Long Dixie Poems
Long Dixie Poems. Below are the most popular long Dixie by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dixie poems by poem length and keyword.
So many voices, some pulling, others pushing, one spearing.
I feel the spear, and know she will not stop until I acknowledge her
What is it?
What do you want?
She gives me some directives knowing I will rebel
and rebuke them.
She never gets her way.
She wants me to do things she knows I will not do.
I hate medicines! I tell her. They do not affect me like others.
Leave me alone! But still she persists. Two are pulling, one is pushing.
She is screaming, shrieking, wailing, keening in my ear.
I take a couple of blues and a pink,
to try and fool her.
She knows what I am about.
For she is in my mind’s folds and recesses.
Another personality shows up.
A new one.
What the hell.
I thought I knew them all.
Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap!
My hands are shaky.
If she is another spearing one,
I give up.
I cannot do this any more.
I have tried too long already.
I am Sherenna, she says, seductively.
Hell no. I already got rid of Dixie, my other nymphomaniac.
I close my eyes, trying to drown them all out.
Within a 14 year period, I went from a Dixie delta farm
To a Chicago asphalt jungle, to a dairy land farm in Wisconsin.
From dairy land back to the jungle and from there, I returned to
Dixie land. From there I pushed westward to the streets of
San Francisco and on into the central valley of Sacramento
Not far from where someone looked towards the foothills and said,
"There's gold in them there hills". They did find gold in those hills,
But I have lived in this gold-fevered land for 33 years, and gold is not what I have found here.
I have lived in these United States from the south near the Gulf
Of Mexico, to the north near the Great Lakes, and on westward
Some three to four blocks from the Pacific Ocean. I have been
Rewarded with good people everywhere I have lived, but none
Have I been acquainted with more than these among whom I live
And worship.
I tell you, I have found a land rich with most loving and beautiful
People ever I have seen. They were not discovered on a street corner
Nor at a place of employment, but scores of them have been found
In the sanctuaries of churches.
In my church a few years ago, the speaker said, "The best people
In the world are those sitting in the pew next to you". I am fortunate
To be among such people, and I could not agree more. My wife and
I were with two of them today. I could say more about them, but
Two words best describe our experiences with them. They give
Themselves MAGNANIMOUSLY and love LAVISHLY.
092719PoSoup
It is the only time we get to laugh at black
So de rigeur at funerals and stogy old photography.
Take Dixie Land at home in New Orleans
Parading back of happy brass from marble sculpted sepulchers.
A mansion in mirage, a wavy misty rambling of rooms.
Their mirrors: windows to another, conjured world.
An agitated specter's greasy lipstick pleads.
How silly in its backward gibberish.
Flies frozen in some floes of ice cube trays
Or eyeballs docked adrift along a punch bowl rim.
In morgues, contracting muscles practice sitting up.
Fingers twitch impatient to be dressed in Sunday's best.
Around grave yards are cemetery stones
Jauntily askew, a sporty take on plumb
Due to a lack of rebar steel or poured cement.
More foundational than wood and bone alone.
Masks flash from unknown alley ways.
Our innards struggle up inside our throats
Suffocated quiet, still, we ache to catch so thin
A claustrophobic breath to be made so easily afraid.
Jack was sitting poker faced
With bullets backed by bitches.
Neal hunched at the wheel
Puttin everyone in stitches.
He was braggin 'bout
This nurse he'd screwed,
While drivin through Nebraska.
Said that when she came,
She honked the horn,
And Neal just barely
Missed a truck
And then he asked her
If she'd like to cum like that
All the way to CalifornY?
See a redhead in a uniform
Will always make you horny.
With her hair net and her white
Shoes and a name tag and a hat,
She drove like Andy Granatelli
And knew how to fix a flat!
And Jack was at the bottom
Of his second 2020.
Neal was yellin out the window
Tryin to buy some beannies
From a Lincoln, full of Mexicans
Whose left rear tire blew
And the son's of bitches
Prit near ran us off the road!
Well the nurse had
Spilled the Manischewitz
All up and down her dress,
Then she lit the map on fire
And Neal just had to guess.
Should we try to find
A bootleg route
Or a fillin station open?
The nurse was dumping
Out her purse looking for a kiss.
Jack was out of cigarettes,
When we crossed the yellow line.
The gas pumps looked
Like tombstones from then on.
It felt lonelier than a parking lot
When the last car pulls away.
And the moonlight dressed
The double breasted foot hills
In the mirror, weaving out
A negligee and black brassiere.
The mercury was running hot
And we were almost out a gas,
Just then Florence Nightingale
Dropped her draws and stuck
Her fat ass out the window
To a Wilson Picket tune
And she shouted "get a load of this! "
And give the finger to the moon.
Counting one eyed jacks
And whistlin Dixie in the car,
Neal was doin least a hundred
When we saw a shootin star.
Florence wished that Neal
Would hold her 'stead of chewin his cigar.
Jack was noddin out and dreamin
That he was in a bar,
With Charlie Parker on the bandstand
And not a worry in the world,
And a glass of beer in one hand
And his arm around a girl.
And Neal was singin to the nurse
Underneath a Harken moon
And somehow you could tell
We'd be in CalifornY pretty soon.
My father and his father were Farmers. It wasn't told to me,
but I suspect that my Great Grandfather was also a Farmer.
My wife's father was also a hard-working and successful Farmer.
However, in my family line, farming ended with my father.
From my second-story window, it's a beautiful sight.
Presently, having chosen to retire in the rural, I am
surrounded on three sides by fields of corn, and on the
fourth side, beans greet me every day with a smile.
I don't see a Farmer, but his workmanship is on display.
I can't imagine a Farmer who doesn't know how to pray.
When his work is done, whether by choice or otherwise,
he must wait and trust his God for rain lest there be pain.
It's now late June, and in this Dixie Delta Region, there have
been very generous out-pours of rain that have treated the plants
and soil. Corn stalks, embraced with soft grains of corn, cover each
cob of corn. Golden, yellowish tassels grace the tops of corn stalks,
and the farmers are happy as they wait for the corn to harden.
Sometime in August when the corn has finally hardened, it will be
time for the harvest. One would assume that harvest is the final
test for the Farmer. In these parts, the Farmers are also dependent
upon the river. In the harvest season, it is good to be dry but not
for long. The river's depth must be adequate for the cargo ships
to float. If the rains are not just right, the Farmer must wait and pray.
063023PS
My Dad
By Curtis Johnson
In all appearances, his feet were firmly planted in our southern home town
It seemed clear that daddy’s life was fixed and fashioned on the grounds of Dixie
But I’m also certain, there were times I heard his heart beating a different sound
A hard working dad and a stay-at-home mom: all respectables
A live-in grand mom, obedient children, and a dog name jack, a quiet place for kids to live, grow, and thrive: all commendables
Food, clothing, shelter, and transportation: all predictables
Church, school, work, and information: all expectables
Yes, stability was the real McCoy in my family. Everything and everybody,
Like the steady ticking of a clock, stayed basically the same day after day.
Sameness was a staple; newness was rare; change is what we longed for.
A change of place, to explore the human race
A change of pace, to catch the sands of time
A change of faze, to rise to higher levels
A change of ways, to reach new destinies
A change of plans, to find our purpose
A change of focus, to chart our course
Yes, change is what our hearts were longing for
We knew that ‘sameness’ was always given the more
But we also knew that ‘change’ would someday
Come a knocking at our door
It may be true that daddy’s feet were fashioned, fixed, and planted
Perhaps he was dreaming, and in his mind, he saw something more
It seemed for sure that his soul was charting a different course,
Because we often heard him say, “I’m going out west where the
Eagles build their nest”.
I do not know if my dad was being poetic, or if he really desired
A different land. But I do believe that he was longing for change
And I believe that daddy longed for a fresh touch of God’s hands
And I believe that his soul was uttering, “I’m longing to know the
Master’s plan.
cj06162007
The skeletons in my closet are trying on my clothes
Posing a fashion show of history
Using bony toes to throw memento mori
"watch your head!"-puts hand over grin
My diary redacted, an exploding think tank
Plastered on pages, so pretty to think so
Making a pact with the top hat that
marinades my mind into overflow
"a poet's guts are a beautiful splatter!"
The black boots I used to reinvent
A thousand miles that were walked and spent
Stepping over trial and error
Crying over unpaid rent and electricity terror
"light a candle and revel in the silence!"
The gloves that scoured the couch
for a dollar in change to feed the mouths
of my heart and soul sitting in front of me
begging for a bowl of spaghettios
"innocence resides behind smiling blue eyes!"
Slightly tattered from the cold weather
an old, black sweater with a sewn in locket
carries the charm of car and job
problems in it's pocket.
"I've got thumb holes in my hand hats!"
The little ties that put a knot in my throat
from all the lies that once were spoke
so properly placed on a plastic hanger
to easily be broken by words from a stranger.
"No wire hangers, ever!"
Sipping on sunshine through a dixie cup
My skeletons and I are playing dress up
It reminds me that I'm alive and my past is dead.
I'll buy better clothes in the days ahead.
"life is beautiful!"
Maybe a role reversal is in order here
And us guys could take it or leave it
Whatta mind-blowing experience that would be
The ladies simply couldn't conceive it
Exciting? You ain't just whistling Dixie
There's a stirring deep down in my loins
Quite sexual in nature or my jockeys are too tight
Sometimes I let out a few oinks
Sure would be great to see how that works
To turn the tables on the ladies
I'd say, “I have a bad headache, maybe December
Right now I'm baking some pastries”
Can you just imagine the look on their faces
They'd start to grovel and whimper
“It's already August, not too too long to wait
Before you know it, it'll be winter!”
See, my dear sweeties! How do you like it
To be at the other end of the dial
Cant't tell you how much fun that would be
I'd never be able to wipe off the smile
© Jack Ellison 2013
I started sucking my thumb until it looked like a plumb
Things didn't feel any better so I poured a glass of rum
Some will imagine I'm happy when they hear the tunes I hum
whisky me Dixie I am the crazy unbalanced one
Yes I hum like a drum and I pretend to be dumb
I prefer the shady ladies who stay out of the sun
You might want to hang out after all I can be fun
Others will try and warn you, you'd be better off to run
You think I'm simple dear Simon, my thoughts not so deep
I know it's easy to judge me by the company I keep
I'm hanging on by three threads, one step away from endless sleep
I can't get up high enough, the incline of my mind is too steep
I'm weathered and worn kinda broken and busted
Others thought they could help get my aptitude adjusted
Yet some things can't be fixed too many layers have rusted
Kind people have attempted to get me polished and dusted
Forget all that attention I just simply cussed it
I wander asphalt streets bopping to my lost boy beat
see the crooked dexterity of my wobbly bruised feet
Nothing satiates me what I hunger for I can't eat
the ghosts in my mind have occupied my seat
My demons are hidden beneath a white worn sheet!
Don't try and peek under, you won't like who you meet!
A lover of freedom from the chase of the rat race that often bound him in chains, Mr. Peace was born in the deep south where the lack of quietness is a major emergency, and musical notes by cricket and bullfrog sounds of the night are the genuine state of expectation. He later migrated to a big northern city of heavy traffic, horns, and siren sounds of the noisy variety. After several years he returned to Dixie but did not stay long, lest he should be faced with possible destitution. He decided to move out west where eagles nest but struggled to find a solitudinous place of abode. So of to the ocean he would often retreat and frequented the parks to obtain surrenity. Distractions of all kinds never ceased, but he learned to 'steal away' to places most divine. It was calmness, quietness, and solitude that Mr. Peace sought, not a great escape from humankind. So he mastered the craft of inner peace, never compromising his love for and time with humanity.
05302018PSoupContest, Free Verse, Laura Loo