Long Coons Poems
Long Coons Poems. Below are the most popular long Coons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coons poems by poem length and keyword.
Cats have always been with me
each in their own way
has run my house, has run my life,
and worried me when they strayed.
White cats like Alice’s Snowdrop
or striped tigers like the Cheshire
Longhaired Coons from Maine
Now those really are a treasure!
Long whiskers speared the dust bunnies
underneath my rumpled bed’s shell
and they found my missing sock
but they would never tell.
My Pixies paws smelled like popcorn!
Her tummy fur was sweet and long
I’ve heard folks have spun yarn from it
which kept them very warm.
I dream, of black cats I have loved
and tortoise shell “money cats”
I’ve thought of them as babies BUT
They didn’t think much of that.
I’d rather have a cat with me
For the rest of the life I’m given
Oh please give me one more cat
before I leave for heaven.
Dedicated to the Cheshire Cat in Alice
John B. Jackson
1880-1911
Norma knew.
Norma, my erstwhile friend of a thousand hunts;
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb,
As we sought out promising locales, and
Our clever quarry, from points near and far.
From the salty marshes by the Pio Pico adobe,
To the broad summit of Sycamore Canyon,
We left tracks only the night ‘coons could find.
So, did we learn anything in life, me and Norma?
I once spied a tern furrowing in a breach.
Norma was ready and loaded for the kill,
As I drew a long bead,
Held my breath, and pulled the trigger.
She, my Winchester 1895, lever-action,
Reduced that tern to feathers in an instant of smoke,
With white pillow plumage in complete upheaval,
Flying all about, and interspersed asunder!
That single memory was on my mind,
Before slipping eternally through the veil.
I remember closing my eyes, and there she was!
Appearing before me as a haunting ghost,
As she was, on the day she saw me kill the tern,
My disappointed mother, telling me I was cruel,
Cruel and heartless and mean,
For destroying “God’s creature.”
So, it was on that same day I put Norma away,
Lock, stock and barrel; stowed in silence,
Under the rafters of my humble bed;
I said a final goodbye and adios amiga,
To my once ballistic sweetheart,
And the love of my wild, youthful days.
Never again did I kill any living creature,
And found an inner wisdom I could never explain.
But, truth be known,
I wish I had Norma now.
Here in this dark cold grave.
I miss the tender touch of her cold trigger.
The gentle pull of her icy hammer.
And mostly, I miss the intoxicating power,
Of her fiery, exploding steel.
For together we traversed the canyons of Turnbull,
And the rolling vernal pastures of Workman Mill,
Tasting many a delicious quarry.
It’s true, my friends,
Norma knew.
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb.
In the heat we burn for Pepsi
dangle feet from crick docks
Traipse with garage ice
to cheap motels,
watch a tv that's chained to a wall,
go home thinner then we came.
Poor possessions, pay-checked and broke
by Monday. Trailer bred,
no stock, just scrawny chickens,
free range ornery strays,
front yards overgrown
with ever grounded flamingo's.
In the cold we work on beat-up trucks
hoody-up, slap oily knuckles together
patch-up holes in our walls.
Go tree coons, play around
separate, divorce, but never leave.
Break open bar fight bottles,
chug-a-lug through the night
by a space heater’s eerie light.
We are not your kind,
we got a right to be low,
slow to show our sickness
our nearness to workaday dirt.
You who drive by radios in your head
masking your hollow conditions,
you keep on down that dusty road
go find your own damn
tumbleweed roots.
March's dreariness looms
when no pigeon coons,
it grieves at spring's doorsteps
not willing to pass the baton,
resisting to give in until its frown
vanishes into the brightness of sun rays!
March is wilder than storms,
it can retain its brutality,
even being mean to Nature
which knows how badly it behaves,
letting lose its frightening madness
that viciously destroys wilderness;
how vile is it to withdraw from mindfulness,
continuing the brief journey
into time swifter than a hunted creature!
March has no time for debates,
it wrecks everything in its path...
scattering branches on faded meadows
that await stillness, not chaos;
when icy winds blow hard, it's a threat:
stay inside, grab a pen and write poems!
March is fierce and increases fears,
its awareness of limitations is indisputable;
it chooses viciousness and pretends to be invincible;
March snatches your umbrellas, chuckles, and sneers!
March's dreariness looms for very long,
it can be broken with a cheerful song!
Anytime you asked my dad a question,
like, "Hey dad, what do you think about it?"
You’re going to get his standard reply,
"Well, I don't know too much about that ****."
If you could learn to just keep your mouth shut,
and when he was doing, make sure to look.
Then you would be 'dab blamed guaranteed to,
learn enough to fill a library book.
He pointed out how I should set a trap,
for coyotes, coons, possums, foxes, and mink.
Even the kind of scat each critter left,
don't laugh, it's been handier than you think.
He taught me how I could find my way home,
by using the Sisters and Northern star.
If our old Bluetick was runnin a coon,
or caught the scent of a "darn deer" afar.
Whether that summer storm has hail in it,
or when to cover the tomato plants.
How to kill a chicken and milk a cow,
and that there is no such thing as "I can't".
Always cast your line where two currents meet,
that’s the place where you’ll catch the biggest fish.
Don't ask for something you're not sure you want,
just in case you might just get what you wish.
We'd go on talking ‘bout what my dad showed,
but we could probably be here for years.
Besides, it's hard to talk about my dad,
without both my eyes filling up with tears.
You don’t feel upon lying
So you sing the song of the dying
Sunday afternoons
Pastors choose reign in a spiritual doom
The sun plasters we coons
Stand out and fade faster with the moon
I bid you the same old static and blues
The one always in favor of tempered news
The trail of adventures and rules
We don’t heal upon crying
So we sing the song of the dying
The highways haunts you
Night sky’s taunt the blue
All life wants from you
Is the truth
The secrets they’re telling you
One just knows not what to do
Feel like you want to cry
Coincidentally you realize
It would be better to die
We don’t feel upon lying
So we sing the song of the dying
I’ve given away myself in every song
Driven the bars last liquor home
No sympathy for an aging man
For I cannot feel your tears
Upon my rough hands
My scared palms
My irrelevance
bared in chapters of Psalms
Until my ending is calmed
there was these woods as a kid that always gave me chills
full of trees and rocks,ponds and hills
there were more things lurking that in the forest
snakes hanging from trees ,wolves howling in chores
i couldn't help thinking that those were unholy grounds
always feared entering due to frighting sounds
then there was always this bonechillin breeze
constantly have you thinking that someone was hiding behind the trees
at night you could hear the different monsters as they creep
listen closely you'll hear the pounding sounds of giant feet's
just the dreary darkness gave me quite the scare
so i never cared to know what was really out there
but here i am i'm back now
and i must overcome my fear of those woods somehow
just one more fear , i know i can kick it
and i found out those woods were just some thickets
alot of tall grass and a few smalls trees
and those snakes hanging were just funny looking leaves
i geuss i imagine all those creepy sounds
for there was nothing but coons and dogs running around
there were pine cones falling and the flapping wings of birds
and that small creek cant be all the water i heard
well i guess those woods don't scare me like they did
cause i see much clearer now than when i was a kid!!!!!!!!
Faint stillness of the night falls swiftly down
and masked raccoons now pillage darkest night.
Fluffed owls with sparkling eyes are flying free
and rabbits, gently moving, sniff the air...
The hounds - from hunter lost - do bay and whine!
Marked deer with spots or racks go pawing trails
and bear cubs ramble near a sparkling stream.
Uncommon moths blink near the lights outside
and possums scramble up the hillside earth.
Soft light of moon obscures the beauty there
and adds romance to this nocturnal scene.
Amid the forest’s trees of pine and oak,
these charms display the gift of God’s design!
Faint STILL-ness OF the NIGHT falls SWIFT-ly DOWN
and MASKED rac-COONS now PIL-lage DARK-est NIGHT
Fluffed OWLS with SPARK-ling EYES are FLY-ing FREE
and RAB-bits, GEN-tly MOV-ing, SNIFF the AIR
The HOUNDS, from HUN-ter LOST, do BAY and WHINE
Marked DEER with SPOTS or RACKS go PAW-ing TRAILS
and BEAR cubs RAM-ble NEAR a SPARK-ling STREAM
Un-COM-mon MOTHS blink NEAR the LIGHTS out-SIDE
and POS-sums SCRAM-bles UP the HILL-side EARTH
Soft LIGHT of MOON ob-SCURES the BEAU-ty THERE
And ADDS ro-MANCE to THIS noc-TURN-al SCENE
a-MID the FOR-est’s TREES of PINE and OAK
these CHARMS dis-PLAY the GIFT of GOD’S de-SIGN
©by Regina Riddle
Written on July 29, 2014
Re-written for contest on July 30, 2014
Re-written twice for contest on July 31, 2014 – with LOTS of help from
sponsor and much thanks to Roy Jerden
For: For Newer Poets: An Exercise in Iambic Pentameter - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Roy Jerden
I deliver newspapers at night on a rural route and see all of these nocturnal
creatures along my journey… the origins of the poem.
I fly out of my lair
to land in your hair
You brush me off
as if I weren't there
Yet now you're infected
though you've not suspected
corona flu injected
no symptoms detected
You've invaded my home
stripped the land of my food
I'd have left you alone
'cept for your turpitude
Of rural China we speak
and the West, it does shriek
regarding sinister plots
but that's all for naught
For as you too encroach
on habitats you poach
from skunks, 'coons, and mice
Please know that head lice --
will seem mighty nice
compared to the plagues
that are heading your way
in a trice
The Rodents’ Bane
Sphynx cats
jinx rats
A Most Unlikely Scenario
Shorthairs
court bears
Cat Catalogers
Shorthairs
sort wares
When Cats Go Formal
Bombay
Prom Day
Tranquil Lost Feline
Calm stray
Bombay
Detain the Cat
Waylay
Bombay
What Gangsta Cats Do
Rag Dolls
Snag Molls
A Cat Oration
Birman
Sermon
The Howling Sensations
*Main Coons
Feign tunes
Wet Mongrel Cat
Soggy
moggy
Sept. 15, 2022
for a Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
*Note: This is name for a strong, large longhaired cat that is also very sweet. Maybe it's only known about in the USA??