Billy, to those of us who know him well.
Us who knew him before he was discovered.
When he was just standing behind a microphone, waiting patiently for his turn.
* * *
Survival tip for those who enjoy riding
a motorcycle throughout the winter
You --
Thermal underwear,
wool socks,
riding boots,
trousers,
rain pants,
snow pants,
shirt,
sweater,
leather jacket,
rain jacket,
glove inserts,
snow machine mittens,
balaclava,
helmet.
-- Frostbite
* * *
Cowboy Haiku
Chuckwagon dinner
bell rings the boys in for chow
time and relaxing.
This old pair of boots
knows its way around the place.
With or without me.
December shadow
walking the fence line with me.
I hum, he listens.
Biscuits and gravy,
sausages, bacon, coffee.
My Breakfast Dream Team.
* * *
Around My House and Again
I oftentimes walk around my house
just to see what’s new,
what’s budding,
dying,
what holes dug by nightly visitors,
what webs weaved by garden spiders.
I oftentimes walk around my house
and again, multiple times,
like the days of the week
which blend together over time,
like months passing,
wondering how I forgot to pay
the electricity bill on time,
like seasons coming and going
and is it Christmastime already?
I oftentimes walk around my house
like the earth around the sun,
the sun around the galaxy,
the galaxy around a universe
filled with living beings,
I hope,
all meandering through tall purple grass
that surrounds their alien homes,
wondering what part they play
in the grand scheme of life.
I oftentimes walk around my house.
Today I stopped in the backyard
and watched a dandelion
go supernova.
* * *
Sunday Morning
Rain.
Cool Breeze.
Drink my coffee.
Sitting on porch chair.
Watching the birds play tag.
Puddles filling to almost overflowing.
My coffee's getting colder and colder.
Not sure if sun will shine today.
But that's okay for right now.
I'm in a lazy mood.
And happy for once.
Got no worries.
Must pee.
Goodbye.
* * *
Twitterings, Part III
This old guitar
is just wood and strings,
except on days when it’s so much more.
Music is a combination of
math,
science,
pepperoni pizza
and free pitchers of ice-cold beer
on a good night.
Sweet tea in a mason jar.
Cool breeze over the porch.
Banjo pickin’ like soft rain on a tin roof.
I’m rich enough.
Sipping on coffee
and watching a sunrise so pretty,
I’d ask her to dance
if she wasn’t so hot
and me so heavy-footed.
There are times for walking fence lines.
Time for digging holes.
But tonight is meant for dancing
‘til my boots can’t dance no more.
That rising moon was so low over town,
I’m sure I could’ve driven up 3rd Street
and parked right in The Sea of Tranquility.
* * *
Sometimes I Write Poetry. This Isn’t It.
It's not at all funny
how money,
or the lack of it,
can seduce you into believing
that a few lines
of sublime
rhyme,
(at least YOU think it sublime)
can,
over time,
propel you into history
as the next major poet,
showered with riches beyond compare,
when the truth is,
and you and I know it,
that not one thin dime
will be given
for any type of word
you apply to a page,
because ...
you just ain't that good.
* * *
The Cravings of a Vegetarian’s Dad
My vegetarian daughter went away today,
off to summer camp for the week,
leaving me with a choice
I never thought I'd ever get to make again:
Barbecued chicken,
or grilled burgers with cheese.
Parents should be supportive of their children,
and learn how to prepare
tofu dishes with spinach
covered with tomatoes and wheat germ,
even if that means forgoing
pork chops and gravy or ribeye steaks medium rare.
I've gotten used to meatless spaghetti,
cucumber sandwiches with humus on thick,
and I can fix an eggplant ratatouille
that will make your mouth water.
Almost as much as a Thanksgiving turkey,
or ham if you wish,
but I do miss bacon.
Hot, greasy slabs of mesquite-smoked bacon,
sharing the plate with a sausage or two,
or more, and you know what I'm talking about.
Although oatmeal is nice,
or Cheerios if you've got them.
* * *
Critter Haiku
Those damn mosquitoes,
always cruising the main drag
looking for free drinks.
Squirrel in the road,
you best make a decision.
Go right, left or flat.
Two mourning doves coo
solo, then in stereo.
Cooing and wooing.
The woods are all gone,
but the Mockingbirds still sing
happy tunes out loud.
A gunshot out back
could mean domestic trouble
or 'possum stew night.
* * *
The ‘Possum, After William Blake
‘Possum! ‘Possum! in the night
Glaring eyes that shine so bright,
What audacious thumb and nose
Could craft thy creepy essence?
In what smelly bin or ilk
Washed your skin a dirty milk?
On what claw dare he seek out?
What the hand defy the snout?
And what tongue, and what cheek,
Could spin thy tail so long and sleek?
And when thy tail began to curve,
What daring hand? What plucky nerve?
What the blender? What the knife?
In what oven gave you life?
What the heck? What dread smell
Dare release you out of hell?
When the heavens threw down their knifes
And watered Earth with forlorn cries,
Did he smirk his work to see?
Did he who made Puppies make thee?
‘Possum! ‘Possum! in the night
Glaring eyes that shine so bright,
What audacious thumb and nose
/>
Dare craft thy creepy essence?
* * *
Wife of a Snorer
My wife doesn't sleep with me anymore.
She says it's because I snore.
She says
sleeping with me
is like sleeping with a
freight train
using five engines to pull
195 railroad cars
filled with trucks,
lumber,
patio furniture,
bricks,
refrigerators,
and ice cream
up and over a mountain pass
it has no business trying to climb.
She says
sleeping with me
is like sleeping next to an
outlaw biker
riding 80 down the interstate
on a Harley Fatboy
followed by hundreds of his
leather-clad friends
wearing sunglasses,
long beards,
smoking cigs,
hauling ass and biker babes
to Sturgis for the weekend
and then maybe on to Canada.
She says
sleeping with me
is like sleeping on an
Air Force base
at the end of the runway while
fighter jets
punch their takeoffs with
afterburners,
screaming engines,
low fly-bys,
strafing runs,
flying on training missions
over the ocean and back again,
or some secret mission to the Middle East.
She says
sleeping with me
is no guarantee of
sleeping
at
all.
Which is so strange
because I sleep like a log.
* * *
Twitterings, Part IV
I like to rise early,
do my chores,
then drink the last cup of silence
before the sun comes up.
Gonna spend the rest of this day outdoors.
I got sunshine burning a hole in my pocket.
This blustery day
is urging my Stetson
to take flight,
and I just might hitch a ride
to see
which way the wind blows
My old grandpa would say,
“Don’t just sit around making promises ya can’t keep.
Get up.
Work.
Sweat.
Do what needs doing.
Some people wave their faith around
like a loaded gun
and forget
that God just wants us to love each other.
* * *
I’m Only Here For The Cat
There's a cat by my feet
who thinks feeding
is all I'm good for.
That and opening doors.
She bumps me with her head
as if to say, "Hey,
attend to me, here."
Why? Because I'm the only one near?
But let it be known
I don’t “hop to”
the very moment she
demands attention.
I let the cat cry
for a second or two
before I jump up to feed her
because
I am the master of my fate,
the captain of my soul.
* * *
Rain Haiku
Sometimes it rains hard.
Other times it just teases
its hair and sprinkles.
The driveway is gone,
done up and left with the rain.
He'll come back. You'll see.
Summer rain perspires
like a young boy at a dance,
all shy but hopeful.
* * *
MOWING
Mowing the lawn isn’t an exact science.
You cut the yard in circles or squares,
long lines crooked and sometimes straight,
and hope you finish before the gas runs out,
the rain comes down, it gets too late,
or the missus appears on the lot,
“Honey. I think you missed a spot.”
Indeed, I overlooked a crowd of dandelions.
They huddled together in a small grassy square,
swaying in time against a breath of wind,
pairing up boy girl, boy girl, so it seemed.
Waiting for the night’s music to begin.
Everyone kept an ear on tow,
“C’mon fiddler. Strike up the bow.”
A mockingbird landed nearby to call the steps.
“Ace of Diamonds, Jack of Spades,
a right and left around the ring.
Meet your partner, promenade,
while roosters crow and birdies sing.
Grab her hand and hold on tight.
“Swing her, boys. Swing all night.”
The party gathered speed as the sun went down.
Round and around and around they went,
in and out, round and about.
Swinging and singing to the birdie’s tune,
Then taking a breather to shake things out.
Refreshments all around, and for you?
“Sweet iced tea. No, make that two.”
Hours passed and they called it a night.
The couples lingered on the grass for awhile,
laughing and talking of this and of that,
but rumors whispered someone had bought the hall
and was tearing it down, razing it flat.
End of an era comes with a tear.
“I’m glad you convinced me to come, my dear.”
I sat on my mower and looked up at the stars.
If our time is too short on this rock out in space,
why spend so much of it grooming the ground?
Dancing and laughing with family and friends
seems much more enjoyable, indeed I’ll be bound.
Maybe I’ll mow that spot another day.
‘Tis better to dance while the fiddler plays.
# # #
Thank you for reading “Porch Poems.”
Tracy Farr is a writer, teacher, cat friend, and banjo player.
Please visit Tracy Farr at his website:
https://www.thefarrplace.com
You can also follow Tracy at https://twitter.com/tracydfarr
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends