There was a dusty man, and he drove a dusty mile,
He found s rusty engine by a rickety old stile;
He bought a mangy hound, who chased a mangy deer,
And they all lived together on a porch and drank a beer.
Country bumpkin heading to school.
Passing through a town's neatly gardened symmetry.
Glimpse how other half lives.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Bubbling babbling burbling banter brimming at the bar
First sup.. hush…memory lane trip rush..nicely tickled
Plush lace ebbed…lush beer swirls race webbed
Whirls..down dimpled dappled jar....nicely pickled
Pagans perch….sip druid fluid drip…Iris’s secular church
Trumpet tradition.. beacons blush in embers of the past
Cluttered classy cast of polished pewter..ballsy brass
Whimsy wafting across tobacco tinted tainted times
Parched patrons quaffing while cavorting with crannies
Carousing with nooks sporting timber flannelled panels
As sons then become dad..on the same pews with their lad
Lawyer betwixt a tyro…local employer..bumpkin on the giro
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before
Gracious Landladies…loquacious landlords near and far..
Who let us roam in our home from home we raise our jar
To every special space.. familiar face in that third place..ta
I'm a humble country bumpkin,
comfy in a patch of pumpkins.
Feeling hungry and romancy,
I took her to a restaurant, fancy.
I asked for a microscope so posh,
to see the dish beneath the cloche.
Near the yard, I heard the mother bird's loud cluck,
A signal to pull a sly trick on the hick.
Yuck! Her chicks all ran wild and scampered amok,
Scattered by the bumpkin swinging a big stick.
The dispersed chicks drew a cast of circling hawks,
That were happy to see meals within their grasp.
The hick and the hen, they must quickly outfox.
One hawk swooped low, its talons poised to clasp.
A chick grasped, the hawk then tried to fly away,
Mother hen ran after the hawk, eyes fire raged.
Fight ensued; chick-hunting again went astray.
The chick broke free when hawk and hen both engaged.
Like incense in a flower's heart, the chicks hid,
Their clucks hung like heavyweights on their weak necks.
Unseen tears of fear welled in their thin eyelids,
At least, from hawks their mother earned some respect.
You lied
I cried
Lie low
Hello
My dear
Her rear
Was flake
You snake
Slitter
Hitter
Batter
Scatter
Foul balls
Who falls
I did
You squid
I plea
Leave me
Your eyes
Like pies
And sweets
And tweets
That sing
And bling
That sate
Your plate
Without
A doubt
Peter
Cheater
Pumpin
Bumpkin
Bowwow
Chow Chow
It's clear
Leave here
connie pachecho
1/12/25
Note-A prelude to this poem, "If I Were Your Love," dated 5/1/23.
Call me hayseed, bumpkin, hillbilly, or crazy hick
Fresh inspiring country air surrounds me thick
I could run outside naked if I wanted
I live where deer and wild turkey are hunted
Wild boars wander up to my yard to root
My garden has veggies, my trees bear fruit
The sun I see is better than most ever find
Taking me away from the country would be unkind
Chawbacon bumpkin
Hillbilly from Hog Hollar
Brings ma a ripe pumpkin
And lets her keep her dollar
I drive through the forest of shadows and clouds,
thinking out loud, about the wings of buzzards
that flap up and down through springtime leaves.
I saw three in flight. I’m deft as I creep in my car.
A meander of curves on this country bumpkin nook.
Mysterious and lovely, this living ghost of trees.
The hawks diminish its size, provoke the darkness.
I imagine the mean old apple trees and ruby slippers.
I coin it The Yellow Brick Road when I drive the kids.
It’s what is left when the rest of the land’s been developed.
It is a scary and pretty walk, dangerous and playful.
I breathe life through the confiture of this unspoiled remnant.
Thirty minutes til pickup - leaving home before crack of dawn
A slew of police cars and orange cones blocking the exit
Reading mailboxes with old eyes - not owl eyes
My friend and I exchanging gift bags - her birthday was in August
Thirty more minutes North - I should have let her drive
A sharp curve - caught off guard - followed it to its conclusion
A deer in a dead slump near the road’s edge
Motorcyclists - one popping a wheelie
Country bumpkin roads
Field of future Jack-O’-lanterns
The church steeple as the sun comes up
~ All My Life a Waddie…
I have lived the life of a country bumpkin
matter of fact I came into this world where
Every day was lived hand to mouth so to speak
poor as a church mouse with not a crumb to spare
I’ve lived among the bright lights of the city
just doing the nine-to-five job everyday
Worked my ass off for less than minimum wage
took a few odd jobs for whatever it paid
Been a soldier, farmer, manager and cop
dug ditches, cleaned toilets and worked in a bar
Business owner, cashier, bouncer and a bum
laid highways, built bridges and washed people’s cars
I’ve flown through the sky and sailed over the sea
worked on mountains, the beach and in the forest
All through my life no matter the job I had
I have always tried to do my very best
Always lived the life of a hardworking man
never given a silver spoon that's for sure
I want you to know that I feel still quite blessed
and I would never ask for anything more
Now that the end of my working life is done
time for this old man to quit roaming about
Find a place I can sit and write poetry
until my final flicker of flame burns out
Kiki Lindstrom had a dog
A tiny puppy poodle
When she took it for a slog
It flipped a puppy's noodle
Kiki think about your pup
And think about the clover
When you try to pick it up
You have to pick it over
Kiki Lindstrom name your pet
But not the same as Toodle
When you name the same you get
The blame to be a poodle
Kiki, darling, what is true
Except a world of fashion
Everyone depends on you
To lead them with your passion
Kiki Lindstrom, little one
Your game is just beginning
When you roll the morning sun
The same is true of winning
Kiki child of success
Much more than any lover
When you change from dress to dress
Your beauty is your cover
Kiki Lindstrom, is my chance
The same as any bumpkin
If you like to see me dance
Then spin me like a pumpkin
Kiki dear, as I watch you
Our clocks are ticking single
If we dance like lovers do
Our frocks are sure to mingle.
Sharp tongues flying in the depth of night
Deep eyes looking for dirt under one's skin
Shallow minds that float and can't be bright
And the gossipmonger guy was a bumpkin
June 7, 2023
From Wales or Suffolk, claims knowledge of literature,
looking at sheep is far from just being some easy cure;
ever heard of Dylan Thomas, of course - one of the best,
but you're nowhere near of passing such an erudite test.
Such ingratiating manner, just playing to the gallery,
why don't you just share your homilies with old Valerie;
I have no jealousy, rather, scornful of inaccurate claims,
it's amazing that you should aspire with gratuitous pains.
However, I still forgive you for your horizontal position,
perhaps in future you could give us something to rely on;
I'm glad I'm not from a 'devolved' unfortunate nation,
next you'll be telling us that autism is advantageous.
You're bright, don't like to be assisted, oh well let's laugh lol,
perhaps you can find in your heart to forgive a bitter troll.
NB. A worzel is a country bumpkin.
A solitary child really,
Shotgun under arm,
Wandering the flood plains
On Billy Bulson’s farm,
Hammer uncocked,
Chamber free of charge
Enjoying the sensation
Of wandering at large.
Not shooting for pleasure
But out to fill the pot.
Today we could manage
With just what we’ve got,
Not getting any pleasure
From any single kill
Just hoping it was clean
And done with some skill
It’s an overcast morning
Sun fighting to break through
Grass wet underfoot from
A heavy morning dew.
It’s Saturday today so
I can take my pleasure
Walking these fields
Slowly at my leisure
Weapon broken barrelled
Now I’m back on the road
To ensure I’m complying with
The shooters safety code.
My next walk will be
Just a little bit harder,
Supplies are getting lower
In the family larder.
Any Weekday morning
I’d be in a bit of a rush
Racing up Church Lane
To catch my school bus,
Part of my double life that
Brings me so much joy,
Village country bumpkin and
City Grammar School boy.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.