Best Slickers Poems
I know how to live off the land
I'm a survivalist
I make do with whatever's at hand
I'm a survivalist
It's a mindset,
it's a lifestyle
You must have a soldier's discipline,
be able to endure hardships for a long while
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for guile
I can ascertain your true motives,
sense the truth behind the smile
I was trained to be a scientist,
I was trained to be a fireman
I was trained to be a field doctor,
but right now I'm a lumberjack
swinging an axe in my hand
I worked on a railroad,
I worked in a cooper mine
I worked at a shipyard,
I was a mean cook when I did a little time
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for those corporate city slickers
I can deduce your true identity,
sense the lies behind the smiling boot lickers
I was trained as a scout,
I was trained as an engineer
I was trained as a wrangler,
but right now I'm a mechanic
fixing a truck with busted gears
I worked for a big law firm,
I worked as a small company machinist intern
I worked at a high-tech factory,
I got recruited by a low-level military attache
Those are just a few of my credentials,
but here is what you really need to know
I'm a student of studying people,
I got a quick wit, but I like to appear slow
Being in the big outdoors
is where I really feel most at home
I love to test my skills at surviving,
I love to operate my satellite phone
Check the cloud patterns,
constantly scan the terrain
Calculate the tide shifts,
learn every animal, know every grain
I know how to live off the land,
make the land work for me
I make do with whatever's at hand,
let the land give me what I need
I'm a mountain man,
I live in an untamed world
I'm a different kind of animal
I'm a mountain man,
who's never gonna get trapped
by modern barbarians ever again
"American Grafitti" took me back again to High School in the 1960's
"Back to the Future's" nifty hot rod took me back in time and almost left me!
"City Slickers" took me way out west, to rustle cows and ride a horse
"Da Vinci's" code, did not bode well, the Vatican did not endorse!
"E. T. " turned out to be my friend, we peddled bikes far past the moon
"Forrest Gump" shared my lunch, and shared his chocolate just past noon
"Groundhog Day" is darn confusing, is it Monday or is it Tuesday?
"Hannibal" is one cruel dude,..........he sharpens teeth so he can chew me!!
"I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry" invited me to toast their wedding
"Jaws" invited me to take a swim! Those who did, were soon regretting!
"King Kong", was one poor ape who climbed too high for past mistakes,
"Lincoln" had too much at stake, but ended war between the states
"Mummy 1" and "Mummy 2" made me cry for Mommy,...PLEASE!
"No Country for Old Men"...but young dudes look, and want to leave!
"O' Brother Where Are Thou?" escaped their chains to play like Ringo
"Psycho's" bathtubs scare me silly, my next motel will be Flamingo's
"Quarantine" because I'm sick? If I stay in bed, they call me lazy
"Rosemary's Baby"...yikes that kid? Babysit....?? Are you crazy?
"Superman" claimed that he could help me, but flew away with no advice
"Titanic" hit a piece of ice, (that Superman was not so nice!)
"Unforgiven" (now is Superman)...Clint Eastwood is the slicker guy
"Valkyrie"'s plot has thickened...Let's all poke Hitler in the eye!
"When Harry Met Sally" I was jealous....her cafe' scene has made me blush
Xanadu had me roller skating.......racing faster, while I'm dating
"Young Sherlock Holmes" was just a kid, I kid you not, he met his Watson
"Zoolander" 's slacks were Cuban made.. I borrowed some and they were awesome!
(and I'm exhausted!)
______________________________________________
For Cyndi's exhausting ABC contest!! Whew!
“Country Christmas Carol” --- dedicated to my family
by Miriam McCue (creator of flamingo art, & poetry.so far.)
We love to sing Christmas songs,
My Grandson Bubba and I.
And when we sing Country Christmas.
We almost make the angels cry.
A Merry Country Christmas
To all those great Country Folk,
And even to the City Slickers,
Who also love to drink and smoke.
We’ll take a drink for Bubba, Aunt Mike and Cousin Jim,
And hope that this Christmas,
They’ll say a prayer and sing a hymn.
Gather round the still,
Country People all.
And hold up Uncle Bill
So the old coot doesn’t fall.
A Merry Country Christmas,
One full of country joy.
Little Willie wanted a 12 gauge,
But all he got was a toy.
The air is heavy like a dirty woolen blanket
each colorful strand pulled through the warp.
Horns blare and traffic skids and screeches
as unborn accidents are aborted
by fancy-pants cops.
The city slickers in their posh clothes
zip along toward the outskirts
avoiding those in dirndl-shaped, Polleras skirts
and Monteras hats, as if ashamed,
either of their own roots, or of the neglect.
The road to El Salvador* is long
weaving along rough pacific shore lines
wefting past fishing villages,
and cement factories with tangerine groves,
each lane bringing the colors of modern life.
The oranges, red and pinks of fine fabric repeated
in on the metal surfaces of trucks, buses, and motor cabs.
Each person’s destiny pulled and pushed
by the action of man, earth and tide
forward, ever forward..through
the dunes of Lima’s desert.
The invaders hug the hillside,
thousands upon thousands, of rural poor,
driven from the teat of the mother by earth quakes
and the terror caused by The Shining Path.*
Mao lives on in the upheaval caused by his ideology.
Yet, so does ayni*, the helping hand of neighbor,
the brown-skinned hand, more used
to the bobbin than the gun.
Here they have come in oneness
a finished soul on a back-strap loom,
dyed and drying in the heat
of Lima’s desert
they bloom.
*El Salvador- a shanty-town 45 min outside of Lima
with 350,000 residents. This community was nominated
for a Nobel Peace Prize in 1986 excellence
in social work and community growth
**Shining Path-The Communist Party of Peru
is a Maoist terrorist organization in Peru.[
*** ayni- Quechua culture is centered upon community
and mutual help (“ayni”). Their social system is based
on the principle of reciprocity: helping a neighbor
to be helped in return.
The House That Jack Built 3
Frequently we youngest four gathered bottles that were strewn in ditches,
And along the railroad track,
Then glide our feet over well-worn steel rails on the journey back.
We'd exchange empties for jaw-breakers and bubble-gum at Rose’s General Store,
And whenever I agreed to sing them a song,
We’d be given ice-cream cones for the deed that was far from a chore.
On the way home we’d pluck dandelions, buttercups, and daisies,
To present Ma with a colorful bouquet,
I’d add to it a rose or two if a certain neighbor was away.
If walls of home had open eyes and listening ears of course they’d witness and hear,
The muttered complaints and landing though faint of many a fallen tear.
Still, there was no television to carry us to places no child should go,
No boob-tube attempting to make us believe in all that just wasn't so.
We’d no telephone enslaving us in idle prattle-prat,
There was no couch-potatoing, no pigging out and getting fat.
We weren’t saints and some of our shenanigans surely caused the structure to tilt,
Yet we somehow felt all safe and secure in The House They Say Jack Built.
Then one day city slickers arrived at our door,
Said soon we would be living in Farran's Point no more,
The house where Ma had birthed nine,
Our Haven of Liberty that rested amid Willow, Maple and Pine,
Was part of some Seaway Power Project and Jack's House would be torn down,
And we were forced to relocate , to leave our delightful riverside town.
Gone would be the tall, proud trees, wild berries , rolling hills, winding creek and close friend,
Gone the canal that ships sailed through never would I cheerfully view again.
Gone the long tall grass we'd run through barefoot ,
After a swim in the River we cherished dear,
Gone the smiles from the faces of the Lost Villagers as eyes tried to hold back each tear.
by Joan Donnelly Ellis
Note: Farran's Point Ontario, Canada was a small riverside village. It was one of nine villages relocated before USA & Canada flooded the area in 1958 (St. Lawrence Seaway Power Project)
Naked to Nurture. Naked, to Nurture.
Why not naked into woods?
We yank up gumboots.
Enshroud our piggies in wicking and itching sockbags.
Hoping to holdfast against the forfeiture of bought heat.
The city slickers in their shiny slickers
clasp and buckle, zip and bundle
before they trudge and trundle
into the Great Unlabeled, the alien birthright.
An undershirt, a tank, a tee, and then an overthing!
And this in Spring, in Summer. Winter's another thickening:
strappings wrapping trappings, coalgulable clottings clogging
scarf-shrouded and unceremonious cerements.
The gloves, if cold or wet. The hat and muffs, if blustering.
We insulate ourselves from the uninsulated.
Remove ourselves from that which we aim to enter.
To re-enter. To be received by. Naked as we came, now
at our peril, apparently apparelled in unparalleled antiferalelry.
Each civilized entrant into sylvan realms-
textile banished for fear of cold,
for fear of wet, for fear of dirt.
The mind must first give up its notions
of propriety to hope to slake the self in the
sunlit and secreted shimmerings of sanctity.
Be bare of sole, skin to wind.
Be bare of soul, Yin to begin.
Why not naked into woods?
they do, so certainly, come naked...
into us.
Gothic citizens in black slickers
hang precariously in the
sinful caverns of the dark underworld..
Billie was a true authentic hillbilly
who wore no shoes even if it was chilly
his holy jeans looked like swiss cheese
where daily you'd catch a glimpse of his knobby knees
Whenever he left his cabin his Ma would yell bybillie
with his hound dog by his side named Willy Nilly
some folks had bought some woods close nearby
so he went to investigate with his hillbilly eyes
He watched their hired builders build the cabin
which had indoor plumbing which he thought quite lavish
he was used to going to his outdoor john
which had a half moon carved out on the door by his Mom
Finally the new hillbilly's cabin was complete
so to be friendly he bought over some of his deer meat
the couple said no thank you this is unacceptable
as they gazed at him wearing fancy spectacles
Billie caught their looks which looked full of pride
and caught a glimpse of their beautiful cabin inside
a bit rustic but with expensive furniture everywhere
they slowly closed their door as he curiously stood there
Arriving back home he yelled Ma guess what
those new neighbor hillbilly's are actually not
real hillbilly's that look and act like us
but the kind of city slickers that makes a lot of fuss
His Ma just laughed and said well don't that beat all
city slickers moving to the hills where there aint no Mall
Billie saying the only thing the same was our holy jeans
guess they ran out of money buying all those other fancy things
So Billie had a new name for them which was quite silly
he said Ma I blew their cover so I'll call them blowbillies
I think were the only true hillbilly's left in these here parts
tomorrow I'll bring them over some roadkill to win over their hearts
So Billie Hatfield kept on although the neighbors were quite annoyed
finding out later that their last name was McCoy.
4-12-18
The Girl with the Blackberry Eyes
So there you stand, with your yawn colored slickers,
wishing your life to be more
Fruit flavored fantasies sprinkled with stickers
so much is waiting in store
Someone is longing your destined arrival,
desires held loose in her hand
All that you need to effect your survival,
I promise, she will understand
While sunny the days of a cloudless expanse
in fields lowly rutted with fear
Down footprints of mud in a circular dance,
a garden now beckons you here
A wood picket fence and a hedge overgrown
beyond an old gate bearing rust
That cringes and creaks near the wicked seeds sown
about southern winds once were thrust
Where vines cling an arbor in strangling grip,
creeping like worms neath your feet
Proud of their thorns and the flesh they do rip,
souring fruits ever sweet
Beware of this realm where the petals now bleed
with faces apart from the norm
On barbed wire stems of a nevermore need,
now cast of an unending storm
For here waits a child with a part in her hair
and roots tethered deep to the ground
A bouquet of pain offered up, if you dare,
in silence she speaks without sound
So follow this path of a nightmarish dream,
where nothing that lives ever dies
But hold tight your tongue for she hates when you scream,
the girl with the blackberry eyes
Scott Joplin, Paul Simon and the Beatles pop,
The Stones, Dire Straits and, Yes & ZZ Top.
Bob Dylan plays his heart out, Northern Soul,
Rod Stewart, The Traveling Wilburys do their stuff,
And as if that isn't enough, there's Jeff Wayne,
With his War of the Worlds in a musical vein.
Cajun, Bluegrass and Dueling Banjos to boot.
I got Spike Jones & his city slickers, what a hoot.
Bill Haley, Leo Sayer, and some Monkeys abound,
Each one giving out their awesome own sound.
Now Meatloaf is a band I love to hear.
Coming close behind is the great Chris Rea.
Eric Clapton always stops me in my tracks,
Charlie Parker and Stan Getz on their Sax,
Some great big band sounds at their backs.
All this and more on my headphones tonight,
Just listening to music has been my delight.
I have cleared all the shelves, nothing is left,
All on my spare hard drive, I'll not be bereft.
I hope the charity shop this stuff can sell,
So more folk can enjoy this music as well.
© Dave Timperley 25/10/2018
THE FOURTH OF JULY HAT
We used to celebrate July the Fourth when the kids were young—
Till they grew up and moved away and life became far-flung.
Yes, once we toasted freedom’s day and shot off big fireworks—
Now I sit here in this dark bar surrounded by some jerks.
We used to ride our horses on this Independence Day,
We barbecued and downed a few and for our nation prayed.
Then the show of fountains, Roman candles and Black Cat—
Till judges and town laws ruled: “You aren’t allowed to do that!”
Slowly the country lost its way and now it seems insane—
Shredding our constitution with rights of eminent domain.
Now Addie’s gone and I’m alone to tend to this old spread,
Till slickers come and crowd me off and I’m just left for dead.
Now holidays don’t mean too much and good times just don’t last,
I wonder if folks understand sacrifices of our past?
So on this Fourth I watch fireworks upon a bar room screen,
My wrinkled skin like leather now, but oh, what I have seen…
They’re playing our nation’s anthem and I’m sure liking that,
When some young tough rudely yells: “Cowboy, I can’t see through your hat!”
But I feel a bit stubborn and cling to what I have left
And sit there till he says, “Old man, are you a little deaf?”
Slowly, I take that hat off, and feel for something inside—
Then put on an old folded army cap with deep love and pride.
Then as the last fireworks fade, and loud rockets burst and whir—
That young man shakes my hand and says, “Happy Fourth of July, sir.”
...inspired by 'August Rain' by Joseph Brodsky
The afternoon dissolves to darkness,
suddenly the downpour tumbles
and the spouts regurgitate.
Willows wilt and elm trees tremble,
intertwine, then dissassemble,
all awash in green and grey,
threads of nature cast asunder,
unattached they dance and scatter
at the dimming of the day.
Hedges stripped, once meshed together,
tree tops tussle in the fray,
the kettle sings a screaming descant,
shrieking o'er the storm's foray, and listen
to the cabin creaking, squeaking loud
as if to say, I'll bear this, and so much more.
Windows grey with condensation,
all are safe and warm before the fire.
Comfort can be relegated,
greatcoats hang from studded rafters,
scarves and mufflers blend together,
boots and slickers for the brave ones,
regimented rows aligned.
Now there's stew and home-made biscuits,
mugs of cocoa laced with rum,
a cure for nature's howl and hum.
I don't know any African heroes
Only the city slickers on their quest for seven zeroes
Teach me the names of the fathers of prose
And how , with blistering fingers and eager minds of listeners from ashes they rose
Show me how the doomed generation told the tales of today's black nation
Show me, I say, show me how my imprisoned ancestors emancipated today's indoctrinated
I yearn for soulful the teachings of coffee stained pages with dog ears and ragged edges
Africa who are you children?
Africa where are your heroes?
They ask me how I write these words..
Like who's my favourite poet..
Is it Keats, a Wordsworth or maybe what about a Bronte..
Perhaps the lordly Byron..
It's not in written words, but what I hear and see..
When standing in the shopping queue..
such sordid conversations..
How much that bag of peas?..
or riding on the train...
Seeing only printed front page news and
city slickers fingers..
Sitting at the airport waiting for a flight..
The IPhones, IPods and mobiles going crazy..
We're living a mini screen world..
Was eating in the restaurant, the table next to
Me were having quite a chat...
I wish they'd talk more loudly I cannot hear a thing!!
When waiting for the early bus when all is cold and chilly..and hear those tired
And hear those tired yawns of a day begun of the work and
all the pressures..
Or listening to the morning news on the BBC..
Some days it breaks your heart when there's only
war, the loss and famine..
When popping out to walk the dog..
You have to stop and talk with someone who has a tale to
tell...
Or walking in the city alone within the crowd..
I look to find a friendly face and cannot find a
smile..
When watching my children playing, laughing or even
when they're crying..
It brings it home to me that they are in my care..
When listening to the radio...
Opinions on the airwaves, don't want the rant's and
raving..
You know I love to eavesdrop and listen to the world..
Perhaps I'm just a sticky beak and shouldn't hear a peep...
The malls are decorated
And happy voices sing.
It's Christmas in the Northwest,
Let all the churchbells ring.
We haul out our umbrellas
And put our slickers on.
We dash between the showers
To get our shopping done.
There are Santas on each corner
As perfect gifts we chase.
We sacrifice our coifed hairdos,
A smile on every face.
It's Christmas in the Northwest
From mountain top to vale.
The raindrops won't deter us
From one more Christmas sale.
won 4th place