Long Saloons Poems
Long Saloons Poems. Below are the most popular long Saloons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Saloons poems by poem length and keyword.
If I could paint a picture
to show you how I feel,
deep inside my shattered heart
so you'd know it was real.
It would look just like a ghost town
with sad song stories to tell,
of all of the haunting reasons
our love went straight to hell
You spent all of our money,
that closed up the bank.
Then the love inside your eyes
just suddenly went blank.
The doc said we were crazy,
far beyond what he could do,
so he packed up his practice,
said this place was like a zoo.
You never liked my cookin'
That made for one more chore.
So I learned to avoid it,
and the market closed their door.
We used to have so many friends
but you the big buffoon,
got us kicked out of the bars
which 86'd saloons.
The sheriff said we're trouble,
but only to each other.
He locked up the jailhouse
and moved back home with his mother.
That just left the two of us
on empty streets to roam,
knowin' it was far too late
to make this town our home.
With all our friends and family
we pledged a solemn vow,
to live our lives together,
we would work it out somehow.
Then I felt your hand leave mine
and distance there would grow,
you started spending nights away
in places I don't know.
I find myself still standing here
desperately alone,
on desolated dusty streets
of memories I'm shown.
In this quiet lonely ghost town
made of all the lies you'd tell,
our heavenly love story turned
into a slice of hell.
-Jeannie Minor
When the west was young
Town’s people among
Mountain high and Sunshine warmth
Rugged detail
Vast land landscapes
As miles could see
The Stagecoach days
History from then to present
Breezy sir
Flying prairie dust
Reminder when horses were the ride
Gunsmoke atmosphere
The Cowboys and Sheriff who were connected as foes
Railroad sounds in the distance of Steam driven engine smoke announcing passenger arrivals
Drunken environment of Saloons
The memory of Cheyenne, Wyoming
Western style
As the sunset fades and the prairie dust kicks up
The ride into the distance towards the sunset
Town people’s chant, “Y’ALL COME BACK
There's no good reason to be an outlaw.
A world of rocks and hard barren ground.
I became evil, in an evil world.
A bringer of death, good men hated.
I need to end my outlaw days, reflect and pause.
My life spent in dusty towns, saloons and whore houses.
I'm left with nothing but weary travel,
And dirty clothes, on my worn out back
I am a painting of the times I live in,
Men without a home, without care or concern
I have but one saving grace and desire,
To find a love to wrestle me from this life
To whisper my name, Ricardo, in my ear
For her, I would holster my gun,
And lay by cool streams in her arms of peace.
I have nothing, a horse, gun, and saddle.
My life spent, a scourge to all,
With pockets filled with fool's gold.
I've lived a lifetime filled with abandon,
Not knowing what I never knew,
Hearing voices that claim they had.
I saw the world through the looking glass of my eyes,
And have known nothing more than what I've found.
The passing of time, the memories I hide.
Watching time grow shorter and memories longer.
The two will one day finally meet,
Whether from my last breath or a bullet in the back.
My life has been a fruitless endeavor,
And I see no reason for my insanity.
I became what I wanted to be.
To be an outlaw, it seemed so romantic.
6/15/17 Contest Create a Character
Old Caleb Trotter had great plans for his town in Colorado.
For years he'd roamed the Rockies, finally finding his El Dorado!
He discovered glittering gold that would surely make him flush!
He founded Trotter's Gulch and soon there was a frenzied rush!
Cabins were built on plots that prospective miners selected.
Why, there was even a school and three churches were erected!
'Twas a bawdy place with the usual brawls and seedy saloons.
Soiled doves and gamblers invaded the town by platoons!
Time moved on and Caleb established a general store,
Figuring that the mining game wasn't for him anymore.
He made his fortune catering shovels, overalls and boots,
To hard-rock prospectors and other such galoots!
The population reached ten thousand and showed great potential.
It boasted a railroad station and other services essential.
It included three undertakers, five blacksmiths and ten preachers,
Four doctors, two newspapers and twelve well-respected teachers!
Alas, the pay dirt around Trotter's Gulch soon petered out.
The future of the town was left very much in doubt.
'Twas soon abandoned and another ghost town was born.
'Tis no longer on the map - it now lies desolate and forlorn!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The washed up of shores of the apple cores,
Magnetized child to her waist and cradle,
Teenage years amplify their fears,
he'll be washed up in a couple of years.
Eyes of angst, piled up beach banks,
Gators in the shallow & fear of gallows,
Pressing on the neck in a dream of sea-wrecks,
Popping of balloons near sinking Saloons.
Remember the day in which we'll run & play
Ignoring the truth of everything they'll say,
Hopping along to every child-hood song
& ignorance to a hot furnace's wrongs.
The floor being turning points of doors,
wood that follows ends up rotten hollow
The knife in the chest that proves so fatal,
the blowing of a child's delightful petals.
I once visited an old copper town
in the upper peninsula of Michigan.
The U.P. as the Yoopers say
And on the U.P. it winters from
October to April’s end
where saloons and
vacant churches pock each
devoutly sodden block with
a piss-penny for your thoughts.
The hay was made there
in the 1890’s, bronzed and
plaqued in a shag-city square
gray beyond grief
-faced for no reason
it remembers.
It is a compelling obscurity.
that I will visit
again, one day
when I have
less to lose and
more to forget.
There the parking meters
stand away from the curbs
by big brick hollows,
beyond the plow’s carve
so high must pile
the insulating snow.
Redmon Yost lived in Iowa
with mother and siblings,
the oldest of seven children
had just turned seventeen.
His pa had passed on two years back,
Redmon had gone to work,
punching cows at Holloway’s Ranch,
long hours made bones hurt,
but pay was good
and all relied
on what he earned,
so he did ride.
Had no room to drink down his pay
or in the saloons lurks.
Redmon differed from his partners
in that he had no gun,
his family were all Quakers,
he was forbidden one.
They ribbed him about that sometimes,
but he paid them no heed,
Ma said turning the other cheek
beat making pour sols bleed.
She said it was
the law of God,
so Redmon rode
without a rod,
and this town was a quiet spot,
so Redmon saw no need.
Until the day an outer ranch
was hit, the men away,
the bandits took horses and cash
in the bright light of day.
News ran fast across the prairie,
a true posse was formed,
but the trail was lost by the men
in sudden prairie storm.
A twister was
no little thing,
no robbers would
be seen to swing,
And everybody hoped that life
would return to the norm.
But normalcy was not to be,
a stage was hit that weak,
old Amos Tanner was gunned down
while driving to get free,
then came a string of robberies,
a murder and two rapes.
Who did this? Nobody could tell,
the town was fit to break,
Redmon saw the
increasing harm,
began to think
of going armed,
but his mother cried,”No, you fool!
Don’t join in with their hate!”
This didn’t make much sense to him,
did God want them to die?
Peace was great, but what evil man
just nodded and passed by?
If God have given him this life,
if it was his great gift,
would He turn and say,”I forbid
you from defending it.”
But mother said,
“It is his will,”
But did He mean
To get folks killed?
Redmon couldn’t believe He would,
and those thoughts made a rift.
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Above a cloudy jar of brine
That floated greenish hard boiled eggs,
Beside a Schlitz beer waterfall
That told bar time (ten minutes fast),
A taxidermied Jack-A-Lope
With rabbit ears and tiny rack
Stared marble eyed into the dark.
“We don’t have many Jack-A-Lopes
Back home in any city bars,”
I told a man who served us drinks.
“At prices there, that’s no surprise.”
The barman said without a smile
And told us of the Jack-A-Lope:
Time was you looked, you’d find his kind,
But rarely in these mountain slopes.
They only bred in wintertime
And only in electric storms.
It’s rumored round that milk that came
From mother Jack-A-Lopes could cure
Whatever walks on twos or fours
So rare it was most called it myth
As much as Sasquatch ever was.
Until one day a dowser came
Divining where to dig a well.
And gripping his good witching stick
Could swear he saw the front branch twitch.
He scrunched his eyes and looked again.
“No, something’s in that undergrowth.”
Up popped the branchy antlers of
This fearsome critter, Jack-A-Lope.
Now as it was this dowser had
A more than common whiskey thirst.
And had to live his life downwind
From ordinary decent folk.
Like pictures of Napoleon,
He stuck his hand inside his coat,
Produced a flask of sour mash,
And threw it at this portmanteau.
Some say it hopped away afraid,
But those that know have winked and said,
“That animal attacked the flask;
Without their bourbon Jack-A-Lopes
Will fade away until they’re gone.”
Outsiders paid some license fees
For hunting season, dates of which
Cannot be found on calendars.
The most were poached as trophies for
Hotels, saloons and brothels where
The mounted heads amazed their guests.
No hunter had had an interest in
An animal that can’t be killed
Because it never ever was.
But now so heavy was the hunt
The Jack-A-Lope was soon extinct,
So every one of them was killed
To prove one time they did exist.
The bar grew quiet just as if
Some meaning might be understood.
I pointed at my empty glass
And asked the barman pouring drinks,
“What’s on that plaque below the head?”
“Some Latin words, a kind of crest.
A family motto more or less.”
Way up there in the Colorado mountains at around 9000 feet,
There once was a thrivin' village that served as the county seat.
It was a boom and bust town that now lies in desolate shambles,
Its one-time stately buildin's now overgrown with creepin' brambles.
'Tis said that a vein of gold was discovered when a feller dug deep,
To bury a friend who was gored to death by an irate mountain sheep!
His discovery was known as Dead Man's claim and the rush was on,
And to the place hordes of miners, gamblers and rabble was drawn.
There were three or four rowdy saloons on each and every block,
Servin' booze and featurin' high-kickin' women around the clock.
A Methodist church and a school brought a tad of culture to the place.
Folks of finer tastes thought 'soiled doves' paradin' about a disgrace!
An untended graveyard gives witness to the wickedness of the town,
As headstone etchin's reveal the doom of many who were gunned down!
Yet is heard the phantom sounds from saloons from rabble goin' bananers,
Fightin', gamblin' and dancin' to the tinklin' of out-of-tune peeaners!
Northerly winds prod tumble weeds up and down dusty thoroughfares,
Streets once teemin' with humanity goin' about their nefarious affairs.
Now is only heard the ghostly creakin' of rusty hinges on saggin' doors,
When frigid winter winds bear down upon those dreary windswept moors!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
A man without a car is a poor fellow,
It’s like a cowboy without a horse, a lonely soul,
He doesn’t know what to do or who to visit in the ranches,
He walks alone in Los Angeles or Dallas,
He can’t visit the great rivers of Utah,
Nor go to photograph the mighty bisons,
Everything is complicated without a car, without a horse,
The cowboy can’t dress himself in California,
He can only feed on salads or sweet poetry;
Everything is difficult, buying a book, a new razor,
Look at the shooting stars above Lake Powell,
Everything is so far away, the flowers on the green hills,
A cowboy without a horse is not free, poor fellow
He can’t cross the Grand Canyon or Arizona fields,
He sees no sun, nor can he meet again his friends,
The gold diggers, the noisy saloons, the poor fellow,
The poor fellow, he is not master of his destiny.
Un homme sans voiture, c’est un pauvre bougre,
C’est comme un cowboy sans cheval, sans âme,
Il ne sait que faire, ni qui visiter dans les ranchs,
Il marche solitaire dans Los Angeles ou Dallas,
Il ne peut visiter les grandes rivières D’Utah,
Ni s’en aller photographier les puissants bisons,
Tout est compliqué sans voiture, sans cheval,
Le cowboy ne peut s’habiller en Californie,
Il ne peut que se nourrir de salades ou de poésie ;
Tout est difficile, acheter un livre, un rasoir neuf,
Regarder les étoiles filantes au-dessus du Lake Powell,
Tout est si loin, les fleurs sur les collines vertes,
Un cowboy sans cheval, n’est pas libre, vous dis-je,
Il ne peut traverser le Grand Canyon, ni l’Arizona,
Il ne voit de soleil, ni ne peut retrouver ses amis,
Les chercheurs d’or, aux saloons bruyants, le pauvre,
Le pauvre bougre, il n’est pas maitre de son destin.
PS, when i come back from the garage friday, i was the happiest man of the world