Best Ol Poems
I wish I could write
like those others before me,
Byron and Shelley and old Edgar Poe
Flowery phrases
Thy love unforgetting,
chasing a raven as ink tends to flow
Follow a sidewalk
in Silverstein footsteps,
sit neath a tree as the apples appear
Doth O’ my feelings
O’er Midsummer stanzas
Dream thee melodic as words of Shakespeare
Maybe some thoughts
in a past tense creation,
deeper in meaning like Sylvia Plath
Or Robert Frost
and the nature he touches,
meandering off through the trees down a path
Emily Dickinson,
aprons and daisies,
words overflowing the tea kettle rim
And let’s not forget
“The man”, Leonard Cohen,
what I would give if I could write like him
Neruda, Longfellow,
Kipling and cummings
so many thoughts in their own point of view
Taking our minds
to assorted locations
every piece speaks of something quite new
So many poets
who weave inspiration,
any or all I can just hope to be
But here I am
just writing my verses,
I guess I am stuck being little ol’ me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And here’s a few more,
some you might know
Who inspire all
when their ink it does flow
Charmaine, Paloma,
Heidi and Dee
Victor and Daniel
Catie, Laniey
Holly, Alexis,
Mystic and Rick
Maurice, The Seeker
Eve and Tim Smith
Arthur and Freddie
James, Jo and Jan
Nette, Laura Loo
Broken Wings, San
And so many others
I’ve met on this site
Who each day inspire
this poet to write
If I have forgotten anyone, I apologize. I am still quite new here.
*Come and listen to my tale about a man named Joe.
Who was Jesus Christ? Well, he didn't really know'
Then one day he read John, Chapter three;
His eyes were opened up and he began to see.
Pearls of truth, that is; wisdom, pure love'
First thing you know, ol' Joe did repent,
Of things he had done and places where he went.
His life turned around in such a drastic change.
That family and friends thought he was really strange'
A loose cannon, that is; three bricks shy of a full load'
Joe began to read, and he began to pray;
The Lord began to show him a new and living way'
He taught Joe how he could walk in love,
Just like his Heavenly Father above.
In Holiness, that is; sanctified; uprightly.
Ol' Joe kept a-studying and he kept on a-growing'
By his testimony the kinsfolks knew where he was goin'.
He would witness on the corner and even on the stairs,
When persecution rose up, he didn't have a care.
Total peace; surrendered; anxious for nothing'
Joe loved to talk to people- that became his ministry.
He turned many souls from a God-less eternity'
And as Joe advanced in his earthly years,
He became ever more thankful for Jesus, so dear.
Wonderful counselor; Saviour; friend'
Now it's time to say goodbye to Joe and all his friends.
They would like to thank "y'all" for kindly droppin' in
You're each invited to join Joe for all eternity,
To worship at God's Throne and praise His Majesty'
Arthur Ball (H.S.L.P.)
March 4, 2007
*With apologies to " The Beverly Hillbillies"
'
There was a barn once painted red
that stood on grandpa's old homestead.
T'was built so very long ago -
a sorry sight. I told him so.
I often, as a boy, had wondered
why it hadn't ever timbered.
I knew the sagging rafters creaked
and roof, with missing shingles, leaked.
I stepped inside, the barn doors gone
and found it home for sparrows' song.
Circled they, around freely,
over floors in man's debris.
No matter which way I would glance,
dust in the sunlight rays would dance.
The warning cobwebs seemed to sketch.
Between the timbers, they would stretch.
Foundation laid in cobblestone
but its sure footing wasn't known.
Between the stones were gaping cracks
that could not hide the basic facts.
Now every post in building leaned,
and wall to wall had needed cleaned.
The winter winds would whistle through.
That big ol' barn had lost, I knew.
The weather's sin had taken toll
and wind and sleet had found its soul.
Its only purpose, couldn't render -
so it offered full surrender.
Now that ol' barn is much like us
and in our wants, we make a fuss.
Our sagging souls are so uncouth
that we no longer seek the truth.
Deceit flies in our open door
'til we care little anymore.
We’d rather compromise instead
as cobwebs fill our empty head.
Our minds are filled in sins' debris
with anyone whom we'd agree.
The love is lost between our bones.
It leaves us cold with loosened stones.
Will our beliefs stand firm, upright -
or will we yield to windy blight?
Are we responsible instead, or
is our character really dead?
Down through the years, the time has lapsed
and long ago that barn collapsed.
As I look now at its demise
I listen to the worlds last cries....
©2008 louis gander / ganderpoems.org
He's just an ol' cowboy
With a heart big as the whole out of doors.
But time has exchanged
His home on the range,
For a garden and five acres to mow.
He still rides the range,
Each day at three,
With John Wayne, Gabby or Tex,
When he closes his eyes he's there by their side,
Somewhere out in the west.
He's there in spring
At the rendezvous site,
When the mountain men all converge,
He'll share their whiskey, adventures and lies,
Till they give into that wandering urge.
He spent one winter
In the mountains way high,
His cabin the size of a den.
He was cozy and warm, tucked safe from the storm,
Until a commercial cut in.
He was there when Jessie, Frank and the gang,
Hit the bank in a small Kansas town,
He ran for the sheriff
Drew his six guns and waited,
Expecting to mow them all down.
On trails he did ride
With Goodnight and Chisum,
His job, To bring in the strays.
Like a coyote he'd croon by the light of the moon
To the cattle at the end of the day.
He froze in Alaska as he panned for gold,
Burned brown as the prairies he trod,
Fell along side Jim Bowie
At the Old Alamo,
And is buried deep 'neath the Lone Star sod.
He tried to avoid the Indian wars,
But rode with Reno
At the Little Big Horn,
The chaos he saw made his skin crawl
And wasn't ashamed as he knelt there and bawled.
His days they were great,
And granted still are,
For he met a new friend today.
He walked by a bookstore, saw Louie Lamour
Now new adventures are coming his way.
He sits in his chair with a confident air
And turns on his TV at three.
He rides with his friends
Till the commercial cuts in
Then he takes out Ol' Louie and reads.
Cile Beer
written l990
Form:
This ol' pen has seen many of things
And I've seen mere words come to life
I've written things that made folk think
But my ink is running really low
I'm about to reach my twilight hour
But I have no regrets and each word……
I ever wrote will live on after I'm gone
5-7-19
Alexis Y.
I was inspired to write this after read a poem by Gershon Wolf
Girl, I'm gonna miss you when you're gone,
Everything right done went so wrong,
I guess it's over now, so...so long,
and it's time to be movin' on,
Yes, I'm gonna miss you when you're gone,
I'm really sorry things went wrong,
I wasn't where my heart belonged,
I quess it's over..now..I'll be movin' on,
We all hear the same ol' song,
Boose 'n' beer and things go wrong,
I held her near where you belonged,
Oh my dear!...I done did you wrong!
And I'm gonna miss you when you're gone,
I wasn't where my heart belonged,
Everything right done went so wrong,
and I'm gonna miss you when you're gone,
Yea, I'm gonna miss you when you're gone.
Young and single, just got a job in a neighbour town,
Thought I’d buy a flashy car so I could get around,
My boyfriend at the time said that I should get a Camaro,
It was new, orange and shiny, how could I be so narrow.
I crowned her Bess and drove her home with pride,
All my friends called, they wanted to go out for a ride.
Summer was so much fun, what a splash I was making.
Then gone, both summer and the boyfriend I was dating.
Winter rolled in with tons of snow and patches of ice,
Getting to work in my Camaro, was like rolling the dice.
Ol’ Bess would skid to the left and swerve to the right,
Wow, I held on to the steering wheel with all my might.
So I resigned that Bess was not good in cold weather,
Even with snow tires, she blew around like a feather.
Then suddenly a new quirk started as I turned on the key,
She spluttered, oh great, guess I won’t make the grand prix.
Bess would start well at times then for no good reason,
She’d stammer, then stop, reek of gas - in any season.
Bess and I visited many auto repair shops by way of a tow,
The carburetor was like a fountain, out of it the gas would flow.
Apparently a carburetor is needed to make Bess purr,
So I had it rebuilt, then replaced, oh the bills, what a blur,
Then a starter motor and strut, remember Bess is brand new,
After three years of aggravation, I traded her in, I was through!
Guess a cool single girl may look good in a splashy sports car,
But if your car doesn’t start or run, you won’t get too far.
So I put on my sunglasses, look cool but feel like a real wart,
As I drive to work in sleet and snow in my old Ford Escort.
Written for Contest “Driving Me Crazy”
Won 6th Place
She come in ter the world as Mary Anne walker,
But Polly Anne Nichols she took as 'er name.
Frough cicumstance she were a mistress of the night,
And pleasuring the feller's was 'er game.
This pertic'lar evenin' Polly,she were skint
So she went out t' plie 'er trade,
Altho' the night, it were dark and creepy,
Still- there were money ter be made.
She met up wiv some gentlemen,reg'lars she knew.
They said "Polly it's nice ter see yer out,
But be careful darlin' it's a filf'y night
An' yer never know 'oo might be about.
She laffed and said "I can take care o' meself."
So they went and left 'er all alone.
Then she 'eard footsteps a stealf-like in the street,
An' saw somethin', made 'er shiver ter the bone.
It were dark an' thunderin',rain pourin' down.
No-one 'eard Polly scream in 'er plight.
Then a flash o light'nin' lit up the sky,
An' a glint o' steel shone red in the night.
They found 'er in Buck street the next mornin'
'er froat it were cut from ear ter ear.
'Er guts a spilt out all over the place
In 'er eyes a look o' Gawd Almighty fear.....
Mary Anne Walker-'Polly'- was 'is first in 1888
Soon the pro's were warned when they went out,
"Watch, 'cause it aint safe in the streets o' London
Not now ol' JACK THE RIPPER, is about."
My Pit-Bull puppy, five months old, Sir Scoobs
looks at me crazy, arches and poops.
His tail tucks he runs,
he new what time it was,
after a juke, I could not subdue...
Jared Pickett
4/13/2011
Asavvy1
I've traveled by plane and ship all about this celestial ball;
Visited many fascinating lands and intriguing ports of call.
I've done it all, seen it all and no matter whence I stray,
There ain't nothin' like livin' in the good ol' US of A!
I've marveled as the risin' sun tinted Mount Fuji in Japan;
Was awed by the rugged Khyber Pass in mystic Pakistan;
I've viewed magnificent sunsets from the shores of Naples Bay,
But these pale compared to the grandeur of the good ol' US of A!
I've seen the hopelessness of people under the heel of oppression;
Their struggles to exist, their lack of freedom of expression;
People ruled by despotic regimes in which they have no say;
Thank God for the freedoms we enjoy in the good ol' US of A!
Many are the patriots who placed national destiny above their own,
To ensure that our precious liberties would ne'er be overthrown.
They sleep awaiting Gabriel's clarion call 'neath hallowed clay;
Thanks to them, Old Glory yet waves o'er the good ol' US of A!
Thanks to our Founding Fathers who with unwavering resolution,
Framed that sacred beacon of hope, our precious Constitution!
Even with its many flaws, without reservation I can proudly say:
"I'm so privileged to be a citizen of the good ol' US of A!
Wish in one hand and crap in the otherrrrr,
pick which one you would give to your brotherrrrr.
I didn’t really know my father
Until It was far too late
He reached out so many times
To engage me…but I couldn’t wait
Far too self-absorbed
In my self-centered life
To reach out and take
His proffered, time worn hand…
And so it will be (and is)
With my own children
Who will likely never know
How many times I too, offered my hand
How many tears were held within…
How many heartaches endured…
How many emotions n’er expressed
How helpless to even reach out and touch
But he cared…and he tried to share
His life and feelings (as did I)
But sadly…to be a good dad…of’ftimes
Meant to look to be bad….
While Mothers enjoy a hallowed place
A father’s lot…is not to be so
You don’t ever really, truly know your father
Perhaps there’s just not that much to
…know…
143 words-24 lines
good ol’ backwards North Dakota
wouldn’t want to be a woman in
North Dakota,
cause’ choice just ain’t happenin’ there.
nah,
if you’re a woman who gets raped in good ol’
backwards
North Dakota,
since they just shut down the last abortion
clinic,
all those bible thumping,
christ screaming, pro-lifers,
will be telling you to give birth
to a constant memory of the man who
raped you,
because they ****ing said so.
wouldn’t want to be a woman in
don’t-need-your-thumbs-to-live-here
North Dakota,
because i’d be unable to decide what to do with
my own goddamned body,
due to the fact that the
“heaven”
seeking
hillbillies
want me to kill my dreams of having a career
before settling down with a kid,
so they can feel like they did their
“god”
good.
wouldn’t want to be a woman in North Dakota,
unless i had enough money to get on the
quickest ****ing train
out of there
& gee willikers,
doesn’t that just feel ****ing dandy
in “the land of the free?”
O' I see them so vividly
Beautiful and strong, and such a BIG part of me
So, so deep they run... them ol' roots
Whenever I lose my way, just a thought of them lines me right up like pastor Morgan on Sunday in his 'Big Meeting' suit
Mother, father, uncle, aunt, sister, brother, all the grands and great grands, and cousins—yes, cousins galore
The irrefutable link is sometimes in the gait, the smile, the laugh, the frown, the wits, the style, and the great looks, Need I say more?
Them ol' roots run deep in that black soil
From all the way back over the Great Atlantic through the Middle Passage and throughout the diaspora
Yes, they run deeply and vastly into dimensions that are immeasurable and so beautiful that it can't be justly captured by a camera
Rain, yes, the rain. So very thankful for it because it is essential for growth and strengthening them old roots
And the sweet, blessed Sun that comes to sustain life and help spawn new life to that ol' tree bearing sweet fruits
O' them ol' roots, I see clearly
So beautiful and strong, and such a BIG part of me
Form:
(There's a thirteenth 'zodiacal' constellation, Ophiucus, The Serpent Wrestler/Holder, or the "Twelth Symbol," as here used. In some ancient cultures, serpents were revered as feminine symbols of rebirth/healing, and bees as symbols of wisdom, while Roman catholicism considered coffee to be the "wine of infidels" until the 15th. century. Historically, Ophiucus may never have been used in astrology, though it is the house between Scorpio and Sagittarius in a astrological system purportedly developed in the mid-1900's, making Sagittarius the thirteenth sign in such a system - thus in this poem, "the Twelth Symbol" was "usurped by what used to be the thirteenth". Of course, "Good Ol' Triple Six" and other numerical variations thereof in this work refer to 666, the mythological number of the Anti-christ.)
___
I want a jeezus, unsweetened, decaffeinated, no additives -
- certainly no booze or needle tracks -
because I want a trim, uptight jeezus, totally pure and constipated
to pimp for the face-down with the Great-to-the-nth Numeral-Triplet,
because the descendant number of my measureless time
is a Trinity of the fourth primes-of-eighteen (no xeroxing
needed!)...
... my godpappy, William Blake, gone loony out of his goddam mind
over visions of seraphim and angels,
slapping the jaggedly unholy rhythm of a bawdy tune on my new-born
butt
while in drag he baptizes y'hweh in drag...
... and I want you to know
that my razor isn't my father's
road-hog...
... smoothin' along, instead of Jacko Kerowacko in my briefs, just
the road of excess still somewhere on the map,
while the bottom line is
that it's all as cheap as a Walmart `ho, though why not plumb the
sacred profanity
of All Animalism in the ditch just along that road
instead of blasphemating in a line way too long at The Mart?
"Can't wait, dude, gotta' get my *jive, here and now, `cause the
marquee says", `Drive-by Lyrics Smack-Down Between Marilyn Manson
And Good Ol' Triple-Six' '', farting rhythms and rhymes
from all orifices of His five-and-a-half shooter off His uncouth
butt -
(continued in Part 2)