Porch Poems
by
Tracy Farr
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Published By
Porch Poems
Copyright 2014 Tracy Farr
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Introduction
Writing poetry is a lot harder than it looks.
You'd think you could pop out a dozen or so a night just by putting together some words that rhyme, or at least come close to rhyming, but that's not the case.
Good poetry needs guile to elevate it to a higher poetic standard, and a sense of guile takes time to develop.
The first time you went fishing, you probably scared all the fish away because you were too young, too noisy, and too impatient to have developed any measure of guile. The fish saw you coming, booked a flight to Reno and left you by the bank swatting mosquitoes.
Eventually you learned to sneak up, drop the bait, keep quiet, and wait. And you were rewarded with at least a brim or two.
Poetry guile is the same as fisherman guile. If you want to write an acceptable poem about fishing, you just can't walk up and write:
I've been wishing, wishing, wishing,
To go fishing, fishing, fishing.
Too obvious.
You've got to say it in a way the readers don't understand what the heck you're talking about until the very last moment when they do.
The summer breeze
rippled across the still waters
like a scene from Macbeth,
where the longing of manly deeds,
like fishing, perhaps,
waited to be done.
See what I mean?
Guile!
I’d like to thank my wife, my three kids and multiple cats for their support in this artistic endeavor. Their acceptance of my constant hours of porch sitting, without getting upset that I wasn’t around much when the dishes needed washing and the yard needed mowing, helped me find poetry just waiting for me outside my front door.
A special thanks to former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins for writing poetry that is fun to read and easier to understand than Shakespeare. His work inspired me (Bill's, not Will's). I hope I have followed his example.
Tracy Farr
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Straight Flying
I was lounging on the porch this morning,
coffee cup in hand,
when a Little Yellow butterfly flitted
over my feet
and disappeared
around the corner of the house,
only to flit back a few minutes later
the same way it came.
Butterflies seem incapable
of travelling in straight lines,
but if one ever could,
I’m sure it would fly off to the mailbox,
then down the gravel road to the next pasture,
through the barbed-wire fence,
past the herd of Guernsey cows,
over the round bales of hay,
follow FM 149 to the next county,
buzz the old limestone courthouse,
fly well above the tree tops
to swim in the sun for awhile,
then shoot a straight line down the coast
to the Florida Keys,
out to the Bahamas,
Jamaica, the Virgin Islands,
and spend the rest of its short life
lounging on some exotic porch,
sipping on hibiscus and bougainvillea
while dreaming of being a pirate.
* * *
Some Things You Should Never Forget
I forgot today was Wednesday.
I was so busy with my own doings –
take a shower,
brush my teeth,
comb my hair,
dress in matching colors,
put on shoes,
fix my lunch,
check my pockets for wallet,
pocketknife, phone,
spare change, chewing gum,
find my keys,
time to go,
do I have everything?
Yes, I think so.
Down the driveway,
off to work,
don't be late –
that it never occurred to me
it was Wednesday.
Trash pickup day.
Oops.
* * *
The Truth About Poems
Poems are cats
that never come when called
(unless food is involved)
and then
dart out the door,
disappearing
into the night.
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Front Porch Haiku
The breeze off the lake
is Lyle Lovett cool and soft.
This old porch feels it.
Get out the guitar.
Let's make Willie Nelson proud.
"Crazy" in B-flat.
Playing the old songs
On a six-string hand-me-down.
Grandpa’s hands to mine.
I love the night sky.
Moon, stars, planets, Milky Way.
Astro-smorgasbord.
Spicy meal, cold beer,
good friends around the table.
Later, 42.
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I Went to Write a Poem
I went to write a poem
but a song slipped out
and skipped
across the meadow
looking for dandelions
and butterflies.
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Six-String Guitar
Me and my pony are riding out west,
We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best
Little six-string guitar that my money can buy.
Get along, little doggies, get along.
They say I was born in a wild winter storm,
My mother did bundle me up to keep warm
With a blanket of wool and a buffalo hide.
Pa did his best keeping wood on the fire.
My mother she’d sing me to sleep every night,
She’d sing me of cowboys, such sweet lullabies
Of the trails they did ride o’er the mountains and plains.
Pa drank his coffee and fiddled while she sang.
Me and my pony are riding out west,
We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best
Little six-string guitar that my money can buy.
Get along, little doggies, get along.
I was raised in the saddle, I was raised wearing spurs,
I was raised roping cattle and tending the herd.
I had me some schoolin’ like all children do,
I learned how to read and to write my name, too.
I went on my first drive when I was just twelve,
Rode two hundred miles on the old Western Trail.
We cowboy’d all day and we hit the hay late,
But Cookie made sure we had beans on the plate.
Me and my pony are riding out west,
We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best
Little six-string guitar that my money can buy.
Get along, little doggies, get along.
I don’t drink much whiskey, I much prefer beer,
I cuss just a might ‘cept when women are near.
When I promise to do something, I see it through,
‘Cause that’s what a good, honest cowboy should do.
I don’t know how long I’ll be riding these trails,
I hope just as long as all horses have tails,
But if I do meet a pretty gal dressed in pink,
I’m chuckin’ my saddle and spurs in a wink.
Me and my pony are riding out west,
&n
bsp; We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best
Little six-string guitar that my money can buy,
Get along, little doggies, get along.
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Twitterings, Part I
Got nothing witty to say.
Sippin’ on a coffee.
Listenin’ to the crickets.
My poison ivy’s cleared up.
Just slapped a mosquito.
Old rusty Ford flareside
with one flat tire forever
resting in the driveway
enjoying this cool Texas evening.
Just him and me.
I don’t care
if my blue metal chair
is old and rusted;
it’s trusted,
and sits in an honorable place.
Sunday is a mug of hot coffee
sitting next to the morning paper,
not touching,
but engaging in some serious eye contact.
God shouldn’t expect us in church
when He provides us with
a cool summer morning,
a hot cup of coffee,
and a porch.
I’m being lazy today.
I was lazy yesterday but I kept it to myself.
Today I feel like sharing.
My old grandpa would say,
"It's hard to hate a man
who knows how to make
good coffee
and sourdough biscuits."
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Housework
I feel like such a lazy father,
watching my teenage daughter
skip around the house
doing house work like a new hobby,
straightening wobbly
knickknacks and whatnots,
cleaning cabinets and countertops,
sweeping floors
and dusting all manners
of surfaces and curios.
.
Yesterday she folded
washed shirts,
washed dishes,
washed windows and swept
away cobwebs from the porch –
the same cobwebs
I’d been meaning to sweep away
for weeks.
And who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Maybe she’ll plant
a tomato garden,
unclog the gutters,
or change the truck’s oil.
Replace the filter
in the house air conditioner,
or build a tool shed out back.
There’s really no telling.
And that’s why
I feel like such a lazy father,
watching my teenage daughter
skip around the house
doing housework,
while I sit on the porch
writing this poem.
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I’ll Have a Cup of Joe
A cup of coffee was just fine
when you could have one for a dime,
but now it costs three bucks and up.
Oh, how I miss my 10-cent cup.
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The Trouble With Men
The trouble with men is we don't ask for help.
I know this for certain, I'm one of the lot.
When losing our way in a foreign location,
we won't ask directions no matter the cost.
We’d rather drive circles all over the town,
than stop at a store and admit to a clerk
that we’ve made a mistake and we’re all turned around.
So we drive ‘til it drives our whole fam’ly berserk.
Take cars, just for instance, if they blow a rod,
or something is leaking all over the ground,
we’ll open the hood even though we are clueless.
It makes us feel better and look quite profound.
But you and I both know we haven’t an inkling
what spark plugs and camshafts do. Really, it’s true.
Still, we will look keenly and grunt complex noises
‘cause that’s what a manly mechanic would do.
When it comes to plumbing, a man’s inclination
is to bring out the wrenches and hammers and such,
then bang on the pipes ‘til small leaks become torrents
that flood entire houses. Me kidding? Not much.
But women don’t worry ‘bout dialing professionals
to fix a wee leak, and to not would be dumber
than men who are trying to fix broken toilets
with duct tape instead of just calling a plumber.
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Texas Haiku
Fancy boots don’t scoot
through Texas dirt like old ones
baptized in hard work.
Mornings chilled and served
over hot treeless prairies.
Texas a la mode.
I sweat wind and dust.
The Brazos flows through my veins.
My soul sings Texas.
I’ve been to LA
once was one time too many.
Texas suits me fine.
Texas hot is hot.
Not like some Midwest baking.
Caliente, hot.
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Hammer and Nails
I'll never understand
how a man can,
with two hands,
hammer a home together
on his own land
and move in,
turn on the stove,
grill some burgers,
watch the game on ESPN,
drink a beer or two,
call it a night,
head to bed
and sleep like a baby,
while his wife worries how long it will take
before the whole thing comes tumbling down.
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Twitterings, Part II
I love putting on a brand new day,
tucking it in,
and letting time smooth out all the wrinkles.
Power’s out,
got candles burning.
Storm outside,
that rain keeps pouring.
Freight train come, let’s hop aboard.
Gone to see my baby.
And when the Lord opened the heavens,
rain filled the septic tanks
and there was no flushing
for 40 days and 40 nights.
Noon courthouse chimes
play harmony to my radio’s Dvorak.
The grackles keep time the best they can,
which is not at all.
I ain’t no saint or prophet,
just a poor cowboy
with pockets full of empty poetry.
Kids today.
They don’t know what it’s like
to play outside,
fall asleep in the grass,
have Uncle Harry burn off ticks with a lit cigar.
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Love My Willie
Love my Willie,
yes I do,
Love my Willie,
how 'bout you?
Love my Willie
day and night,
Love my Willie,
he's alright.
Love my Willie
stoned or not,
drinking whiskey,
smoking pot.
Love my Willie's
ponytail,
in or out of
county jail.
Love my Willie
he's the man.
When he can't do it...
... God will cry tears over Texas.
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I Discovered Billy Collins
I discovered Billy Collins last Thursday.
He was standing behind a microphone. God knows how long he’d been there.
Just waiting.
Waiting, I suppose, for me to make eye contact so he could begin – and be discovered.
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Litany began it all, followed by The Lanyard, Some Days, and To My Favorite 17-Year-Old High School Girl.
There were many others, but those were the first.
I bought some of his books.
Doesn’t matter which ones.
I was hooked.
I liked his poetry.
I liked HIM.
I could understand what he was saying without a college English professor's interpretation.
Or a handful of Tylenol.
And he didn’t seem to be angry about anything.
Anger seems to hold a lot of weight in “serious” poetry.
Anger, love, dying and death, the death of love, being angry about not being able to revive a love that is deceased.
And drinking.
Lots of drinking in poetry.
Drinking, drugs and loose women.
But not Collins.
You can’t classify Collins as an angry drunk young man bent on changing the world with words that either rhyme or don’t, in a way that will make YOU angry enough to drop some acid and chase loose women – poetically speaking, of course – because he’s not all that young.
He’s more like your favorite Uncle Richard, if you have a favorite Uncle Richard.
Quiet, but funny; bald, but distinguished; would give you the last beer in the fridge and then go out and buy some more.
Prefers hockey over football, and can cook a mean brisket.
Billy Collins.