Long Appalachians Poems
Long Appalachians Poems. Below are the most popular long Appalachians by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Appalachians poems by poem length and keyword.
“Give me 100 preachers who fear nothing but sin and desire nothing but God; such alone will shake the gates of hell.”
- John Wesley
While he was at a tent revival with a friend,
He gave his heart to Jesus – our Saving King.
He didn’t know then that millions would attend…
His sermons on the wonder of God’s wellspring.
While he was in seminary, learning to preach,
He met his lovely wife – oh, the joy she’d bring!
His sermons would reach all over, his outreach…
Hearts would believe the gospel which is everything!
While he lived his life in the rural Appalachians,
He traveled all over the world, preaching about love.
He addressed the books of the bible including Galatians,
Silencing fears and tears with his message from above.
While I can’t possibly tell you how many hearts he stirred,
There is surely a place in heaven that remembers this sum,
And, there isn’t any doubt that he brought God’s word…
So that those who listened would discover love’s outcome!
While he left so many blessed by his message of peace…
He moved to his final destination with hope that is amazing.
There with Jesus, he is blessed because God knows the increase…
He brought with his gift for preaching, praying and praising!
I traveled almost everywhere, growing up. It took years. The landscapes, flora and fauna, the art, music, cuisines and curse words all seem to blend together in my mind.
Mount Fuji, the Rhine, the Himalayas, the Chattahoochee, Shenzhen, Washington DC, the Alps, and Appalachians, Moscow, Beijing, Dublin, Portland, Paris, Atlanta, London, St. Petersburg, Tokyo, Rome, Wuhan, Berlin, the Yangtze, the Mississippi, Saint-Tropez and LA - are all jumbled up in my brain, like old, wrinkled maps in a glove compartment.
My mom has total recall - she can remember every day of her life since her mama handed her a faded yellow and blue rattle when she was 6 months old - God gave me the glove compartment.
Still, some things are unforgettable, like an electrical storm breaking around Mt Everest, the lights of New York City, at night, from a helicopter, glittering on the horizon like a queen’s crown. The Danube, from a riverboat under a too-bright moon and the elegant poverty of Italy.
In some ways, I grew up like an exile because we moved every couple of years, and I’d have to start my social life all over again - usually in a different language. Every place we left seemed a lost paradise, and each new place seemed cold and harsh.
Speaking of home to harsh transitions, November recess is over and we’re back in New Haven - with two weeks before final exams. Welcome to exhaustion week (weeks).
This morning I started going through my syllabuses, and after a week of holidaying - they seemed like indecipherable relics from a different world, a world of papers, tests and stingy-fun. I’ve so many things to wrap-up, my brain can’t seem to contain them all, I’m a gadget that’s out of memory.
I used to take my books on vacation, to remain in the ‘game’ mentally and stay ahead of the grind. Not this time. Hey, growing up, I’ve had my moments of ‘developmentally appropriate’ rebellion - in this case - I wanted memories to hoard, like inoculations against the coming work and loneliness cycles.
The Bible says "thou shalt not kill"
now proudly join the army lad, and go kill,
come back home, and follow your Bible again.
O middle class, your fathers built your homes
with union help, now disperse those union halls
and happily work for minimum wage, six days a week,
chant bribed politicians working for hidden oligarchs
reaping 100 million dollar bonuses, crowded apartments
will suffice.
O Appalachians, your once proud mountaintops now
miles of desert, debauched by profiteers, unbridled by
regulations written by lobbyists, clothed in frothing
chemicals, drowning your despair in burgeoning liquor
stores.
O beautiful blufflands, along my Mississippi,
I see you now, your royal crowns
decapitated,
your limestone sand greedily slurped by
frac-monster gargoyles wearing saville row suits,
entombed in New York skyscrapers.
O broken occupiers, etch your days in Heaven,
on your jail cell wall.
Truths, all truths, build slowly,
but truth must fight on, for your children's children
will know you tried to save our people and planet!
...we must fight on!
....we will!
The rowdy party racks the August Camp.
Beer flows in one end and out the other.
The tin siding vibrates with rock.
The sound rolls “over Beethoven”
in a corrugated groove.
The heat baked, potato-skinned,
hormone riddled teens gyrate.
Lip-locked; they rub bright young bodies
across a terrain of Appalachians and delta’s.
Sweat runs like rain between dream Dean eyes
and Marilynesque breasts, luscious peaches,
down curves a roller coaster would envy
with the passenger having
no less enjoyment for the ride.
Paired they leap into the black flies night.
Paired to the hot rods roaring pistons pride.
Paired they race into the ice-cooler chill
of Megunticook Lake.
Paired and naked, clothing tossed in wheel wells;
panties antennae wire glories
Relief floods their sensuous slide
lapping the beach of desire
The land shapes people and people shape lands
Tug River tells tales about feudist stands
'Tween Kentuck and Virginny the river runs
Where the rival families took up their guns
Hatfields 'n McCoys roamed "Murder Land"
Cried 'n died by each other's hand
Details were as much fancy as they were fact
As was this revengeful ongoing hillbilly pact
Newspapers spun this yarn of "Outlaw Class"
Took over a hundred years for this plague to pass
"Devil Anse" 'n "Randall" were the family foes
Long-living cheek and jowl as legend goes
Cost many a life of wife, son and daughter
Through decades of feuding, senseless slaughter
Some say that they were driven out by rail
Others knew enmity should surely prevail
Eastern investors were clearly after coal
In the end, as always, control was the goal
By the start of the twentieth century
Appalachians had lost their dignity
Once there was a country boy called Chester,
he came from the rural Appalachians;
got himself a farming job not far from a big city,
he was unsophisticated and old fashioned.
He had a pleasant twang that made people laugh,
was easy going with no hate in his bones;
but he was unprepared for the city and the mean,
soon a target for those who hated hillbillies.
They called him names and laughed at his clothes,
at the way he spoke- his lack of about everything;
Chester, spent a lot of time looking down at the ground,
but one day he showed what he could do.
A horse got loose, frighted it was galloping fast,
no one could stop him until Chester said, I can;
all the cowboys laughed and snickered (this will be a show)
but to their shock all Chester did was talk.
In time, Chester got his own farm with many horses,
he called the horses his Bybillies (don't know why);
and he would say in his twangy, pleasant voice proudly,
his horsies where grazing with the blue Blowbilllies.
seems he had a delightful secret language . . .
_____________________
April 27, 2018
Poetry/Narrative/A Sweet Hillbilly Boy
Copyright Protected, ID 18- 1017-390-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Hillbillies, Bybillies and Blowbilllies
sponsor, Caren Krutsinger
Second Place
The Quakers, being religiously persecuted, set sail from expatriated England;
they were the first settlers to reach the shore of New England: a free land!
Later the Puritans came and settled in other eastern, bustling colonies
seeking the same religious freedom, but their urge was stronger than dreams.
Many moved westward on foot, on horseback and on overloaded wagons...
exploring the American wilderness plundered by indigenous Indians;
they searched for grassland everywhere, to let their cattle roam and graze;
first they built wooden shacks on vast, lush prairies full of Queen Ann's Lace.
And out of this American westward expansion, came the fearless pioneers,
who sought gold mines...despite the wild cowboys causing troubles
with heavy drinking and desire for unscrupulous women, seeking money and pleasure,
who served them more whisky and lured them to a room with a demeaning measure.
Beyond the Rocky Mountains' and the Appalachians Mountains' skies,
these diligent pioneers obtained wealth with sweat and sacrifices...
changing and shaping the wild landscapes of arable land,
avoiding the drudgery of getting stuck in mud and sand.
.
…I knowz there be
Otherz with know
uv the
Appalachians
Yet i swearz by it by
Thunder
I know
their fair
In mine own dukes
clinching ever so
damn gently
With each their digits
i helped her
rode
She wuz proud uv
She
hern naked
pretty soul…
In Honor of Milt - An Un-contest Poetry Contest
I love the way Milton’s poem begins. It draws my attention immediately. Line 10 jolts me with Jacobs and Jacob-ites.I’m still quite interested! Line 3 of verse 2 gains my attention and then flowers bloom. I love the setting of the Applachians and West Virginia.
What I said: A fave for me! So many wonderful things mentioned here! Congratulations on POTD!
Milton’s reply: Thank you, Kim, for reading my poem and expressing your thoughts. I'm so happy you made it a FAVE, for I do think it is a worthy poem to be read many, many times, and I hope everyone who reads it will. It is one of my own personal favorites.
No pretense at humility (too funny). I like that it was one of his personal favorites!! Though Milton was keen to correct, he helped me and others become better poets.
Yearning for Reunion
Ancient, rugged hills worn down by time
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley,
Mountains forged from eons long forgotten
During those prehistoric periods before
Earliest settlers found the Appalachians,
Already old, tired, and wrinkled, awaiting
The laughter of young children discovering,
Holding the secrets of ancestors denied
Their birthright by Jacobs and Jacob-ites
Where old waters flow down into new,
New River old, maybe older, than the Nile.
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley
Where John Deere still breaks the ground
In the springtime after a long, hard winter,
And where flowers bloom into October
Especially if Mother Nature allows them.
And she does, for that is her mountain way,
Creating an everlasting yearning for reunion
Back home in those West Virginia hills.
By L. Milton Hankins
POEM OF THE DAY, December 2, 2021
Poetry Soup
written November 30, 2021
#49 on the Best New Poems List on Poetry Soup
December 8, 2021
The Gaspe Peninsula dancing to music only she can hear,
She starts in the Appalachians of Northern Alabama;
Until she plunges into the sea at the end of the Gaspe,
The Mi'knaq Indians called it, the place where land ends.
She murmurs the music of the Scots and Irish settlers,
With fiddles and violins strumming and Gaelic lyrics;
On summer days, she is wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows,
That ripple in the fresh, sea breezes of the Saint Lawrence.
There are many wind turbine forests, a hundred miles high,
And the sound of the fiddles scream in her heart;
Along her shores she is rich wilderness, red cliffs, and forests,
And always the salt-tinged wind is caressing her soul.
Her peaks rise up to the azure blue sky in sweet solitude,
Birds swoop and glide her towering open rock forms;
And she hears accordian, gentle and soothing, weeping so softly,
And scattered are quaint villages and towns with bright roofs.
Many a shipwreck lay off her shores and the violin is sadness,
And the Blue Whales come surfacing and diving deeply;
Their blow-holes, blowing plumes thirty feet tall with a whoosh,
In the waters of the mighty Saint Lawrence that flows.
The fiddles are piercing and the piano cries as she nears her end,
Land plunges into the sea, and her journey has ended;
She is dancing to music only she can hear, of seascapes so beautiful,
Of boreal forests, pristine waters, wildlife, and high mountains.
_____________________________
October 5, 2015
Short Story/Music of the Gaspe
Copyright Protected, ID 15-714-669-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.