Long Hobos Poems
Long Hobos Poems. Below are the most popular long Hobos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hobos poems by poem length and keyword.
A former slender man (lapsed Unitarian anorexic)...
deplores adipose tissue gain
No Holiday music can soothe savage beast
washboard abdomen weight watcher's dream fleeced
skinny bag of lovely bones permanently leased
body snatcher somewhere amidst policed
madding crowd of carolers singing,
where mine sinking spirits ceased
rising today December 18th, 2020
analogous how unleavened bread
(i.e. matzo) lacks yeast.
I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy (Etsy) as add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy, plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap pissed lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller wannabe at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching consumer cellular
skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
It does my heart good thinking of childhood memories
When the only thing that was important were families.
Friends made at a young age have now become old friends.
But the family bonds that were made will never end.
With five brothers, a sister and very colorful parents
We had the ability to stand proud despite our appearance.
We lived south of town, many referred to as the boondocks
Our clothes came from catalogs and never store bought.
Father played guitar and harmonica, quite the music man
Every weekend at our home was gathered a different band.
My love for music came honestly from my dearest Dad
I would fill in playing instruments when no one else was to be had.
Mother had a heart of gold and people all around knew
If you walked in she'd ask, "Would you like a drink or some stew?"
Hobos from the train tracks would wonder to our doorstep
Knowing they'd be fed with hopes my father wouldn't catch.
Exciting were my summers spent with my Grandmother
She chose to take only me and never the others.
Her Irish ways and stern body of healthy stature
Made her a hard soul to understand but I so loved her.
Most of the friends of my parents had many children also
It was a pleasure to see them as they come and go.
My siblings were the only companions with which to play
So when company came over always one child would stay.
The Ohio River had many wondrous things to offer as a child
We would swim, fish or skip stones and then stop for awhile.
All gathered to drink Kool-Aid and eat sandwiches Mom made
Then back to the water and later begging to see who stayed.
Christmas holiday was especially joyous at our home
My parents would scurry to hide toys so not one was shown.
The many toys left by Santa underneath a fresh cut tree
All these warm memories of family are very special to me.
Note: For "Heart's Warmth" contest
In our neighborhood during the second world war
At the side of each house were a porch and a door.
And, believe it or not, it was always unlocked
When a tradesman or stranger or visitor knocked.
Around dawn men arrived who at doorsteps would lay
All the baked goods and milk patrons needed that day.
And the women would once a week purchased their meat
From the truck of a butcher who stopped on our street.
Before fridges, remembered by we who are old
Was the ice box in kitchens that kept the food cold.
Using tongs, blocks of ice were delivered by men
Who before they had melted would come back again.
Also, door-to-door salesmen would try to persuade
All the wives that their products were best ever made.
And our neighbor would daily come by for a spell
To a recipe share or with gossip to tell.
In the middle of autumn, the coal truck returned
To replenish the piles that the furnace had burned.
Down long chutes made of metal would tumble and roar
Tons of coal that filled bins on our bare cellar floor.
Roving hobos quite often would rap on the door.
Without jobs or a home, they for food would implore.
The depression still lingered, so mothers would feel
Sympathetic and always provided a meal.
And to parents'displeasure, the screen doors would bang
As kids hurried from houses to be with the gang.
We would gather on lots that were vacant to play
Or would wander the countryside nearly all day.
When it rained, on a porch that was covered we'd meet
To with checkers or Clue or Parcheesi compete.
We swapped marbles, pitched pennies, played poker for fun,
And our comic books read till return of the sun.
At the back door we'd weekly the paper boy pay,
And the mail was delivered then two times a day.
If it weren't for the doctor who'd come when we call,
We would never had needed a front door at all.
As expected, Mr. Eartle will die on time or sooner
We understand India has over 1.3 billion people
None of them are followers of Eartle or his turtle wax
But unlike the soon to be deceased man from America
The certificates in turtle wax will grow on in perpetuity
He will leave behind a fortune in computers made in India
That will also continue to rise in interest and of interest to
The aforementioned over populated place already mentioned
Where people and profits speak a language more in tune with you
And if that is not enough to warm the cockles of your heart
Eartle owns really real estate not fake
Three mansions on a lake if not mistaken
All in the United States of America
Not to be confused with India at all
His properties continue to be of interest to a band of hobos
Family members who are hardly members of the human race
More like viruses which came into existence as mistakes
As precursors to life formed from the beginning of creation
To latch on to you or other living organisms to exist at all
Mr. Eartle must die today so he can vote in 27 states
So what if his properties will be occupied by viruses
People from Texas who know what's best for them
Who smile so it must be time to go
He will die today to save more space
Is it wrong to be invisible?
There is nothing nice about being alive
Showing ID can be a hassle
You can cast more votes when dead
Because no one sees you in the booth
Let an angel pull a lever in your name
Even if it is Eartle not from India
Good citizens never go away
Constitutions change but not constituents
They vote in many places when they are dead
No one ever really dies these days
Everything is computerized
And it is illegal to discriminate against an alien
Such as spirits or a ghost
Entities who have every right to vote
I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy,plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap pissed lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching cellular skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
Last Train Runnin’
For Bob Dylan
The nickel-plated moon howled outside my window like a bullet missing from its sleeve
A lyric tore through the autumn wind on a smokestack through the trees
Like a ghost that whispers metaphors and won’t tell you what they mean
It fades into a whisper while you’re stuck with what you’ve seen
It was a song about a storyteller with a verse about the past
Hung long inside my restless mind and hid in shadows cast
The metal grinding six-string guitar like wheels on the tracks
A songster told of flights and journeys playin’ down the facts
I rose so slow from my humid sleep sat stone still on the bed
I just let that smokestack lightning ring inside my head
That blues harp whistle horizon deep, rumbled, then it rolled
Like that midnight hour at crossroads’ edge Robert Johnson lost his soul
I heard union men and the coal-black din of ******* on the road
Capos working a child to death, and never payin’ what they owed
I heard a folksinger storyteller whisper dreams inside his sleep
Hand out lighting from a whisky bottle with lyrics meant to keep
Its melody was awful sweet as that train rode through the dark
And the music from that locomotive left these visions on my heart
I saw lonesome hobos warm their hands saw travelin’ roads-men too
Saw Mississippi John leaving home before his song was through
Now that singing storyteller made me rise and through my window peer
I loved the sound that whistle made, the music I could hear
I looked through the high lonesome sound that made that whistle cry
I saw a train on the edge of midnight, I saw Woody Guthrie wave goodbye
I'm where the rubber meets the road...that road to ruination
Where the metal meets the meat...in masses come the maggots
Where the train it meets the tracks headed down to Tarturas
Many hobos head for Hell and a billion bums all bring their baggage
I'm where blood now meets the bricks and there is terror from many thrones
I'm where the castles start to crumble and the center does not hold
As Hell's hour slowly comes around...I'm the tyranny of twisted souls
I'm the sunshine that turns to storms...without a word without a warning
I'm the wound that kills the warrior...bad believers now are burning
Legions of lunatics turn into livewires...lies of life they now are learning
When chaos conquers all your cities I utilize that urban ugliness
Once civilized and civil now my barbaric beasts are blooming
I'm where captors now are captives
By way of revenge and riots I'm reversing many roles
As Hell's hour starts to come around...I'm the tyranny of twisted souls
I watch many church creeps clutching crucifixes...to me such comedy
Where perversion was their greatest power...now they are on their knees
I'm where angry ones with much ammunition ice innocent ones from tall towers
I'm where the bullet meets the brain
Where the toe it meets the tag
Dragons love to drag it on...where the body meets the bag
Your society is now a Skelton choking on it's skin and broken bones
Shadow soldier now in the spotlight...stopping time till my second is gone
Hell's comes around at last...I'm the tyranny of twisted souls
MAXWELL STREET BLUES BEGAN PLAYING ACROSS THE SOUTH WATER MARKET FUNNY GROWING UP IN THE VILLAGE WE ACTUALLY MOVED INTO THE BUILDING 1968 CHRISTMAS FROM THE WEST SIDE THERE WE WERE LOOKING FROM THE TEN FLOOR WINDOW I WATCHED THE CITY OF CHICAGO BEING BUILT MY COUSINS AND I COLLECTED WHITE ROCKS ON THE RAILROAD TRACKS ACROSS ROOSEVELT ROAD LEADING TO STATE STREET CARRYING MASON JARS FOR INSECTS CATERPILLARS AND GRASSHOPPERS MY MOM FORBID ME TO PLAY WITH BUGS BUT IT WAS OUR THING GROWNING UP IN THE VILLAGE WE FOLLOWED MY UNCLES ICE CREAM TRUCK DOWN 18TH STREET TO TAYLOR STREET LITTLE ITALY FOR ITALIAN ICES AND CHICAGO HOTDOGS THEN JEW TOWN SHOPPING AND LISTENING TO THE BLUES MAXWELL STREET WAS THE BEST MY AUNT WOULD PRESS MY HAIR WHILE BOBBY RUSH BOBBY BLUE BLAND AND BB KING PLAYED SOMETHING ABOUT MAXWELL STREET THAT MADE MY SOUL SING SOMETIMES I DIDN'T LIKE HEARING THE BLUES ON MAXWELL STREET HEARING THE BLUES DOES SOMETHING TO YOUR PSYCHY IT BRINGS DEPRESSION UP CLOSE AND VETY PERSONAL SINGING BLUES MEANS JUST THAT RATHER POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION HAVING A BABY COMING DIWN WITH BABY BLUES OR LIKE LOSING A CHILD WHEN MY BROTHER WAS KILLED IN THE VILLAGE MY MOM SANG THE BLUES WE WEREN'T ALONE MAXWELL STREET WAS FILLED WITH A LOT OF TEARS MAKE NO MISTAKE AFTER LOVE THERES TEARS MAXWELL STREET WAS FILLED WITH MANY TEARS MANY HOLD UPS ROBBERIES MURDERS KIDNAPPING HOBOS THE SILENCE ALWAYS CAME OVER THE CITY OF CHICAGO WHEN THE BLUES STOP PLAYING ON MAXWELL STREET
YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
MAXWELL STREET POET
JEWTOWN
It was a long lonely night at the lumber mill
Just listening to a whippoorwill
In the dark beside a logging road.
I’ve got fifteen cars of timber on my load.
The yard stinks of bleeding sap and cut pine.
Roll on, roll on down the line.
I’ll be on my way before the dawn
Through the bottoms and the swamps.
Before first sun light on the timber lot,
Backwater sloughs and cypress knots.
On rusted rails I’ll be making time
When the horizon winks a thin gold line.
I’ll be rumbling down this long steel track,
Somewhere between porch light and pitch black
While coyotes call out for the night.
My engines will be roaring around the bend
As the night bird’s song comes to an end.
Roll on, morning train, roll on.
Then day break will lay on morning dew,
As the logging town fades out of view.
I’ll give my whistle a blow, blow
To make the farmer’s rooster crow.
By the time the sun has warmed me,
Old men will be drinking their coffee
As I roll through the station.
I ask you leave an open car
For misty eyed hobos and runaways.
Let them know the clotheslines, highways,
And countless telephone poles.
Sunshine and shadows clicking time
Beside the graveyards, grain silos,
And other lonely places.
They’ll be greeted by multitudes of sparrows,
Smiling house wives in their bathrobes,
Unwashed cars and graffiti
Behind the back yards of society.
They’ll find comfort in the rhythm of the day
Beside the dusty dirt roads and alleyways.
Roll on, big freight train, roll on.
a bad mans dreams are a good mans fears...on a nightmare tale on a train of tears...
buy the ticket and take the ride through backwoods terror where bad birds fly
some murdered some mangled some on that slow motion suicide...
on that train of tears they all just cry
a boxcar opens and you gladly jump inside...surrounded by ghosts of the past
and ghouls of pride
they never die..like wicked weeds growing their madness just multiplies
they hide in the shadows of sadistic crime scenes
destination to damnation...they scrub their skin raw but those scars,stains,and spirits they never get clean
maniacle and mean they curse their misspent lives...they blame God,the world,the devil for the hate that burns inside...
on a train of tears the only question now is why?
hobos and hellions they wake from their slumber...
the temperature's rising as the train goes under
the dreams of the damned are disturbed and diseased
now the whistle it blows and the conductor he screams:WAKE UP FROM YOUR SLEEP
WAKE UP FROM YOUR SPELL CAUSE THIS TRAINRIDE OF TEARS IS HEADING FOR HELL!!!
you hear a million bells that transform into screams
your heart just stops as demons sing
can't wake up from this dream that has no escape
down on your knees, you pray it's not too late
the riders they laugh cause the song is the same...
this train of tears can't put out the flames
anthony_beesley@yahoo.com