Hillbilly Poems - Poems about Hillbilly

Time for me to give the best man's toast It's the moment that I've dreaded most What can I say Mister You married your Sister I've had her and that's nothing to boast In fact, last time we were together We did it with whips, chains, and leather But bondage made her mean So I broke it off clean Now little...

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Down in Hillbilly Hollow, under the silver moon, Rustlin' leaves and hootin' owls, playin' a country tune. Haystacks high, and the creek runs low, Life rolls by, nice and slow. Dirt road windin', bend to bend, Kin and friends 'round every end. Old guitars strummin', hear the sound, Laughter echoes, love abounds. Barefoot dances, by the old barn door, Stories told, of legends yore. In...

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Me thinks Hillbilly Vance is too highfalutin' A big corporate crack pot? Yeah, yer darn tootin' Gimme Jed Clampet any day Jethro, Granny or Ellie May Not a hack for a huckster who praises Vlad Putin! ...

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Hillbilly Bobby shared his snack with a chickadee The bird gave out some sounds a toot, a tweet and a twee His relatives came by and wanted bird seed too. Bobby called in relatives to see what they could do. They baked up cornbread and threw it onto the ground. The smell of ham, beans and onions wafted all around. They...

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On top of old mango tree Climbing high, wild and free High above the mountain top Wishing signal would not flop Writing my poetry On top of old mango tree While the skies up above Lauding the courage I have June 3, 2023...

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High ho Hill Bill is singing the hillbilly blues It’s not a bad life, yet, not one that I’d choose He’s wailing like a cat with a pinched big toe Singing the blues up and down in summer and snow. They found me under a spoiled apple tree I was never a good boy, no one wanted me. My daddy ran...

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Mornings, light and smiling Coffee brewing, black Meat frying in a cast iron skillet Grease, flour and milk, stirred together Gravy poured over steaming biscuits Granny’s breakfast – typically Grown to life from a wood cookstove Noon, gentle sunshine Picking cornfield beans, breaking The beans and then washing them Placing them into a vessel, a pot Seasoned with pork - fatback Cooking over the sweaty heat Of...

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Billy played the banjo, sometimes the fiddle, too While grandpa rattled the spoons and sang About a sip of “that good ol’ mountain dew.” Occasionally Mr. Snell came over and brang * His collection of gourds, they made a harmony While grandpa rattled the spoons and sang. The makeshift band welcomed, as a courtesy, Anyone who had a crude mountain instrument His collection...

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We got a bubble machine and rigged it up a bit. To the cow water trough, it was a really tight fit. Come on! I urged Bubba, grandma’s nap won’t last. I knew if she caught us, we’d be whooped hard and fast. We were giggling so hard, probably due to the beer. Who brought it over to Grandma’s, it...

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Hillbilly musicians don't play the drums They use instruments that they can strum Fiddle or blow Why do they do this? I don't know It must make a unique noise When accompanied by Fiddle, Banjo, Guitar and boys Singing as nobody sang With that country music twang By their side, a bottle of Whisky and Rye While watching those Southern Belles pass by With a Hi-dee-hi...

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They brought their music to the hills, a gritty music that world brook no softening, but in time the Appalachian mists grew softer and the work less dire. They were not one people, they were one music, tunes that recalled Celtic roots that had broken the will of nations to ever control them. When they left those homelands they did not abandon the high landscapes but...

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Hillbilly magic in the heat of the day Playing homemade fiddles in the middle of May. Blowing into Grandpa’s jug with a merry hey. Knee slapping melody with my cousin Shay. Adding to Arkansas lazy ambiance in every way, Black comb with waxed paper kazoos added to the fray. Consuming Bob’s moonshine in secret shadows of dark gray. Good ole’ fashioned downhome...

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Take that road down yonder, she said Toward the signpost that reads, lickskillet Turn right up thar and then left after that To a highfulootin road that’s paved in black After you see the red store building by the crik Turn to your right and you’ll be at Old Jack’s street From there you go over the mountain a ways And keep...

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Every morning at close to four She made the coffee, percolated Poured it into cups with saucers And they each would have a cup Pouring the potent black liquid Into the saucers before drinking The cooling solution from them This was only one more glimpse Into the heart of Appalachian living A day by day extravaganza of insights Carried down from the Irish ancestors Who’d come...

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Chickabiddy and hillbilly had a walk Along Whisky Road which was made of rock on a summers day way back in May Followed by Sammy a curious hawk. Sammy steered them to a gorgeous flock Of lambs who began to mew and squawk Chickabiddy squeaked Hillbilly shrieked Wishing they had never come round this block Five policemen were called which was a shock One of them...

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