Long Wrangler Poems
Long Wrangler Poems. Below are the most popular long Wrangler by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wrangler poems by poem length and keyword.
that will neither revolutionize whorled wide web,
nor pollinate like fecund human loam
viz - it mine neurological nuances here
within Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
my present home,
town pulsating with
so called "butterfly effect" ineluctably
fluttering microscopically
like dust motes or invisible foam
(bell leave me) metamorphosed
mental whim, within cranial dome
(in valise case body electric)
covered in 50 + nine slim shades
of gray streaked brown dread fully medium
length lockets i rarely comb,
boot food for thought to set literary stage
before affixing my poetic missive -
from this word wrangler,
hoof hinds himself dumbfounded
at whiz bang of years cuz - just yesterday
aye remembered being a boy,
now i yam more than
half a century since birth didst age.
without further ado
i offer literary missives enclosed
within this body politic spooked
me playful teenage inner child goes "boo"
fur ye to ponder and brew
of his small bread box sized lil motley crue
two daughters due
tee flapped wings, and flew the coop
whereby aye resemble offspring hybrid
ostrich crossed with an emu,
whose deux progeny sired from personal
super reproductive goo
swimming swiftly in
harried styled, swiftly taylor made
viscous tailored tulle lord hue
carrying miniature bin - laden
genetic heritage predominantly Jew
wish with one late uncle Sam,
who preferred to be called cra debt lou
who himself happened to be,
a milch cow frequent moo
wing for bare naked lady gaga friend
winnie mandy della pooh,
which induced inxs doth rue
what comprises Darwinian
Origin of Species to be true
evolutionary biologists versus
Bible thumping creationists claim
with tangible proof as their view
perchance includes you
this chimp bull leaves humans
originated from primate zoo.
There ain't nothin' a cowboy is prouder of than his faithful horse,
Except that is, maybe his hat and his pointy-toed boots of course!
In sleet, snow and rain he'll pull the old hat down over his ears,
As he stands guard over the restless herd of skittish steers!
He'll wear his old sweat-stained hat to Saturday night dances,
And to protect him from the sun and rain while fixin' fences.
At the end of day he'll guzzle a coupl'a beers, his thirst to slake,
Plantin' his boots on the brass rail with his pards to take a break!
He'll wear his old slouch hat from dawn 'til at night he hits the hay,
Never doffin' it for nothin' 'cept if'n a pretty lady passes his way,
Or use it to water his hoss and feed him oats is the other exception!
For the niceties of society and the social graces he has little affection!
Maybe he can't afford a fancy pair of them Levi or Wrangler jeans,
And he must tolerate Cooky's tiresome chuck of bacon and beans,
But when it comes to his hat and boots he won't compromise.
The hat must be a Stetson and Tony Lama boots are what he buys!
He throwed his leg over his saddle horn one day and had this to say:
"Boys, when I come to the end of the trail and cash in my chips someday,
I don't want you fellers a-carryin' on and a-bellerin when I'm gone.
Jes' promise you'll bury me in my dusty hat and scruffy boots and carry on!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Its' truth,
and it's in the dark,
but with the spark we can wall off like a plaster of farce,
any indecent start,
with incandescent sprawl to remark.
As if it were all the placated thing that does the hard lard-
I never needed but grew to embark!
Outcasts spell me neededly' as I see whats seething-rot with grease on things.
I'm pleading eagerly,
for the right stage for the print of my priest-
but wonder allowed if i'll have to keep repeating and easily wondering about the joggy' facts,
the eccentricity of my real badge-
the maps toggling themselves to distance innumerably far from my wrangler in park,
and the truth that's so dark.
He is a young boy turned man before his time
He is someone with a dream
Who shows compassion for his work
He wakes before dawn and drinks his coffee without cream
Who along his journey always finds an adventure
He is a cowboy at heart
Riding in the saddle
Eating meals over open fire
Watching his cattle
He is trying to make a dime
Leaving everything behind
Meeting new faces
He is genuine and heartfelt
He is neither a lover or a fighter
He is one with the land
He gives everything to the land
His soul and his life
He eats, sleeps, rides, and will die on the land
He is consumed by the land
He is a cowboy and will always be classified as a cowboy
With his cowboy hat and wrangler jeans hidden by his brown duster
Seated upon on an iron horse
I look at him and say to myself "I wish i could be like him- free"
Only when yours truly busies himself...
Feigning to emulate NON GMO
garden variety English major oh just so
ho-hum, this ousted son and cingular bro
biological byproduct of papa's yoyo
after mama taut Peppy how to grow
big and become vein, her issuing blow
by blow stroke, thence pecker
imitated fountainhead
unleashing at apropos
time outburst analogous when an arrow
loosed from archer's bow
shooting off about hip height mo'
than bajillion microscopic
one celled lil longfellow
(Oh Henry...! wad art thou doing?)
just hmm... giving mutual sin O
Job whelp... subsequently
little squirt begot
sole son this all because sticky clot
hit bullseye right on the dot
nope, no where near size of ergot
spore, yet radiating
burning temperature more hot than...,
liquified gold prior
bitta bing bitta bang forged into ingot,
now just little more about fertilized
ova, I wanna jot
potential pluperfect parasite (me)
acquired, cultivated, fashioned...
one after another deft bon mot
while in utero until umbilical cord
severed than christened newborn tot.
Now fast forward blaw blaw blaw
when I began to clamor and claw
nope, cuz I ne'er learned how to draw,
the least significant genetic flaw,
cue laugh track and prerecorded guffaw
similar to popular nineteen
seventies television hee haw
laughter muted upon meeting
battle axe mother in law
another story... genre mccaw braw,
she excelled spewing vitriol out her maw,
thence I slowly must heard,
mixed metaphors and mastered...pshaw
modesty keeps me from bragging
yea - boot as a non sequitur
non secretor, yukon call me
the word wrangler outlaw
lo never cussing out anybody,
I can more easily whip out pistol
if captive audience
critiques mein arcane saw
jeering (matt speak feeble attempt
at wordplay - i.e. soldiering)
receiving affirmative nod
courtesy none other
than quick draw mcgraw
now ye butter listen (er... read) up
and don't blather and beast not shtupp
to conquer, when ya hear bit ching pup
that maybe be yipping faux ruse
to empty pocket inner empty cup.
Embarrassed, humiliated, disgraced
By the lack of things
I came from
Humble, my family was humble
With meager possessions
No luxuries or waste
No suffocating expense
No extravagance
I longed for brand names
Like Levi’s and Wrangler
Nike and eventually
Under armor
I can’t be sure
But now that I have the
Indulgences, the extras
Those things I wanted
So ridiculously
I find that I’m more ashamed
Of the lavishness
I feel like I’ve squandered
Where I should have
Saved
Amenity judged harmless
Can destroy
The one
Who
Trusts
In
Riches
Treat yourself
To simplicity
It’s the simple things
That bring wealth
To the senses
Of one who listens
To the appeals
Of humility
Cinnamon and clover lingers on my breath,
a reminder of power that lies dormant.
Building …
hesitating…
yet still being fed.
The wrangler of such petulant magick
understands that spells have wings to fly.
Building…
levitating…
taking to the air.
Respect the ability to maintain control
letting it all go and pulling it back in again.
Building…
decompressing…
breathing.
That is the conjuring.
I saw a talk-show interview
of a new author, all the rage,
she had sold two million copies,
her book is everywhere these days.
It was tailor-made for women,
a downcast wife looking for love,
verbally abusive husband,
trapped in a situation tough.
Until one day she went out west,
going on vacation alone,
her husband said that he had work,
brushed her off, she was on her own.
She had gone out to a dude ranch,
she had loved horses as a kid,
where she met the ranch’s wrangler,
a mountain man cowboy named Sid.
He was what her husband was not,
Sid was caring, confident, cool,
he’d help he mouth, his touch would linger,
and she’d smile back like a fool.
They’d find themselves talking for hours,
finding any excuse to touch,
then one day in a mountain meadow
they spread a blanket and made love.
It was all that she lacked at home,
passionate, intense, and sincere,
she wished that she could never leave,
but she had a life, a career….
And her cowboy love made peanuts,
not enough for two to survive,
nesides, this was infatuation,
that’s what she told herself inside.
But at home she couldn’t be happy,
soon enough she longer for escape,
so once a year, for a whole week,
to her cowboy she’d make her way.
And this continued for eight years,
until she saw on their website,
that her man died in a car crash,
she hid her tears for that whole night.
Yet he had left a parting gift,
for she was sick in the mornings,
this was the author’s tragic tale,
it has countless fans adoring.
To seal the deal she did proclaim
that it was based on her own life,
she’d changed names, but much was quite real,
you sold more with tales of real strife.
My own wife was enrapt by it,
which caused me some little alarm,
but she just laughed and dismissed it
when I said such tales could do harm.
But something just didn’t sit right,
on the whole thing something seemed off,
I know truth is stranger than fiction,
but something kept making me scoff.
Real life just doesn’t work this way,
romance can never be that clear,
then throw in infidelity?
This tale was not what it appeared.
So in free time I went online,
digging into the author’s past,
and saw that I was not the first
to put this new writer on blast...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
The brilliant gold of his turban
Flashed in the sun like a bobbing
Golden egg popping out of the
Open-topped Jeep Wrangler
in the school pick-up line.
Beads of sweat hung desperately
To the edges of his Rollie Fingers
Stash (times two) as he turned the wheel
Spotting the regiments of youths
Scruffy and subdued.
Though there his little loves sat
With doleful patience:
Zolan, Zeus, and Zenelope.
Like an airport they were designated
Spots to park for no more than 5 seconds
Allowing "sufficient time" for the targeted kids
To embark.
Zoltar does not like this rule.
Zoltar has observed his children
Making wishes while not yet even in Jeep yet.
Zoltar will email principal. Again.
All the kids get in and
Wiggle-waggle and mish-mash
There backpacks about.
Wishes are flying all over the place:
"I wanna go to 5 Below."
"Can I have a sleepover?"
"You said you would get me laptop 3 months ago."
"Can we please stop at 7-11?"
As I speed up the wind
Works like an angel,
Sweeping the sweat off
and cooling down both
My body and brain.
"You're actually going to your mom's today, kids."
"What about our wishes?" asked the kids in choral, melancholic response.
"Postponed due to court ruling," replied Zoltar as he parked in their mom's driveway
Grinning into the golden sun.