Best Panhandle Poems
My mother thinks I'm a doctor
I just don't have the guts
To tell her I spent all my college doe
On beer, wine, women and such
So after I faked my graduation
Said I was moving to the South
To help the less fortunate among us
Another lie I let slip out
I'm now in the south of Florida
Where some may call me a bum
Living in a citrus grove along the coast
Not answering to anyone
It's really not such a bad life
This do nothing life I've made
I hear my Moms proud of me at afternoon tea
Telling the girls of all the lives I save
I do my share of dumpster diving
That's where I got the idea
Behind a real doctors office one day
With some of their stationary I nabbed
I did a little doctoring
After all I do play one in Moms mind
Doesn't look to lame where I inserted my name
Then wrote my Mom about the kids and the wife
I've created such an elaborate charade
It's now gotten all out of hand
As I panhandle my way up and down
The Sunshine states surf and sand
Mom now says she wants to visit
Can't wait to meet the wife and kids
Don't know how I let it get this crazy
And how it all lead up to this
Now I'm scrambling to find a vacant house and a woman
With a couple of kids that look just like me
That can go along with a ruse for a week in mid-June
Since I told her that's when I'd be free
I'm thinking I should of studied in college
Instead of being this mind numbing huckster
Telling lie after deepening lie
Just so my Mother would think I'm a doctor
Categories:
panhandle, funny, humor,
Form:
Free verse
On the plains in the Texas panhandle
The fight for survival is real
As I watched from the derrick
On a short smoke break
A scene rather harsh and surreal
A cottontail bunny was having his way
In a pasture of gold knee high grass
When a hungry coyote, prowling late in the day
Caught his scent on the breeze as it passed
The bunny must have sensed, the coyote was near
He ran circles and made figure 8 bows
Confusing the canine, wound up chasing his tail
While the bunny escaped down the road
But nature has a way of being quite cruel
As a hawk observed from above
As he swooped down, the poor bunny froze
In a scene void of malice and love
With the rabbit in tow, still kicking and screaming
The hawk not making a sound
Somehow lost his grip, dropping his prey
Who died instantly hitting the ground
In all the commotion, the old coyote
Had watched and raced to the kill
Snatching him up and never looking back
Running swiftly over a hill
I stood there amazed, as the scene played out
This microcosm of struggles and strife
Then thought about destiny, no matter how hard you fight
The unfairness and the fragility of life
by Daniel Turner
Categories:
panhandle, animal, death, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
This Land Was Your Land (Cherokee Version of Woody Guthrie's This Land is Your Land)
This land was your land and now it's my land.
From the Georgia mainland to the Oklahoma prairies.
From the Appalachian Mountains to the Mississippi River;
This land was taken from you by me.
As you was walking that trail of tears;
I saw above you the bird of death.
I saw below you those solemn footsteps;
This land was taken from you by me.
You were sick and hungry but forced to walk;
To the dust bowls of the Oklahoma panhandle.
And all around you tears were falling;
This land was taken from you by me.
When the cold winds blew and you was freezing;
And the snow was falling and you had no shoes.
As your mother was weeping a voice was chanting;
This land was taken from you by me.
As you was walking I saw a sign there;
And on the sign it said "No Indians Allowed".
In your defense I didn't say nothing;
This land was taken from you by me.
In the bowels of death I saw your people;
In church pews I saw my own.
As your's stood starving, I simply mumbled;
This land was taken from you by me.
Nobody dead can stop my greed;
As you go dying on that trail of tears.
The dead can own no land;
This land was taken from you by me.
By: Darlene Doll Smith
Categories:
panhandle, america, death, history, native
Form:
Lyric
Each spring in the Gulf Coast Panhandle
Seafood lovers attend a festival
Honoring the dark meat, oily mullet
That leaps into air shaped like a gullet
But the oddest part of this tradition
Is the mullet tossing competition
Both he-men and ladies take to the beach
To see how far their mullet toss will reach
So if you're beachcombing and see fish fly
Now you have insight to the reason why
A waste of fish? Yes, but fun’s had by all
And winners dance first at the mullet ball
When smoked, the mullet tastes best served with fries
But it’s cool to watch when it’s tossed and flies
Categories:
panhandle, funny, sports
Form:
Sonnet
In alleys devoid of light;
teenagers sleep on the street.
And fear arrives late at night;
to feed upon their conceit.
Delusions exchanged for lies,
they panhandle in the park.
And tears trickle from young eyes;
watching hunger carve its mark.
Drugs ease their physical pain;
not their frustration and doubt.
For their monsters can't be slain;
on the fringes of burnout.
Scrounging in torn dungarees;
youth confronts brutality.
And fragmented memories
are lost to reality.
As hypocrisy walks by,
some street teens barely survive.
And if fledgling birds can't fly,
can they ever feel alive?
Categories:
panhandle, angst, anxiety, city, emotions,
Form:
Quatrain
Trees dance
to the song
of wind.
Shaded
in a disco
of light and shadow,
king
of good will
welcomes
compassion
with a smile
and cardboard sign.
Upon his wide wooden throne,
he beckons at passers-by:
For a bit
of
good
will.
Categories:
panhandle, fantasy, funny, happiness, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
The events that took place in a remote area of New Mexico about 230 miles south of Los Alamos during the predawn hours of July 16, 1945 forever changed the world. In the early morning darkness the incredible destructive powers of the atom bomb, code-named "Trinity", were first unleashed, and what had been merely theoretical became reality. Said General Groves, head of the Manhattan project, "We were reaching into the unknown and we did not know what might come of it". Some feared the consequences of radio-active fallout on civilian populations surrounding the test site. Observers were sent to surrounding towns to monitor the results of the blast and medical teams were kept on alert. But the hope and the focus was on the feeling that we now had the means to ensure a speedy conclusion to the war and save thousands of American lives.
A bit over 400 miles north, north east of the blast on that early morning in July, in a
small Panhandle farm, a girl of 17 rose, as was her daily custom, to milk the cows by
hand, she being the youngest child and only girl of second-generation Polish immigrants who made their living by raising maize and wheat, cows and chickens and selling their milk and eggs in the small town nearby. But less than a month after the July 16th test of the atomic bomb, this otherwise seemingly healthy girl fell into such a malaise that she could not even get out of bed much less carry on with her assigned chores on the farm. She was brought to a hospital in Amarillo and eventually discharged with no diagnosis other than she must have had a nervous breakdown due to some kind of female hysteria. She was sent away to a convent to recuperate but no one, least of all her parents, ever really knew what could have caused her sudden “nervous breakdown” that took place downwind and less than a day’s drive from that first historic explosion of the atomic bomb.
Categories:
panhandle, history, mothergirl, girl, july,
Form:
Narrative
Poet: Ken Jordan
Story: Apache Junction
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: April/2014
Gonna take the 405 train
to Apache Junction.
Bought me a one-way ticket,
and I ain't look'n back.
When I get there, I'm gonna hike the
Apache trail; forget about my past,
and look forward to the future -
It's my dream to climb Superstition Mountain,
and lookout across the wilderness,
to free my mind of all negative thoughts,
about the town that I left behind -
This is my fresh start! In the land where
they still panhandle for gold.
I hear that the sun, is at its most beautiful
setting, over the Goldfield mountains.
It feels right, I have a gleam in my eyes again,
and through the blessings of the Great Spirit,
I'll have a few gold coins in my pockets too.
I'll visit the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine,
and prospect for a few nickels and dimes.
I'll gallop back to my place on a horse,
kickback in the cool shade, from my
clay colored, adobe style home,
and look out at a field of cactus trees,
take a sip of some citrus infused water,
and call it a day.
Yep! no worry's, no problems,
just the sky, and the Arizona air -
Well, gotta go, here come the westbound 405
to Apache Junction.
Categories:
panhandle, leaving,
Form:
Prose
ALLOWED HIM NO LATITUDE
Andy, professional cartographer, adored his maps,
Valued them more than anything perhaps
As any cartographer would
As all cartographers should -
Lovingly drawing his Italy, boot-like,
Old outlines of the then Third Reich,
And his Mississippi River with every meander,
And every place he ever could wander .
But his rival cartographer Giovanni
After penciling in the River Suwannee
Called on Andy, his details to consult.
Andy was affronted and angered at the insult.
Freely sharing his geographical skills
Was not the best way of paying his bills.
Andy refused to show Giovanni his map
The latter said - well ok, your maps are just crap!
Over Turkey’s Cape Helles they struggled and fought
As any zealous cartographers ought
And Andy shoved the Alaska Panhandle
Up Giovanni’s nose, who then began to manhandle
The whole of Siberia and some of Iberia
And the Bay of Bengal over Andy, who was wearier.
Getting tired, and in defence of his maps
Andy, feeling he was close to collapse,
Grabbed Europe and wrapped it round the neck
Of Gio, who soon choked and died, with the Czech
Republic and parts of the Isle of Belmullet
Stopping the airflow in his gullet.
Then poor Andy, clutching maps of the Slavic Race
Also dropped dead, but with a smile on his face.
Two happy men who gave their all
For the Suwannee River and the Bay of Bengal.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Natalie The Rogue Rhymer’s Contest : Die A 'Fun' Death
Categories:
panhandle, funny, river,
Form:
Couplet
Spending a lifetime on the Texas Panhandle prairies in and around Amarillo
exposes a feller to a unique life style.
As a youngster and continuing into early manhood, I flirted with the aggregation
of words to captivate the attention of any audience that would listen; whether that audience
was a girl, the guy’s, or just whomever would listen. To be honest though, mostly just to
gather attention.
To lasso words with a pen, corral them within the confines of a margin, and brand
them for my own is a thought that just came to me within the past couple of years. Though I
was exposed to Cowboy Poetry my entire life, the honored title of a Cowboy Poet was for
some of my close friends and others, but not a title I considered for myself.
Since making the decision to become a Cowboy Poet, I have performed my own
original poetry from Eastern Tennessee, through-out Texas, up through Illinois, across to
Idaho, down through Utah to Southern California, and many, many point’s in-between.
I’ve been honored to accept many awards from the International Library of
Poetry, the International Society of Poets, the American Poets Society just to name a few. I
have some of my works published in books, on CD’s, in magazines, newspapers, newsletters
and of course many websites.
JW ~ TexasCowboyIsh
Copyright ©: May 04th, 2001
Categories:
panhandle, cowboy-westernwords, poetry, society,
Form:
Bio
Ireland,
ancient song of my soul,
a haunting melody
that strains against the wind
and leaves me searching
for my distant pasts.
Monasterevin, Armagh, Inish Mor…
I hear your voices.
The breeze on your emerald grass
like a pennywhistle plays,
while the waves on your rocky shores
like boudrans pound out
“Come Home”
In the green fields,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Wandering trails, Armagh to Oklahoma,
Endless searching for the songs of the past,
Riding ancient roads, St. Mullins to Claremore ,
Within the Circle that always will last.
Tsa-la-gi,
song of my ancient soul,
a lyric chant
that floats across time
and whispers to me
to seek out
Kindred Spirits of the Circle.
Tennessee, Trail of Tears, Tahlequah…
I hear your voices.
The breeze on your bluestem
like a cedar flute drifts upward,
while the rain, heavy on sandstone
like ceremonial drums beats out
“Come Home”
In the red dirt,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Familiar trails, Galway to Oklahoma,
No fear of what the future will bring,
River Shannon to the muddy banks of the Red,
Hear the spirit chorus of the Old Ones sing.
Destiny,
song of all ancient souls,
timeless hymn
that wafts through shadow-lives
and murmurs to me
to grasp and keep close
those with like hearts.
Green Country, Panhandle, My Oklahoma…
I hear your voices.
Your breath on the air
like pipes sings the song of forever,
while your hearts full of memory
burst with recognition and throb out
“Come Home”
From one side of the Earth,
through the center to the other,
Armagh to Oklahoma,
Doolin to Chelsea,
Green fields,
Red dirt,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Boudran beats slowly,
Cedar flute rings lowly,
Singing the songs of the places I’ve been,
From sweet Ireland’s green valleys,
To Oklahoma red dirt beneath me,
My soul keeps dancing around the Circle again.
Note: Tsa-la-gi = Cherokee language for the name Cherokee.
Italics sung to the tune of “The Bard of Armagh”, AKA “The Streets of Laredo”
Adapted from the original for Oklahoma Cowboy Poetry Week, third week in April
2006
Categories:
panhandle, cowboy-western, history, inspirational, life,
Form:
Verse
Whole beef Hamburgers
Plod along the panhandle
Only to get fried
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
Categories:
panhandle, animals
Form:
Haiku
The cold and the shakes are coming back
And I know it's about that time.
I slide the needle in and I'm on track
Because the sense of peace is sublime.
My bank account is in the red,
And my supply has already run out.
I know I won't stop until I'm dead
Because the need is a constant shout.
Falling on hard times is what I fein
As I panhandle for your change.
I need it flowing in my vein,
Or else my mind will derange.
Itching for another hit
Panic sets in
Will I get it?
Will I ever win?
Finally I have enough for now,
But I will always need more.
To its call I will forever bow
Because without it, I'd fall to the floor. (3)
Categories:
panhandle, addiction,
Form:
Rhyme
The State in which I was born is “Home”
It’s huge and all over it I’ve roamed
Born in Big “D”, so that’s where it starts
Then moved up to the panhandle parts
Moved East to rose capital city
Love this town, it’s extremely pretty
I attended John Tyler High School
It’s my “Home Town” and I think it’s cool
Attended college in Aggieland
South in College Station, not too grand
Fort Bliss, way out West, for Army time
And then I left my “Home”, what a crime
A job with Boeing in Seattle
Into the traffic, what a battle
You can take the Boy out of “Texas”
You can’t take “Texas” out of the Boy
Submitted by Charles Sides
For the MY LAND IS MY HOME Poetry Contest
Categories:
panhandle, history, travel,
Form:
Quatrain
We had three large houses for chickens
Where we lived on the small farm
We got them when they were baby chicks
Kept them inside out of harm
We had a big bunch of chickens
Seemed like a thousand or more
They just reached the age of pullets
But there was trouble in store
Up in the panhandle of Texas
It could get mighty cold
It’s a must to keep the chickens warm
So temperature was controlled
If fact, there was an alarm system
Went off if it got too cold
It was night when the big storm blew in
Now let my story unfold
Found Chickens all stacked in the corners
They were all dead, no doubt
They huddled up, to try and keep warm
And froze from a power out
Just another tough time on the farm
Lost both the pigs and chickens
Good thing Dad had the business downtown
Or we would have had slim pickins
Categories:
panhandle, childhood,
Form:
Quatrain