Long Rodeo Poems
Long Rodeo Poems. Below are the most popular long Rodeo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rodeo poems by poem length and keyword.
Her hormones fled the coop
on scalding tires.
He drifted into her,
working the night-shift
of a traveling fantasy.
Motel maids were her sisters
bars her occupation,
a place to work
on the aerobics of hope.
Their love
was an unhygienic affair.
Everything spilled out,
much maintenance
in putting back in.
Emotional jism
was scrubbed by hand
until skin-tight excuses
glistened
milky as mollusk flesh.
They had lots to attend to.
Feelings had to be
daily resuscitated
into former victimized forms.
He would not leave;
she would not go.
He anointed her again,
and again
with his pity-me flesh.
Their mutually dependent rodeo
played itself out
on the steps
of a haggard tomorrow,
both now blinded
by owl-light.
*The feline Texan way*
A clean coat of paint - on my nails
Red shade of lips - on my smile
Solid oak charms - on my wrist
Country music - around my core
Flattering eyes - a rustic shell.
Join me in a "Country Girls Tale"
~~
Every day I draw near the morning dawn,
Abide by the landscape towards the new Texas sun
A track of yellow roses and cactus galore
I brand my name everywhere I travel
Allowing you near the bounds of my Wild West soul
I maintain it above the snake level everywhere I roll
Got my head up like a cowgirl,
Men around my black leather chaps
I tilt my bull hide hat leaving behind a sweet Texas Trail
Driving down a midnight Texan storm
It takes more than raindrops to knock me from my- “2-Steppin’ world.”
A windy ride, bruises under the hide taking it in like- “A Real Cowgirl!”
I got a tight hold on my saddle, holding on to a brighter morrow
Enjoying the voices and the sound
Tex-Mex lingo, round and round
Ropers and Wranglers are how I dress
I'm all covered, except for the top of my chest.
Living’ it up^, down here in the south.
Erin’ the lungs, shooting up the sport
Long necks’ and kissing under a rodeo’ moon.
Honky-Tonk, tattooing the mockingbird.
Down here:
You will see me sitting on the Country ground,
Peacefully staring into the optics of the "Alamo Stars."
Falling with the art found in the flag I hold.
I am The Wild!
I am The West!
“— A little dotty, but civilized!”
Enjoying the morning breeze,
Where the dew sits on the tip of Mother Nature’s tongue.
There and only there you will find me,
Under the brightest Texas Star
In a hallowed grandstand,
I do quietly sit,
high above the noise
and ruckus of the pit.
Staring out upon
a curving, long race-track,
as thoroughbreds set off
running races back-to-back.
Around me are sitting
a mannered, genteel crowd,
dressed up to the nines,
only deigning to be loud
when jockeys round the curve,
pulling hard for home,
and the losing bets first scream,
then so loudly moan.
I don't think they really care
all that much for the horse,
it's the gambling that brought them,
and brings them back for more.
It kind of reminds me
of NASCAR when I think
of all those horses turning left,
it's kinda the same thing!
But I don't dare mention that,
if I did these people all
would rush me with intentions bad,
claiming they're shocked and appalled,
I guess it's really not my crowd,
and next Saturday I shall go
down the road for a real good time
at the weekly, circuit rodeo.
Ride 'dem broncs! Y'aahhh!
Always been a big fan of the Radio
TV well my Mum couldn’t careless
Would confess fonder of the caress
Tireless wonder finesse of “the wireless”
Always on ever since I was an embryo
In the Honda & then in the Nissan
Over yonder in gazebo we'd listen
Rejoice ponder familiar voice glisten
Our sonar condor no similar frisson
Views criss-cross across the entire globe
Stations who do news will inspire a probe
Rascals liar lair laid bare debacles disrobe
Swayed stoking stroking amuse every lobe
Kaleidoscopic topic musical made strobe
Dismayed why choose to be a radio-phobe?
Homegrown seeds sown cultural parlophone
Smoothed grooved & moved by that tone
Velvet timbres soothed never ever alone
Over years wistful relationships does hone
Not prone to drone or moan in the zone
Wink don’t think my love is overblown
Hits flits skits fits sits on its media throne
Well this is not my first Marconi rodeo
Tip top drops from all the latest crops
Greatest track stack never stalls stops
Daily diet from the quiet no not paleo
Word play riot foray from the Deejay
Won’t tip toe or be some Pinocchio
Hooray helps me get through the day
Ego glow feels like just for me.. my beau
Know with VPN zen then even when away
What it does bestow.. a hero like Horatio
Which's why I do crow so about the RADIO!
No Joke, This Punster Riddled With Anxiety
Hue more, a dog send,
asper how this poe
whet tick mutt air ring
mortal doth cope with woe
principally said misery prevails
because a dearth of dough
cash, liquid legally rendered
assets, money, y'know
what I mean, and securing, and
maintaining employment efforts go
south, cuz yours truly
experiences extreme anxiety,
where perspiration doth flow
most significantly moistening
palms when this bro
fills out application,
or during interview so...
to spare myself such
grievous anguish, although
such acquiring a job, the
quickest most obvious to diminish
penuriousness whiplashing to and fro
primarily due to requisite ought toe
motive repairs (ordinary
wear and tear),
this unearned income of mine - so
shill security disability
(monthly electronic depot
zitz), the sole source of mo
knee for myself and the missus,
(who also unfortunately emo
shun null lee dogged by psycho
logical pitfalls since her grow
chee parents (both deceased) unaware
of her mental afflictions decades ago
lacks any checking, and/or
savings account, lo
she wants for disposable income hoe
ping to rely on me for spending money
on regular basis, which by Joe
siff, mother and Mary
stresses thee only means
to sustain financial status quo,
hence my lament and plea
for succor, yet just blow
wing figurative steam also
bring a modicum of alleviation, as
does talking to a therapist, crow
wing about pennilessness
day late dollar short,
hence cue thee oboe
or violin somber
(pitiful) tune - ho...ho...ho...
methinks gofundme site not apropos
cuz just a couple thousand bucks...
would allow me to get show
back on the rodeo
circuit, but I hoop
not to engender glow
warring revulsion - whoa!
Buster had traveled the rodeo circuit fer nigh on twenty years,
Bull ridin', bareback ridin' and ropin' them frisky steers!
He wuz a lanky feller wearin' chaps, jeans slung low on his hips,
With a Bull Durham roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips.
He drove his battered pickup towin' an air conditioned van,
In which traveled in style his cuttin' hoss, old faithful Dan.
This wuz to be his final rodeo, his final cross-country trip,
Vyin' once agin fer a few bucks and a national championship.
In the bull ridin' event he straddled a brute called Dynamite.
That old cuss did all kinds uv gyrations to the crowd's delight!
But Buster hung on as Dynamite tried to unseat him frum his back.
He'd rode him before and knew he wouldn't cut him any slack!
In the bareback ridin' contest he drew a bronc called Killer.
He twisted ever' which way - that ride shore was a thriller!
Buster and old Dan wuz amazin' when it come to ropin' steers.
They broke the standin' record, a-bestin' all their peers!
Buster'd had more'n his share uv broken bones and sprawls,
And uv dust, mud and the mind numbin' overnight hauls.
He retired to a little spread in Colorady to enjoy his leisure.
Old Dan was retired as well to frolic in the pasture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Man #1:
If you like county music…you’re a Nazi.
If you still go the church…you’re a Nazi.
If you ever owned a gun…you’re a Nazi.
If you watch superhero films…you’re a Nazi.
If you drive a gas-powered car…you’re a Nazi.
If you liked to go fishing…you’re a Nazi.
If you hold doors for women…you’re a Nazi.
If you don’t trust the media…you’re a Nazi.
If you do trust the media…you’re an idiot.
If you believe in free speech…Nazi.
If you ever asked for ID… Nazi.
If you stream television…Nazi.
If you own a dog, not a cat…Nazi.
If you’ve ever seen a rodeo…Nazi.
If you like fast-food fries…Nazi.
If you act like a Nazi…ANTIFA.
High heels—Nazi!
Baseball cap—Nazi!
G.E.D—Nazi!
Don’t like wine—Nazi!
Spit, don’t swallow—Nazi!
Ever want children—Nazi!
Nazi-Nazi-Nazi-Nazi! Nazi!!
Nazi, you’re all dam Nazis! All of you!
Agree with me of you’re a Nazi!!! Bwaaaaahhhh—
Thud.
Man #2:
Holy crap, did that guy just have a stroke?
Should we help him?
Man #3:
Nah, why bother. He’s probably
A Nazi anyway…
I am the end,
the last act, the final fleck,
the teeny, tiny terminal pixel,
but I am mighty.
I may be small but I have muscle.
I apply the brakes
and the word parade obeys.
I hold up my hand, blow my whistle,
and watch the traffic halt.
I am the language transit cop,
the red road sign painted "STOP!"
Language is my rodeo;
I corral the wild vocabulary ponies,
break them,
make them wear bits, bridles;
I am the word whisperer.
Important documents -
The Constitution of the United States of America,
The Bill of Rights,
The Emancipation Proclamation -
are what they are because of my mark;
without it, they would be gibberish.
Books would be nonsensical run on sentences,
characters shuffling willy-nilly everywhere,
no order, no structure,
misunderstood,
just silly words wagging their tongues.
I am Doctor Lockjaw;
I bar the word mill door.
Language is my life.
Copyright, September 9, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
He was down in the South, on holyday, where the most want to be, where the sun shines, where everybody looks to be fine.
He was enjoying with his children, but sad, out from his mountain. He's a mountain man, a hard life worker.
Since he moved up there, to the mountain with his wife, years ago, he grew roots and rough hands working the skin of the animals he hunted for surviving.
Perhaps, he worked the wood too, to make some bows or whatever he could.
After being a rodeo star, he decided to be a mountain man, living in a harsh life, but making his life active and happy for the family in the wild. The children he had, wonderful they are, but they grew up and got a better life in Florida.
Despite being far, they were warm inside and always close hearted. But age does not forgive, and now he is an old mountain man.
His children want him to go down to be retired in the sun, next to them, to be together. A big dilemma for the mountain man and his wife. A big concern to change the snow for he sun.
Others wouldn't have a doubt, but he and his wife struggle about taking a decision.
Not easy, when you feel confortable, not easy to change the sounds of the music you got accustomed to, for new ones.
Difficult when your roots spread around the mountain,
which keeps whispering to you that you found your place on Earth, where your body wants to rest.
Pan pan pan pan pan
pan pan pan pan pan,,,
Peacock bass
oh tasteful fish ...
Amazon,
from my country...
Catupiri
all must eat...
superb cheese
from my country...
Acarajé,
oh caruru
oh vatapá
from Bahia,
hey hey
San Salvador ...!
Vaquejadà
rodeo...
hello boiadá
bolanderá ...
Muié embroiderer ...
Percata espadrille, doublet
all the best
from my backlands ...!
Look at the drizzle,
what a lovely rain ...
life that flies ...
All success,
all the progress
of this nation.
Sao Paulo,jet plane ...!
In this school
born sambão ...
in the north zone
Hello at Gamboa ...
Wobbly thing
Rio, February
waddling samba,
samba brother ...!
Center here
so special...
Sprouts wealth,
phenomenal...
in the immense west
cattle farming
Rural Brazil ...!
Hey Canindé ...
Armadillo,
Hey Tuiuiu
Icaraí ...
It's all here ...
it's brazil land,
it's brazilian
it's my brasil ...
It's my brasi ....!