Long Dixon Poems
Long Dixon Poems. Below are the most popular long Dixon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dixon poems by poem length and keyword.
Somewhere in her white house
There was a gray future spouse
Looking for cheese
Doing as he please
Enchanting accent came from the mouth
A drawing sound noting the south
Filled with luring charm
Made a home by telling many a yarn
Living in a guest quarter
Which he could barely afford her
Making his ways through academic halls
Everyone studying engravings on the walls
Defending peaceful thoughts interacting throughout student’s mall
Coming to a relaxing place
Seeing Carolina’s face
“They are making their case”
The blue angel said
About the reason she should not wed
And take a lifelong committed man into her first bed
“We have a right
During our fight
To cross our stripes
Challenging city slicker’s type
Slanting our color navy being no fool
While having a civil feud”
Wanting a comfort shot he stood calm
Listening to reality going on
This was love not a raunchy affair
Where revenge was the dare
“We made an X for a reason
It was not an ax that was treason
Wanting out of the union
Northerner’s knew not what they were doing
Money here money there
We belles had land everywhere”
Now this fellow
Understood his bride’s bellow
And wanted a few minutes to mellow
“Look at the sun
It is almost done
Orange skies
You are marrying a beautiful guy
I am a gamecock
Early morning riser with nice stock
While you are a Tar Heel
When hearts were a major steal
Our relationship is very real
Friends and family will watch us seal
This romantic deal
Then enjoy a joyful meal”
Hearing his soothing voice
She knew he was the proper choice
“Our United States is at war
Diplomatic rhetoric acting out having the stage floor
Rotten as a big apple at the core”
Honest feelings had truth
Questionable just like the Yankee spectacle Babe Ruth
“Remember when physical interaction was deemed a sin
Gossip talking where the two have been
After our vows and we are alone
Shutting off all Ma Bell phones
I will state to only you
Never will we be through”
Below the Mason Dixon line
Where others are treated very kind
Moon reminded them where they met
No longer was the daylight set
Darkness figured out this was the perfect get
Lunar glare smiling watching the innocent talk
Hoping they will be happy after the matrimony walk
They talk about how the country these days,
has fallen into such a Goddamn mess.
It’s worse than anyone has ever seen,
must have forgot the seventies, I guess.
They talk about how the ex-president,
did not do things the same way they use to.
But they must have forgotten all about,
Tricky Dicky back in seventy-two.
Congress showed us another bill they wrote,
said there’s no room here in the land we stole.
You won’t get no rights or have any hope
so just keep your ass down in Mexico.
Way down yonder where the tall cotton grows,
down south of that old Mason-Dixon line.
Daddy said son, best not be on the road.
after that setting sun no longer shines,
Late last night just outside of my front door,
there was a young white woman raped and stabbed.
They looked at the people gathered around,
it was an innocent black man that they grabbed.
Said we don’t need no proof that you’re guilty,
if you are black then that’s enough for us.
Besides, it’s your word against all of ours,
so who you think the judge is gonna trust.
When the man threw his hands into the air,
the cop cried, “That boy’s got himself a gun.”
Shot him a total of thirty-nine times,
said it’s because he was trying to run.
I wonder when it was, we lost our minds,
the meanings of good and bad got hazy.
Did the cave men wake up on one morning,
thinking that this world is too damn crazy.
They are hopping mad so they burned the flag,
protesting against inequality.
The poor man’s sick of being kicked around,
while he’s dying of hunger in the street.
It’s Covid now instead of Russian Flu,
there is still no such thing as living free.
I just can’t tell if this is modern times,
or are we in the nineteen seventies.
I wait for the heat
of the Allis Chalmers crawler’s engine
to fill the tarped in space
where I sit huddled
next to levers, gauges and knobs.
The crawler seems to float.
The tule fog obscures the ground
covers everything,
all that has grown
and all that was lost.
Even the old, worn stone headstones
behind the main farmhand’s house.
But I am not thinking of that.
I need to rip the southeast field.
I put it in gear and pull the clutch
and then the throttle and black smoke
belches briefly.
I step on the track brakes
gently left, then right
to get to the headland
and then yank the left track clutch to spin
into place.
The crawler moves ahead
and I push the hydraulics
to drop the pointed shanks into the ground.
I stand now, warm
and look behind
at the boiling brown soil,
shiny, curls releasing and spilling up.
I feel the exact right tug
of the crawler’s weight
as it lumbers and strains.
I work on making
perfect, straight lines of turned up soil
across the field.
Mid-morning,
the tule fog has vanished.
I had not noticed it go.
It will return tomorrow
the farmer has told me,
blanketing everything again,
thickly,
covering all
while I pass over,
turning and raising.
scornful, abusive
you speak, treat with disrespect
giving cause offense
rude cause of my face
called me names, other than James
defame militate
it’s cause my skin brown
bad-mouth cast aspersions on
this went on and on
nineteen seventy
disparage, jailed in small town
cause my step-brother
tried to steal rifle
from off a Gun store wall yes
I was innocent
was called everything
from N**ER, yawh, boy nobody…
I sure was insulted
all but child of God
prejudice and rage surfaced
never ask my name
below the Mason
Dixon Line in a small town
I was just INSULTed
10/25/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Written for NORTH OMAHA WRITING GROUP (NOW)
Wip writing assignment
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line:
5 7 5 0 5 7 5 0 5 7 5 0 5 7 5 0 5 7 5 0 5 7 5 0 0 5 7 5 0 5 7 5
Total # Syllables: 136
"Them there stories
Twas the decade of worries
In the lower half, of the mighty Mo’
My grand-PaPa and em’ picked cotton
It twas below the Mason-Dixon Line;
Grand-pa always had an old cotton kerchief
Handkerchief
PaPa wipe his brow
Gave a loud hee-wow
You see he’s a proud-ful old man
Early in the morn
PaPa worked also the farm
Fed them chickens and hogs
Open up the gate let the dogs out
It was hot that morn
PaPa wipe his brow
You see he sweated like rain
His back was out, with his bare hands he caught trout
With a string he fish for catfish
Part-time PaPa was a grave digger
Tween pickin cotton, hard labor
That was all that was left
Those dignify Caucasian people
And even the bad ones call us people of color
Low down dirty
Grand-pa always had an old cotton kerchief
Handkerchief
PaPa wipe his brow
Gave a loud hee-wow
You see he’s a proud-ful old man
Grand PaPa always had his kerchief
In his pocket or in his hands always
To Blow his nose
Or wipe away his sweet and tears
And to clean and dry his hands
To witness and or the greet his fam
Juz waving in the air with his hands
At the death of MaMa grand Grand PaPa
Had his handkerchief in his hands
Even at church attendance Grand-PaPa
Had his kerchief cleaned-washed and ironed
In the pocket of his linen suit
Man the man was sweet
Seven years later
They too buried him
In his right hand he clutched his tattered, old, worn kerchief
Grand PaPa spirit ya, he’s waving it on into glory!!
Hallelujahs"
1/3/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
Just North of South Carolina
Is where this country boy was born
All I really cared in those growing years
Was the running through woods kind of fun
Those days I fondly remember
There's no way you can bad mouth the South
With water up to our knees chasing crawfish in creeks
And anything else nature would allow
Even squirrel hunting as younguns
So my Granny could make us a pie
No secret better kept than eating straight off the land
Whether it was squirrels or apples to find
Granny always made delicious pies
Always in church every Sunday
Paying the Lord his due respects
For all that we have and all that he gives
Plus for the forgiveness of sins
Then after church when there weren't no chores
We'd kiss and tell our parents goodbye
They'd not see us again till we heard the bell ring
Come about supper time
There's something that's to be said about being a kid
Growing up down in the South
Where there's no better time below the Mason Dixon line
But that you'd have to find out for yourself
It has been said that pain is
a conversation waiting to be had.
If that is so, there’s so much to share:
Today, the term the United States
is on the road to becoming less and less
an applicable synonym for America.
Reigning division and separatism
seem to be the new twin watch-words
describing this discordant nation.
Today, the old Mason-Dixon Line
has been replaced; yet of the tri-color
flag, white remains supreme; red and blue
identifying her divisive demarcations.
Black, brown and yellow sprinkle
in the circles thereof and polarization
of color again sums up the political times.
That all men are created equal
was a worthy pen; such words, however,
have yet to become a living reality.
It has been held that what goes around
soon comes back around—if the circle
is not broken. Yet it is also held true
that a bubble blown beyond its limits
will surely burst and dissipate into vapor.
For half an hour Dix had rode true
when the canyon opened up wider.
In front of him five stubbly men
sat around a roaring fire.
The leader Dixon recognized,
as his sifted through Santa’s sack.
He was an outlaw known far and wide
by the name of Randsome Mack.
Their eyes fastened upon him
when he and his horse rode into sight,
every one of the men had guns,
they all looked ready for a fight.
Dixon looked up to the skies,
but he could not see a sleigh.
He had left plenty of bits of scarf,
had Santa somehow lost his way?
He swallowed deep as Randsome rose,
and glared deep with hateful eyes.
“It seems we got us a trespasser.
Boys, let’s put him down the mine—”
But Dix spurred forward as he spoke,
catching the bandits all off-guard.
Before they could could drew, he scattered them
and seized the sack with a strong arm.
“Get him!”angry Randsome cried,
as Dixon turned and dashed through.
“I want that sack, I want it all!
Run down that blasted fool!”
The race was on through canyon walls,
half covered in ice and snow.
Dix was ahead by a good span,
but could he get clear? He didn’t know.
On he pounded, but his foes gained,
not weighed down by Santa’s sack.
If this kept up Dix knew that he
would never made it back.
But a ringing of bells sounded above,
and a shadow raced on past.
Santa’s sleigh soared above the gorge,
his flight blew and icy blast!
It slowed the bandits in pursuit,
they ducked to cover their heads.
Then Old Saint nick skimmed with snow,
with the runners of his great sled.
A wall of white tumbled on down,
landing on the bandit’s far below.
They shouted and sputtered, motionless,
socked in by a mountain of snow!
By the time the dug themselves out,
Dixon and his horse were too far gone,
out or sight and far beyond
the reach of Randsome’s throng.
When Dix cleared the rocky canyons
and rode out into the cold parklands,
he found Santa and his reindeer team
pulled up by an aspen stand.
When he approached, Santa laughed,
and slung an arm around his back.
“My boy I knew you would pull through.
We got Christmas back on track!”
CONCLUDES IN PART III.
The issue's not yet signed and sealed.
Three cogent answers hold the field,
and no-one knows which is the best.
I'll set them out before you, lest
the question go a-begging.
First
(and this one's frequently rehearsed,
but holds least clout - at least with me),
the Mason-Dixon Line must be
the great divide: South, slavery,
North, freedom. Dixon, Dixie - see?
The trouble is that way back when
those two unstinting Englishmen
surveyed the Line, none under heaven
(we're talking seventeen sixty-seven)
could care a cuss if blacks were pressed
to toil unpaid at whites' behest.
And Delaware, by no means least
of slaving states, lies north and east
of said divide.
Manhattan, now:
though it may try to disavow
a past that wasn't quite PC,
New York had sloughs of slavery.
A Mister Dixie held some lands
(right where the Guggenheim now stands):
the human property he owned
led folks to talk of "Dixie's Zone"
whenever slaves were being mentioned,
and gradually, by extension,
this came to mean the South. Could be.
Pursuing perspicuity
is noble in itself, and so
I offer as my final throw
the one which really should have won
(who measures merit, though, by fun?)
Louisiana, sovereign state,
sought (sensibly) to circulate
its very own banknotes. Problem was,
the Cajun cash collapsed, because
nobody trusted it. Each bill
was written in (for good or ill)
official French, so - quelle caprice! -
each sawbuck said, not ten, but "dix".
Thus, Dixie's fixed in every brain
as something quaint, quixotic, vain.
6/27/22
Still an Atheist
I'm a hypocrite for saying this
But don't ever think it's wise
To drink and drive
Looking at it with different eyes
Looking at it with different minds
Looking at it from different sides
All across the Mason-Dixon Line
To beyond Byzantine
It's worldwide, a bunch of little swine's
How is this life
It isn't right
Always getting criticized
I don't relate or call it civilized
Much of it in disguise
Still the lies
Meanwhile evil thrives
Wake up, or just get in line
Why do you think there is 'restricted sites'
Artificial lights
Shining atop the winter ice
Endlessly it's been a bitter fight
For more than 99 thousand and 50 nights
It took a lot more than 9 hundred and 60 tries
Usually aware and prepared, but this time
It was a quick surprise
In the blink of an eye
Eventually it signified
No longer mystified
Regardless if they killed the vibe
Until I die
I will survive
And improvise
A never ending amount of hills to climb
Empty and numb, not feeling inside
All the pain and problems minimized
People complicate what can be simplified
Far too dignified
Don't got time for those that throw fits and whine
Many go against but it's ill advised
Call me kryptonite
The people remain hypnotized
One day it'll all be turned to ash or crystallized
Technically since were in space, are we 'in the skies?'
A void that I struggle to fill inside
Still an Atheist
I'm a hypocrite for saying this
But don't ever think it's wise
To drink and drive
Looking at it with different eyes
Looking at it with different minds
Looking at it from different sides