Long Rattlers Poems
Long Rattlers Poems. Below are the most popular long Rattlers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rattlers poems by poem length and keyword.
winds chill the bones and rattle the teeth of the those who dare stand in the cold,
when there's a shield blocking the chills, the cold seeps in; drowning me in a unbearable
quilt of
frigid cold. i can't escape. i try and i can't, i look for the one i see in my dreams when
i sleep,and the one who appears in front of my eyes when i'm awake.
his touch is warm and thrilling, his voice is like satin against the bare skin of a
child. his hair is twisted silk, blond; shades of wheat that glimmer the sun's rays when
the sun itself rains down upon him. it's him that appears to me when i sleep and again
when i wake, the feeling of being watched is haunting; i feel as i'm trapped most days,
with only my dreamer to talk to. only sometimes, i say.
some say that one who talks to themselves is mildly crazy or just insane; that they should be locked
up someplace where dreams are choking nightmares and warmth is sucked dry into chilling
winds. turning bones into icicles and teeth into rattlers. that's what i see in the eyes
and many faces of the people that pass me by, and see that i'm speaking to no one that
they see, but, maybe, some one that i see.
and someone i see is tall, strong, and exotic. hair; different shades of wheat, eyes;
shocking and sad, and his voice, satin --soothing, soft like silk against skin. caressing
it. this is who i see, it's who i speak to when i'm alone, and to whom i sing to. he is
light and nothing bad can happen in his presence. he makes anyone feel special and
intoxicates them with his luscious and enthralling scent.
Mm .....pine and lilac; rose and freesia, lovely. it's a scent that should be bottled and
sold, but also, not. it's his scent, and his alone.
he seems like a dream, but at the same time, he seems real. maybe, he's an apparition of
a person in the past and came to me seeking help, seems to be. whatever he is; i can't
wait to see him again, tonight i will sleep. and i will see him reach out to me and hold
me in his arms. singing softly in my ear. then i will wake, and he will be in front of my
lids again. smiling a white toothed grin; both infectious and intoxicating; and reach for me.
to most, he's a day dream. a figure that shows me what i want, but, it's hard to think
logically about him. he's mine....my mate in a way. yes, my mate.
That be cold sun rose yonder, our heads be hot, I'd declare,
I'll get Whitey my critter, worked all night, best she nicker.
'Bout saddlin' her real tight, or I'll headlong out of sight,
I want movin' nice and fast, cause just--nice--ends up a mess.
Must keep thin's dry 'round Whitey ... traps, she'll stir if caught any,
though we burn the breeze git near, passed two hoops long's a holler,
the homestead bout five miles back should see the first trap I set.
Nope, trap's clean and good to go, next, ain't whistle earshot. Whoa!
Need to slow time -- like disarm, well, no sense singin' to 'em,
come on girl, traps a waitin', ain't no worth to Dallas spin!
Good girl, now just o'er that rise--Whoa! Rattler!--Where, is mascque-eyes?
I'm unshucked and up a tree! Hair in the butter, for me.
French leave, or hang fire--no wait--either fish or cut the bait?
Oh there! 'Neath the brush ahead. Steady girl--a rattler's head!
(BANG/Whinning neighs)
Where's my Arkansas toothpick? Then be trapped, you won't get nicked.
(Talking to the rattler)
Well, done checking all the traps, I knew it'd fill up two packs.
(Resting a bit before anything else)
Be back--stay drink, water's clean--up, I'd never drink downstream.
"Howdy," well, whaddya know? That is one among the willows.
(Passing rider nods and head on...)
All hands and the cook--don't need ... California collar--tree.
(Wanted rider drifts out of sight)
I'll start a fire real quick, then the rattler on the spit.
That was quick and good eatin', look like that sun 'bout settin',
Methinks the night out in town, whaddya think, how does that sound?
Toss belly wash on the fire, where's my comb and the mirror,
cowboys don't bathe, they dust off, come on it's late, let's head off.
You be good, hear, and wait right here, this stallion needs his mare.
That there'd square dance a bit more, must be rattlers on that floor,
My left-handed wife, sidekick. Lookin' for a dog to kick!
There's no call for that ... You mean ... two packs, tied up on Whitey.
Fire 'em up, boys, R O S I E ' S . R O A S T E D . R A T T L E R ' S time!
I had a dream —
different ... dark ... obscure
Mine’s wasn’t like Martin Luther King,
it was different
So very dark to the core
In my dream I saw his dream
masquerading as a fantasy
There were separate, reality TV camps competing:
radical, bellicose talk of Black Lives Matter,
and virtual, cyber walk of alt-right hate chatter
There were bone chilling sounds of
nuclear voices ... uranium saber rattlers,
and automatic gunfire arterial blood splatters
And in my dream
there was an iron-copper, ruddy king’s ring
coveted by a smiling Joker, batty as a Mad Hatter,
with an itchy trigger finger
And this nightmare of a dream snoring-ly lingered
My sleeping eyes saw a lot of marching in the night,
clashes of angry protest signs and torches burning bright
Different colored children wasn’t walking hand in hand,
hugging and kissing in harmonious unity
No, they were casting stones at each other,
hurling heavy curses and jagged profanity
In my dream, that dream that Martin Luther King seen
was a fake news rerun cancelled program broadcasting
And the interrupted voice of a moderator said:
a gunshot to the head killed Martin Luther King dead
Then there was a funeral for his dream,
with a sad procession of Obama supporters crying
I saw horror of horrors ...
dark clouds ominously began to evilly congregate,
and the fair trade winds wasn’t waving the flag
Fear merchants were selling whiskey bottles of hate,
and commemorative red, white and blue gag order rags
For some it was a festive atmosphere,
a grand occasion to sample a taste of times past
Blowing lead pellet trumpet sounds
of a shotgun baby shower blast,
Birth of a Nation music was merrily playing
Vaders celebrating the death of a starcrossed king’s dream,
opened my eyes to a rude Gentile awakening —
slumber promises begets delayed praying
I had a dream —
so different ...
That of a pauper, not of a king!
I’m from the great state of Texas, the biggest and the best.
No other place is like it, be either east, north, south, or west.
I went to California, to see the golden state.
I even seen that bridge out there, one called the golden gate.
I realized really quick, I wasn’t happy here.
So I turned my truck right around, and for Texas I did steer.
As I reached El Paso town I stopped and had a bean.
And admired the senoritas there, the prettiest I think I’ve ever seen.
I kept on heading east I guess, I drove for days and days.
Big D is just up ahead, the lights are all ablaze.
The Cowboys must be playing home tonight, I think I’ll check it out.
Victoriously they won their game, but was there any doubt.
I left that town, heading south to Corpus, the city by the sea.
I longed to see the sandy shores of Padre, a place so dear to me.
I guess I must be getting close, I smell the briny air.
Corpus is the place I love, with people kind and fair.
I stayed and got my rest, I stayed for two whole nights.
I decided San Antone I’d visit next, and just check out her sights.
I wanted to see the Alamo, but saw the dome instead.
What was I really thinking, twas rocks inside my head.
Laredo was next on the list, lowest point on the Texas map.
Upon this map I’m looking at I see a two inch gap.
If I left early enough in the morn, I should make it in a day.
Well here I am in this border town, reckon here is where I’ll stay.
It’s good to be back home again where the scorpions and rattlers play.
They’re just a common site for us we see them every day.
I once had me an old snake nearly eight foot long, I taught him how to fetch.
He must a been getting old cause he’d tire real quick of this game of catch.
One day I threw it out I guess a little too far.
He got ran over , poor old thing was killed by a car.
Out west, near Black Hills, over South Dakota way,
On land where layered rocks records eons before –
Some thieves rode the badlands that hot steamy day.
Rough riding rustlers raided a ranch; stole a boar.
Those thieves took, tackle, grain, food, and wine grapes.
Two rife and rifled cowboys planned to settle the score!
Rugged and fearless with sweat on hot napes,
They rode where the rattlers and bull snakes call home.
Both galloped fast and hard … must not let thieves escape.
But they stopped with their horses when they saw bison’s roam.
Felt stillness; saw vastness; amazed, each life reshapes.
The wilderness teaches with its silent, “Shalom.”
Paused, distantly viewing weird-wonderful shapes.
Great towers of fossils that give wildlife a home.
Two soul-searching cowboys ponder nature’s landscapes.
While prairie dogs and cottontails run for the loam,
The bobcats and vultures look down on the plains.
And turtles stay still in their portable home.
The Bighorns and badgers walk gullies in rains.
Meadowlarks sing songs while pretty pronghorns prance.
There, valleys hide critters in flowers and grains.
It’s a desolate land; so, it seems at first glance.
Plenty of majestic views extending for miles,
Masking deadly dangers that stalk the great expanse.
But back on the ranch families stock up woodpiles,
They tend to the gardens, feed chickens, and cows.
Their work is quite hard but they manage with smiles.
The villains still steal and the farmers push plows.
But two soul-searching cowboys made Heavenly vows.
Copyright October 12, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Cowboys in the Badlands -
Sponsor Isaiah Zerbst
She lives in the desert
with skin the color of sandstone
and the texture of an orange.
She’s a man’s man if you ever saw one.
Her carbine seems to have a mind of it’s own,
never knowing, when in the course of conversation
it swings from her side and fires.
Who knows where or at what- - -yet
if you investigate you will find a toad or scorpion,
or rather what is left after the damage
of a 44 bullet.
She lives alone….now.
A strange looking trophy resides in her bedroom.
Bleached white, the bones of a man, draped with gun and holster
seem at peace, among the stuffed rattler
and the panther.
How love visited a young eastern visitor
in such a god forsaken place,
will remain her one gift….
her one earthly secret.
They were at the fountain,
close by, in the foothills.
On a bed of burlap and willow branches
they enjoyed the shade and the
change of weather.
Exploring each other endlessly they
devoured each detail with explicit
honesty and fascination.
They stripped and cleaned a rattlesnake
preparing to roast it over the open fire.
The smell, the noise, their strange scent,
all befuddling the night beast,
slowly circling their fire.
The panther attacked!
Her lover, not armed
was easy prey for the hungry beast.
As the panther slowly took his life,
the young man struggled into the fire, with
arms and legs and teeth latched onto and into the
animal with a demon like death grip.
The two were consumed.
She never was the same after that.
No one mentions the bones.
No one remarks about rattlers or panthers.
No one ever mentions the fountain
and no one has ever seen another panther.
Mornings fade into evenings, evenings slip into nights.
Day colors spill from their pails, then seep into
valleys, wind caves and shale.
The Painted Desert bleeds into a Stygian hue
as the heat reaches up to embrace the moon
and soon, nocturnal eyes will glow starry bright.
She is a stern and hardened matron, giving homes to
venomous lodgers, leathered skins and prickly spikes,
nurturing the Eagleclaws and Buckhorn Cholla,
seldom shedding tears, yet seducing hikers with
her raw beauty and enticing guile, beckoning
well-worn travelers, luring them in with her temptress smile,
wagging a crooked finger while breathing sweet, hot breath.
Her brilliance inspires painters, giving passion to photographers,
scribes, and past homes with heirlooms to Navajo tribes.
Though the sky grows dark with oranges and pinks slipping away,
they are resurrected at dawn, when cactus wrens scold
rattlers coiled by rocks, commanding them to dens.
The Painted Lady is harsh, watching with lavender eyes,
scarlet lips, and a throat of dust- thirsting for a drink.
She wears skin of leather, powdered with a coat the color or rust.
But she does no intimidate me with her sharp nails, hot breath,
and painted face- for she once was my neighbor.
And though years pass by, her radiant beauty never pales.
My great grandfather, "Sani" is buried somewhere deep
in her bosom. I placed a stone and etched his name above
the place where he now sleeps in this land.
The epitaph is covered by a tawny shroud
blown in from the Niyol- so I brush away the
offending residues with one swift, sweep of my hand.
sweet pungent
fermented hay
dark and warm
slithers of light spit
through the cracks of the
warped weathered wood
old pie tin lies in the dirt
in its corner
where the mean old bull snake
drank milk with the cats
and kept the rats and rattlers
at bay
there's a buzzing and a hissing
on the other side of this rickety door
inside this old abandoned barn
I decided to explore
I'm about to shove through
but before I do
I look down to see
an Arizona black coiled up
its cold eyes
drawing a bead
whoa there little fella
didn't see you
used to be
I'd blow your head off
tan your hide
and roll you up to toss
in a cigar box
with the others
now--I don't know why
you seem like
such a harmless guy
you didn't strike
well then won't I
and I like the light
reflected off your shiny scales
and the way you glide
so smoothly and methodically
over rough wood
nothing anyway
through that door
just old leather
bridals and reins
broken down boots
and rusty tools
outside
light blinds
squinting to see
corroded red tank
shot full of holes
every idiot with a gun
can't resist
putting in another one
and the dusty chaparral
stretches up to the cool pines
as far as this trail goes
I follow
just a
not quite
snake bit
Arizona boomer
kick'n around
couple of days after
that bloody November
moon
(I set my alarm to)
yeah
whatever it means
sometimes its better
just to keep moving
with the sweet
sun on your shoulder
no rush
whatever I'm looking for
it's gonna find me
even the snakes
and the bloody moon
When I was skinned
I made a little list-
Call it (Something Here) :
It started out,
'I am getting older,
what should I do? '
Like go on the road,
Actually join the Legion or
Take vows for the ashram of Guru SatChitAnanda.
.
Buy acre of land and travel trailer
Raise garden, keep White Leghorns
(like Dad) ,
Foment Graduate School riots,
Teach,
Commit suicide with tea
Commit horoscopes for money
Or go home or
Sell health foods and
Grind my own peanut butter
Drive a Big Rig
Ten days on the road
Eating fries and dogs
Or
Take a job with the state
As employment counselor
Give out food stamps.
Walk across Africa
Without shoes,
Establish base lines for jumping beans
Test kangaroos for tie-downs
Photograph mangoes in flight
Or herd silver-plated ants,
Forest Ranger in Chromium Forest,
Study ancient petroglyphs for Shell
Herd sheep on mesas in Utah
Wander High Desert in search of
New alluvial fans,
Search for aliens in Rachel (NV)
Put all on a number in Vegas,
(List ends here):
Call the President,
I've got a job
In Trust, (some state here) ,
Job Duties:
Replacing Wisdom Teeth
Milking dry rattlers
Finding wild women
Listening for Agave worms,
Raising desert flowers
And sitting quietly with the stars,
'There you go...'
'Thanks! '
Let’s face it
living here is a lottery of death.
Most countries have their natural perils
but if danger were a horse race
The U.S.A would beat all commers by a head and a neck.
Those early colonists
should have interrogated the natives,
recorded the dire jeopardy of everywhere,
but they were bold and daring and died in their hundreds.
The fauna alone is enough to make you hide under a stone.
Black bears, Brown bears, Grizzly bears, Kodiak bears,
Polar bears……it’s unbearable.
Then there’s the wolves, mountain lions, puma’s, panthers,
enough to make you climb a tall tree and stay there.
Not to mention, but I will,
the alligators, crocodiles, and sharks,
or the rattlers and water moccasins,
also the big or small biting bugs,
sneaky killers all.
O and those interesting, varied, diverse and ever changing climates;
earthquakes, Alaskan tsunami’s, the tornados
and hurricanes, Ice, dust, and snow storms,
Volcano’s, scorching desert death valleys, raging forest Fires.
The many land and rock slides
so many unsettling ways to drown in flash and surging floods.
America I kind of like you, but each day
I roll the dice
just to see if snake eyes foretells of the usual
trouble ahead.
Now we have rampant crime and monkey pox,
there’s always something to harm us
on the way to the hospital.