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Best Poems Written by Bob Quinn

Below are the all-time best Bob Quinn poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Native Americans

Long before the ships arrived
Bringing European man,
America’s native people
Dwelt here and loved this land.

Great Spirit was the name they had
For the God that nurtured them,
They asked his blessings invoked his name
And sent their dead to him.

They organized in time of need 
To give them strength of numbers,
Co-operation between the tribes
Often numbered in the hundreds.

The concept of nations was known to them
And today you can see it still,
As the bundle of arrows in the Eagle’s claw
On our country's dollar bills.

Their numbers greatly were reduced
By foreign plagues they couldn’t fight.
Then they got a bitter taste 
Of the white man’s technical might.

Tribes died in droves as they fiercely strove
To hold on to their land,
But courage and pride could not decide 
The battle for the doomed red man.



Exile or slaughter was their only choice
In this unequal test of wills,
Lush river camp and forest home
Became rocky barren hills.

Today they languish on reservations
Where life is often bleak,
But some do not accept despair
Their pride they vow to keep.

From a tortured past they have emerged,
And are proud to teach their young
Who they are and what it’s like
To speak their native tongue.

They haven’t lost all their history
Enough survives today
To see themselves as a people again,
And put their culture on display.

A nation healing and on the ascent
With reason to be proud,
As they don their dancing finery
And show it to the crowd

Then you should see them dance !
My stars it’s quite a sight,
When they start to whoop and holler
Your hair stands up in fright.

Yes the tribes are back and I am glad
We didn’t wipe them out,
These original Americans
Still have much to be proud about.

Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2008



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Muse

One of Zeus’s daughters
has been whispering in my ear,
so quietly and soft
she must be very near.

Her unexpected presence
to leave a word or clever phrase,
is genuinely welcome
because for them, I get the praise!

People tell me that I’m good
and I smile contentedly,
waiting for the muse again
and the words she’ll leave for me.

Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2006

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Immigrant



The dark and moonless night at sea
reflected well his mood,
from where he stood out by the rail
the ship seemed not to move.

He was gazing far away
into years gone by,
where there resided youthful joy
to recapture if he’d try.

He wore a paper around his neck
dangling on a string,
three letters there made an acronym
and such horror they did bring.

Put there by an officer
blue uniformed and stern,
because he had no documents
to his homeland…. he must return.

Turned away the very day
he landed on the island,
 destitute and paperless
being denied asylum.

He watched the statue fade astern
after seeing her rise at dawn,
a goddess from the sea of hope
and all of his was gone.

The tag he wore about his neck
was his last and final doom,
WOP spelled “none for me.”
as he stood there in the gloom.

“With Out Papers” the letters meant
said the officer who put them on,
America’s milk and honey
was not for everyone.

Hustled back aboard the ship
without the means to pay,
no bunk no cabin or meals to eat
on deck all night and day.

His homeland would not welcome him
he was on the wrong side of their fight,
dispossessed and on the run
returning filled him with fright.

With only one place left to go
he was filled with true regret,
but the decision was an easy one
so over the side he leapt. 

His body washed up on the shore
not uncommon for Ellis island,
there he was buried for eternity
finally finding his asylum.



















Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2013

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American Summer

Big straw hat and cut off jeans
with boondockers on his feet
shirtless with shades and a can of beer
a redneck is beating the heat

He joins his son in the kiddie pool
filled with the garden hose
keeping cool is easy for him
he just wears fewer clothes

He has airconditioners in his truck
both rolled all the way down
the kids and dog ride in back
when they drive on into town

When the lawn is mowed he watches Cops
and he's still in love with his wife
no college degree is required
to improve his quality of life

He's an Army vet and a Christian
and votes mostly Democrat
his pay goes for just what he needs
and he's perfectly happy with that

Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2006

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Somewhere Somebody



Obsolete is the byword
that keeps us buying anew,
products that last forever
simply would never do.

Paydays come in many forms
some junk is another’s treasure,
so creating problems to be solved
makes sense by the repairman’s measure.

There are industries of industry
who perpetuate themselves,
flooding markets with one thing
keeping others on the shelves.

This breeds the disingenuous cause
of saboteurs and fixers,
spawning each other endlessly
pitting inventors against the nixers.

Exhaust pipes made of mild steel
rust out and fail routinely,
planned obsolescence creating need
proving the point supremely.

Somewhere somebody is planting a bug
in my computer or my lung,
where a technician or a doctor
gets paid to see it undone.

And somewhere somebody is saying a prayer
to stop this insanity,  
of misguided and opportunistic
cannibalization of ingenuity.


Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2013



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TV

Television’s unblinking eye 
is mesmerizing us,
addicting, time wasting, unhealthy
why is no one making a fuss?

I guess because we love it
entertaining us all,
setting us up with frivolity
before we take the fall.

Despite it’s informative content
it isolates each one,
sitting alone to watch the tube
thinking we’re having fun.

Sated with others opinions
molding us big brother’s way,
leading us into submission
deeper every day.

There is nothing for us to do
just sit right there and enjoy,
the broadcasters have some clever people
deviously in their employ.

Spoon fed mindless pap
till we don’t know right from wrong,
led by the nose to the fleecing
amid the unsuspecting throng.

Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2006

Details | Bob Quinn Poem

Working Herd





My pride is not of presidents
their monuments or halls,
I’m proud of the nation’s people
the working class with balls.

Owned forever by the bank
with interest rates so cruel,
looking in the showrooms
at things that make them drool.

Clothes are off the rack
never owning a new car,
taking home a case of beer
not drinking in a bar.

Watch the news with interest
voting their pocketbook,
high falooten nonsense
doesn’t get a second look.

America’s bone and muscle
with values of common sense,
standing firm on issues
not sitting on the fence.

I’ve been proud for centuries
of the farmer and the clerk,
knowing the ethic of America
is succeeding with hard work.




Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2013

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DAV

BTK is a club they join
it means "below the knee"
one of the less horriffic states 
of being an amputee

The price that's paid by many troops
on battlefields 'round the globe
uniforms of camoflauge
become pajamas and a robe

They learn a whole new language
prosthetics is their word
introducing them to a world
of things they wish they'd never heard

Taking their courage far afield
to keep the enemy from our shore
losing the bloom of youth and health
surrendered up forevermore

We should be proud of these disabled Vets
they stood willing to give it all
now incomplete, missing arms and feet
after answering their nation's call

Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2006

Details | Bob Quinn Poem

Fragmentation



Apartment dwelling strangers
who never stop to talk,
don’t know the people living
a few doors down the block.

They nod hello while driving by
but never know my name,
somehow I get the feeling
it’s all a terrible shame.

Our insular existence
strikes me as really weird,
as if the nearby neighbor
is someone to be feared.

Co=dependent for nothing
without a single bond,
don’t know if he is fair or dark
 a redhead or a blonde.

He has a noisy dog though
a mutt that barks all night,
I thought about complaining
but didn’t want to fight.

Who is this man I live near
this stranger with a dog.
can he be a big wheel 
or just a minor cog?

Is he also curious
does he wonder about me,
or is he just concerned with
what is playing on TV?

Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2013

Details | Bob Quinn Poem

Needing Each Other


Just a look or gentle touch
a hug, a kiss or more,
anything to prevent them 
going out the door.

Deny, refuse, disbelieve
the magic that is there,
drawing together people
causing us to care.

Sentenced then to loneliness
worse by far than death,
the pain of separation grows
with every labored breath.

The answer makes the world go ‘round;
sweet gentle kiss of love.
Essential for humanity
bestowed by God above.



Copyright © Bob Quinn | Year Posted 2012

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