Long Bandanas Poems
Long Bandanas Poems. Below are the most popular long Bandanas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bandanas poems by poem length and keyword.
ALONG FOR THE RIDE
We race through streams of mud, looking like bank bandits,
our bandanas fastened around mouth and nose. Open-air
vehicles, look like skeletons, and the roar of its engine leaves
no room for conversation. But I exult in each bump, thinking
the best splash is this one, no this one, not even close. My
mind on the excitement and joy my husband feels, his
adventurous heart stirs mine. Not always so, but he has
elevated me - I hold his hand on mountain peaks.
One first ride — the banana boat, yellow and with
mischievous eyes, carrying youthful passengers
with brunette and blond innocence. They ask
the guides if there are any sharks. They chuckle
saying, “Of course! We are in open ocean.”
So our ride begins, and we bounce, spin, faster
and faster until they purposely throw us out
of the boat, and I no Spring chicken. My body
contorts and I’m afraid I might have hurt my back.
I glare at my husband — the kill shot.
Twice more our guides toss us out. By the third time
I’m resigned to the fact and have gotten over my terror.
And you see, I never gave the sharks a thought.
6/4/2019
I used to study faces.
Now I gaze at masks and bandanas.
Can't tell if they're beautiful or plain
cloak the sane or madmen.
Since this new age plague began...
gaits seem to have a bit more verve.
Perhaps more panic and purpose...
My, how things have changed.
In such a short time we're all starting to look
like old-school crips and bloods
and Muslim women...
The jokes are all on us.
There's an uneasy feeling
must be the buds of oppression... settling in.
Five yellow stars dipped in red.
Sprouting deep in the gut
dark black buds so very relentless.
What will the summer heat bring?
Even less freedom, more chains.
The death of millions via an invisible assassin.
There are so many masks and masks of death and dirt-cheap gas.
Cowboys in the Badlands
The horses need be reined tightly
lest they show better judgment
and head back to the barn. The
cowboys, driven by the dust cloud
of following hoof beats, were less smart.
A Gila monster smirks as they pass
knowing what waits ahead is to be
more painful than the rope they flee.
Driven by the torments of a lost war,
a lost home, a lost dream, they had
lashed out at the hunger, fled the
hovels of a shanty town and swore
to exact payment any way possible.
The consequences of the decision
pursued them, consumed them,
as they rested the horses. The horses
must rest, they never would.
They stood overlooking the badlands,
shimmering heat’s forever fallacy,
that somehow you would cross to
safety, find an oasis, escape. Oh,
you may escape the posse, maybe
even the past, but you will not
escape the bitterness of these
bad lands and their unforgiving
demands. Few have come here
willingly, fewer have remained
once tested by the dryness, the
drought, the wind, sand, and
anger of a land seeking to be
left alone. And so they rode into
the abyss of sand and stone
leaving only the hoof prints
of fading memory. Bandanas
covered their faces, hat brims
covered their eyes. They rode
until the horses fell, unable to
continue. Horseless, they staggered
in the shifting sands laughing
as they recalled staggering from
the saloon on that awful night.
The night they gave up, the night
they gave in to the desperate desire
to be free. A desire that was now
to be fulfilled in these Bad Lands.
For Isaiah Zerbst – Cowboys in the Badlands poetry contest
9/15/2014
I was an urban maverick
And bicycles met many needs.
More than the Pope is Catholic
I cleaved to my old one--speed steeds.
Over goatheads, glass, even nails
My bike took me every day.
Up ev'ry street and over trails
Holding a wheelie, like ballet.
My bike was my way and my wind,
My great escape to adventures.
Upright or wipeouts, elbows skinned,
Faceplants that could have meant dentures.
I rode and I rode ev'ry road.
I raced and O'r dropoffs I went.
So many bikes, had to be towed
As frames and forks I broke or bent.
I followed guys like Bob Hannah
Motocross heros in leathers
Who started out in bandanas
And flew as if they had feathers.
Oh those were my days of glory
When I rode so wild and free.
My bikes and I told the story
Of me and my one-speed steeds.
.
Outside a quaint town in fair Vermont,
by my family’s vacation home,
is a small field with fences and sign,
in the warm month’s it’s a place to go.
They have a flea market on weekends,
rows of tents pitched under mountains green,
for most people it is just old junk,
but it is fascinating to me.
There’s a tent that’s selling goat-milk soap,
I did not know that that was a thing,
the man behind it smells of hippie,
but not too much, since he’s still selling.
Next to him are magazines that
were new back in my grandfather's time,
postcards from before the depression,
so many that it boggles my mind.
Across from that, old iron housewares
from a century that is long past,
rough-hewn evoke memories
of a wholesome time that couldn’t last.
Besides that place, hand-turned wooden bowls,
from a shop the next county over,
their pretty, yes, with natural lines,
but at that price, I will say, “No sir!”
Then there’s the tent with all the old books,
dangerous place for men like myself,
it’s foretold I’ll pick up old novels,
but which ones? I can never foretell.
A guy is selling old comics books,
another is hawking baseball cards,
gaudy women’s clothes are over there,
near cheap tools and pieces of old cars.
There’s the guy with army-navy stuff,
yellowed manuals from World War II,
and more knives than you could ever need,
yet I still walk away with a few.
Of course there is the hot dog vendor,
with cheap prices you don’t find these days,
then a tent with essential oils,
I just roll my eyes and stay away.
Buy cheap bandanas for the nephews,
little guys will think that they’re so neat,
the I meander back to my car,
let the wheels take the stress off my feet.
Deep in the forest, critters convene,
decked out in red-white-blue
like a woodland parade gone wild.
Sam the squirrel arrives first
waving a tiny flag
and saluting every oak tree in sight.
The raccoons show up next sporting star-spangled bandanas,
looking suspiciously patriotic
for creatures who steal snacks.
Owls hoot the national anthem
slightly off-key,
but with tremendous heart.
When the fireworks begin, the whole forest gasps~
bursts of color bloom above the treetops
like sky-flowers of freedom.
All the creatures whisper a soft, patriotic chorus:
“God bless America…
and please pass the picnic leftovers.”