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Best Poems Written by Trey Pearson

Below are the all-time best Trey Pearson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

All An Illusion

All an illusion

It's all an illusion.
No matter where I am, I am alway just,
sitting there. Unaware, with a blank stare messy hair
and probably the same clothes that I always wear.
Wrangler jeans, and a button up, sleeved. (period)
Because, I hate T-shirts.
Hate them!
In fact, I'd be fine if they all just disappeared!
Into thin air. I'm serious.
the plague, wasting, predators, or aliens came to take em!
They'd say.
Or they inbred too much,
and their lineage diminished
intelligence forsook em.
Gene pool plummeted
they became disoriented, wrangled and out-competed
and just sort of drifted away,
They'd say,
it was probably believing everything they see on the news.
That led to their doom.
That, and marrying too young, having litters,
of far more than they could possibly support on their wage!
Stupid T-Shirts
And later, when documentaries are made on why their society caved.
they'd say in five languages: “Stupid T-shirts”
You'll see em today, at the Walmart or on display in friendly glass cases,
With nothing but idiotic slogans, and quotes from bad movies
“That's what she said”
Or some sort of shark-cat reaching with fangs and claws up at
a bikini wearin slice of pizza...
They call it “Paws”
Myself, I'd rather be shirtless in a game of seven card stud.
I'd rather be seen strung up dangling by my hair parasailing through Canadian Territory,
and mistaken for a chipmunk. Covered in varmints blood, Or spend my weekend servin sweet tea to
Donald Judd.
Than even be seen wearing one.
No dignity in em,
Just picture Grant, Lee or even Sam Houston
Wearing a shirt with an arrow
That reads:
“I'm with Stupid”

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

Annies Gun

“Never trust your life behind a cheap gun”
- Annie Oakley

Annie, has a heavy heart.
But also a light heart
	one that shines in the sun.
and regardless light or dark,
Annie’s bright heart will spark
	and spin out a round, whistling like a song being sung. 
With only moments notice, 
	before most prepare to know it
She showcases its essence in one single sentence.
But a statement to render us speechless
Pierced as a whole. 
All of us she reaches.
Standing there alone 
with her gun.

She splits a playing card at 90 yards 
without care.
Plugs a nickle in the middle 
flipping through the air,
and with a single shot, puts out a candle flame
	without disturbing wax a drop.

The hammer and trigger are stock, 
and cherry is the handle. 
Handmade, crafted, shaped
	like herself, to perform in dust and rain. 
Tooled as a saddle and Gold washed in a barrel.
But Annie's gun is a mystery. 
And what's more 
when she points her heart towards anything
or chooses to use it for our amusement
Her targets are always attained.

Somehow by her grit, grip and will,
we're left in awe, and even a little afraid
of Annie's heart of iron and steel.

Afraid of the way, she owns the stage. 
Holds and keeps her gaze on the straight away,
as we ourselves stare down the sight
she'll let fly the first of bullets loaded that day
With five more, soon on the way

“Never trust your life behind a cheap gun”
she'd say.

And each round fired off
takes us back to a younger age.
The image of the dying past, laying to final rest,
The old west
and the way things used to be.

To see those cards split at the neck of the king.
Lit cigarettes gently whisked away
from the lips of her husband, sitting
blindfolded, or asleep
She alone stands with Sitting Bull,
A dying breed.

For us watching those bottles break
Our hearts too, shatter as much as they
having never seen such a scene
as we've seen today 
they scatter 
with the ashes in the breeze.

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

The Lucky Ones

Lucky ones

Your pay is to break, to hurt, be bent and stink,
 the bank is your body, selling labor the means.

A wage is a a wave of dread 
	for the very dinner on your plate.
Again with the pinto beans. 

You vacation is those times you wait 
for the sun to rise as you make the rounds late 
riding the night shift, freezing.

Your pension, getting to work all day in the heat
	off no sleep, blistering in your seat
every day's a holiday.

Your bonus is getting bucked of your saddles surface
and to land on your behind in a pile of cactus.
To ride back through the outfit, too afraid to mention
those spines in your briches,
	Cuz they'll tease you relentless.
 
So instead grinding your teeth worse
 than the dentist would (if you ever went),
And looking for the pliers, trust that someone equally useless
left them out on the fence. 

Your tenure is deserved when you're about ten years deep 
and have been nearly trampled by either the horse 
you straddle, or stampede of cattle
and that you've attained the sheer honor 
to fear your own defeat.
When you've learned  of your mortality, the hard way
and are still riding for a brand that still stands for something.

You are the lucky ones
and the rest of us shallow,
YOU, born into what's been before, now, and tomorrow so valued
But not in medallions or even thousands of cattle
But lucky just to fit the picture perfect as you search through the rubble
	Like you chanced to stumble on the thing we all wanted so badly 
		But in the moment, couldn't tell. 

You're lucky to huddle freezing to your own spiddle  
	Bucked and thrust right into the pictures of ol' Charlie Russle
Painted to land on your feet with your boot heels in the saddle. 
	You are the lucky ones, the ones, the few who still work cattle. 

In this modern daze, where most would think beef and cellophane
are somehow related, and want only to pay a dollar per steak. 
As if entitled or somehow deserved, leaves most of the rest of us 
sheer out luck
     - on the brink of being famished.
Because only the rare few actually get to ride in search of an angus.

You are the lucky ones, Just to work them
the richest elite it seems to me, that get to hurt like
our grandparents did before us
And to chase them with a purpose
Rather than purposefully running them off,
and not wanting to know or watch from where dinner is served
Like we're afraid 
that even having them near
will cost an arm and a leg.

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

Walk Your Line

Walk your Line 

A word to the blind:
From the day your first mount and ride
Till the moment you die
Walk your line
Walk proud and high
Through each and every wreck your stride unwinds
Walk your whole heart
spine upright
till it breaks if you like
But drink the whole pint down
and with an appetite for burning in the stirrups
See if you can swallow the time. 

Walk, right away from your childhood dreaming
lay it beneath your feet in caliche
And when you're yearning most to tie on a tourniquet 
Telling yourself you deserve it
stay in line, as you're not entitled to anything. 
Never more a burden then when asking for money
and worthless for thinking of quitting
cuz there's nothing in the world worth half it's weight 
unless for it you're bleeding. 

Your life's only worth your life's work
the grinding gears in your temple, spinning
Always on time, you can count on it 
strides lengthening
but despite it all you'll walk well beyond all you thought
you'd get
When you first agreed to begin
When for what you signed on for you've nearly forgot
Some crockpot reason to pursue a living 
in what to most is only a vacant lot
You'll have to walk to the empty spot on the map
just past where your mom and dad had given up. 

And then keep walking
Bypassing your own bragging rights stopped dead in their tracks
and all parts plastic inside you have snapped in half
In fact, you'll soon be worn so far past the point of no return 
to think you were actually born on its welcome doormat.

Everything is past the big fancy hat
walk, before your feet get frozen, stuck to the bar 
for something more than can be bought no matter who you are
To be the one who takes it this far
and to become the soul of the man
as if you've finally landed – working for the homeland
Riding for the brand, cuz you were given a single chance
And walk for the credit of at least one loop correctly cast
and for the wisdom of knowing if and when to turn em back
or hang on for dear life like you've dallied your own hand. 

And stick by the very skin of your big toenail, as you pitch in the norther winds
just trying to send you clear to rock bottom
and only then, they might not prevail.

So go on out, the time is now
Walk high and proud, and take a breath in town
then keep being the nail, always driving deeper down
never quit walking the sacred ground you're standing on now

If you think you love that gal.

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

Victims

I Pity you
For what you had to do
for what desperation, poverty and despair drove you to.
What lack of education, dangerous situations
and complex cross-cultural relations
awoke in you.
You, are the victims far more that we.
No matter what to us you do.
We, suspected all along it was you.
But you didn't think not to make it so obviously true?
Muddy footprints, dirty dishes in the sink as we had taught you to do,
you even swept up the glass and took things hidden in places that only you knew!
Calling cards left as clear as if with stroke of a pen, would have taken more effort
for us, to figure out who it had been..
And to think of this when,
we were all seated around this same table, with cabrito saying grace
back then was ludicrous.
That three later years you'd be kicking in the doors to steal from the house you were raised.
The notion still feels ridiculous.
Did you do it to set the record strait?
Exact revenge? Or, as I speculate
To build your resume to get in with the local gang.
Whatever your motives the cold hard truth I fear,
is that for you, there's no turning back from here.
From what you've now created for yourselves,
We are powerless to help.
There's only the road ahead, and the hands of it waiting to be dealt.
And the truth of it stings, as the letter that burnt William Sycamore's hand
saying that his sons were dead.
Our loss is the same.
Only not in the things from us you stole,
but to know that we've lost you
to the turbulence, and violence
of nuestra Mexico.

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

In the Thick

In the Thick

And so, 
	submerged
	By the shadows spun from its trunk
like its leaves the threads of a dripping silk bandana
in a water trough, dunked
cutting back the heat and exhaust
Like iron. Quieting by charm
The blaring noise of the sun
	`for just a moment.

An there,
	Still, shadows upon the backing slopes
	Of baking stone and grass
A-lurking beneath them all
	waiting and collecting as droplets
		Where each time he beds down 
Rises and floods the draw.
Shadows running through the cracks of mud
	Shade out of reach as the rainbows end.
And huddled beneath the words 
	Of my own heart.

But while,
	On the ground, fading in and out
	Do these words seem to rise out
Pointed and formidable
	Chosen to be found
Like a rusty old rowl
Clipped when smashed against
the shade makers bough
A century before now.

And here,
In this thicket of weeds
Beneath this tired old mesquite
	This late afternoon
Whereupon any other
I might uncover a different sentence structure
After I ride up and tie up
	pull the latigos loose
		To shade up beneath it
As an old wore-out cow might do
Acting as though these ideas are as original and new
As writing
:Sometimes this life is too good to be true.

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

The Concert

The Concert


In a crowded concert hall musicians stir.
Coming to life, the wind slowly swings a loose screen door.
Half a mile away, the wide open door is but a dot
Diminishing the darkness from the heavens above.
Through, shines a spotlight
a single stalactite of the sun;

A note sweeps across the hall, amidst the chattering of insects.
Hearts pound, fists clench and tremble, 
In the desert, heat shimmering carries a whimpering,
awaiting the breaking of drought.
Cumulous swirls.  Dust. Blackened bunches of grass swept free from war hardened roots.
The orchestra tunes. A rolling clap echoing off cliff and canyon walls.
Demanding attention. The Chaotic warm-up decrescendos, 
falling away and the now darkened hall waits in silence.

The conductor, lifts one hand gingerly,
mirroring the gods, lightly commanding the elements.
First violinist appears and bows dutifully.
Taking her seat in the company.
Then, slowly, painfully, music begins.
Soft as down, distant, slow.
All ears crane to catch the first drops lightly falling on sweltering desert stone.
A simple melody, yet boldly wrote
to saturate. Composed solely to touch the lives of those who know.
Picking up speed, loose and free, diving harmonies lifting morale, settling dreams.
Running down trunks and off limbs
dancing down canyons, pattering on tin
Lathering every pattern, every page and music stand
Note and instrument
There, for all in the dim to see
The resounding proof 
of a hope that literally floats on the breeze.  

Then, brass unwrap mutes and salute,
with percussive cracks, pounding the steaming ground.
Strings float in and out in torrents, near, far, wave after wave.
A thousand voices breaching and expanding beyond the horizon.
Surpassing the sun's intensity.
Then, lightning flashes coda and the final cadence booms.

Uproarious applause.

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

Gods Country

Gods Country

Gods country as a whole
Is a whole country united
A whole continent un-subdivided
Without senseless violence
In any shape or form.
Unlined
with barbed wire strung tight
Spanning the Pacific to the Atlantic.
Simultaneously
 all of it, and none of it 
private.

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

Daybreak

Daybreak

Desert sun, caress this mountain flat.
Rise and warm, push darkness back.
Engage the Earth, embrace it
for your own names sake,
Awaken the shapes and colors
That daybreak creates.

Establish the season
Wind up clock, cut through the mist 
and shine on my stock,
From molten ash, to ignited sea
sending un-reined light, running wild and free
stampeding flame, unshod and untamed
spirited illusions from fusion burning so far away

Dappled, green, or splashed fiery red,
Mains of blue flame and hooves of hot led,
Escaping confinement, seeping through, heating the blinds
Encroaching and passing yet evoking nowhere to hide.
But to rid all the world of coldness and dark.
As the fires of spring gleam,
Through open eyes of the heart.

Give us this day, if even the last,
Hold the sorrows of tomorrow
and roll yesterday back
So that when it appears I'll be wed to the sight,
The softest beams of gold and white.
And made as one, in light of day 
amongst the lost to light the way.

You see,
All of the above and the shadow of death, 
are all wrapped into one.
The Sun, our greatest asset.
For that, I'll be waiting riding high on the plain,
Tipping my hat to the sky,

“It's good to see you again”

Details | Trey Pearson Poem

Out Riding

I have seen,
Time and time again, our rise and fall
But not what passes between. 
However, my reflection stays the same. 
As I ride through the brush and green mesquite
Late in the evening. 

And while the sun goes,
Spilling the sights, and casting shadows far in their elongated flight
Jetting towards the night
High above and below alike, 
another day is reclaimed by the west. 

And, within that balance struck
from up on a horses back 
lies behind the creaking tack
a way, past the minutia.
A place, where nights and days fade 
for the fluid movements between them. 

And so, begins a subtle breeze
	I hadn't noticed it before it had already past me
As if a response to the sun-day's sending 
gleaming rings like tangerine
And facing the applause I pause to watch
the wind run fingers through the hairlike grass
A tender act, quite loving in fact
As if this moment they share
along with a deep sadness to part.

However, they must know that the spring cannot begin
without either of them both
and so the grass and wind promise to unite again 
when the time is right.

No fear of the night
and heedless of their most distant dreams
Deepest sleeps
or even faced with the stark differences their lives have seen
	To find each-other, no matter the cold
and never let go
	of knowing high hopes can lead
to things far larger than them both. 

	-And perhaps someday 
		So will I.