Long Midwest Poems
Long Midwest Poems. Below are the most popular long Midwest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Midwest poems by poem length and keyword.
THE GANGSTER DISCIPLE TREATY FREE LARRY HOOVER MOVEMENT BEGAN TO SOUND OFF THROUGHOUT THE PRISON SYSTEMS IN THE MIDWEST INCLUDING THE WOMANS PRISON IN WISCONSIN HOUSING REPEAT SEVERE VIOLENT OFFENDERS AS DEATHROW INMATES PREPARIING FOR PARDONS EARLY RELEASES OR COMMUTED SENTENCES AS TRUMP COMMUTED FOUNDER LARRY HOOVER FEDERAL MULTIPLE LIFE PRISON COMMUTED TO 200 YEARS FOR THE MURDERS THIS SENT THE PRISON SYSTEM INTO A FRENZY FOR CORRUPTION GANG RELATED LAW ENFORCEMENT PROVIDING RIOT GEAR TO GANG LEADERS IN ORDER TO STAND OFF WITH FBI AGENTS KILLING INFORMANTS I AM REMINDED OF MY WEARING WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI JUNK SICK COPS WORKING SECURITY FOR GANGS IMAGINE HOW TERRORISTS MIMIC AMERICAN GANGS A SYSTEM THAT TEACHES FORIEGNERS HOW TO HARM AMERICANS THROUGH ORGANIZED CRIME CORRUPTION I WILL NEVER FEAR 1 HOOVER LANE WEARING A BADGE WORKING FOR GANG LEADERS INCLUDING SEVERE REPEAT VIOLENT OFFENDERS UCAN2 CORRUPTION AT ITS FINEST ACTUALLY REPRESENTING THE GANGSTER DISCIPLES OPENING A PASSAGEWAY FOR TERRORISTS RATHER WW1 WW11 WW111 ORGANIZED CORRUPTION CONTROLLING TERROISM ON AMERICAN SOIL GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF ABUSE OF POWER
I am not made for these modern times
Missouri mud runs through my veins
unspoiled country air flows through my lungs.
my roots are intertwined in the bedrock
of culture, traditions and folklore
of a pioneer Midwest
My heart beats with the rhythm
of wind through oak trees
the sway of golden wheat
steady fall of summer rain
on metal porch roofs
My voice is the sound
of pickup trucks on gravel roads
tractors plowing through gumbo
hoot of owls from leaning red barns.
yip of foxes or the howl of coyotes from
across green pastures under full moon’s glow
trumpeting of roosters greeting the day
song of blue jays, cardinals,
red wing blackbirds
caw of crows pecking through early snow
on harvested corn fields
beat of horse hooves
lazy bawling of cows
My nostrils are filled
with the smell of
wildflower meadows,
fresh baled hay
alfalfa, soybeans,
and apple blossoms
I am lightning bugs on summer’s eve
coon hounds asleep on sunlit porches
family picnics on red checkered tablecloths
horseshoes, freeze tag and kick the can
I am unlocked doors and open windows
rocking chairs and back porch swings
I am outdated
The flower children were in full swing, selling love, less woe.
I was not old enough for Woodstock, but wanted to go.
Hip hugger bell bottoms with navels peeking were the rage.
Boys were sent to Viet Nam, with high hopes, a surprising page.
We thought they would be back in seconds, not understanding at all.
We were innocent, sheltered, naïve, young, following no real call.
In the sixties clothing was groovy, we were allowed stripes and flowers.
Dots and stripes too, were the norm, which was just one of our powers.
White go-go boots, thanks to Nancy Sinatra’s Boots Made for Walking.
So many school lunches, where everyone was doing the talking.
Our hair was poofed up like a poodle, in the top we put a little red bow.
It might have been blue or pink, but it had to be put there just so.
We had transistor radios, and push button phones, attached to the wall.
We thought we were high tech, which now seems quite weird after all.
Dr. Martin Luther King was making his Dream speech and JFK got shot.
Not worried at all; my life was easy, in the Midwest, a tiny polka dot.
The Beatles had the first five spots in the favorite hits of the week.
I was playing “I want to hold your hand”, it was Paul that I’d seek.
Women were wearing hats and gloves, which seems silly now.
But Jackie Kennedy was setting the style, which was usually a wow.
USSR’s Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman in space.
Ku Klux Klan bombed a Baptist church, a horrible disgrace.
Zipcodes, lava lamps, and pull tabs were new at this time.
Civil rights an issue? I was more aware of a Ford Mustang in lime.
A Monotetra
I just got this weatherman job
I'm to click this thing-a-ma-bob
Nerves are making my head throb
I'm gonna sob I'm gonna sob
Camera ready, fix my tie
Oh my gosh, I just wanna die
Cause if I mess up, it's goodbye
Don't wanna cry Don't wanna cry
Cloudy skies on the Midwest plain
This morning there's a chance of rain
Swollen rivers will feel the strain
Flooding again Flooding again
If you live in the Southern states
Here's a forecast everyone hates...
Hurricane in the Key West Straits
Take cover mates Take cover mates
In the north, more snow's on the way
No sunshine for you guys today
Let your kids go outside to play
Hail in Green Bay Hail in Green Bay
The heat took a toll in the West
The studio lights have me stressed
I'm new at this job. Have you guessed?
No one's impressed No one's impressed
Hail's falling in many Maine towns
Ending soon. No need for those frowns
Well folks, guess I'll see ya around
I'm going down I'm going down
April 3, 2022
You're a Weather Forecaster
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
Everyone told him to come out
His LTBGQ friends anyway
All six of them
For that is how many lived in his small town
in the Midwest
in the heart of Nebraska
The pressure was great,
and part of him yearned
To say something to his parents
To test the water,
To see if they would still love him
It was a quandary
But his heart kept saying no
His friends did not let up.
They hounded him for years.
Everything in his heart said no.
He did not feel ready
Until he was seventeen.
When he finally did
Thinking it would be a relief.
They loved him after all.
He spent the rest of the year
Sleeping on friends couches
Waiting for high school to end
So he could leave town
Never returning
Hawkish angels with golden bows
chase away shawnee and wolves.
A sinewy faith built the rough and ready.
We were pleased to claim this land
for Jesus.
Despite the tornadoes,
we continued to raise
Midwest cities
from a leather flogged bible.
We were conceived in closets
where ancestral bones watched.
Buried in leased plots;
stones marked our lack of,
or notable faith in affluence.
Just past Easter, cracks appeared
in a pink painted sky.
An ethereal plaster crumbled.
angelic limbs hung,
caught in a cracked tableau.
Plastic arrows littered marbled floors.
A mall dream, but the dream had legs
unseen, they kept running
on the spot.
Log cabins transported themselves
to Theme Parks.
The Tuesday after Easter
hope clogged casinos,
took root.
God began to fill
storage units
with all His kids
persnickety dreams.
We accept tornadoes here,
expect them, tick them off
as they pass by like demon dreidels.
Usually they are not a big deal
unless they are.
Spring culls its little lambs
in all sorts of ways.
The murder rate in Chicago
climbs ever higher
until the city prays for more snow.
Folks in their privileged trailer parks
get rolled like dice.
A pressing need for body bags
creates work for some.
The addicted and dying oblige
as best they can.
It’s all a small town hush
unless a celebrity overdoses
then distraught, the news is spread
from parlor to parlor.
Shooting-up on the streets
is a recreational choice for those
who camp-out in Cleveland and Dayton.
Meanwhile birds keep singing,
Spring flowers struggle to bloom
squeezed as they are
between such climatic collisions.
We hear the roar and rumble
of funnels turning upon themselves
as they twist the nights away.
We paddle through small talk,
I like her, she has style.
I imagine we have a history together
back in an old movie that I have yet to see.
I begin to construct a lost and anecdotal life.
In another place we’re a vaudeville act
wisecracking between meal tickets.
Our home, a trunk covered in Midwest decals.
We share the occasional Spam sandwich,
theater gossip and sleaze; we cuddle
as we trundle along
long defunct rail tracks.
We date in elevators,
make out in a battered Oldsmobile.
In Bangkok, we share a ride in a Tuk-Tuk
careening down narrow streets.
On any sidewalk, we meet regularly
as reflections in windowpanes.
Today you’ve gone to Guatemala
to fight for a right.
Marimba music plays
as you climb up my spine.
Time now to rent more space
outside these traveling dreams.
He was a good old mountain boy from the state of Kentuck.
His Pappy taught him some fiddlin' and a banjo how to pluck.
He was mighty good on the mandolin and the guitar too.
Sippin' a jar of 'shine, my oh my, how his fingers flew!
He'd sit on the cabin porch by the hour a-strummin' away,
Shirkin' his chores, much to his poor old Pa's dismay.
But his Ma saw innate talent in that boy of her'n,
And she cheered him on for the career that he did yearn!
He'd fiddle a rousin' "Orange Blossom Special," bow a-smokin';
On the mandolin a Strauss waltz, his fingers gently strokin'.
He'd learned to play a harmonica as it rested on his chest.
His fame was whispered about throughout the great Midwest!
He formed a little band and played at all the county fairs,
Union halls, the VFW and other such local affairs.
They had a piano, drum, strings and bull-fiddle bass.
Saturdays their gig was at a honky-tonk called Lenora's Place.
His fate was sealed when a talent scout happened by.
"Son", he said, "You can kiss this smalltown stuff goodbye.
Come to Nashville with me and I'll make you all the rage!"
He became a sideman for stars on the Grand Ole Opry stage!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
I CONTACTED SPECIAL AGENT PAULA BRAND 2003 ANDREW JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY BREAKING INTO MY HOME SEARCHING FOR IDENTITIES IN MY FAMILIES OBITUARIES ARRIVING WITH GUNMAN ANDREW HENRY TO END MY LIFE IN TAMPA HE WAS MURDERED AT MY FEET ANDREW WAS HIRED BY CIRO GARGANO JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY SPECIAL AGENT PAULA BRAND TO MURDER ME IN ORDER TO IMPERSONATE MY IDENTITY IN ORDER TO OBSTRUCT JUSTICE IN ARSON MURDERS OF 9 PERSONS 23 YEARS LATER SPECIAL AGENT PAUL BRAND ARRIVE WITH MY STALKER MY IMPOSTER BREAKING IN OUR HOME SEARCHING FOR DOCUMENTS TO FALSIFY PHOTOS SHOT RECORDS PASSPORTS BIRTH CERTIFICATES MARRIAGE SEATED WITH MY JAN 6TH NEIGHBORS HIDING IN CAMPERS HACKING INTO OUR WIFI EVEN OUR RUNG CAMERAS OBSTRUCTING JUSTICE ECPOSING FBI INFORMANTS ON THE STREETS IN CHICAGO BEHIND BARS ACROSS THE MIDWEST ALL RESULTS OF SPECIAL AGENT PAULA BRAND BREACH IMPERSONATING FBI INFORMANT WITH JAMAICAN DEALERS FAMILY MEMBERS IN TAMPA REEKING HAVOC COVERING ARSON MURDERS OF 9 PERSONS UNDER WIRES INSTALLED ON MY UNBORN CHILD THIS RESULTED IN HUNDREDS OF FALSE CONVICTIONS UNDER SPECIAL AGENT PAULA BRAND TARGETING AFRICAN AMERICAN OFFICERS AND JUNK SICK IRISH OFFICERS SELLING DRUGS FOR GARGANO CRIMINAL GROUP DATA BREACHES CYBER ATTACKS ON OUR HOME COMPUTERS THIS ALLOWED JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY TO IMPERSONATE MY IDENTITY THROUGH SPECIAL AGENT PAULA BRAND TERRORISTS THREATS AS CIRO GARGANO IMPERSONATE MY POW VETERAN HUSBAND EXPOSING MY IDENTITY AS AN FBI INFORMANT IN JAMAICA ACROSS THE MIDWEST THIS SHATTERED ALL THE COVICTIONS THAT OCCURED INDER MY WEARING WIRES PREGNANT BUYING WEAPONS AND DRUGS FROM CORRUPT OFFICERS RESULTING FROM ARSON MURDER OF 9 THE ENTIRE FEDERAL BUILDING LASALLE AND VAN BUREAN HOUSED PRISONERS CIRO GARGANO FALSIFIED INFORMANT FOR SPECIAL AGENT ALAN KING AND SPECIAL AGENT PAULA BRAND TO FALSIFY RESULTING IN A SEVRE BREACH FROM 1984 ONGOING ON THE STREETS AND BEHIND BARS HINDREDS OF CONVICTED FELONS INCARCERATED FALSLY BY CORRUPT AGENTS HELPING TO EXPOSE INFORMANTS TO DEATH ROW IN ORDER TO COVER UP CIRO GARGANO ARSON MURDERS OF 9 PERSONS SEVERE THREATS ON MY LIFE WHILE MY IDENTITY WAS IMPERSONATED BY A JAMAICAN IMPOSTER JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY CLEARLY RESULTING INTO DRIVE BY SHOOTINGS