Long Hobo Poems
Long Hobo Poems. Below are the most popular long Hobo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hobo poems by poem length and keyword.
What’s wrong with me? I’ve been asking myself this all week.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I weigh questions coldly and logically. Then it hit to me.. it’s summer, silly and I'm in classes!
A typical summer would find me tanned, sunburned, greased and unkempt, like a happy, sandy, beach hobo, my hair would be either braided or left fly-about to tangle into cotton candy wads.
My bf Peter’s learned to like fine restaurants (You’re welcome). I’d have never left the beach on my own.
“They can bring us anything,” I’d argue, looking up pitiably from my shaded, Tropitone lounge chair.
Around sundown, Peter would have to catch me, slippery oiled and brown, to comb me out and scrub me before dinner.
“Get dressed!” he’d encourage, picking out a dress suitable for dining or casino wear - “I made us a reservation.”
I’d come out of the en-suite in my fluffy, Versace, terry towel but invariably, before I was even dry, Peter would shake his head, growl and say, “Com-mere,” holding his arms out a little, palms up (he’s never been very verbose), and smirking a little, I would, because his expression reminded me of Christmas.
“What about our reservation?” I’d chuckle.
This was, of course, a volunteer situation, where it was up to us all to do our best.
.
.
Songs for thus:
Girls On the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Wouldn't It Be Nice by Papa Doo Run Run
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart
A short little guy,
walks by,
"please don't mind me,"
he wobbles.
His shadowed face it asks,
"is it five o'clock already?"
He hasn't had a meal,
his belly rumbles.
He sits outside the local market,
waving at each passing patron,
how busy they are,
ignoring his kind gestures.
His kindness is mistook,
with leers of suspicions,
just a little man,
in a big world, so pressured.
A lost soul,
who once had it all,
homeless,
people set his measure.
A hobo,
he's defined,
by his,
unfortunate life.
Is he,
only thoughts to you,
as bread is,
to taste the knife?
Do you believe,
that all is well,
in his world,
because he has survived?
A kind gesture,
would mean so much,
he's begging for,
acceptance from passersby.
Condemned and broken,
like the cracked bricks,
where he seeks,
warmth for the night.
Just a little man,
holding onto,
a simple gesture,
to stay connected with life.
5 dimes rest on the cafe counter top
Left behind by a visitor who dined
Waitresses must honor pancake wishes
As they disappear into the kitchen
Swinging doors slam hard behind
The Greasy Spoon makes dishes fly
Coins are unattended at this moment
Priscilla is the locale hobo burglar girl
In need of soap & water and free coffee
At this time she requires dimes
5 would suffice to buy some time
She hides beneath a filthy scarf
Commits the deed with slippery fingers
A well practiced cough as a distraction
Absconds with fifty cents and then gets caught
Officer Flynn is the long arm of the law
Sees everything hidden in the dark
Priscilla learns a valuable lesson about free coffee
It taste much better after being arrested
Compliments of tax payers and the prison system
I would go as far as to say delicious!
Hop a train
steam far away
from the zig jagged insane.
Dream far, far away from the media blitz
the mass hysteria
that devilish jab
the mask hysteria
of pure delirium.
billions to be raked in
from
the jab
the kits
the masks
the disinfectants
one-way hospital stays.
Gates
wants to jab us to death
force us to eat his shriveled meat
In so many words, he wants to cull the herd.
Gates
is blotting out the sun
thinning our bones
slowly turning us to dust.
Hells Gates
has stage 4 God complex
but God never sported an STD.
Hop a train to a faraway place.
Stepping away from the insane.
Rubbing elbows with the homeless and hobo.
AT least they're real.
Gather and recalibrate a lost spirit.
Meditate, go deep underground.
Into the twin mirror of self and selfless.
Slide away from their plastic charms.
Sliding away from all of them.
Becoming like an earthworm.
You use sex to live as a means to pay
Attention not to mention evade escape
Any responsibility in bills mortgage or rent
Pretending to love like you are heaven sent
You’re good at what you do making lovers a fool
Only thing you own between your legs a tool
Like butter your words melt like moth to flame
You sleep earn your keep playing mind games
Often attractive at least in their ebony eyes
But what if wisdom strikes they denim decide
To face teal truth look within them within you
find what is worthy of being used blue truth
You say you watch the kids instead of work
Not to say homemaker’s job isn’t God’s work
But you’re not an asset rather a dependent
You’re healthy not wealthy without even tent
Too lazy to work you don’t even panhandle
The nerve to be a jerk feelings manhandled
You’re like a lime leech sucking money green
And resources you eat don’t provide anything
You must grow inside pull your own weight
Have you ever tried to be an adult any day
Mental health issues are no excuse to fake
If I see you others do too make honest way
Chronicler of History
History goes back as you might guess
Through vast tracks of time out there to be cataloged and measured
And a couple minutes more, before the universe was born
It discovered Hobo Jack at home within one millisecond
Put him to work to make a list of dark matter, plants and planets
(Planets are the smaller ones)
And all solid things that mattered and had form
Hobo Jack was given birth and raised on Earth
His first love was lamps and gold
Accounting became a knack in natural fashion
With a history of his own
And as a matter of fact he was good at keeping books
Lists of animals he encountered were quickly jotted down
From dinosaurs to platypus
Geiger counters became a fad
So ancient coins, doubloons
Spanish treasures made his day
Hobo Jack and his long white beard
Led their way through history
Among archival masters Jack was the best
He chronicled everything in life then passed away
I worked thirteen hours overtime today
I had no currency to go and play
I made good time to spend on stuff
And lord, I just can't make enough
I bought myself a new pair of shoes
And a CD- of "The House of Blues"
I spend my time on many things
At Christmas, I spend it on what Santa brings
I put some time in my piggy bank
And I gave some time to the hobo Hank
I bought myself a picture locket
Can't keep good time inside my pocket
Ca-Ching, Ca-Ching... I've spent my time
It's currency to work more overtime
There's not enough currency left in the day
For me to go outside and play
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
Occasionally, I find myself back in the old neighborhood.
It looks slanted and aseptic, like an abortion clinic.
All the old trees have been gleaned from the streets.
No hedges separating the houses.
There are no weeds on the lawns.
Not a child running about.
There are no weeds on the lawns.
They look soft and pastel perfect...
Weed killer wasn't in full swing when I was a kid.
I see my old childhood home.
It looks better than what I remember.
More refined but trimmed of any character.
A stranger is hosing down my old driveway
I want to punch him for trespassing.
I move down a couple of streets to the playground
Where we used to make boondoggle and crafts
Years later it was midnight love in the rough grass.
A short distance away, trains used to careen down the tracks
My brother hopped on one and ran away once.
He vanished for about three days.
came back in a $hit load of trouble, looking filthy but quite refreshed.
He never talked about it much
, but I knew freedom had been good to him.
He was grounded for a week for his hobo run.
A couple of years later he would leave childhood for good.
On his own ironclad terms.
I came home from school one afternoon.
My father slowly walked over toward me.
With a look I'd never seen before.
He told me that my puppy slipped under the fence.
And sniffed its way onto those same train tracks.
That had taken my brother to freedom land.
For a couple of years after, I'd fire rocks at the train
I felt both powerful and pitifully incompetent.
Like the limestone rocks that bounced off the metal cars
with a yellowish puff.
When the caboose was in sight, I'd retreat into the brush.
Anyway, this will be my last visit to the old neighborhood.
Everything once so familiar and comforting is gone.
There are no more funerals to go to or old friends to see
, no oak trees or weeds.
The boondoggle and pink bubble of security burst a long time ago.
There's nothing left here for me anymore.
I leave like a puff of limestone rock against a soulless chain of metal.
In the country that I live in,
I question myself is it better with the death or the living?
For a couple of days we were amazed,
How our country was destroyed left in turmoil.
People was in despair, looters were everywhere.
They used politics as an excuse, human rights were abuse.
My beautiful country was crying, she was busy dying.
Because of greed and power, all they do was devour.
When and how it will end?
So many broken pieces to mend.
Then Ubuntu gives us our spirits back,
From our mansions, houses and shacks.
We come together as one, shouting we will overcome.
From CEO to Hobo,
We cleaned up our streets, in devastated malls we all meet.
Praising God for all His glory, one day we will tell our story.
People reached out from everywhere,
North, South, East and West, fixing our country was our conquest.
There was no distinction between rich and poor, black and white,
This was our battle we had to fight.
We refused that hatred and fear will destroyed our rainbow nation,
And leave our country in devastation.
We step out the darkness, into the light.
Once again, our hearts, hopes and dreams are shining bright.