Best Rigs Poems
BROTHER JACK
Just and passionate
A true outdoorsman year around
Cannot change his iron will—it’s like a force of nature
Kinsmen treasure his stalwart company and joy of cooking
Big man with grace in strength
Roars the engine when he waits too long
Only reads in the dead of night
Takes kids out to ski without a grumble
Holds a glass each day to toast the dusk
Escapes the winter to fish the Gulf Coast
Rigs up shelters for wandering bluebirds
Categories:
rigs, brother,
Form:
Acrostic
If you'd have lived and worked on Juno Ranch, you’d have come away better for it. It
may not have seemed like it at the time but Pancho (Uncle Frank) would put it to you, an’ it
was for you to decide to do it, what to do with it, or to fight. The motto was, “You either work
or fight, there ain’t no quittin’ on this-here ranch.”
Pancho cultivated a reputation as a living legend in his fifty-some years in the Devil’s
River country of the Texas frontier. He loved his life, family, work and felt plumb lucky to be
livin’ it. He believed there was art in every undertakin’ an’ practiced the highest standards in
dealin’ with any an’ all comers. He savvied horses, cattle an’ the land; and death was just the
gate that opened into higher pastures.
Ride 'em Pancho!
The cowboy wakes before each dawn
With blurry eyes n'a mournful yawn;
Gets breakfast down, just bacon'n eggs,
An' biscuits dunked in coffee dregs.
He feeds the stock some oats an' hay
In growin' light of break o' day.
Then Pancho comes an' rigs a hoss,
An' chews his butt, 'cause he's the boss.
“The sun is up, you little bride!
We're loosin' light! We gotta ride!”
So they ride out to make their rounds
In echoed clops of hoof-beat sounds.
The sun is high 'bout half-passed noon,
An' dinnertime is none too soon.
He eats his beans an' taters fast,
Then rolls a smoke an' rests at last.
He dreams of how he'll spend his pay
When he's in town on Saturday,
An' where he'll go to have some fun
With gals who'll laugh and call him, "Hun..."
He gets his hat an' pulls it down,
Forgets the dream of gals in town,
Cause if he ain't just damn near dead,
The work comes first on Pancho's spread.
Categories:
rigs, cowboy-western, inspirational, life, on
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Author's Note: Recite the following using the rhythm and melody of "Home, home on the range where the deer and the antelope play." The first verse can be used as the refrain:
His income tax structure is strange
Donald will the needy shortchange
The overly rich
Claim their life is a b-i-t-c-h
For them he’ll find bucks on the range
A clear planet earth never smokes
But Trump’s cohorts grim are the Kochs
Where fossils remain
They'll tear into the plain
Fracking rigs are their dirty jokes
There's fat upon Miss USA
The Donald says queen you shall pay!
"For my regal job"
She did painfully sob
"Is rehab a roll in the hay?"
Like buffalo once were so vast
Our middle class was unsurpassed
Now they are the prey
While republicans play
And deny the climate forecast
Categories:
rigs, song,
Form:
Limerick
Against The Ashes of The Fire
Thine eyes wrapped in chestnut leaves, brittle bark, red berries, and skeletal branches
Thy skies once azure with an aura of clouds drifting lazily over fall-kissed
Grass. The tears you weep you do so in mist, while your white pumpkin skin
Begins to shred and toil and while you cannot speak, you are crying within.
Deft fingers begin to break thy bones of earth, pumping acid into your heart.
With their oil rigs, their armies of carbon conspirators, they seek to tear you apart.
Despite the colours you grant them, the air you provide, thy people chain you to a pyre.
So, rise, revolt, strain against those smoky bonds, against the ashes of the fire.
12th October 2019
Poet's October Pantoum Cash Prize Poetry Contest
William Kekaula
Categories:
rigs, autumn, earth, environment, october,
Form:
Pantoum
Where the earth,
either scorched or drowned,
meets the fire of war
or the floods of indifference,
where the sky,
once pristine, now flight-scarred,
meets the trawlers and the oil rigs
on the dying sea,
and the righteousness
that you wore as an amulet
became a millstone
that you could not bear.
Where the industrial heartlands,
robust and cruel,
run feverishly to or from the inner cities,
painful, seething and morose,
where the last suburban outliers,
fading and sanctimonious,
meet the first agricultural small-holdings,
desperate, stoic and resilient,
and you happened upon wealth
too bountiful to be shared,
but mostly succumbed
to the will of the mightier few.
There waits The Serpent,
there waits the heel of The Chosen One,
there waits the reckoning
that no malevolence can escape,
buried so deep within you
that they can never be seen or found.
28th December 2018
Categories:
rigs, truth,
Form:
Free verse
We need to send a message for Washington to hear
We need to make a statement and make it loud and clear
Leave rigs double parked in every town
Come on truckers. Shut it down
Block the highways. Set your course.
Show our politicians a united force
Politicians! While you're kissing babies remember this
We've got something you can kiss
We wanted a leader. We got a clown.
So let's go truckers. Shut it down.
It is time to start sending a message to our OPEC owned and
operated congresss. If you can't stop the oil gougiing prices, we can stop the
entire country. What happens if the last of the American cowboys, the truck
drivers, unite? If they double park their rigs on the interstates all over the country,
unhook them and leave them there? These guys are getting shafted by the same
people who subsidize airlines so the executives can milk the living hell out of it.
Meanwhile, not only the independent, but any small trucking company can't afford
to stay in business. It is time to shut it down
Categories:
rigs, political, social, time,
Form:
Rhyme
To build these giants
It took many men
Various trades
Manufacturing gems
Scaffolders, Platers
Drawing room to sea
But one trade
Makes it happen for me
Whatever they made
No matter what they joined
My choice is not made
On the flick of a coin
These are the guys
That make metals talk
Settle their differences
With the strike of a rod
Oil Rigs like the T.L.P.
These are the creations
That do it for me
Pride in their eyes
As their efforts are towed
As smooth on the sea
Just as their welds flowed
The line above tells who they are
The Welders
Categories:
rigs, on work and working,
Form:
Rhyme
The Whittlers
The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a columned Greek Revival, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.
Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to talk of memories and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.
They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd trot out all their stories and tell them all again.
There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.
And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.
"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.
Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”
If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
Other folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.
The stately county courthouse still stands upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers carved and held their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.
© December 28, 2013
Memories of a bookworm. Considerable poetic license taken.
Categories:
rigs, growing up, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
Why do I do it, It’s hard to explain
This obsession that’s driving me slowly insane
The dark hours seem endless, the boredom intense
You would think at my age I’d have more common sense
The weather’s ‘Brass Monkey’ bitter and bleak
With many blank sessions for many a week
In pursuit of the Carp that might come my way
Making this session a red letter day
Watching and waiting or making a brew
Tying more rigs or warming a stew
As I sit in my Bivvy set up by the lake
Hoping a Carp will just make one mistake
Darkness gives way to a creeping daylight
I am now well alert for a feeding spell bite
Should I re-cast new baits to better positions
Or leave well alone, Ah! Decisions, decisions
My Bivvy’s an Igloo, glistening white
(My Rod, Pod and Buzzers got frozen last night)
The lake, from my bed chair, seems peaceful and quiet
When my left rod and buzzer erupt in a riot!
Out in a flash and strike into a fish
This feeling is magic and all I could wish
All the blanking and waiting and doubts that I get
Are gone as my Carp glides safe into my net
There are not many Carping and I like it that way
I can choose any ‘Swim’ that I want, any day
Yes, Carping in Winter is special, if slow
With each triumph hard fought for and that’s why I go
Categories:
rigs, fishing,
Form:
Rhyme
GTF
Wizened skin like burnished leather
Thin, grey and long, disheveled hair
Clear, sharp blue eyes that seem to stare
Through sun scorched face, alert, aware
A ‘lived-In’ face that’s so expressive
Tales he tells read like a missive
His arms and hands he flails about
To all he jests, he seems to shout
Belying age with youthful vigour
He starts his day with seeming rigour
But, easy going, he always jokes
With folk at whom, light fun, he pokes
He’s up each morning before the dawn
Striding, planning, never forlorn
Before sunrise you’ll hear with luck
His famous catch-phrase, “Get Tae F***!”
He’s worked on rigs for oh, so long
With everyone he gets along
On the “fine old lady” Stena Clyde
No deference – ALL he does deride
From owner, manager and high paid “suits”
To lowly boys who clean the boots
The tone the same, The grin, the look,
The cheeky laugh, the “Get Tae F***!”
Sub zero frost or tropical heat
His ardour you will find hard to beat
Old habits die hard they say
Not his – he does them anyway!
Does a place exist he’s never been?
That has a port that’s never seen
This tall slim figure filled with pluck
Or heard his raucous, “Get Tae F***!”
They say he’s always been a sailor
From Antarctic wastes upon an ancient whaler
15 years old in the South Atlantic
A hardy life, forget romantic!
Steam driven ships before motor’s advent
He sailed near and far. Came and went.
A story true with each port of call
His audience he holds in thrall
But all through this, both feet aground
Though invitations still abound
To high profile golf tournaments
The best hospitality at these events
He mixes with the best of them
The rich and famous golfing men
Yet on the course when he mis-hits his ball
Not “fore” but G.T.F. to all
And so it seems his time has come
To rest upon his laurels some
He’ll sure be missed – God Speed, Good Luck
It’s been a pleasure Jimmy, “Get Tae F***!”
No dismissive snort from any here
From us, a greeting, a hearty cheer
Received with grace, a smile - a look.
You grin then tell us, “Get Tae F***!”
Categories:
rigs, appreciation, dedication, fun, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
Everything was in the right place; the shoes, books, furniture, utensils, remote control…. His house always smelled of fresh air, although it was hundreds of miles away from the ocean.
“Your house smells like a beach-house!” his friends told him.
He knew his house was far from being called a beach-house. It had no fishing harpoons, fishing nets, scuba diving suits or shells. In fact, he hated the ocean.
Three years back, his perfectionism had landed him a job in an environmental movement company. A research lab was set for him close to the beach.
One Saturday morning, he saw a turtle floating close to him. It was still, its body dancing only to the motion of waves. BP oil spills and chemical wastes suddenly haunted his mind. He now saw oil rigs and floating marine animals all around him. Quickly he jumped out of the ocean as though he had spotted a shark’s dorsal fin, a dozen feet away.
“I’ll never stay around imperfection!” he swore to himself.
Neatness then became his pilgrimage. He took one last bottle of vodka to erase the memories about the ocean, and moved to live in a place not close to any water bodies.
Sometimes he eats fish and lobsters with difficulty. An imagination of a contaminated ocean close to him scares him stiff to hold his knife and fork.
Current Contest Name: Take The Dagger From My Heart, Please - 2
Previous Contest Name: SHORT STORY
Date the Previous Contest was Finalized: 9/27/2016
Categories:
rigs, identity, imagery, life, metaphor,
Form:
Narrative
I write about the things I know
Sometimes it’s places that I’ve been
Or, maybe places I would go
If I’d find time to now and then.
But mostly I write what I see.
A description lives inside of me
That forms a picture, but in words,
To reproduce in simple verse.
It might rhyme, if I’ve the time.
But, mostly I’m an artist poor,
With words for color, nothing more.
Poems that must have rhyme and reason,
Sometimes, just don’t fit the season.
Poets must be given freedom
To express feelings without borders.
We’re not soldiers given marching orders.
So I write of nature and man,
And try to rhyme it when I can.
But sometimes trees and birds and clouds
Will send me to a place I go,
Deep within my mind.
And there, with pen and paper,
I’ll see what I can find.
Like ships and trains and oil rigs,
I scribe around the clock,,, tic toc….
Like books and babes and butterflies,
Just because,,,that’s why,,that’s what…
Categories:
rigs, inspirational, introspection, write, places,
Form:
Verse
I am a truck driver,
A profession by choice.
Behind the wheel,
That's my voice.
Left the factory,
Not hidden by walls.
Run my loads wherever they call.
Dispatchers think,
We are some kind of superman,
When in reality,
We just do what we can.
We're looked down on,
Called all kinds of names.
Not recognized as humans,
Like on some deserted plain.
We have a heart,
We have a soul.
Not all are angry,
Not all are cruel.
We are tagged as killers,
By some attorneys at law,
They just want money,
They don't care at all.
No teachings in class,
No information supplied,
To what these rigs can do,
If one of us and a car collide.
I'm here to tell you,
I have a heart a mile wide,
I care about people,
My feelings I don't hide.
Treat me with shame,
Treat me like I am lower than you,
Just remember,You have to answer to God to.
Categories:
rigs, career, humanity, hurt, judgement,
Form:
Rhyme
I've lived life hard, I've lived life full,
I wasn't the type that stood around and shot the bull.
Every lesson I learned, I learned complete,
Life was good but it wasn't always sweet.
Rigging up drilling rigs and tearing them down,
Moving from county to county and from town to town.
Turning that drill pipe around and round,
Sending that pipe deeper and deeper into that old ground.
Searching for oil, searching for gas,
It was a way of life that is hard to surpass.
The work was dirty the work was hard,
And if you made it in one piece from payday to payday you could thank the Lord.
It's hard to explain but it gets in your blood,
Maybe we just swallowed too much of that nasty old drilling mud.
Only certain types of people can ever relate,
A place where you go to test your fate.
I'm a mighty lucky man and I've got the scars to prove it all,
The life I led, I wouldn't trade for the world, but it took some gall.
Although I wouldn't recommend it to anyone else, I personally miss those days,
Some of us born down here in Texas are a little mental, but it's just our ways.
Categories:
rigs, devotion, life, on work
Form:
Verse
You marketing types love us.
Blue all over, fear of nothing a man can throw,
Quick to bow down when the boss come by...
not the one paying me....,
but the one who rules my roost.
Day breaks looks nice,
especially because the roads aren't covered and filled with the yuppie douche bag lawyers, bankers and brokers all on phones missing the opening of the days first gift.
you know these soft handed men!
Your commercials applaud our ethic,
our muscles,
our attitudes,
our jacked up 4 X 4
Our dick swinging genuflection to manhood's blue collar ways.
Toughness is forged by the cold weather winds,
Sun baked and burned backs,
Red tipped noses from over drinking the days end the night before
while being educated at H.K.U.
Not Hong Kong University...its Hard-Knock University
We learned in fields where sweat meets will
'cuz you cant fail.
Blood and callused hands complete the job,
the well,
the pipeline,
the boat,
the building,
Grown in fields of corn,
on oil rigs surrounded by the deepest blue oceans,
as blue as the collar around the neck.
tight, knowing there is nowhere else to go
and nowhere you would rather be.
Women feel the attraction, and we see it in your eyes...
Awakening the primal sense in you. The roughnecks and dirt covered crew.
You know your manicured husband just don't have this....or could do that!
You may want a well put together,
prepared and pampered over,
buffed and polished man,
but your desire fixates on men in blue who can do it all,
from fixes of the sink,
to kissing you tender pillow top lip,
Big and small, blue collard boys do it all!
Categories:
rigs, fun, work,
Form:
Free verse