Long Barroom Poems
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© Ben Burton 2-20-2015
If I were Edgar Allan Poe
I'd been dead many years ago
Two score, no more, the poet bore
Before rejoining his Lenore
Reflections now, from sixty-five
I'm wondering how I have survived
For, having shared his mental state
Induced abuse which bordered crazed
In looking back it seems most strange
The lucid fundamental change
Created in a child of eight
Whose kinship must have been innate
With one long dead, a hundred years
Before that smack upon my rear
I learned his poems, all were gems
And thought that rhyme was named for him
Read "Gold Bug" and "The Telltale Heart"
Thence, for some time I feared the dark
And as I read, I knew that I
Had, even then, the skills to write
Though modesty forbade the act
Far less than the assured attack
For none dare read foul poetry
In place of chase or hide and seek
When unassigned, a travesty
I wrote in fits, but just for me
"The Raven" and "The Bells" bequeathed
A rhythm beat of hell in me
Too natural to be mere chance
My mind would rhyme through happenstance
With no attempts to join the breed
Through school or university
I, nonetheless, read works aloud
In hopes their authors had been proud
Won competitions far and wide
Unsatisfied, the words weren't mine
And yet, I kept my pen at bay
Years past my graduation day
Jack Daniels opened up my soul
To take me on poetic strolls
Not unlike Poe who oft consumed
Whilst making sojourns to the tomb
I hungered to make words my own
Through blank verse, limerick, or song
Though mostly as a barroom trick
Which oft'times made the pick-up quick
But then, at length, I followed Poe
Officially gave up the ghost
By then I'd fifteen years surpassed
The forty Poe logged for his last
But providence did intervene
Man-made machine, propitiously
Brought back to life that muscle which
Once stilled, rarely renews its tick
My second life was born to write
To spill it all, let nothing slide
And, on ten years my pen creates
Whatever my odd mind dictates
With second chance, I wish to praise
The first man whom within me raised
A passion known as poetry
Though I am light years from his league
We met in El Dorado's dream
Two kindred souls, Edgar and me
Anna Belle 1619 (Part One)
She set out to Jamestown in 1619
She's a Nordic ship on the sea
She's purple in shades in streams
She bathes in the Caribbean breeze
She needs no bard's flattery
No barroom cajolery
Only God with His love sets her free
Along the Levant coast, Aqaba, and Red Sea
My Shulamite who longs for me
She whispers softly, a euphony
Her chestnut flowing glory
Cascades oh womanly
And shaded for only me to see
A music-box dancer
Flawless she prances
Her beauty captured in Renaissance fancy
Reciting "I do"
My bride in June
My beloved in truth
As we walk together towards God
Anna Belle MMVI (Part Two)
Streetlights lead the way from home
Into the distance I drift and and I doze
Off to sleep where I meet Anna
On the coastal retreat out on the veranda
I hand her a poem and it reads:
Anna Belle
You have a lover's light
It is a beacon to this traveler's eye
You are grace and life
A sunburst shining Christ
Luminosity on this day which God has made
I m-i-s-s-i-s-s-I miss your kiss
When you're away
She sighs, what a look in her eyes
I desire to know as she ponders each line
In her heart unfurling more woes
A cascading of tears and hopes
Holding hands, we share our dreams
Of a journey together, the valleys the peaks
Our eyes meet, we momentarily hesitate
Then univocally say "You are my soul mate"
Goodbye Anna Belle (Part Three)
Preacher by day, poet by night
This hero's weakness is iron pyrite
A ship among ships
I sail on by moon eclipsed
No stars or astrolabe
To navigate me me towards my babe
The captain of the Eternity
Has set course and ushered me out to sea
With memories of her and dreams of home
I seek the shore in the sad poem
As I roam and comb Rome
I see faces from pages I've written in tome
Familiar, I see her everywhere
In the euphemistic flower and cascading hair
I ponder the thought of all thoughts
Why did Jesus endure the path and the cross
Out of love, a love that leads step by step
Through a mystery of enigmatic depths
I say my goodbye in this melancholy ode
I mourn, but not as one with no hope
It’s been so long
Since I’ve been home
Many a year
I’ve been on the roam
As the years turned to days
Days turned to years
Time is an hourglass
Showing ones deepest fears
As I sit here
In this barroom
Smoking a cigarette
Leave I must soon
Following that, I must check out
Of the mediocre hotel room
Though my mind clearly sees
Visions of joy from the past
This hotel bill
Will surely by the last
Always ladies
Night keep me warm
Even through the most
Furious storms
Make my way
Home once at last
Not yet young son
This old man’s not done
Please don’t leave this bar
For this story hasn’t ended
Oh no thus far
All my life I have desired
Some sort of reckoning
For my sins
Now I’ve finally realized
I must go see my kin
And a new life I may
Finally begin
But son please listen
Realize you shall
As you grow old
Happiness not be bought
With any amount of gold
Happiness lies
Within your very heart
You alone
Hopefully shall start
Having your very own dreams
Even though they may seem
Unachievable, son
You’ve just got to believe
For without dreams of your own
You shall bitterly become
Full of hatred and greed
Dreams are not money
They are actions you make
Dreams do not happen
When you are asleep
They come to you
When you’re beginning on your feet
But you must be careful
For come people are amused by
Actions of deceit
For one who uses trickery
Are not as lucky as you
They are to ashamed of themselves
And their life is hell
They are weak
You are strong
Envy they of you
And in society they just don’t belong
Don’t think I have sided
With the pitiful and weak
On their behalf
I only speak
Oh, son, I have seen
More than any old king
I’m even friends
With Mr. BB king
But never have I
Been so satisfied
Than when I told this story
And you looked me in the eye
Not many have been
All the places I’ve seen
This all was my very
Very first dream
I must be going now
But before I do
Bartender, 2 shots of José
We must make a mighty salute
For on your future young son
We must drink
A young man, barely twenty-one,
On the town in search of fun.
The wrong side of the railroad track
And somehow never made it back.
A pickup truck, a black guitar…
I thought that they would take me far.
But music with no solid plan
Meant nothing when I met Suzanne.
Used to think that I was strong.
Those days are forever gone.
Want to know what led me wrong?
Blame the whiskey, women, and song.
Another seedy barroom stage.
Drinks and tips, our only wage.
But we had such sweet harmonies,
Ecstasies and agonies.
So, coast to coast, that highway song.
I thought we were where we belong.
But life moves like an old cliché
And Becky stole my heart away.
Used to think that I was strong.
Those days are forever gone.
Want to know what led me wrong?
Blame the whiskey, women, and song.
Our dreams will always let us down…
We were camped just out of town.
Me and Becky on the street
I sang my songs, she tapped her feet.
The liquor store was dark that night.
Truly locked up good and tight.
Breaking in was kind of fun
But then we had to cut and run.
Used to think that I was strong.
Those days are forever gone.
Want to know what led me wrong?
Blame the whiskey, women, and song.
The next week Becky said goodbye.
So I gave Annie Sue a try.
She stayed with me until the Spring
But couldn’t live without a ring.
A one man show once again.
Just me alone until the end.
A bottle of my favorite brew
I guess will somehow get me through.
Used to think that I was strong.
Those days are forever gone.
Want to know what led me wrong?
Blame the whiskey, women, and song.
An old man now, so many years
Same old dreams, the same old fears.
Still on the wrong side of the track
Too late now, no going back…
Used to think that I was strong.
Those days are forever gone.
Want to know what led me wrong?
Blame the whiskey, women, and song.
"Ballinger's pride will be the death of him,"
Was the last muttering of the old cyclops before
The poison took over. Never trust unicorn bartenders.
Young Gallimay, the town's token centaur,
Walked into this scene:
Serren's body laid across the bar.
Tempest the unicorn bartenders cleaned pint glasses. (All ladee-da.)
Two old frog friends sat in the back with lagers, blinking back at the man/horse.
Tinkerbell whizzed by with the someone's check, pregnant with her 3rd babybell.
A baby albino dire wolf slept soundly at the foot of the hat rack near his hooves.
Gallimay trotted up to the bar right beside the dead body.
"300 doubloons," said Tempest the unicorn bartender.
Gallimay gave her a look like he got hit with a frying pan.
"The dire pup," she clarified, "300 doubloons if you're interested."
Gallimay shook his head and leaned in, "Ma'am I'm here on a tip someone was poisoned to death. A text from this location saying 'I've been poisoned.'"
Gallimay looked at the body next to him
And then back at Tempest.
"What's this guy's story?"
"His name is Serren. He's a regular. Must've fell asleep."
Gallimay nudged the Cyclops' ribs.
"Hey buddy!" The body toppled
Over and hit the ground.
The Centaur took out a walkie from his vest pocket.
"I gotta 10-66 at the Imagine Inn."
"Bloody Mary?" Tempest asked Gallimay.
"Not on the job, thanks."
"No, have you talked to Bloody Mary?"
Tempest pointed her cone towards a woman at the end of the bar
Cloaked in shadows and dripping with blood.
"Mary and Serren were an item for quite awhile," Added Tempest.
Unable to help from over-hearing, Mary waved at them politely.
"Let me call you back, Ballinger," said the scarlet-soaked woman
In a barroom hush.
I see we are open again.
It’s time to welcome old friends.
The homely, the lonely,
they who want only
to have somewhere to place their rear ends.
The people I bear are so glad.
The stories I hear are not bad.
Where I smell the beers
and I taste the tears
of the sad, and they who are driven mad.
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom bar-stool, who welcomes all your bums.
Here comes a raving beauty, this is gunna be fun.
An hour glass figure; tight blue jeans - where do those legs run?
But why has she stopped walking?
Can’t she just stop talking!
Oh no, wait - this bloke’s fat and ugly and he weighs two tonne.
Barroom stools have feelings too.
They just don’t see a pretty face,
although they love to touch the cheeks
that are in some other place -
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom bar-stool, who welcomes all your bums.
Now here comes the girl that I’m looking for.
An hour glass figure and parts to explore.
Her blonde hair’s amazing;
I feel like hell raising,
for bar stools like you also like to score.
The life of a bar-stool is a life worth living.
Supporting the souls who need forgiving.
I’m hoping each minute the perfect one comes,
‘cause I’m sick of tired of supporting old bums.
I see we are open again.
It’s time to welcome old friends.
The homely, the lonely,
they who want only
to have somewhere to place their rear ends.
The people I bear are so glad.
The stories I hear are not bad.
Where I smell the beers
and I taste the tears
of the sad, and they who are driven mad.
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom barstool, who welcomes all your bums.
Here comes a raving beauty, this is gunna be fun.
An hour glass figure; tight blue jeans - where do those legs run?
But why has she stopped walking?
Can’t she just stop talking!
Oh no, wait - this bloke’s fat and ugly and he weighs two tonne.
Barroom stools have feelings too.
They just don’t see a pretty face,
although they love to touch the cheeks
that are in some other place -
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom barstool, who welcomes all your bums.
Now here comes the girl that I’m looking for.
An hour glass figure and parts to explore.
Her blonde hair’s amazing;
I feel like hell raising,
for bar stools like you also like to score.
The life of a barstool is a life worth living.
Supporting the souls who need forgiving.
I’m hoping each minute the perfect one comes,
‘cause I’m sick of tired of supporting old bums.
This time Lord I'm coming home.
Hungry, tired, all alone.
I feel the angels comfort me.
This is where I want to be.
This time Lord I'm coming home.
It's always been where I belong.
I'll do the things I know I should,
'Cause, this time Lord, I'm coming home for good.
How quickly all the years have passed.
It seems like yesterday.
My faith was slipping, fading fast,
And I just walked away.
In search of all the earthly things,
That somehow brought me joy.
I knocked and doors were opening,
Was just the devil's ploy.
My senses lived a blissful life,
With every turn I took.
I left my home, the kids and wife,
Without a second look.
I prayed for good times every night
A new world to explore.
I heard a voice, say, "It's alright."
And then I lost some more.
I drank my way to happiness.
Gave barroom crowds a show.
Was in some woman's sweet caress,
Whenever I would go.
The morning light fell down on me,
A dull consuming weight.
That took away the memory
Of heaven's pearly gate.
Had nothing left, I lost it all.
Was well on my way down.
I swam in tears and alcohol,
Until I thought I'd drown.
Was contemplating suicide.
Had nowhere else to go.
That's when I heard the voice inside...
I'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU SO!!
This time Lord I'm coming home.
Hungry, tired, all alone.
I feel the angels comfort me.
This is where I want to be.
This time Lord I'm coming home.
It's always been where I belong.
I'll do the things I know I should.
'Cause, this time Lord, I'm coming home for good.
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
We are going on a trip to the British Isles
and Channel Island of Guernsey and Normandy.
This sure should be quite a cruise. Here is my
first poem I am writing about it even though I
have not been there yet. Here goes.
Crabby Walking Though the Abbey
by James Thomas Horn before we
go bye.
Can't leave London without having fish and chips
Which originated from slick, sailing ships;
Could ride by restaurant in horse drawn coach
See beautiful women while wearing a broach.
Many smiling people everywhere we shall see;
Some may even be from upper high society
Who all have much money they can spare
Yet, still can seed noses held high in the air.
While we were looking did see a lovely doll,
And ended up having a big barroom brawl;
After we left and what soon was a little later
Americans were accused of being an instigator.
From it all we started having terrible cough
Maybe it was from riding get on and get off;
Over pages of those punished started to skim;
No wonder Tower of London looks so grim.
But, at last, lovely parade now had begun;
Women had fun wearing hair in a big bun;
After seeing hats and hearing all of the hype,
Wanted to hear band who played a bagpipe.
Saw some important people in front of a manor
And out in front of it could find a big banner,
But you could see me starting to get crabby;
Wife said we will walk though entire abbey.
James Thomas (Out of Breath) Horn
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