Long Hat in hand Poems
Long Hat in hand Poems. Below are the most popular long Hat in hand by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hat in hand poems by poem length and keyword.
Sparks explode on piercing skies, to drown upon a basement of grass.
An uzi and more cannons so keenly edged glimmer bright--
soon, real soon the red of blood will run dry.
City folks' imprints fade to dust where
oppression sets sail on a once quiet land,
time gnawing urgent prayers to mumbled speech;
an end to goodness that's divinely human.
Then, a simple wish, a dream. A reality?
A wish for harmony marked long ago
still unmet , unfulfilled while bodies pile
on layered sheets fresh and damp.
So how do we know the why from which
of this endless conflict?
But pain comes and goes hat in hand,
sometimes,
victims beg for sudden death right on hallowed mud.
Sometimes, anguish hits so desperately hard , forgetting to skip a beat ,
as more sparks blare, rat-tat- tat--
until God only knows what when forgiveness of all wounds should heal ...
Under siege, on wishes never granted,
do men persist on fighting the evil this violence wields?
I was somewhere deep in Kansas
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall
the kickstand was long gone
And out of gas, my hopes were dashed …
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled
across the street I pushed
The sign said TRIUMPH-BSA
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor”
I said “Nothing — out of gas
“But worse I’m out of money
can I sell the bike for cash?
“Would you please just buy my Triumph
I know it’s old and worn
“But it got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route 50
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife
four more and our first child
We named her ‘Sweet Melissa’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will
your song, her name — that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I sent this to Gregg in May, 2017. It's on his website.
We spent two days together in Richmond Virginia in
a blizzard in 1982.
Let all the tree tops glisten ,
And gleeful children listen,
As snow drops gently fall,
To an amazing Christmas call.
Let all the people sing out loud,
Let mistletoe hang, from every cloud,
Let stars twinkle in the sky,
Let Angel choirs reign this night ,
And bring delight to human kind,
With their so lustrous light.
The midnight hour is close,
And many praises heard,
Countdown begins,
Even Santa is among the crowd,
Hat in hand, his head bowed.
The clock begins to strike,
The heavens open wide,
A nativity scene displayed,
Before our very eyes,
A heavenly Babe is born,
This early Christmas morn.
The Rot Gut Incident
Tumbleweeds blew into Town
Rolling two bearded cowpokes with them
Looking for some action and the sheriff
The Bloody Mary is the only saloon in Rot Gut
I reckon this is a proper place for the ornery
For a couple of horny no good clowns
They didn't come to sing a song or read the bible
Revenge was on their mind
Along with other assorted kinds of crime
They wanted ugly Molly for some nasty sport
And whiskey to wet their whistle
After a spell the drunken foe came down
From playing with their whore
Staggered on the stairs for lack of balance
Demanded me, Sheriff John, served up for their amusement
I killed their brother Bob last year in this here very bar
For starting troubles with the patrons
And stealing from the tip jar
I happened to be there with hat in hand
When they called me out
And made me take a stand
Then drew their guns to shoot me down
If they hadn't been such drunken boozers
Slower than molasses
I’d be telling a different kind of tale about these losers
And they wouldn't be planted six feet under ground
In the cemetery just outside of town
Used as fertilizer for the flowers
In Rot Gut that’s just how things go down
7/13/14 A Town Called “Rot Gut” contest
I was somewhere deep in Kansas
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand was long gone
And out of gas, my hopes were dashed…
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “Nothing—out of gas
“But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash?
“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
“It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route 50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
We named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I sent this to Gregg in May, 2017. It's on his website.
We spent two days together in Richmond Virginia in
a blizzard in 1982.
I was somewhere deep in Kansas,
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox,
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place,
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around,
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station,
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand now long gone
And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “nothing—out of gas,
“But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash
“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
“It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route #50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along,
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I Sent This To Gregg In March 2016. It's on His Website.
We Spent Two Days Together In Richmond Va. In A
Blizzard In 1982.
I was somewhere deep in Kansas
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand was long gone
And out of gas, my hopes were dashed…
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “Nothing—out of gas
“But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash?
“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
“It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route 50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
We named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I sent this to Gregg in May, 2017. It's on his website.
We spent two days together in Richmond Virginia in
a blizzard in 1982.
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the greatest of Victorian
poets, formed a very close relationship with
Arthur Hallam and frequently visited the Hallam
home in Wimpole Street. After Hallam's sudden
death, Tennyson frequently returned to the house,
and stood weeping in the street.)
Tears, Idle Tears
When two young men are close – are more than friends,
perhaps? – as Tennyson and Hallam were,
and with one’s sudden death, the friendship ends,
what may we (faced with morbid grief) infer?
That Arthur bore the promise of the age
is well attested. But was taken young.
Is sorrow something simply to assuage,
or are there deeper wellsprings? Alfred clung
unhealthily to his. The morning rain
would lash him as he stood there, hat in hand,
in front of sixty-seven, drenched in pain
he neither could discharge nor understand:
abandoned lover, feverish and thin,
with salty raindrops dripping from his chin.
I loved you John Wayne!
I wished you were my father
or maybe an older brother
who’d tutor me to be tough
when manners weren’t enough
and toughness was needed
that civility be heeded
and not to brag or complain.
O I loved you John Wayne!
As soon as I was old enough
to earn the price of admission
I saw your films in succession
at the first run houses down
in the big deal part of town
and enshrined each one on a list
taped to my bedside wall
and read about the ones I’d missed.
Shucks, I loved you most of all!
Fort Apache and Red River
took pride of place on the page;
they’d eaten up my weekly wage.
I missed the Yellow Ribbon;
I hoped I’d be forgiven.
At the Rio and the Broad
(in a dicey neighborhood)
I atoned with films you’d done
before I was even born.
Western after Western
and tales of oil and whiskey
and scheming ladies, O so risky!
I hoped I’d be excused
when I compromised my muse
by adding well-built gals
to Duke and all his pals.
Montez, Russell, and Lake
made my hormones quake.
O I loved you, John Wayne.
I could feel your bashful pain
When the pretty lady roped you
and hat in hand you’d bow,
the furrow deepening on your brow,
and utter monosyllables plus “Ma’am,”
no longer a ram, more like a lamb.
O I shared you pain, John Wayne!
And still I loved you John Wayne,
your true grit and donnybrook,
your menacing brow, the look
that said, “Enough, my friend.
“This bull is going to end!”
You swaggered? (not quite it--
as if your boots didn’t quite fit?)
You took him by the horns and shook;
Plomp! Down went the snook!
How I loved you, John Wayne!
And I love you still when again I see
the doughty Duke on my smart TV
as much as Papa’s lone old man,
with fish chewed down to the bone
loved Joltin’ Joe Dimaggio
when the Clipper’s legs began to go
and he was hobbled by his heel.
John Wayne, you were the real deal.
I was somewhere deep in Kansas,
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox,
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place,
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around,
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station,
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand now long gone
And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “nothing—out of gas,
“But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash
“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
“It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route #50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along,
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I Sent This To Gregg Last March,
It's on His Website. We Spent Two
Days Together In Richmond Va. In A Blizzard In 1982