Long Stampedes Poems
Long Stampedes Poems. Below are the most popular long Stampedes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stampedes poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s Oklahoma’s Native son,
Blessing us with the beauty of words.
As his inspiration is set to verse it,
Stampedes our minds like buffalo herds.
The rhythm of the pen is felt,
As his haiku’s are cleverly composed.
With passion and true emotion,
As the love of his heart’s exposed.
He’s a true Sooner at heart,
Crimson & white from head to toe.
His American flag proudly waves,
As the strong Oklahoma wind blows.
He’s indigenous to our region,
With a vast love for native land.
His name is Steve Edmonds,
And a master of the shorthand.
____________________________
Dedicated to a friend of mine and
a fellow souper, Steve Edmonds.
Thanks for your ongoing support.
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Nature did not unleash her terror on us
as it did with Noto, Haiti, or the Indian Ocean.
We abuse nature with the stamp of leadership which impedes lives,
causing artificial stampedes of hunger, worse than nature's disasters.
Quakes of human stampedes everywhere!
Ibadan free funfair stampede
Okija and Abuja free rice distribution stampedes
are only where the lens focused, away from the state of national stampedes.
Here in Ibie, twenty families scuffle over a bag of rice
Rice, a symbol of survival for the masses; ego, and popularity for the mighty.
Stampede here, there, everywhere!
The stomach infrastructure of the masses tremored to collapse
Despite the labour and service of strength.
The gourmandizers and political merchants are often quick
To the momentary rescue with 5, 10, 50kgs of rice, and a holiday
The trajectory of our 21st-century polity and popular leadership.
They said the organizers lack crowd-control measures
But there are stampedes in everything, everywhere, and every day
Price stampedes, fuel stampedes, recruitment stampedes
Religious stampedes, security stampedes, bank stampedes...!
For the masses, stampede stems from their lack and inadequacy;
for the rulers and rich, it stems from greed and ego.
No to leaders who trade our manhood in exchange for free rice.
Man must not live by charity alone but by every opportunity to earn his keep
Or what does it profit a man to gain 5kg of rice and suffer the loss of his life?
When will the rice-sharing era be over and every man earn enough for himself?
Hank had cowboyed on the Triple T Ranch fer nigh on fifty years.
He'd rode the range herdin' beef peerin' betwixt his hoss's ears.
Durin' cattle stampedes he'd broke bones and many a time was throwed,
And he'd been astraddle his saddle so long that his legs was stiffly bowed!
He loved the cowpokin' life but he didn't become rich by any means.
He'd even come to savor Cooky's usual grub of bacon, taters and beans.
Durin' brandin' time he roped and branded many a steer's scruffy hide.
He was a master with the brandin' arn and he wielded it with skillful pride!
He liked lollin' 'round the campfire a-jawin' with pards beneath the stars,
Sippin' java that smelled like old socks, smokin' roll-yer-owns and ceegars.
He pulled many a nighttime guard duty in sleet, snow and peltin' rain,
Blowin' on his harmonica to calm skittish herds which was quite a strain!
He'll miss huddlin' 'round the bunkhouse stove as storms blew driftin' snow,
While he and his pals listened to Tex sawin' away with his fiddle and bow.
Hank hung up his scruffy boots, tattered chaps and sweat-stained hat.
He'd already given away his well-worn saddle and his 44 caliber gat.
This was Hank's last roundup herdin' cattle to Abilene up the dusty trail,
Cussin' and sweatin' to get 'em loaded up to ship on the Chicago rail.
He stopped by fer a few snorts with the boys at the Long Branch cabaret,
Then cantered off into the sunset on Old Dan his trusty hoss, callin' it a day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Great Spirit whispers on breathing breeze; 'It is time',
puce plume in saffron noon signals hunt's aborning,
ThunderBeasts' harrowing hooves erupt Great Plains grime,
soon will ail, widow's wail like a wild dove's mourning...
Ancient wisdom, ebony eyes, high cheekbones wide,
buffalo, he knows, mystical foes who fight back,
astride, he rides his Spanish horse with native pride,
his soul cleared, spiritual prayers 'fore the attack.
Timeworn trails, bison beaten by shaggy stampedes,
hunting grounds feared and revered, tribesmen o'er the brae,
power potent, cloven cloud, hastened heart proceeds,
ambush laid, panicked herd, embrace the bloody fray.
Casualty's chance, horseback dance, drum lethal hoof beats,
thunderous trample of ample prairie crocus,
Sioux and beasts' sacred throes, their crimson flows 'neath feet,
death has a way of bringing life into focus.
Susan Ashley
October, 24,2017
~ Third Place ~
Contest: Tribute To Native Culture
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
In Africa's heart, a giant lies,
Nigeria, blessed with riches that surprise,
Petroleum, gold, and califonium's might,
Lead, iron, bitumen, and limestone's sight.
But amidst this wealth, a paradox we find,
Lovely people suffer, while leaders' greed entwines,
Abject penury, a constant, gnawing fate,
While politicians milk public funds, an unborn generation's weight.
Foolishness, indeed, to hoard and not to share,
As children, women, men, and youth die, with no one to care,
In stampedes, they scramble for crumbs from philanthropists' hands,
A nation's shame, in every corner, where food is shared, they stand.
Who will rescue us from predators, who prey and exploit?
From leaders, who, with impunity, our future destroy and loot?
Of late, tens of children and women died, in a desperate bid to eat,
Their cries, a haunting echo, that our conscience cannot beat.
Women wake, with hopelessness, their children's future unsure,
Are our youth lazy? Our men idle? No, their daily toil, a story untold,
Their income, a meager sum, that cannot meet their demands,
A giant of Africa? Ah, what a mockery, what a sham, what a stand!
From my drone, I see you far below
The elk stampedes, the red rocks glow
I'm like the storm over the plain
Can you outrun the rain?
You hope to make it to the black rock lands
But no-one is left, no helping hands
My drone lets loose, a bolt from the blue
The earth erupts, but it misses you.
You think of sunshine before this war
No idea back then what was in store
That foolish empathy now seems in vain
Can you outrun the rain?
You galloped the prairie, now your horse is lame
You dismount you and jog, can't face the blame.
Behind you thunder shakes the plain:
Can you outrun the rain?
You think of the horror that you helped bring
The bombed-out craters where vultures sing.
Truth wasn't your value, that was your stain
You seeded the cloud and now comes the rain.
I send a new command to the drone
I can't go through with this, so I call it home.
My heart goes out to you, I feel your pain
I'll look away while you outrun the rain.
My muse showed up at sunrise
with a grin I didn’t trust,
whispered, “Let’s write brilliance!”
though my brain was gathering dust.
My notebook’s overflowing~
every page a scribbled plea:
Why do ideas strike at midnight
but ignore me during tea?
I chase down inspiration
like a tumbleweed in flight~
it rolls off toward the mountains
while I trip in morning light.
My drafts are wild stampedes,
every sentence bucking free;
I wrangle them with coffee
and a whispered, Mercy me…
Hank lounged on his porch watchin' the sun slowly sinkin' in the west.
He'd cowboyed for nigh on sixty years and figgered he'd done his best.
Hank and his faithful hoss Old Dan was now enjoyin' their leisure years,
And he had time to recall his ranchin' days while tossin' back some beers!
He was so bow-legged from ridin' saddle he looked like a pair of pliers!
His hands was stained and gnarled from roll-yer-owns and mendin' wires.
He'd hung up his spurs, chaps and well-worn saddle without regret,
But he wore his scruffy boots, leather vest, jeans and sombrero yet.
He shuddered recalling stormy nights that spooked the wild-eyed steers,
Causin' hell-raisin' stampedes that endangered him and his peers.
He remembered more peaceful times ridin' herd with cattle happily grazin',
And a time or two chasin' cussed' rustlers with his .44 guns a-blazin'!
He swore he'd never eat another bean, tater or bacon in his life,
Since that's all Cooky knowed how to fix, a subject of constant strife!
He recalled how he stammered when meetin' ladies in many a saloon,
Which left him pawin' the floor with his pointy boots, feelin' like a goon!
Hank remembered cattle drives and in Abilene drawin' his meager pay,
Spendin' it on rot-gut whiskey and schemin' wimmin, blowin' it all away.
Hank peered into the distance and gazed at a lone pine tree in the vale,
Thinkin', "I want to be planted there when I've reached the end of the trail!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Wildfires of fall bring us whirlwinds of flame.
Black-scape throughout, life’s survival or death?
Spring blooms of dogwood. Renewal sustained.
Santana stampedes, she’s wicked, untamed,
through canyons of ages. We hold our breath.
Wildfires of fall bring us whirlwinds of flame.
Now Dante’s hellhound of Hades renamed!
Desiccation abounds where there were fresh
spring blooms of dogwood. Renewal sustained.
What brought this on us, is someone to blame?
Nature or mishap? A crazed soul's arrest?
Wildfires of fall bring us whirlwinds of flame.
Now charred, disfigured but memory maintains
the clear hills of May, June sparrows, content.
Spring blooms of dogwood, renewal sustained.
Flora in peril, all creatures the same!
Twixt ashes or mudslides? These losses attest!
Wildfires of fall bring us whirlwinds of flame.
Spring blooms of dogwood, renewal sustained.