Long Burrs Poems
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He drove up to the Triple "T" Ranch in his brand new Cadillac!
In his air-conditioned trailer wuz his Arabian steed an' the finest tack!
He'd dreamed uv bein' a real workin' cowboy since he wuz a tad,
So he fitted hisself out with the latest fashions there wuz to be had!
On his Tony Lama alligator boots he wore a pair uv silver-plated spurs.
Over his Calvin Klein jeans he wore deerskin chaps to stave off the burrs.
He wore a hundred dollar Stetson hat an' fancy vest uv top-grade suede,
An' slung low on his hip wuz a 44 in a leather holster uv the finest grade!
His git-tar wuz slung on his back - across his shoulder wuz a coiled rope.
The grizzled cowpokes chawin' their terbaccy saw in this feller little hope!
They wuz loungin' 'round the corral railin' not believin' whut they saw!
He strolled their way remindin' them uv rhinestone cowboys on Hee-Haw!
First thing he said wuz, "When do we dine and I prefer silk sheets on my bed!"
An ol' cowpoke in scruffy boots an' jeans asked, "Whut wuz 'at you said?"
(The thoughts crossin' them cowpuncher's minds had best be left unsaid!)
"Son, you'll sleep in the top bunk tonight an' beans an' bacon you'll be fed!"
The ranch foreman trotted over to see whut the hullabaloo wuz all about.
"You fellers let me handle this! Ya'all git back to work!" he said with a shout!
He sized the lad up sayin', "Son, I ain't impressed with all them fancy lables!
Begin yer career with this here manure fork!" an' he sent him to the stables!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The snake oil salesmen give a pill for depression
with the side effect of suicidal ideation.
A toxic concoction of charlatan greed
snake oil salesman and political madness.
At some point, you'll be diagnosed by a stranger.
Who has known you for 10 Minutes.
A D.E.I entity becomes your soul masseuse and manicurist.
Trimming burrs from the brain, putting pastel to dark words.
Pushers of protracted numbness and pain.
A million patches of burlap, never a concrete cure.
A heartless machine of trapdoor profit
and smash-mouth blame.
The mentally broken overflowing drains
a million sedated flowers
left in the jagged rain.
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingenious emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over imagination whirs.
I sailed an olive boat
into the center of the sea
alone
to find a cure for my loose heart
not the spring-back type, noble with elasticity
but leap-forward lecher-wild
binding to any skirted frame and drooping hemline
like friendly burrs in shrubbery lanes
sat in an olive boat
drifting mid-seas
unaccompanied but for Hope to land a cure upon my knees
to heal my lousy, narcissistic zeal
an insatiable human thinks like a possessed apiary
an overwrought dam
I tonsured my beatific locks
as bare as Samson
hoodwinked
by his pet Flytrap
tossed reflective surfaces, anything that would give my face
a way to self-seduction
safe in a roasted green-pea float
lost like dead at sea
to recover a voice that scarcely has been mine
its echo returns not
through bursting towns
busy at trade
hawkers cawing,
hucksters' crow delirious,
chattering cashboxes
traffic snakes wending
Nowhere do they end in time
always metal and rust
ferric towering towers, condominium pride,
noisome domiciles, toxic steel cages
barring the success of this voice~
the sound of your mind drowned inside the urban brawl
not a jot of space to reckon nor conciliate
blushing-rushing-golden consciences
an echo may not return to its sender then ~
a man with no name.
HAPPINESS 101
squishing mud between my toes
icky fingers in my nose
frogs harrumphing in my pocket
worms and bugs and itchy things
lumps and bumps the scratching brings
bugs and snakes and critters all
long and short fat and tall
funky muck from willow pond
exploding tops of willow fronds
feathers floating everywhere
willow angels in my hair
sticker burrs and sapling glue
painted cheeks of berry blue
munching on crab apple snacks
following a bunny’s tracks
humming drone of dragonfly’s
butterfly’s of any size
lying flat in lush green grass
shaping clouds floating past
a summer day, a dog, and me
John G. Lawless
8/30/2015
Each summer my parents would take us to my grandfather’s ranch in Southern Texas to help with different jobs. It might be branding cattle, digging fence post holes, or picking cotton! My parents had told us stories about the cotton fields as I grew up. I wasn't old enough yet to partake in this miserable job.
One fine morning my brothers and I were awakened before daylight dressed, fed, and taken a mile down to the cotton fields! We were handed heavy cotton ducking sacks, they were over twice as long as I was. Diligently we all started filling our sacks with cotton. Under the hot summer day sun, which was beating down? The field was elegantly plowed with neat rows, lined with brown dried plants, with beautiful fluffy white soft cotton and seeds in bolls. A protective vessel that does its job with sharp burrs that make picking cotton by hand quite painful, and bloody.
I walked up and down the cotton rows dragging my heavy sack. With blistering sun overheating my body, I had begun to ache, getting weaker, the sack got heavier every minute My hands had swollen up with cuts that were bleeding from removing the cotton out of the bolls. After a while I started feeling faint, running a fever, heaving, and then I collapsed to the soft plowed black soil. My family runs over wondering what had gone wrong. I had developed heat-stroke!
I was never again brought back to the cotton fields.
©By: Eve Roper 12/8/2014
Contest Name : Jobs 12/ 11/2014 Honorable Mention
Dear herb, shrub, vine and bush
if you be deemed unwanted or a pest,
your name is cursed to be unspoken,
or twisted into a foul nickname scourge.
To graziers you are Paterson's Curse
To beekeepers you are Salvation Jane.
No one knows your real name except,
the gardeners who planted you
in their garden beds, from which you spread.
The once loved, when lost are cursed.
Let's name a few: Fireweed, Freckle face, Koster's curse,
Lady-of-the-night, Mother-of-millions,
Sea spurge, Tree-of-heaven, Sticky Willy
What crime did these plants commit to be
put in stocks in a public place
and spat at?
- Outgrow the wanted plants and spread
- Prolific breeders
- Sprout from leaves and tiny pieces
- Produce millions of seeds
- Fruits loved by birds that scatter the seed in droppings
- Grow well every where with ease.
- Sticky seeds and burrs
- Not fickle nor demanding of conditions.
Each of these are what growers want and love
in other plants, they love to grow
in their gardens, fields and pastures.
Too much of a good thing is deemed a curse.
So their name is defaced and
replaced with foul sounding nicknames
listed as noxious, wanted dead,
on the Wanted Posters.
A properly equipped cowpoke is bound to impress the boss.
He'll need a mount of course and a silver-studded saddle fer his hoss.
He'll need some chaps to protect his jeans frum them pesky burrs,
And his outfit wouldn't be complete without a fancy pair of spurs!
A wide-brimmed Stetson is needed fer shelter frum the searin' sun.
It's also dandy fer feedin' oats to his hoss when their work is done.
He'll need a pair of Tony Lama boots with high heels and pointy toes,
And a bandana to keep the dust and bugs from a-pluggin' up his nose!
When on night patrol and the restless herd is spooked by lightnin' bright,
A harmonica is a handy gadget to soothe the herd frum takin' flight.
A coiled riata he'll need to corral them stampedin' wild cows.
He'll wear a pair of 44s to shoot rattlesnakes (if'n the boss allows)!
He'll need a couple of blankets fer sleepin' 'neath the canopy of stars,
And bags of Bull Durham fer roll-yer-owns and maybe a few cigars.
He'll need a heap of patience when gallopin' through the chaparral,
Roundin' up them frenzied dogies fer brandin' in the old corral!
He'll be a-chasin' cattle and a-fixin' fences thro' rain, sleet and snow.
He wonders sometimes why he cowboys - it sure ain't fer the dough!
He'll need lots of fortitude to abide "Cooky's" taters, bacon and beans,
But he'll keep at it 'til he's old and gray, 'cause cowboyin' is in his genes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 10 in Giddy up! Little Dogies! Contest May 2010
Metamorphosis
Tracing footsteps in the overgrown field
where sunlight and raindrops date
Counting sticker burrs like lemon drops
in a candy counter display
Hitchhikers I remember them called,
lovers of socks and pant legs I think
Each with their own story to tell,
minute worries clinging to that last hope of life
The path, familiar but then again not,
it leads somewhere else now
Dragging shadows like kite strings,
knotted in the weave of its boundaries
Taking in my surroundings and releasing them
for another may find them useful as well,
I find still no sign of that last phrase,
spoken softly but misunderstood…is my understanding
A collection of stone and gravel stew
finds my shoe souls imaging in the dry dusty paste
Outlines of thoughts, perhaps poetry in oblong shapes and
perfect tread patterns stamped and posted,
showing no indication of my ever being here
Staring now at a cocoon on a lone branch, I see
what my life had been, dark and lonely, dreaming of the colors,
feeling confined but grateful for the transformation
You smiled, I smiled, my wings appeared and I flew,
as might a rainbow on a balloon, soaring until the tiniest speck
in the sky could be me or just something on your glasses
Light headed in a good way, free at last to define love,
the metamorphosis of my heart,
the changing of a man into more than he could hope to be,
seeking and finding that blossom,
sweet nectar, a sugary substance, love deep in the petals of life
Though, no one told me of the life span before hand,
no calendar hanging on my wall with circled dates highlighted in red,
nor a stamp of expiration anywhere on my heart,
good if used by…used by, funny I should write that now
as my attention rests still on this cocoon,
wondering where I went wrong,
somewhere on this path lies the answer…
for I once was a butterfly, just as you will be small cocoon,
at which time you will learn…
it is easier to fly with a heart that is unbroken
Sultry red,
yellow pillow sky,
teased tandem,
with citric,
?shades afloat oe’r waking town,
mirror bubbly folk in lane
jubilant,
trademark burrs catching,
glad echoes,
urge urban,
tableau of chalkmarked gold stamp,
where sheer pluck triumphs
buses swerve,
rapid rail steel track,
squeaky noise,
hoot … toot…. cabs,
en route symbol’s “jaunty” march,
co migrant orbit
coffee wafts
oh it taunts the nose,
hazelnut,
caramel,
mocha caressing the tongue,
pumpkin spice, mouth swirl
java pod,
a candied bake match,
divers brews,
sumptuous,
lemon slice, muffin, and sponge,
counters dangle taste.
office clique,
skim walnut tables,
“spill the beans,”
shrill guffaws,
azure vault praise from clients,
engulf coffee dock
Loiter oe’r,
toothsome three course lunch,
droll banter,
textured whim,
midday schedules reshuffled,
post noon hectic dash
T-junctions,
coax urban ants verve,
honey pot,
honey bee,
magnetic lure to swarm teams,
gumption on recharge
afternoon,
ablaze on flagstones,
vendors hawk,
stalls ignite, ,
markets swamped by eager droves,
eventide, homebound