Do any of you write poetry?

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Ms. Fox
This is how it is, no more real cowboys. Ranchers can't afford full time cowboys.
There are a lot of part time cowboys, during nutting and brand and roundup;
there are cowboys for a few days, a week or two, then sent back to find city work.

The real cowboys are the son's and daughter's of the rancher: free labor.
There are still real cowboys in the Northwest, their a disappearing breed.

Rodeo cowboys, most are the real deal, brought up on ranchers, working stock
daily, thinking there may be more money in rodeo, and for some-there is.

There are some real cowboys in my world, put they work three days on this ranch,
two days on another, a week here and there.
Men want to be cowboys, but he jobs don't exist.

Cowboy poetry depicts the real life of a cowboys, it not fun and excitement, it freezing your butt off, sweating like a dog, for what. It is what they want to do,
it is their life, there is no other.
 

treeguy64

Hari Om, y'all!
Location
Austin, TX.
I wrote the following when I was around nine. My mom and sister were out, and my sister's typewriter was on her desk. I couldn't resist the temptation:

Death hangs over the old man's bed,
Waiting to inject her shot of infinity.
Witfully, the doctors try to conquer her,
Alas, they to know the outcome.
But does he, as he smiles at his grandson?
Suddenly, a gasp, all is silent.......

And this one:

A joy to be alone,
Ah yes, but then, no.
As on the telephone you talk
you know you'll have to stop
and hear the moan of the wind,
As you wait, wait, wait
for your loved ones to return.

My mom didn't believe that I had written those poems, when she got home. She kept asking me what book they were in. She finally accepted that they were mine, but never encouraged me to keep at it. I think she was a bit freaked out.

I took to songwriting once I started playing bass guitar. One of my tunes made it onto an album, and got local airplay. I did win an award in the old, yearly National Songwriting Competition, decades ago.
 

drifter

Senior Member
Location
Oklahoma
I wrote the following when I was around nine. My mom and sister were out, and my sister's typewriter was on her desk. I couldn't resist the temptation:

Death hangs over the old man's bed,
Waiting to inject her shot of infinity.
Witfully, the doctors try to conquer her,
Alas, they to know the outcome.
But does he, as he smiles at his grandson?
Suddenly, a gasp, all is silent.......

And this one:

A joy to be alone,
Ah yes, but then, no.
As on the telephone you talk
you know you'll have to stop
and hear the moan of the wind,
As you wait, wait, wait
for your loved ones to return.

My mom didn't believe that I had written those poems, when she got home. She kept asking me what book they were in. She finally accepted that they were mine, but never encouraged me to keep at it. I think she was a bit freaked out.

I took to songwriting once I started playing bass guitar. One of my tunes made it onto an album, and got local airplay. I did win an award in the old, yearly National Songwriting Competition, decades ago.
Well, they do sound a bit mature for anine yerar old. I might have thought the same as your mother. Sounds like a whole lot of potential in those
two poems.
 

MarciKS

~♥~
Location
my apartment
My mother wanted to know if I had any that weren't gloom and doom. But darkness is the place I go to when I write. I don't ever need to unload when I'm happy. So this was as close as I could get for her...

TEDDY BEARS
Things teddy bears can't fix
Things far worse than stones or sticks
Teddy bears can cuddle
But, that's far too subtle
Teddy bears are furry
But, life is in too much of a hurry

Teddy bears are there
Life's troubles I can share
But, teddy bears are not the answer
To this lonely dancer
Hearts of peace
Faces of fleece
A teddy bear will never do
When what I really need is you
©2004
 

ronaldj

Member
Location
the Thumb
Contest Entry.

There I sat, perpetual egg on my face,

High brows and thinkers all over the place.

Them in their tweed suits and cute matching neckties.

Me in my bib overalls, swatting away flies.

They read stories that made little since,

With deep seated mystery and lots of suspense.

Feathers were flying when we took the stage,

Literally standing with droppings on my page.

Opened the crate out came my prize rooster,

Someone inquired what’s he to do with Simon and Schuster?

We’re here to win your prize so grand,

As my rooster strutted up and down the stand.

Your entry must contain rhyme and meter,

A story of love nothing is sweeter.

My prize banty is up there with the best.

What? This isn’t the Poultry contest?

Ronald J. Curell

2003
 
BRIGHT-EYED CHILDREN WITH GUNS

Camelot was broken that sixth day in June
And with it, the hopes and dreams of a nation
Divided by war, united in strength
When everyone had something to stand for,
Something to believe in

And the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Destined to grow old before their time
Their manhood halted in the realization
That nothing was the way it had seemed
And it was too late to turn back

For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
One moment a childlike dream of stardom
Idolizing Mickey Mantle and
Collecting baseball cards;
The next moment "Over There," where
"The Vietcong have attacked Danang-
It's a fierce and bloody battle"...

I turned off the radio and worried

For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Absorbing unspeakable nightmares
To carry a lifetime's worth of pain,
The buddy the neighbor blown to bits
Destroyed by his own grenade,
A young life ended like many other
Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Returned home to coffins or lives of torment--
Shells of the boys they had once been

And Barbara laughed.
'They'll all get killed.
That's what they go there for-
To get killed. HA HA HA.'

I said nothing.
I was told his portrait hung at his funeral
Above the closed coffin.
I was told
"They all look the same
In their Dress-Blues."


For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
The hope of a generation, broken,
Shattered minds, lives, and dreams
Of what might have been.
 

Gaer

Senior Member
Original Poster
I wrote the following when I was around nine. My mom and sister were out, and my sister's typewriter was on her desk. I couldn't resist the temptation:

Death hangs over the old man's bed,
Waiting to inject her shot of infinity.
Witfully, the doctors try to conquer her,
Alas, they to know the outcome.
But does he, as he smiles at his grandson?
Suddenly, a gasp, all is silent.......

And this one:

A joy to be alone,
Ah yes, but then, no.
As on the telephone you talk
you know you'll have to stop
and hear the moan of the wind,
As you wait, wait, wait
for your loved ones to return.

My mom didn't believe that I had written those poems, when she got home. She kept asking me what book they were in. She finally accepted that they were mine, but never encouraged me to keep at it. I think she was a bit freaked out.

I took to songwriting once I started playing bass guitar. One of my tunes made it onto an album, and got local airplay. I did win an award in the old, yearly National Songwriting Competition, decades ago.
Awesome!!!
 

Gaer

Senior Member
Original Poster
Contest Entry.

There I sat, perpetual egg on my face,

High brows and thinkers all over the place.

Them in their tweed suits and cute matching neckties.

Me in my bib overalls, swatting away flies.

They read stories that made little since,

With deep seated mystery and lots of suspense.

Feathers were flying when we took the stage,

Literally standing with droppings on my page.

Opened the crate out came my prize rooster,

Someone inquired what’s he to do with Simon and Schuster?

We’re here to win your prize so grand,

As my rooster strutted up and down the stand.

Your entry must contain rhyme and meter,

A story of love nothing is sweeter.

My prize banty is up there with the best.

What? This isn’t the Poultry contest?

Ronald J. Curell

2003
You are so talented!!!
 

Gaer

Senior Member
Original Poster
BRIGHT-EYED CHILDREN WITH GUNS

Camelot was broken that sixth day in June
And with it, the hopes and dreams of a nation
Divided by war, united in strength
When everyone had something to stand for,
Something to believe in

And the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Destined to grow old before their time
Their manhood halted in the realization
That nothing was the way it had seemed
And it was too late to turn back

For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
One moment a childlike dream of stardom
Idolizing Mickey Mantle and
Collecting baseball cards;
The next moment "Over There," where
"The Vietcong have attacked Danang-
It's a fierce and bloody battle"...

I turned off the radio and worried

For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Absorbing unspeakable nightmares
To carry a lifetime's worth of pain,
The buddy the neighbor blown to bits
Destroyed by his own grenade,
A young life ended like many other
Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Returned home to coffins or lives of torment--
Shells of the boys they had once been

And Barbara laughed.
'They'll all get killed.
That's what they go there for-
To get killed. HA HA HA.'

I said nothing.
I was told his portrait hung at his funeral
Above the closed coffin.
I was told
"They all look the same
In their Dress-Blues."


For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
The hope of a generation, broken,
Shattered minds, lives, and dreams
Of what might have been.
That was extraordinary!!!
 

Gaer

Senior Member
Original Poster
My mother wanted to know if I had any that weren't gloom and doom. But darkness is the place I go to when I write. I don't ever need to unload when I'm happy. So this was as close as I could get for her...

TEDDY BEARS
Things teddy bears can't fix
Things far worse than stones or sticks
Teddy bears can cuddle
But, that's far too subtle
Teddy bears are furry
But, life is in too much of a hurry

Teddy bears are there
Life's troubles I can share
But, teddy bears are not the answer
To this lonely dancer
Hearts of peace
Faces of fleece
A teddy bear will never do
When what I really need is you
©2004
I loved that! Keep writing!
 

MarciKS

~♥~
Location
my apartment
sometimes i will write stuff and slap an ~anonymous on it. this is one of those. it's from august of 2014.

WHEN IT HURTS

the bitterness i can taste as you've laid my heart to waste.
with minds full of deceit and mouths full of hate, your task is now complete as you accuse me of being a reprobate.

i am now blinded by pain so severe that your friendship, i no longer revere.
as far as i'm concerned, you can go to hell, as nothing will ever again be well.

 

grahamg

Senior Member
sometimes i will write stuff and slap an ~anonymous on it. this is one of those. it's from august of 2014.
WHEN IT HURTS
the bitterness i can taste as you've laid my heart to waste.
with minds full of deceit and mouths full of hate, your task is now complete as you accuse me of being a reprobate.
i am now blinded by pain so severe that your friendship, i no longer revere.
as far as i'm concerned, you can go to hell, as nothing will ever again be well.​
A good friend of mine had some extremely difficult times in her life before I knew her, and she wrote the blackest, of black poetry whilst in the depths of her own troubles. I lost touch with her and her sons who were my age before she died unfortunately, but she was formidable, as you are! (y).
 

ronaldj

Member
Location
the Thumb
The little church mouse

Hello, my name is Fredrick I’m a church mouse you see…

And no matter who you ask, they think I’m as poor as can be…

Yet that is so far from the truth, as you will soon learn…

Fact is most days I eat so well; I develop bad heartburn…

My house inside the church is a cozy little spot…

Cool in the summer and winter oh so hot….

True I live in a cast off, something someone left behind…

But what can I say its mink fur, and its soft and mighty fine…

Sundays, I eat like a fat rat, not a poor little mouse…

You would think they are feeding five thousand, in this Lords house…

From Sunday potluck suppers, to after sermons brunch…

No reason meals- are plenty we’ll just call it, a get together lunch…

All during the week there are morsels a bounty to be had…

They’ve only a part time janitor, for that I’m mighty glad…

Girl and boys classes serve fresh donuts galore…

And it takes till mid week; to vacuum the classroom floor….

Candy as a verse saying treat, you can count on this…

Kids dropping abound everywhere it’s like a food abyss…

Still my reputation as poor church mouse must stay an urban myth.…

And if you question me otherwise, I’m pleading the fifth…

So worry not about me, I will fend the best I may…

And live like a colossal king each and every day…

The food here is scrumptious, and there is lots left around…

Pie, cookies, or cake heaped with frosting, yellow, red brown…

Don’t forget weddings and funerals or get together that need food…

Enough morsels are left in corners; I don’t even have to be shrewd…

I enjoy being a poor church mouse; it’s not a bad job…

Beats being a lab rat, turning into a glob…

Got to run now my friend, something’s cooking and I think I see the hearse….

Then after dinner some candy spilled from the pastor’s wife’s new purse….

Ronald J. Curell​
 

MarciKS

~♥~
Location
my apartment
A good friend of mine had some extremely difficult times in her life before I knew her, and she wrote the blackest, of black poetry whilst in the depths of her own troubles. I lost touch with her and her sons who were my age before she died unfortunately, but she was formidable, as you are! (y).
Like I said...some of these poems are from the 80s. I was a different person then.
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Mourning Glories

Southern lawns
Manicured
Meticulous

Southern lives
Manicured
Meticulous
Monotonous
I see
sculptured smiles and soft syllables
swimming in hymns of pious praise.
Manicured faith.

Oh, God
Open my heart.
Grace me to be one of your Mourning Glories
blooming
where hurt and sorrow and loneliness meet.
Beauty outside bounds of pristine green.
So vivid and real

I can see and hear the fine folks on Sunday afternoons, sitting on their veranda with their lemonade toasting the quality of their lives, far removed from their daily hypocrisy.

Look, dear isn’t that Miss Marci?
Bless her heart, she was such a sweet girl,
before she became a Pentecostal.
(Subdued laughter
 
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mlh

New Member
The Birthday Party

Candles on the cake burn bright
A 60th birthday, her special night

Friends and loved ones all around
Sing 'Happy Birthday' a joyous sound

Her mind drifts back across the years,
Of heartbreak, loneliness and tears

Where were you when I was home alone ?
No knock on the door no ring of the phone...

Times I would've loved to share
A walk a joke, but no one was there

The party over, "goodnight" they say
"we'll phone, we'll meet for coffee one day"

Empty words, uttered often before
Mean nothing at all to her any more.....
that is so pretty and i can so relate to this
 

charry

Senior Member
Location
UK
Who knows what’s in a lifetime


Never you or I

Living each day as it comes along

And the years go passing by

Then out of the blue our biggest shock

Which nobody could foresee or like

Devastating our life style

A complete change for myself and hubby,

8yrs ago ,have passed since that sad day

But Mike and I have stayed strong

And conquered the demons before Us

Overcame the obstacles as they came along

And now as our love grows stronger

Working together as a team....
 

Treacle

Member
I wrote this many many moons ago and won £50 back in the days :) My grandmother was a real cockney and I just imagined what it would be like when she was out shopping because the small shops knew their customers and customers seemed to know each other. It was a relatively small world then, it seemed that everyone new their neighbours and the people who lived in the street. Most people had lived their lives at the same address for years. Gossip was rife! :)censored: -not)
 

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