Poetry corner

Most of my poems are written in haste,
and therefore resultantly lacking in taste.
Yet people who read them
and think they are fine,
must surely have taste just as lacking as mine.

-Johnny Hart
 
God Guns and Guts

here's another that I did a few years back

I thanked God, for this country that I grew up in, here today.
I thanked him, for those who stood, that I might pray here just this way.
I thanked him, for the guns they had, that help feed our fathers-fore.
For when those guns were needed, they helped drive tyrants from our shores.

I thanked him, for those Boston men, who rose so swift that night.
For all who rose when danger neared, took up arms and stood to fight.
For those who stood, and those who fell, upon our many hallowed battlefields.
Especially for those who sacrificed all, while standing there as our shield.

I thanked God for this great country, that stands like a light upon a hill.
Its great light of personnel freedom, penetrates, oppression's darkness still.
But this great light, has begun to falter, from its steadfast beam of hope.
Not from its enemies abroad, but from those, who should cherish it most!

From those who stand and say, that our right's, are not needed here any more.
From those who would surrender our freedoms, to nations from other shore's.
From those who say in our fellow man. we should place our sacred trust.
From those who have forgotten this land was built on.
God, Gun's, and Gut's.


copyright © 2005 Larry A. Lile
 
My Wife's Father was a North Dakota cowboy who joined the Army in 1940. He fought in No Africa, Italy, and through France and Germany. He received a battlefield commission and was a First Lieutenant when he got out. After the war he returned to No Dakota and bought a ranch. He had passed before I met my wife so I never had the honor of meeting him. During my first visit to the ranch I wrote this.

A RANCH ON THE LITTLE MISSOURI

In the Badlands of North Dakota
on the Nation's northern side,
sits a little cow operation
that taught hard work and pride.

A war-weary hero bought it
right beside the "Little Missouri" stream.
He got right down to a rancher's life
and begin to build his dream.

He worked the hills and coulees
and begin to build his herd.
He built a life and reputation, a man
you could bank on his word.

He was a 'top rail' horseman
and a 'heeler' of renown.
He could rodeo with the best
but look out when he came to town!

He and his school teacher wife
faced life's challenges as they come,
they built a solid ranch operation,
raised three daughters and a son.

Blackie McCutchan is gone now,
like a part of America before.
A Soldier, a Cowboy, a Rancher,
the kind of man they don't make anymore.

He left a ranch operation
and a reputation steeped in pride.
A man from the Badlands of Dakota,
up on America's north side.

frf 9/21/2K8
 
By Walter Porter Ross

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
where the race of men go by,
the men who are good, the men who are bad,
as good or as bad as I
 
Crossing the Bar

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,


But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.


Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;


For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.
 
The Long Ride
by David Alan Trabue 9/11/02


He looked much the same as did me & you until you looked deep in his eyes
And there stirred a hint of his inner secret, a mission built up upon lies.
The lies that were told in the name of a god and the promise of future reward,
The lies that stole hope from a young man's life as they told him to pick up the sword.

And all of the people around him would pay as result of his masters who lied.
The plane headed down to the towers below as he pushed it into the long ride.

The day was so bright and so full of the chance for a better life as she began
her first day at work in the heart of the City, her life going well with her plan.
The 81st floor had a view most would envy, she thought as she set to her task.
For a second she saw him before the plane hit, in the cockpit his face like a mask.

As the white light appeared and her spirit departed it seemed so unfair that she died.
And the rumble began as the tumble of towers took her on that final long ride.

They knew it was desperate men that they faced and the chance almost crazy to take.
Yet they sensed in their hearts that to do nothing else was a choice that they just couldn't make.
Not knowing the plan of the men in the front, they had hints of the chaos around
As a phone in the plane told of towers in flame they went forward to see what they found.

In the cockpit the struggle took place in a minute, the details in history will hide.
But brave ones on board saved a nation more grief as they battled into their long ride.

The nation was shaken and outraged and pained, the numbness took hold right away.
Then decisiveness ruled as the battle was joined and the forces were led to the fray.
We were not just a people of softness and plenty as the enemy soon now would find.
We were strong in our anger and just in our cause and we focused as if of one mind.

Yes, the path we've begun is a new one world wide with the ending unknown til it's tried.
But with faith in the justice of right our companion, we'll boldly begin this long ride.
 
The Village Blacksmith
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
 
It`s really funny ,I never think twice about poetry, but now heres this post and just yesterday I got into a poem. It actually was a song by Lorrena McKennet called the "Highwayman". I don`t know how to post it here, but you can google it if you wish, and you`ll be very glad you did, IT`s great! The lyrics are displayed as she sings and they need to .
 
Last edited:
Gracie's poem

My brother had a female black lab whom he loved so much that he desired to pass on first, rather than have to put down his girl.

In 2004 he passed quietly on his front porch.

I wrote quite a few lines to handle the grief.

Later his wife suggested I write a few lines for the dog.

Gracie's poem

I watched for you today, with my nose against the gate
Where can you be, your truck is here, why are you so late
I need to see you walk to me, I need to lick your face
But you don't come to see me, you've left without a trace
Why have you gone, where can you be, I know you loved me so
We've been together for so long, why did you have to go
My days grow short, my hair is gray,my teeth have turned to yellow
Still I stand here by the gate, looking for my fancy fellow
I was your joy, your favorite dog, we had good times together
Now you're gone, here no more, out in the great forever
 
I used to write a lot when I was a teenager. I wrote this and hung it in my sons room when he was born.
 

Attachments

  • uploadfromtaptalk1396211773283.jpg
    uploadfromtaptalk1396211773283.jpg
    95.4 KB · Views: 13
Jabberwock.jpg


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"


He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.


And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!


One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.


"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
Another one by Lewis Carrol

Jabberwock.jpg


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

by Lewis Carrol

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
 
Here's one I wrote years ago:

The Witch Of Packsaddle Hill
(With heartfelt apologies to Robert W. Service)

There are stories told 'round the campfire's gold,
In the creak of the winter's chill,
Of the radiant face and unholy grace
Of the Witch of Packsaddle Hill.
They speak of her powers in the bone-cold hours
From midnight to frozen dawn,
And tell of her skill to bend a man's will
And relentlessly lead him on.
They mimic her voice, which deprives men of choice
And drives them to die, or to kill,
But they can't match the tones that melt human bones
In the darkness on Packsaddle Hill.
As the fire burns lower the stories come slower
And some look around them in fear,
Afraid that they might in the midwinter night
Feel the perilous lady draw near.
Then each looks inside, where the dark secrets hide,
And assesses his weakness of will,
As he asks to be blessed, lest he not stand the test
Of the Witch of Packsaddle Hill.
And what of the witch, that hellhound bitch,
Who burns in men's minds like a flame?
She's long had her fill of Packsaddle Hill--
Now Sarah Lee is her name.

Mike Adkins
 
I'm a pretty good poet, as noted above, and I love Robert Service's work, but there's another one I have to bring up: Dr. Suess.:D

When I was a kid my Mom used to read the Pale Green Pants and the Sneeches to me. Still have the book. I read it to my kids hundreds of times. I have both memorized. In a few months my first Grandchild is gonna be born. A boy.:cool:

Can't wait to do that all over again.:cool:
Jim
 
Back
Top