Bumpkin Poems

Respect from the hawks

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.

My Hubby Cheated On Me

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 crazy country hick

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

generous chawbacon bumpkin

Chawbacon bumpkin
Hillbilly from Hog Hollar
Brings ma a ripe pumpkin
And lets her keep her dollar

The Forest of Shadows and Clouds

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.

Driving In the Dark On My Birthday-Oct 7

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

~ 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

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.

The Gossipmonger Guy

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

Nothing Like a Worzel

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.

Early Morning Walk

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.

Give Me the Midwest

I readily admit I am a country bumpkin
But I am no buffoon
I am in this to build others up
To help others win
To raise up my neighbors and my friends

We hear about the coastal towns
Both east and west coast have terrific reputations
Their people are more sophisticated, more stylish, chic.
It is fashionable at both coasts to be less hands-on.
To be less community oriented.

In the big citiies of the coasts, people on the streets do not speak.
They do not smile.
They do not say “hi”.
They walk past each other, like trotting lamp posts.
Not noticing faces or inflections.
Not noticing humanness in each other.

I am in New York City today, trying to figure it out.
Where is a guidebook to help me unlearn social niceties?
How can I immediately become less human? Less caring?
How do I not say “hi” to everyone I pass?
Is there a manual? A cheat sheet? A U-tube video?
Too late. I am already here, feeling miserable.
Wishing I was back in the Midwest where it is okay to care about strangers.

Can'T Spell

Bonsai
bumpkin cries
small tree flies

Lonnie Lumpkin

There was a thief, name of Lonnie Lumpkin
Accused of stealing a thousand pumpkins
   He put them in trees
   They stank in the breeze
Wud-ja expect from a Count-Tree Bumpkin

Chopin

Love soft music on a warm summer's night
A Piano Sonata by that Chopin dude
Nothing can turn my crank more than Fredéric
Sure puts this guy in a romantic mood

Surprised with my knowledge of the classics?
Fred and I go a very long way back
Grew up together, he was my very first buddy
Actually stole my sweet girlie, fancy that

Helped him write some mazurkas and études
Never gave me credit, whatta bum
Attempted to expose him but no one listened
Of course no one listened, that's dumb

Whatta big snot, this so called music genius
Thought the world revolved around him
Got some news, this is going to shatter his image
He was nothing but a country bumpkin

I know, I know, that's not well known fact
He paid people to keep it hush hush
So now you all know the rest of this story
Old Freddie turned out to be a lush

Sorry bout this, all you fans of the classics
This was all just in fun I declare
Was never a good friend of old Freddie boy
Still maintain, I never got my share

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