Best Missouri Poems
I write poetry not to change the world,
but to change the way I feel.
Sometimes it’s just made-up fantasy,
sometimes, something a little more real.
I’m not a sophisticated poet you see,
using litotes, anapest, or alliteration.
Though I’ve been known to use an aphorism or two,
when talking about the politicians of this nation.
I pay little attention to the rhyming scheme,
and syllable count means nothing to me.
I’m not even sure what it is they really mean,
When they talk about ABAB or CCCC.
Am I a Beat, Black Mountain, or Dada,
conceptual, confessional, or poststructuralist, oh my.
Things like cacophony, euphony, cadence, and feet,
confuse me to the point that makes me want to cry.
I just put some words in my dilapidated computer,
typing it out in fourteen font Helvetica.
I’m never sure of what form of poem I write,
Wait, is this one called Ars Poetica.
Together, my parents faced two world wars, the great depression, floods, fires, and some things that would bring most people to their knees. Imagine just where I would be if they had just decided that things were too rough and chucked in the towel. At the time, I didn’t think they had a lot to give. But looking back, I’m amazed at how much I got.
steak’s what I wanted
bologna is what I got—
never went hungry
Out in the field is a bed of chicory,
down along the ditch, wild hydrangeas grow.
Dandelions in the yard are quite tasty,
so is the duckweed by the side of the road.
Wild lettuce, lamb’s quarter, and some wild onions,
there’s watercress, fennel, grape leaves, and cherries.
We also have mallow, milkweeds, oxtails, chives,
Chanterelle mushrooms, morels, and blackberries.
Along with sassafras, raspberries, and more,
you’ll have a lunch that will make your stomach sing.
God bless all of nature’s wonderful bounty,
providing an Ozark meal fit for a king.
My Valley
Tucked away in the north-central part of the state, about ten miles or so from where the clear and slow-moving water of the Grand River mixes with the quickly rolling mud of the Missouri River. Was my isolated valley. A tiny insignificant place dotted with small farms and rolling pastureland of bluestem, switch, and Indian grass. Somewhere just off the beaten path and a little left of “where the hell am I anyway”. From high up in the hills where the Crabapple and Cottonwood creeks merge just outside Log Cabin Station, there is a small creek that begins to snake its way south for thirty miles or so along the northern boundary of that rich Sugar Maple bottom land. For seventy centuries the Sioux Indians fished, hunted, and thrived there. They were the first to speak its name. The abundance of wildlife in the area led them to believe that that small waterway was the ‘River of the Great Spirit’, and they called it…Wakenda.
Life moves in circles,
Like the oceans ebb and flow,
There are no shortcuts.
Driving down those dark and dusty country roads. The rocks and rubber are singing in harmony as rows of brown corn flash and disappear. You turn on the radio and we let its melodies form images in our brains. We’re ready to ‘Drift Away on that Midnight Train to Georgia’. ‘You’re Killing Me Softly’ with your closeness. I whisper ‘Give Me a Little Love’ and you sing ‘Dream On’. Later, lying on the hood of the car, the warmth from the engine against our backs we stare at the stars in the sky as they dance to the rhythm of ‘Diamond Girl’. Then the radio croons ‘Let’s Get it on’.
Passion fills night skies
music boils two lover’s blood
We can’t stop the night
So no matter how down and alone you are feeling right now, know that it will pass. Each of us will walk through the depths of our winter at some time in our lives. We may feel isolated and frozen, with no end in sight. But have faith. Reach out your hand to a friend, your family, or your God. Believe it or not, there is always someone to share your burden. No journey in life must be made alone. No matter where you find yourself, I hope that the sun brightens your skies.
The depths of winter
can turn joy into despair
if you forget hope
When the full moon rises,
and the stars start to glow.
Down to that old creek bank,
is where I like to go.
A few leaves still hanging,
shaking in the breeze.
Holding on for dear life
to them persimmon trees.
Out across the gully,
other side of the bridge.
Coon hounds hot on a trail,
just over the next ridge.
Surrounded by nature,
I am filled with delight.
Deep in these Ozark woods,
on moonlit winter nights.
A cool wind a blowing,
winter’s flurries around.
The only sound to hear,
the bawling of a hound.
Down to that old creek bank,
Is where I like to go.
When the full moon rises,
and the stars start to glow.
There’s a house out across the creek,
just an old rundown two-room shack.
Each time I drive out past it now,
those memories come flooding back.
It’s the house that held my childhood,
where all fifteen of us were raised.
A loving piece of treasured youth,
only a pile of sticks these days.
It was a different story,
back fifty years or so in time.
A hillbilly man and his spouse,
lived happily there in their prime.
They would fill your empty stomach,
though they could barely feed their own.
They had never met a stranger,
any were welcome in their home.
Come warm your body by their fire,
talk and sing ‘til your head was clear.
Warm your soul with a little wine,
warm your heart with friendships held dear.
Many people I did not know,
they went in and out of that door.
When it came time to leave they knew,
that kindness is worth living for.
That shack is barely standing now,
down that dirt path just off the road.
But to us it was a mansion,
memories more precious than gold.
We did not have maids or chauffeurs,
we were living a simple life.
Each other’s love was all we need,
that hillbilly boy and his wife.
That hillbilly boy and his wife,
they showed us the meaning of life.
Love and hope are all you need,
if you have that then you’ll succeed.
Our family gatherings have always been filled with nostalgic glimpses into a much simpler life. A life shown to us young’uns through the many stories that would always be told of an old shack hidden from the world behind tall weeds, thick patches of blackberry brambles, and an old cedar tree that seemed to be the focal point of all the tales that started with I remember when. I always listened with a sort of awe as my brothers and sisters reminisced about walking backwoods paths, carrying water from the well, or hanging the laundry out to dry in the scent of summer wildflowers. It appeared that they lived in a time where politics, war, and hate were not the daily bread and money, greed, and desire were not all-consuming. Where life, love, and family were more than just words placed on a piece of paper.
The world is a place
where everyone lives in peace
only in my dreams
The house I was born in,
used to stand right here.
I was just one more hungry child
destined to grow old and die.
Right here in this schoolyard,
I learned life’s valuable lessons.
The more you have,
the more you get,
the more you want.
Here’s the church,
that taught me,
no one cared,
about lost souls.
Only how much,
is in the collection,
plate.
This is the highway,
where I found out,
if I went too far.
I would never,
make it back.
No matter how hard I try
Come on all you true faithful
maga trumpateers
you must gather round closely
so you can all hear
I don't care if you have to
tell lies, steal or cheat
Make sure we have enough votes
so we won't be beat
Cause the mid-terms are coming
they’re not far away
and if we lose to the dems
there'll be hell to pay
You know what will happen if
their victory is reached
they will unredact those files
and I'll get my ass impeached
And all the maga's sing
woo-u-wee—woo-u-wee
I don't care if you're a
dictator wannabe
I'd still give you my vote
cause you're the king for me
even after they slam the doors
of your penitentiary
We can redraw the district
no voting by mail
take those who stand against me
and throw them in jail
If all that still won't work
tell you what I'll do
I'll send the National Guard
to any city that's blue
I've got my new Gestapo
sorry I mean ICE
they'll stand next to the poll booth
they'll check their list twice
If you don't have the right skin
we'll haul you away
don't care if you are a citizen
that's where you're gonna stay
And all the magas sing
woo-u-wee—woo-u-wee
I don't care if you're a
dictator wannabe
I'd still give you my vote
cause you're the king for me
even after they slam the doors
of your penitentiary
I'll pull all the funding for
the old, sick and poor
use all of the money for my
east wing palace door
They'll forget about Epstein
after I start a couple wars
I'll declare national emergency
and put an end to democracy for sure
With all the maga's still singing
woo-u-wee—woo-u-wee
I don't care if you're a
dictator wannabe
I'd still give you my vote
cause you're the king for me
even after they slam the doors
of your penitentiary
If that don't work out
you know I still have a plan
I will just proclaim to be king of
Venezuela and Greenland
Wind chimes whistle low
Sticky, sweet sugar maple
leaves, red, wave hello
ozark mountains call
watch my uncle ski barefoot
on a broomstick too
Our riverbank launch at dawn
where dense forest chills the breeze,
where cottonwood leaves flutter like wings,
and weeping willow penumbras tease.
Glistening, rippling turquoise water churns.
Crystal swirling pools symphonic and aglow,
elliptic aluminum crafts coast over craggy stones,
riverbed scattered rocks gleam clearly below.
Current River splits between sandbar silt.
Our paddles sink through rivulet tug.
Meandering, twisting, converging again,
water sculpting limestone, granite, or sludge.
We drift into shallow magic ponds of quiet.
The sweet fragrant water lilies subsume us.
Along the bank, turtles cling to driftwood.
The rowing in this reverie is not arduous.
Another sunlit pool, a home for trout,
their waving shapes dart under shimmering stream.
Pausing our paddles, we heed distant water rush,
how ready are we for river rapid extremes?
Our canoes enter fast-breaking flows.
Frantic, we navigate dead trees and rocks.
The roller coaster of white waves propels
past vague landscapes and distant crow squawks.
One canoe capsized where river sharply bends.
Lifejackets on, other canoeists to the rescue,
all the cooler food, a gift to the river.
Sleeping bags turned sponges; no one argued.
The canoe water finally emptied; we resume.
Each winding channel, a chapter in our allegory,
musky, muddy scents and echoed whippoorwills entrancing.
The bold beam of afternoon dims into dusk’s glory.
We camp on a sandbar under night bouquets of stars,
our trip has just begun: our quest must take us far.
Accepted for Publication, 11/2023: PoetrySoup Anthology Vol. III
Reflections on the Important Things
Every person’s destiny is created by a single point in time, and we are forever tied to that event. That moment when the world starts to make sense and the pages in the book of our life unfold to reveal a glimpse of what will become our destiny. Every decision we make and every action we take for the rest of our lives will always bring us back to that exact moment. For me, October 7th, 1972, at 8:16 AM was that moment. You emerged from the early morning fog like a mystical goddess passing through the veil between heaven and earth. As I watched you, my heart tried desperately to escape my chest and join you. longing to intertwine with your soul. Blood rushed through my body until my head became light and my vision began to fade. I had to look away or fall to the ground. It was that moment that marked the beginning of the end of my innocence. I knew I would have to forfeit my youthful ways and learn to deal with the raging hormones of puberty. I understood that time and nature would force me to relinquish my body to the sometimes exciting, but usually frightening, world of a teenager. I knew that moment marked the beginning of the rest of my life.
One tick of the clock
Our hearts synchronized
To the fate of time