Long Rigs Poems
Long Rigs Poems. Below are the most popular long Rigs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rigs poems by poem length and keyword.
The end of the year is drawing near
Home to our familes we will go
No more blinding white in surround
Saying cheerio to this Antarctic flow
It's late as we pass the seventh hour
The nineteenth of December now truly left behind
For after the holidays we'll return
Take our chances to see what there's to find
It's approximately twelve past eight
The drilling rigs on it's final bore
When we hear a shout from the derrick
It's more of panic, than we have ever heard before
The sensors have picked up our strike
It's metal we have struck so far down
In momentary pause we stand stunned
What can be buried so far underground
A silence captures this expanse
The sky turns a deep cobalt blue
A violent shaking, the ice breaking
What ever it is, it's massive that's breaking through
Thousands of years start to show face
Ancient ice from a long forgotten past
Detracts us from what we are witnessing
Looking up leaves us in total aghast
Something not of this world
Has erupted through earths glacial ice
Above us it starts to hover
Our eyes lured as if in awe suffice
We hear voices on our radios
Which leaves us in total astound
In various parts of the world
Giant spaceships rise from our grounds
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-18.php
Ah! For the good old days when you could fill the tank for a dollar.
If folks paid more'n a quarter a gallon, my, how they'd holler!
Nowadays, it necessitates a usurious loan from the bank,
Or a second mortgage on the house, just to fill the tank!
Politicians piously claim they can feel our pain at the pump.
Well, I don't know about that, but it sure makes me grump!
I can only shake my fist and vent my rage at Conoco and Shell,
Sinclair, Diamond, EXXON, Phillips and the entire oil cartel!
Oil companies make huge profits and give their CEOs a bonus,
But on the backs of us working stiffs is placed a taxing onus!
"Elect Me!" promise the politicians, "and I'll guarantee relief!"
We've heard that old saw before - it usually means more grief!
I doubt that the moose, caribou or elk really give a hoot,
Should drilling be allowed in Alaska in our oil pursuit!
Nor would sharks, barracudas or moray eels be at all offended,
If we set up rigs and drilled offshore as some have recommended!
Alas, the price of a barrel of oil continues to rise each day,
And us fellers at the end of the pipeline are the ones who pay.
In suspending gas taxes for a spell, I see very little merit.
The only solution for our plight I guess, is just to grin and bear it!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am a thousand violet tongues
licking the wind, silently bending
beneath the blistering Texas sun.
I unfurl where the highway
forgets its name,
where the sky
presses down like a warm hand.
I am not regal;
I am not obedient~
I am a wildflower,
a spill of indigo
against the thirsty Texas earth.
I do not beg. I do not bow.
Only nod~
a friendly howdy
when the pickup trucks rumble past,
kicking up the Texas dust
that settles like old prayers.
The cattle low at my presence,
their hooves careful, almost reverent.
Wind bends me; I bow back.
Rain comes; I drink deep.
At dusk, my petals close like fists~
small, stubborn prayers.
Each spring, I return.
I open~
a rebellion of color.
I am not delicate. I am patient
I am waiting
for you to pull over,
to kneel in the dirt next to me
and take a picture with me~
a Texas tradition.
I am the lupine that remembers
the Comanche horses,
the oil rigs,
rodeos, and
the subdivisions
creeping like frost.
When they pave this field,
I will rise through the cracks, for
I am as defiant as Texas.
I am the Texas’ state flower.
I am the bluebonnet.
Author's Note: Recite the following using the rhythm and melody of "Home, home on the range where the deer and the antelope play." The first verse can be used as the refrain:
His income tax structure is strange
Donald will the needy shortchange
The overly rich
Claim their life is a b-i-t-c-h
For them he’ll find bucks on the range
A clear planet earth never smokes
But Trump’s cohorts grim are the Kochs
Where fossils remain
They'll tear into the plain
Fracking rigs are their dirty jokes
There's fat upon Miss USA
The Donald says queen you shall pay!
"For my regal job"
She did painfully sob
"Is rehab a roll in the hay?"
Like buffalo once were so vast
Our middle class was unsurpassed
Now they are the prey
While republicans play
And deny the climate forecast
Seasons of Abundance
and Regret
Grandma was a farm cook,
never wasted a thing.
We ate good...
plain food.
She taught:
Never say words,
you will not eat,
as you can not leave them,
on your plate.
They will just stare at you,
until you wrap them up,
in a box,
go to the post office,
and send them to China.
There they have none.
Waste was a big thing,
in a house of plenty.
It was, and is, a bigger thing,
in a house of less.
Grandpa was a farmer,
later a construction man,
on big rigs and cats, not dogs.
He never swore and taught us all,
to read carefully,
listen well,
and never write anything down,
that we would not willing stand up
and say to all present.
As there may come a day,
we will be called to do just that,
for each other,
ourselves and our neighbors.
Who can't or won't take the mark,
as they know the meaning of the design,
and the flaw in the fabric.
He’s itching,
he’s twitching,
he’s ready to shop.
The big rigs
are rolling;
they’re making a stop.
He’s tracking,
WhatsApping,
he’s all in the know.
He’s topped off,
he’s loaded,
he’s ready to go.
He scored him
some soy-based
down under the bridge.
The goat milk
awaits him
just over the ridge.
She’s calling,
she’s balling;
it’s almost all gone.
His eyelids
are heavy;
been at it since dawn.
He got to
the last stop
a minute too late.
The guy in
the Tesla
scooped up the last crate.
He cannot
go home yet;
he can’t bear to face her.
He’s trying
to score some;
he’s Formula Racer.
----------
Echos of Cake's The Distance in my mind on this one...
Radioactive fields where golden grain once grew,
magnificent churches, razed right down to the pew,
Kulak farmers starved out, four million of them dead,
free though and expression only lived in your head,
lives destroyed by camps, that archipelago,
how many lives vanished? We’ll probably never know.
Rivers all polluted by bad ideas deployed,
Russia learned it first hand: Socialism Destroys.
Even now in Cuba, the Carribean’s jewel,
people live in chains thanks to Marxist fools.
A country once wealthy off a grand sugar trade,
now drives around in junkers, all left from past age.
People still vanish if they say the wrong words,
so desperate to leave they swim an ocean that churns.
See that island prison and you cannot avoid
the truth of the matter: Socialism Destroys.
Glance to North Korea, if brave enough to see
a stark, ruined nation stripped of most of its trees,
it has a huge hotel in which no one will stay,
and most of its people struggle to eat each day.
Millions of them in camps, millions more try to flee,
you know things are bad when they run to the Chinese!
Despite their media throwing up poor decoys,
all who look still see it: Socialism Destroys.
And poor Venezuela, once rich and on the rise,
now it is convulsing and preparing to die,
so flush with black oil, now the rigs sit quiet,
once fed, now its people face unwanted diet,
female doctors whore out themselves to buy some food,
refugees are running to find some place that’s good.
By economic laws all tyrants are annoyed,
they cannot escape it: Socialism Destroys.
In our own ‘great’ cities we can see the same trend,
a path to poverty, a horrible dead end.
Once great Detroit is now a sad, crumbling pit,
San Francisco’s roads are covered in human sh-t!
Seattle will jail you for drinking form a straw,
Chicago’s a war-zones with little rule of law.
These once proud cities that people used to enjoy
sink into slow decay, Socialism Destroys.
The Whittlers
The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a columned Greek Revival, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.
Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to talk of memories and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.
They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd trot out all their stories and tell them all again.
There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.
And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.
"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.
Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”
If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
Other folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.
The stately county courthouse still stands upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers carved and held their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.
© December 28, 2013
Memories of a bookworm. Considerable poetic license taken.
We need to send a message for Washington to hear
We need to make a statement and make it loud and clear
Leave rigs double parked in every town
Come on truckers. Shut it down
Block the highways. Set your course.
Show our politicians a united force
Politicians! While you're kissing babies remember this
We've got something you can kiss
We wanted a leader. We got a clown.
So let's go truckers. Shut it down.
It is time to start sending a message to our OPEC owned and
operated congresss. If you can't stop the oil gougiing prices, we can stop the
entire country. What happens if the last of the American cowboys, the truck
drivers, unite? If they double park their rigs on the interstates all over the country,
unhook them and leave them there? These guys are getting shafted by the same
people who subsidize airlines so the executives can milk the living hell out of it.
Meanwhile, not only the independent, but any small trucking company can't afford
to stay in business. It is time to shut it down
They’re roaring by with lights aglow
Akin space rockets, to and fro
Unfailing captains on steroids
Between this Earth and asteroids
This is the blood that moves the trade
This is America, conveyed
Truck-ships, with missions on the mind
Despite the night defy the grind
Rigs leave no waves in their wake
Them running fast and never brake
Men often follow their path
So to avoid the radar wrath
They land for brief prescribed rests
While speeding on the cryptic quests
We’re whizzing by, in cars and vans
And eye the sleeping caravans
United States, the land of trucks
Can’t pass them by sometimes, shucks
Resilient movers. And my crux?
Wouldn’t be the same without trucks
Sept 17, 2023