Long Barroom Poems
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Garbage poetry,
that’s why they make you pay—
a toll booth on the road to nowhere,
ink-stained palms held out
by men who couldn’t read a pulse
if it bit them.
Poets strutting like roosters
on borrowed dawns,
calling vanity “vision,”
calling noise “truth,”
calling themselves necessary.
Christ, the hubris
could pave a parking lot.
They workshop the life out of it,
sand down the blood,
polish the scream
until it sounds like a brochure.
Then they wonder why
no one listens.
I’ve seen better lines
scratched on barroom mirrors
by men who knew
they were already lost.
Those men didn’t pay to publish—
they paid with their teeth,
their livers,
their nights.
It’s hard to work
when everyone’s busy applauding themselves,
hard to write
when the room smells like resumes.
The real poem
is hunched in the corner,
drinking cheap beer,
waiting for everyone to shut up.
Most never do.
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
I’m front and center in this barroom
Every single night of every week
The things I’ve seen would honestly
Make you cringe in disbelief
And seldom does one look at me
At least for very long
It sure gets lonely hanging round here
In a place where hopes and dreams go to die
I’m a mirror in a barroom
Reflecting on the souls of those
That love has left behind
You look to me, I look back at you
Your every glass is empty even when it’s full
I hope that you will learn
Neither Jim nor Jack’s concerned
If you dig your final resting place
One bottle at a time
It sure gets lonely hanging round here
In a place where hopes and dreams go to die
I’m a mirror in a barroom
Reflecting on the souls of those
That love has left behind
I’ve watched better men than you fall to pieces
Cause they hung out with me till closing time
If you dig a hole too deep you’ll find that
It’ll turn into a mountain, one that you can’t climb
It sure gets lonely hanging round here
In a place where hopes and dreams go to die
I’m a mirror in a barroom
Reflecting on the souls of those
That love has left behind
I’m a mirror in a barroom
Reflecting on the souls of those
That love has left behind
Does a banished beacon beckon?
But of course all beacons beckon
But only briefly if not brightly
Though never as boldly as the baritone
Before balancing bagpipes blowing ballads
But it’s got backbone and backfires
Unlike the babbling bellow of a baboon
Baffling unbelievably because it’s so beautiful
Below bitter backlash in its blackened background
It behooves that a backtalking boyband backstage
Betwixt a balmy bamboozled ballet bandstand
Would betray benign bountiful bequests
Between a bashful baroness’ baptism by barnacle
And a bastardly barrage of barroom banter
But yes all in all the banished beacon does beckon
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on July 1, 2019 for CONTEST NO 620 WITH ALLITERATION STYLE THEREIN sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
revised from 2014
He looked like an old antique with leathered skin - creased and tan,
His lips trembled as tried to speak - his words were hard to understand-
His eyes were a beautiful blue, but held only his fear,
Nothing around him was clean, and on occasion he shed a tear-
Once he had a good name and and could spend money without a care,
Life had been a challenging game, but now it was just drinks to share-
He wasn't trying to drown sorrows - didn’t have any as it’d been so long,
His life turned into a downward spiral as everything went wrong-
One drink became two, three, then four - always a barroom brawl-
Friends didn’t hang with him anymore, but he didn't give a - - - - at all-
Lost everything that mattered, now jail time didn’t scare him in the least,
Being behind bars when plastered, 3 meals in the slammer were a feast
Drunk with no place to go, he sat by an liquor store street light,
But under the downtown bridge- a hole, is where he slept most every night-
When told by another of his kind, “Go where you won't be alone,”
His broken soul found "Wino Town-" the place he now calls "home"-
She’s into sushi and sapiosexuals,
Yogis with crystals, and vain intellectuals.
Just a flutter-by wisp with a thin portmanteau,
Who doesn’t believe what she’d rather not know.
Her porcelain features come straight off the shelf.
She plans for the future by suiting herself.
She teases the barmaid with talk about milk,
While flashing embroidered hosiery silk.
Her custom transmission is always in gear.
Neutral doesn’t stroke her RPM.
You never need to peel her grapes,
Just be sure to pluck them off the stem.
Mars is impassive. Venus is hot.
Their orbits eccentric, as likely as not.
He’s got a terribly large axe to grind,
And doesn’t ever kindly suffer fools.
To him, she’s just another barroom filly,
And he’s not the sort to follow by the rules.
He didn’t need the laurel of another top ten hit.
He’d written that song many times before.
But her magnetic eyes and tell-tale mouth
Put his better judgment on a slow train headed south.
If not for the liquor, he might have ignored her,
Instead, he laid his papers on the line.
And offered up a wary introduction,
Inviting her to share a glass of wine.
Mars is unyielding. Venus is not.
Their orbits are star-crossed, most likely to knot.
A lone desperado rode his lathered cayuse to old Santa Fe.
It was high noon, sweltering hot and dusty on that fateful day.
The handsome young outlaw wore deadly forty-fours on each hip,
And there were multiple notches etched on each pistol grip!
He dismounted and brushed men aside as he strode to the saloon.
By the look on his face, someone faced doom that sultry afternoon!
He ordered up a bottle of whiskey to wet his sun-parched throat,
Downed a couple of shots and gazed around taking note!
For days he had ridden to find his roving sweetheart LeNore.
Now, he spotted her with a cowpoke in a dark corner near the door.
Their eyes locked briefly and she quickly turned away.
Knowing what was to happen, she sensibly got out of the way!
The enraged desperado fingered his forty-fours and lit a big cigar,
Roaring, "You stole my woman and you know damn well who you are!"
Men scattered, chairs toppled and the two men fired their rod!
When the billowing smoke had settled, one had met his God!
Alas, the lifeless young outlaw lay sprawled upon the barroom floor!
Clutching him to her breast with tearful supplications, knelt LeNore.
They buried him in a lonely grave atop a knoll in Old Boot Hill!
Lenore placed petunias upon his grave, declaring her true love still!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Hank had cowboyed and rodeoed fer nigh on forty years,
Ridin' in sleet, rain and snow a-herdin' cantankerous steers.
His hide was tough as leather and his legs was slightly bowed,
But brandin' dogies and fixin' fences was all he ever knowed!
His gut was made of iron from a diet of taters, beans and bacon.
Many times he was throwed from his hoss but his will remained unshaken.
He'd been bit by rattlesnakes and scarred from many barroom brawls,
And kicked by many a skittish bronc while muckin' out their stalls!
When tryin' to halt stampedes, Hank was often gravely gored,
And was hoarse from yellin' and cussin' at that riotous horde.
When shoein' hosses they often left an imprint on his chest,
Where flyin' hoofs landed leavin' him angry and depressed!
He didn't git rich and couldn't hoard money fer a rainy day;
Not much chance of accumulatin' such on a cowpokes meager pay.
His bed was usually 'neath the stars with his saddle fer a pillow,
Sharin' space with his old dog Spike and an occasional armadillo!
One day he up and told the boss, "I've had my fill of a cowboy's life.
I'm a-quittin' as of now. My old bones is weary from all this strife.
I'm saddle sore and tired of bunkhouse livin' and all yer stingin' slurs.
You kin take this job and shove it 'cause I'm a-hangin' up my spurs!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Does a song make you feel a thought?
Do you wonder how it was wrought?
Is a song like a painting, like a puzzle put together
a shorthand to emotion, a spiritual endeavor?
Is it the 'only truth', is it a universal tongue?
Do you get sick after a zillion times sung?
Does it piggyback on something real, but itself is fake?
If you could choose life without music, is that a choice you'd make?
Lyrics affect notes in a mutual dance
A short cut to emotion or to a trance
Some let a song guide the trajectory of the mind
But the wisdom's often phony, just there because it rhymed.
A dancer to wild music looks insane
If there's no corresponding echo in your brain..
The sum may be more than the parts
But should it guide all those lonely hearts?
Jeff's car jumped a sidewalk, damaged his brain
Now he likes music, caught singing in the rain.
It used to be background, now he can't keep it apart
The beat grabs his spirit, the melody his heart.
Mark got a concussion in a barroom brawl
Now he doesn't like music at all
Doesn't soar or dive with the opera tune
Gave up serenading women under an Italian moon.
Khan sang silly songs, while admiring himself
Camera caught the narcissism he had acted out in stealth
He had to face the music, had to see how he appeared
He snapped back to normal but nasty folks jeered.
Yes you can be mocked for your tune, people twist the stiletto
They'll imitate you in an irritating falsetto.
Is a personality like a tune, some with an ugly twist
When you hit your last chord, will your song be missed?
From Hip-Hop to bop, we ride the jazz tide, swing till you drop/underground Monk playin' some funk/Max Roach coaching the field, drums in the playbook/ Brother Jack McDuff runnin' for a touch down in the open filed/Superman and Jimmy Smith, the dynamic duo’s look flyin' high/Abstract truths on the wall, Warhol’s silver glow/Basquiat’s brush storms the gallery floor/Miles, out of the kool, breakin’ every rule/a trumpet thunderbolt/ stereo vinyl playin'/ Sonny Rollins vibes in the club, cookin’ up fresh notes/church bells ring in his horn/ Man, a river of quotes/The Jazz Messengers mark the milestones in the mist/Miles all the way live, his Sketches of Spain we can’t resist/ HiFi prayers/ Jazz time/ Peace and love for all mankind/Blue Mitchell in the barroom a mural on the wall/Man, it’s all right, baby, hear the crowd ignite/Wynton Kelly’s trio is out of sight like way gone/From street corners to jazz low down rooms, the groove is our creed/a lineage of legends planted in every reed/Spoken in breath, in rhyme, in rhythm’s Sly Stones art/a saga of swing that lives on, heart to jaged heart/ The soulful vibes keeps use alive