Short Dust Bowl Poems

Oklahoma 
	electric blue skies,
	sun and wild winds
	tragic black dirt clouds 
	sand sifting through cracks 
	dry stalks
	bones - only bones 
	California...

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The earth now dry and cracked, like shattered glass upon the floor
Clouds hover over the mountains, refusing to cross the plain
Earth begs, then in resignation turns to dust and blows away...

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somber handsome Marlboro man on a painted stallion
a mirage has appeared in the dust bowl wearing chaps
his worn Stetson is pulled low,
he outshines the cover of a juicy romance novel
I do not know his name but he takes my breath away
he rides to the west...

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I promise dust devil
I will clean my soul
Yours truly
Worth waiting for lighthouse
Harvest
Moonbeams glow
Shining divided light
And when I get over
The dust bowl
I'm gonna vacuum 
The spirit clouded erosion
I Cry as it rains in dust valleys 
Truly yours
Harvest

12/9/19
Written word by James Edward Lee Sr  2019...

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The plains soil had turned dry
No rains made the crops die 

Red dust was everywhere 
That just made the land bare 

The harm they did not see 
Dry farm way was the key 

How to farm they knew not 
Winds blew away the lot.


Written 1st of July 2020. 
For Verses In Essence - 8 Lines Poetry Contest. 
Sponsored By Joseph May....

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Dust Bowl


Dust sifted through the dry wooden slats of the now empty homes.  No sunrise serenade nor rustle of flowing wheat greeted the parching sunrise.  Footprints long erased, carried on the wind of arid dreams, mistakes that scarred both hearts and soil. 



no sustenance here
greed’s empty bowl of dust
bent sunflowers mourn


John G. Lawless
7/12/2015...

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A blessed soul has won a role, The Prince of Peace,
Of noble birth, a novice born a blue-blood,
Pontificate average those brevities,
Stemmed full of thorns wrangled beneath his rosebud.

Won The Papal States, Mona Lisa smiled, lost,
His tenure was mired in doubts--parts that he crossed,
A scorned tag as unfortunate of the popes,
A Florentine, a Medici, useless hopes....

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Solo-standing
                    brazen star
at
    the break
of illustrious
dawn.

Lucrative nights
pass
        over
in dust bowl haze.

Senses combusted
back to the
ooze
       of
birth.

Lay to rest
                the atrocities
of monotonous
                      livelihood.

The wait, the waiting
wait, wait, boredom
Waiting for life and death
Pressure, allegiance
disintegrated  
                   through
manual
stimulation....

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It’s been sixty six days; still no rain
The crops are all burning up again

Year after year without enough rain
Everyone who lives here feels the pain

Hundreds are giving up, I’ve been told
Back East they call us the Big Dust Bowl

Then without warning the clouds turn gray
A steady heavy rain came our way 

The drought had ended it “no rain” strike
This water from the heavens was like
 
Angels descending, bring from above, 
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love...

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