Long Bluegrass Poems
Long Bluegrass Poems. Below are the most popular long Bluegrass by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bluegrass poems by poem length and keyword.
A favorite pastime of mine is to watch wildlife from our front porch or window. Kentucky bluegrass provides a perfect backdrop for deer drinking from the lake, pretending not to watch fawns running in circles, bucking and playing in the fields. Frosty, our horse, grazes right along with the turkey foraging for meals. Cardinals, blue finches and hummingbirds fly from flowers to shrubs to feeders. They, along with the dragonflies, butterflies and bees, seem to follow an invisible orchestra conductor. Lately the ducks, Quack and Quacker, appear to be somewhat intuitive. I also use this God-given opportunity as a mental diversion for physical pain, after seeing specialist after specialist.
two ducks each circle
leaves that circle the two ducks
round and round the lake
June 27, 2018
haibun Contest by Mick Talbot
July 5, 2018
Third Place
I used to roam the fields and hunt
Walk all day with nary a grunt
Train the dogs to confront a quail
Spend the night recalling their trail
I used to go to shops and trade
Be delighted with deals I made
Items others had rejected
I found, restored, and collected
I repaired old cars with my hands
Then ran the roads with bluegrass bands
Played music and to songs gave voice
Helping the crowds to laugh and rejoice
Then life took a different tone
The music stopped, my body groaned
I required help to get on my feet
Then someone had to help me eat
My voice grew weak, my mind did fade
For each function I needed aid
In spite of frustration and pain
I tried my best not to complain
Then came a longing in my soul
I began to reach for the goal
No more in this bed I would lie
I was tired, it was time to die
Then you gathered around my bed
Spoke softly, gently stroked my head
Sang the familiar gospel songs
As I prepared for the ransomed throng
As you gathered and sang below
I heard a voice say, it’s time to go
God in heaven His angel sent
And I left behind my earthly tent
I joined the choir right from the start
They have given me a good part
I want you each to realize
With the saints I now harmonize.
You were born here,
Blue Ridge foothills,
spirits of Cherokee in
Appalachia's olden heart and veins.
Scots-Irish influence of beloved
bluegrass,
moonshine of the drinking kind.
Your parents weren't the responsible
type,
as you and your three sisters spent
your childhoods in foster care and were
once left with your mother's cruel friend
for two years,
you went through so much.
Your single grandmother Robbie
did the best she could,
a beautician on her feet all day.
Her white farmhouse with no
indoor bathroom,
and an outhouse in the yard.
She fried okra better than anyone,
grew an acre of tobacco.
You were living in Texas,
joined the Navy at nineteen,
and it became your home.
We met within its ranks,
survivors of child abuse.
We wed, weren't wealthy.
We raised our daughter after
returning to your hometown.
You walked her down the aisle,
and treasured our son-in-law,
and grandchildren too.
You passed at the age of
fifty-nine,
interred by a gentle stream
in the Veterans Cemetery,
where someday I'll also be.
Appalachian Homecoming,
as banjos and dulcimers play softly. ~
Backhanded Apology
Copyright © L MILTON HANKINS | Year Posted 2022
Sorry if I upset you,
I really didn’t mean it
Actually, I meant it
Until I saw it upset you,
Now I’m sorry you are
Upset by my words
But I got them said,
Which I intended to do.
L. Milton always impressed me with his sly humor amidst mostly very deep, spiritual thoughts. “Backhanded Apology” is one of his well-read pieces at 742 views. This apology is perfect for a very public person who is subject to personal remarks which could be double entendre at the outset. Milt was a fine person, likewise an excellent poet whose comments on my work were always positive and supportive. A Kentucky bluegrass native myself, I applaud his choice of retirement residency in Ashland; it is close to his roots in WV. We will all miss him at Poetry Soup.
January 3, 2023
"Snapdragons and Dandy Lions (Part 1)"
“Don’t move,” she smiled gently,
“stay there, stop fidgeting, let me put these in your hair”,
I was sitting cross-legged
on the lush green bluegrass lawn
it felt like 70’s Shagpile carpet,
long and unshorn.
“I said, don’t move! There’s a Blue Tongue over there,
you’ll frighten it away, they don’t like to be scared.”
She was shielding her eyes surveying the yard
like a pirate on the high seas,
a ship on the Ocean,
while the Sprinkler
kept raining a moving waterfall
automatic motion
here and there buzzing bees
in the Kumquat Trees.
She was pointing to the boulder
next to the Lychee Tree
close to where I was
legs now unfolded
scrambling around on my knees.
It was around 5 in the avo not morn
we’d been there covered in sunscreen
for a coupla hours and
tired from the heat
we were all stifling yawns
in the sweltering sub-tropical garden
amongst her verdant jungle of flowers and ferns
there amongst the strawberry patches, passionfruit, Lady Finger trees,
Pineapples, PawPaws, grapes, tomatoes,
and towers of fragrant sweet Jasmine, Lilac-mauve Wisteria
plunging Deep Velvety Red Bougainvillea,
flirty Sweatpeas and
the pungent Pink Frangipani
impregnating the air with it's fat-belied
perfume, the scent of which to this day
sends one into absolute delerium; then
came the whirring blood-suckers
that bombed us in buzzing swarms
never foiled no dignified treaty -
one was never forwarned,
that left itchy-bites and
eventually weeping sores,
feeling sorry for ourselves
the breeze carried our songs of retreat to which she’d
impart, “Shush! Don’t carry on,
everyone will hear you way out on the Street!”.
“They like your blue blood, that’s why!”,
she explained in exasperation, kind of worried
spraying us with Stingose.
“Tonight we’ll put up the nets and
burn the Tiger Coils”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
For Lynette
(1)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izQsgE0L450
A is for Accordion, squeezing air with bellows
B is for Banjo, five strings plucked by bluegrass fellows
C is for Clavichord, keyboard with a metal sound
D is for the Drums which percussionists will pro-pound
E is for the English horn, using a double-reed
F is for a brass French horn, three valves is all you need
G is for Glockenspiel, metal bars arranged in rows
H is for Harmonica, both in and out she blows
I is for Ingoma, on which skins or hides are drummed
J is for Jinghu, just two strings that are bowed not strummed
K is for the Keytar, keyboard guitar held upright
L is for the Laser harp which plays on beams of light
M is for Maracas, their rhythm shaken by pros
N is for Nguru, Maori flute blown through the nose
O is for the Oboe with a mouth-piece that looks bewitched
P is for the Piccolo, a half-sized flute, high pitched
Q is for the Quena, a notched flute from the Andes
R is for the Rattle, maracas for the babies
S is for the Shofar, a Jewish horn hard to blow
T is for the Tuba, largest horn and tough to tow.
U is Ukulele, four-string Hawaiian gee-tar
V is Viola, a fiddle tuned a bit deeper
W is the Washboard, just for rhythm, understood?
X is a Xylophone, a glockenspiel made of wood
Y is Yotar, a guitar with four strings grouped in threes
Z is Zither, played on the table or cross your knees
This alphabet of instruments just breaks through the top
The're hundreds more to know, but Z's a good place to stop.
March 11, 2013
Allright Poet's ABC Poetry Contest
To be sung to the tune of Little Red Corvette by Prince Roger Nelson
I guess I should’ve known by the way you said, “you’ll get it back real soon”
That I’d never see it again
See, you’re the kinda person who listens to a tape and quickly loses it
Like you might do with men
I guess I must be dumb ‘cause you had all those tapes in your back seat
A place you sometimes use
But it was Saturday night, I guess you thought it might
Be a good tape to choose
I say, give me my Grateful Dead Cassette
Baby your memory’s dim (oh)
Grateful Dead Cassette
You got it from me not him
I guess I should’ve known you never returned a thing
When at your place I could see
All those familiar used books and records
Only some of them belonged to me
Believe it or not, I started to worry
If one of my records might skip
But it was Saturday night, and I thought you might
Kiss me on the lips
Oh yeah!
My Grateful Dead Cassette
Baby your memory’s dim
(yes it is)
My Grateful Dead Cassette
You took it on a whim
(oh oh)
Recall like yours requires a mnemonic
‘Cause it’s on the verge of bein’ spotty
Pay attention, baby, listen up
I’m gonna give you a reminder, oh so, naughty
I say, give me my Grateful Dead Cassette
Baby your memory’s dim
Grateful Dead Cassette
You got it from me not him, hey hey
My Grateful Dead Cassette
You say it’s lost not found (not found?)
My Grateful Dead Cassette
Better find it, cuz I got to hear that sound
My Grateful Dead Cassette
I gotta hear that sound (honey, it must be found)
Honey it must be found
My Grateful Dead Cassette
Baby your memory’s dim
You got it from me, not him
Girl, it’s a jam like I never heard, ow!
What a ride
Like a psychedelic bluegrass bird
Ow!
I say, give me my Grateful Dead Cassette
Baby your memory’s dim
Grateful Dead Cassette
You got it from me not him
On to Ireland
Don’t look for me here anymore,
I’m moving on to Ireland
On the morrow, for
I’ve only one voice and
It’s longing to sing!
Henceforth, I’ll work as a seamstress,
Stitching everyone’s wings
To the sides of their hearts…
There in Ireland
Where everyone sings,
You may find me in Dublin dancing
With the ghost of Joyce. I’ll be
Reciting his words in his ear
As we twirl the streets
Song to song,
Pub to pub…Lyrics will lift us along,
Telling of lost loves,
Whiskey, and wandering
Through mountain heather.
So, I’ll be traveling
From this Bluegrass thoroughbred green
To the forever green of Ire’s land…
To its tunes,
I will “go lassie go.”
I’ll carry my my worlds within
and my pups at my side.
I’ll teach walls to talk.
‘llI stay clothed in
Music and history,
Wearingmy laced-up
Red boots on out to forage
The ephemeral
Regions, with
Poems fluttering loose
In my veins, feeding
On inspiration’s
nectar.
My skirt is lined with metaphors,
My hair is left down to catch the wind,
And my eyes keep a smiling gleam
Anyone will see, even
While I’m mourning at
The most recent Finnegan’s wake…
All sing,
“Diddle dee die do.”
My red boots are exceptionally
Good for doing a jig, too.
————————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 9/28/21
All glory to God
Derek
Will you be able to bear it?
First weekend in May
And who the Yankees will play,
Bringing slugging Louisville woods
Tigers score if they could.
In the Bronx
Bombers get what they want.
While springtime proposes
A tradition featuring red roses.
In Kentucky, a Derby is always held.
Stories these four legged athletes do tell.
As three-year Olds
Being very bold
In weather no longer cold
Hanging in their stalls
Standing tall
Waiting for publicity and post time calls
Dreaming of a Seabiscuit run
When the mile dirt something is done
Everybody will be wondering who actually won.
Cheering having fun.
Applauding the one
Off to the winner circle celebrating in the warm bluegrass sun.
On the first
Your Marlins will have the thirst.
Using those bats
To physically challenge the politically hosted Nats
Retired Pinstripe General German American King George watching from heaven.
Monitoring the two-dollar betting
While conversing with Mr. Ruth
Getting the Highlander truth
And Mr. Martin will still stir the marinara sauce.
Screaming and yelling, “yeah yeah you are the boss.”
All this is summer entertaining.
Purpose is relaxing so who is complaining.
Good luck playing Donnie ball.
Fielding a civil warrior army whose names are not on any military memorial wall.
Instead, their remembrance could be in a record book.
Noticed if a fan decided to look.
As I end this seventh inning stretch
I do hear Cracker Jacks do make a nice afternoon mouthwatering catch.
Lust betwixt my careful selected words
slowly drifted into sun-rays, in-through a key-hole
widening my hazel eyes, too behold inwards
searched one point to view, too review, I'd scroll
both my eyelids raise, there, I'd-browse
eyes search a spot lit space, awesome
rainbow, encompassed white clouds
white mountains, flash-back momentum,
a crystal lens, only you on 'our crystal blue lake
Bluegrass-music, driftwood all about
Lollipop bushes, nonsense laughter, shake,
to ponder, too wonder, lucky soon no-doubt
My Daydreams, expressed, beauty in color,
stare in solitude, calm, alone, soaring through air
Laughter, rhyming stanzas, master of hue
Into my little poem book, in bed with you dear