Long Greenhorn Poems
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If she heard one more yeehaw or giddy up she would croak.
Being a greenhorn in Texas horse country is not a funny joke.
When she started on this adventure she could do a high kick.
She had the grace of a ballerina, and her arms were not thick.
They had called her a greenhorn and made fun of her shoes.
She had to borrow some boots, and now her calves were all bruised.
She had watched another newbie get dragged to the hoosegow.
All she had done is make fun of the beans, horrible chow!
The ten-cent man came over and yelled aces-high, new recruit.
She despised his good humor, and he was handsome to boot!
She felt all jiggly and giggly when she was around this handsome lad.
“Howdy!” she said. A little voice returned “That is my dad!”
The kid was cute, about eight, a little dickens, a dude.
He gave her a leering look, it almost looked lewd.
Where is your mom? She asked, all cocky and smart.
“I am right here,” a woman replied, holding a branding ironed heart.
So that little tart got out of there, lickety split.
She felt threatened and out of her element, outed by a small chit.
Would she ever go back to Texas? Not in these borrowed boots.
Maybe never actually, she did not enjoy these types of cahoots.
I was moving down an access trail
in my favorite Pennsylvania game land,
heading towards and open meadow,
near which I’d set up a tree stand.
Then came a rustling from some bushes thick,
a buck shot out at lightning speed,
I reached for my gun, but he was gone,
through dense forest the buck did flee.
I was stunned by this strange happening,
for a buck to have gotten so near
to a human walking in plain sight,
it should have been skittish, hiding in fear.
Then exploding from that same thick brush,
came a petite and seething form,
she fixed a pair or rabid eyes on me,
shook once with anger, and then she roared:
“You stupid fool! I had that awesome deer,
all lined up for the kill in my sights!
If it weren’t for the sound of your footsteps,
I would have had that buck dead-to-rights!”
I instinctively bristled at her sharp tone,
snapped,”Forgive me for walking a public trail.
Maybe if you had a stand, weren’t mucking ’round,
you would have seen more than that deer’s trail.”
She roared,”And maybe if you had half a brain,
you’d be able to pick out my ground blind!
Took me days to find their bedding space,
now all of that is just wasted time!”
I yelled,”If you really do have a blind there,
I would have to stay that I was impressed.
But I’m so damn mad I wouldn’t say so,
even if it’s camouflaged with the best!”
She screamed,”And I’m so pissed, I won’t say ‘thank you,’
even though I worked for this so very hard.
How could I accept a compliment
from a fool who sends deer running far?
“And I certainly couldn’t appreciate
That pristine rifle, that cowboy gun,
owned by some rookie who makes too much noise,
who scotches up my shot and hunt!”
I laughed. “And I clearly can’t ogle at
the ancient bolt-action you’ve got there!”
She said,”And I would never tell a greenhorn
that my gramps once used it to hunt bear!”...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
Thankless job, I think watching
as Thurman tries to teach the young man
The lad sitting up
on the tractor
like a proud young pup
is full of piss and vinegar
half the time not listening
and half the time telling Thurman
how much he already knows...
As Thurman patiently slumps
his still-sturdy but ungainly frame
against the tractor
fingers strumming his red suspenders
a good-natured grin
slowly spreading
across his grizzled face
gleaming behind think glasses
I see a glint of soft amusement
at this grandiose greenhorn
Thurman has lived through
the Great Depression, and then
the horror of hand-combat
in World War II
one of three from his unit
to make it through-
so there is nothing this little ingrate
can possibly do or say
to break Thurman's composure today
he remains uncommonly calm
and utterly unflappable
a small chuckle slipping out
every now and then
And while the young man boasts
and blusters on about
his plans for next week
Thurman is mostly quiet, until
at length, asked about his plans
“Lord willing-
and the creek don't rise...”
he begins, knowing how
much could change by then
A New York born greenhorn, name of Talley,
Felt a free meal challenge up his alley.
Known as seventy-two-ounce steaks abode
Into the Big Texan he boldly strode,
As the patient Big Texan clock looked on.
“I am fair game to feast,” boasted the lad.
“To eat all the food waiting to be had.
I shall gobble the steak and trimmings too
Along with a yard of your finest brew.”
And the skeptical Texan clock looked on.
Rare steak, potato, salad, brew, and roll
To consume all in an hour was the goal.
His table was set with food looking grand.
Talley then sat down, knife and fork in hand.
The referee Texan clock started on.
Slashing and stabbing he attacked the steak,
Popping meat in his mouth, scarcely to chew,
Giving his stomach a challenge to brew.
A rare swig of beer was his only break
As the alert Texan clock counted on.
At fifteen minutes, Talley was on pace
To hold himself free of shame and disgrace.
He gorged large tomatoes with salad greens,
Wishing he had ordered a side of beans.
As the steady Texan clock counted on.
At half past the hour young Talley felt great,
Enjoying with relish all that he ate.
The loaded potato seemed so easy
Brew kept his stomach from feeling queasy
As the earnest Texan clock counted on.
Fully forty-five minutes had flashed past
Talley knew he that was having a blast.
Winning seemed sure, Talley felt the die cast,
As bite by bite, he downed his huge repast.
The relentless Texan clock counted on.
In minutes Talley wore a smiling face
Thinking victory he would soon embrace.
With seconds left he washed down his last bite,
Knowing that he ate a free meal that night.
The referee Texan clock ticked time gone.
For the watching diners who viewed him nuts,
A camera caught him spilling his guts
As the victorious youthful Talley
Spewed his steak dinner out in the alley
And the stoic Big Texan clock looked on.
i am an eyewitness to your beauty within
if i could lick you there, then i would be blessed a rich man
flowers grow within the many hairs on my chest with every follicle you kiss
whatever i did right, i must have come from the left hand side
i never thought laughter with you can make me so light and mellow
i guess i have never really given myself a chance to view you away from the dew
what i see for myself is the very foundation of what i want for myself
my shyness is like wires from a downed power line preventing me from reflex and mobility
your eye contact is like a lethal injection in the veins of your pop quiz for my heart
somewhere between uncertainty and a sudden burst of balance i kiss your eager lips
clarity rises above a once cloudy and drab and dreary sky....
a greenhorn now seeing light, i am an eyewitness to your beauty within
tonight i free my mind
she agreed to come and see me
after nine hours of cleaning house
just to see here smile....will be the highlight of my day and life
i think too much into the future....and i have t slow myself down
as i spray the whole place with a lavender vanilla scent....i daydream
i was a kid in fifth grade when i met here....she was in college
the smallness of the world worked to my benefit
i smack myself back to reality though....see, this period here will not last long
it is like God opened this door for me to take in....and the He will take it away
i thank Him for this moment and pray that He bless me with strength over my fears
when the knock comes, i am a bashful, jelly-legged greenhorn
her smile just hit me, and her aged, soulful beauty completely knocked me to the floor
when she kissed me out of nowhere after i took her coat, i knew that this was too much woman for me
however the moment is here and etched in a golden coat of permanence
knowing this....tonight i free my mind....
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
“Cowboys” , big John Wayne starred.
Cowhands abandon him.
Call, joining the Goldrush.
Could greenhorn kids succeed.
Camp cook and chuck wagon,
Complete the trail crew drive.
Cow punching green schoolboys
Called on to claim their jobs.
Cimarron, the oldest,
Capricious, turned away.
Cow punching, green schoolboys
Combating bucking horse,
Caught on to rope, brand, herd
Cattle, and cow-horses.
Cattle drive is ready.
Cimarron follows close.
Cattle-rustlers kill Will,
Corralling all his herd.
Cow punching green schoolboys
Caught and killed the rustlers.
Complete the cattle-drive.
Cattle sold, gravestone bought.
Carved, “ Beloved Husband and Father”
8/22/2016
Not for contest:
Pleiades C
22 lines, 6 syllable each line
17th line 9 syllables
The Cowboys is a 1972 American western film starring John Wayne,
John Wayne nickname Duke
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cowboys
using;
http://www.howmanysyllables.com/poem_syllable_counter_workshop/index
Speech greenhorn Sue smartly stands smiling
Sleepwalking, she’s set for faith-sailing
Seeking for serenity
Sshhh, she spots security
She’s soul-searching midst silence-sealing.
Sleeptalking shows Sue’s secrets surely
Stressing statements straightforwardly
She shouts, “Stop selfishness*…
Shut up shameful slothfulness!”
She’s safe, speaking to herself soundly.
*1Corinthians 4:3 But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged of you, or of man's judgment: yea, I judge not mine own self.
Limerick and Alliteration
July 20, 2018
Edited on March 14, 2019
5th place, "Green Humor Rhymes, Old or New..." Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire; judged on 3/23/2019.
He toddles toward the pebbles, tumbling the smooth stones over
in his four year old palms, rubbing them like Aladdin’s lamp, tossing
them back into the mix, impishly shining with the zest of a boy.
He sees the overflow of snowy petals, finds the lowest hanging
stem, the gardenia bends to touch his greenhorn nose. Forever
that scent will remind him of grandma’s garden like she remembers
the tubes of trumpet petals in her own grandparents’ backyard. A
twinkle of tremulous joy impacting the fingers of her and her siblings.
The rare treat of parties, the round table laughter, heartfelt antiquity.
The boy explodes from the bottom of the driveway into the steep
mossy front yard, feeling each measured bounce, ne’er a straight
path to the door, exploring the red and yellow roses, the crumbling
timbers, walking the wall, following scurrying lizards, stepping on
ants, a roving eye for the fearful red, yet no thought of turtle monsters
nor copperheads that have precariously occupied my property,
nor coyotes that have encroached the boundaries. Unboundless energy,
nerve, verve of a courageous man in the making, trampling his feet,
owning the property then oh so gently snapping a stem, handing
his childhood princess a gift, pulling strings of a puppet’s heart,
winding the twine like pulling in a windswept kite, ever learning
nuances of my mind, tucked away to love, rebell and trust.
6/1/19