Twas a fall eve on our flight to the coast
Dressed in my livery this journey I'd host.
A storm was predicted, we would fly 'round
With instrument help from cockpit to ground.
No form of the storm yet could be seen
Our 747 flew like a queen.
Suddenly arose the storm we would fight
It was going to be a bumpy night!
As turbulence began rocking our plane
Cans and bottles fell again and again.
I tried to secure my cart on its tie
Withholding some fear, I won't tell a lie.
Captain announced for us to be seated
His urgent tone need not be repeated.
The lightning storm caused us to fly higher,
Cockpit windows glowed with St. Elmo's fire.
The contrast between bright white and deep blue
A frightening sight for first time to view.
Passengers gripped the armrests of their chair
Sweet babies held tight by mothers with care.
Passengers viewed on crew faces...no fear
Which put them at ease as coastline grew near.
We landed safe and as we taxied in
Applause was heard with appreciative din!
8-20-18
*Note:
Like lightning, St. Elmo's Fire is plasma, or ionized air that emits a glow. But while lightening is the movement of electricity from a charged cloud to the ground, St. Elmo's Fire is simply sparking, something like a shot of electrons into the air. It's a corona discharge, and it occurs when there is a significant imbalance in electrical charge, causing molecules to tear apart, sometimes resulting in a slight hissing sound.The first step in generating St. Elmo's Fire is a thunderstorm.
I was sat on a rock adjusting my socks,
And what did I see, but a curious fox.
Who was most surprised, probably I,
So there we sat, both having a spy.
He cocked his head in a quizzical style,
I blew a little whistle, and gave him a smile.
His ears pricked up, He sniffed at the air,
He slowly stood up, as if I wasn't there.
A fine fellow he in his red livery,
Standing there posing, as if to say "look at me."
He gave a great yawn, for he had been sleeping,
Not expecting to wake to such a strange greeting.
Then he was off, the encounter was done,
Rarely had a walk met with such fun.
Who'd have thought while pulling up my socks,
I'd have a meeting, with a curious fox.
Entry for
CONTEST NO 550,any form,any theme,
Up to a max of 20 lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand.
30/1/19. Placed =1st.
Born in their meadows and
bread for the masses - to
culture exploited, a suture
‘livery of freedom’
he spun on the wheel ~ I
canvas my flag, and the future.
--------------------------------------------------------
Khadi means handspun and handwoven cloth. In 1918, Mahatma Gandhi started his movement for Khadi as relief programme for the masses living in India's villages.
Raw materials then were entirely exported out of the country by the colonists and re-imported as costly finished cloth, depriving the local population of work and profits on it.
Gandhi didn’t just revive India’s flagging Khadi industry, he made the humble hand-spun fabric the symbol of all things swadeshi (indigenous to the country). When he encouraged people across India to boycott foreign clothes, spin their own yarn and wear Khadi, he was encouraging them to rediscover their pride in their heritage while lending support to their rural brethren.
It is also the most sustainable and eco-friendly product whose production requires no electrical support or fossil fuel and generates no toxic waste.
This fabric keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer!
The Indian national flag is always made of Khadi - It is not just a fabric but a way of life.
www.thebetterindia.com/95608/khadi-history-india-gandhi-fabric-freedom-fashion/
I remember back when times were simple. You could have your milk
delivered to your door. One of my favorite memories was waiting for the
Helm’s bakery livery to drive slowly down our street, alerting us with his
musical whistle. Specially built Chevy suburban panel wagon’s, bright
and shiny yellow, contained the most heavenly scents of do-nuts and
cinnamon swirls, rolls and breads to delight the most discerning. Our driver,
we called by name, would stop, get out of his seat and come to the back to
open double doors to the smiling faces, of usually about three or four neighbor
kids besides my sister and myself. The most difficult part was trying to decide
what delicious pastry we would put on our monthly tab. Fine wooden drawers
with glass windows let colorful do-nuts peek through. We would get our usual loaf
of potato bread mom would tell us to buy, but then, quite often we were treated to
a glazed jelly do-nut or a chocolate covered cream filled éclair. Mmmmm my taste
buds tingle at the fond memories. Those succulent delights would be out of the bag
and into our mouths before we hit the front door. By the time we got inside all that
would be left would be little pieces of sticky wax paper and our gooey little hands.
As I recall those happy memories of the late ‘50’s, my only regret is that I am sorry my
children were not given the thrill of hearing “Here comes the Helmsman”, let’s beat feet!
© September 12, 2012
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.
The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
The “Smithy”
Written: By Tom Wright
4/28/04
The anvil’s peal breaches the mid day air,
and his four pound hammer fettles the shoe.
At the forge’s cinders in thought I stare,
and listen to the wheezing bellows spew.
The portrait of a bygone period in time,
when the aproned “Smithy” was still king.
Massive arms, covered with carbon grime,
powering out tunes with a hammers ring.
The livery and spreading chestnut tree,
like the buggy whip, their time is past.
If solely for the sentimental like me,
“Smithy’s” memory will for evermore last.
Hiberty jiberty liberty lox.
Quivery livery shivery shin.
Naughty Pandora opened the box
And couldn't get all of the troubles back in.
Oh, briars of evil and nettles of sin.
Gaggles of sorrow, and worries in flocks.
Quivery livery shivery shin,
Hiberty jiberty liberty lox.
LONDON JOURNEY FASCINATION
First time on a mainline LNER train *
When you’re five’s a signal whistle
For six hours Kings Cross to Newcastle **
Sightseeing. Walk along platform to attain
The exit past the loco at the buffers:
In a forest of knees and suitcases,
The oiled steel engine’s grace is
Close enough to touch: my mother suffers
My adoration of its black livery
And emblazoned gold name “Woodcock”.
The time on the gigantic station clock
Shows our speedy, safe and prompt delivery.
Huge driving wheels and pistons are higher
Than my five-year-old frame.
Somebody cares well for that engine of fame
That steel rail non-stop flier.
Oh the trip is an exciting drama
I have comics to read and sandwiches and tea
But what never ceases to fascinate me
Is the moving view and panorama -
Oncoming trains go flashing by
Wheels a-roar and whistles blare
Nothing quite like this to compare
Too fast even for the adoring eye;
Birds sitting on the telephone wires,
Like musical notes in an unsung air,
Unending composition, unfinished movement fair,
From one end of the country to the others;
The journey long stayed in my memory
Made me a traveller inveterate.
Impact on me impossible to over-rate -
Imbued with the notion of discovery.
…………………………………………………
Note:
* LNER = London and North Eastern Railway
** Kings Cross = London mainline terminal station
In a land that flows with milk and honey,
the wind moans with foolish silly punny.
The mountains countless caves blaze with blithe light;
trees of Ténéré quiver that tower in height.
The sound of trickling water, yield boasting
ground canvas color and peacocks strutting.
Dragons, Dragonflies, and dwarf Huffle-winks
old folklore, they could care less what one thinks.
Small, magical winged beings that breathe in
playfully flitter vanish in a blink.
Dragons roar with crackling fire of thunder
huge and fierce in all their mystic wonder,
fluoresce scales an in brilliant livery;
benevolence manner, bold chivalry.
Leap into the air, their leathery wings
stretching to catch the air above like kings.
Huffle-winks stand with shields and sharpen swords
and cocky grins, guards in the House of Lords.
In a land that milk and honey cascades
and heavens shine and summer never fades.
5/21/2018
Poetry Contest: Dragons, Dragonflies, and Huffle-winks
Sponsored By: Caren Krutsinger