"feller" poems
Frisky, little, swimmer
danceful wiggle dips
Yellowy, orange, shimmer
puckering fishy lips
Thoughtful, quiet, feller
never any yips
Lonely, curious, critter
Got any life tips?
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
In west Virginia, they do things different
they don't want to advance too soon
if you don't believe me let me take you
to a west Virginia emergency room
deer hair sutures for stitching you up
then a duct tape bandage on your wound
redneck responses by physicians
doc needs a break to spit in the spittoon
this one is in critical condition
this poor feller has run out of luck
doctor redneck turns to mention
"go get my gun out of my truck"
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Whisper
That you
Missed her
Ever softly
In her ear
Whisper
Won't you
Mister
Loud enough
For her
To hear
Tell your lover
That you love her
That you'll always
Hold her dear
Tell her
Young feller
If you hope
To keep her
Near
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
When ranchers decide to do a thing,
Sometimes they just go through it.
What follows is a little fling
A neighbor did...don't do it.
The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude
Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage.
So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude,
Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge.
Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space,
A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away.
Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race
To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day.
The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul,
Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs)
Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl
To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags.
Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home,
And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn.
Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some;
The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed.
So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose
How ever would they move the thing through town?
The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows
What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down?
Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black.
"Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!"
Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back
And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground.
Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon;
Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast,
To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon);
The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last.
In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist.
Stole some runway time and cut their journey short...
No harm done, though they'd never do it twice
Without winding up defenseless in the county court.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
Some do call me stupid
some do call me a guy wise
some think I'm a mental case
some just chastise
If they knew the tender light in my eyes
if they only once met me face to face
they would see I am goodly and kind
and not what they think in their shallow minds
I'm just a storm in a teacup
a diminutive feller
just a shot in the dark
but I am getting better
I smile long and hard
for they don't know my stars
let's see what comes
from the dumbest of the dumb
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"
Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."
Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--
How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.
Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.Porfer Poog.
2.6k
Magic mirror on the wall
tell a story, lies are fine
and so am I
just the other day a feller said
my, what great curves youu have
cars and such were never an interest
just a stupid investment
waste of time and money
late late for a very important slate
a new one
out with the old, in with the innovative
get creative
it's impossible
too broad, minds can be narrow as rails
trains pass through
rumbling, rumbling like rockslides in canyons
you in?
Fun can be naughty
not like when you're a child
no
that fun was preconceived frivolty
but this **** hear
yessir, this is real fun
you got it ***
maybe spark some interest in the papers
words with more words
darling tell me a story
make it **** good
about a princess who isn't beautiful
but still pretty, in a rather unnoticeable way
and make her a ****** who loves fire
take it up
makes me all sleepy
when your mirror talks in such silliness.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 10:22 PM UTC
I've spoke of the Pork Rind
And my love for it's crunch
Now I must give due credit
To whom I'm having for lunch
The Pig or the "Porkster"
In my circle he's fondly called
But to all the outsiders
He is simply known as the Hog
He comes in many flavors
Bacon, Chitlins, or Ham
There's even an air of mystery
In the can known as Spam
He's at all the major holidays
The guys a Rock Star
Those sweet on him call him Honey Ham
Oh.....you know who you are
Why he's even in China
Where the Royal Family has succumbed
I hear the Emperor's pet name for him is
Pork Egg Foo Young
Well I could go on for days
Talking about that little feller
But could you please pass the Mustard
......preferably the Yeller
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
His remains were borne away to the cemetery
And were interred in a "G" marked grave finally,
Having led he a life of wine, women and
Song. He was therefore committed to the land
Of no returning more, who on this shore was
The philanderers' prince, using his john thomas
To make lucre off ladies libido--a ******
For he knew how to set their body whole aglow
And ensured their ****** playing the field as
A merchant of amour in the Sin City of Las
Vegas and had a great liking for cards--
When easing up his muscles--and for billiards.
He's a 6'4 and broad-chested feller; chunky
Enough for that **** business. A bloke beefy!
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
there are good souls in this world
shrouded in weathered skin
dry and cracked
with scowls hung upon their face
balancing on the scars of their brow
just as there are bad souls in this world
hiding under plush skin
their faces adorned with kind eyes and
cherry red lips made for kissing
or spitting with rage
picture a gorgeous brunette
with fair skin, bold eyebrows
and her hair in a subtle
yet nineteen-thirties style updo
wearing a red chiffon summer dress
the sun beats down on her
as she glistens with light perspiration
espresso in-hand cigarette in the other
her pale soft skin no match for
the thirty degree heat outside
of this café she nonchalantly finds herself
she is the epitome of carefree beauty
she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning
exiling him to a six hour long toilet break
after she "forgot" she had let him out
before leaving to go shopping
whilst her feller finished his shift
because the dog is old and smelly
and gets almost as much attention as her
she even saw his pensioner neighbour
struggling to take the bins out
as she walked to her car
and laughed rather than help
because she always
thought Mary was a no good Jew
she even called her Mrs. Goldstein
"Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein."
but Mary's surname is Cohen
picture this beautiful girl a siren
leading good men astray
she can get any man she wants
and plucks only the finest
most succulent
I mean successful
and well put together men
from gardens of bachelors
maturing in the hardships of city life
she has plenty choice but she's fickle
you see, her man has to be almost perfect
for it to be as enjoyable as possible
to watch his life unravel and unfold
into everything he wanted it not to be
achievable only through toxic beauty
her joy is venom soaked insides
of lovers caught in a sultry web
of lies, ambition and ***
she loves a scandal
or a text sent to the wrong person
and she has everything to hide
but does nothing to do so
she gets by just fine
being beautiful and sickening
and sickeningly beautiful
you know the sort
she is a bad, bad girl
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 9:07 PM UTC
Words cannot describe,
What i feel at midnight.
Laying in bed,
Remembering the good-old-days in my head.
When you and me use to be we
When it was you and I
No one else on the side.
I want to be back in your arms
For you to hold me
Tell me I'm yours.
So why cant we break that door
And let me in once more?
I'll do better
Wont fall for another feller
'Cause all I need
Is for us to once again be we.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
How many Someone’s lay planked on their waist and stare aimlessly at the candle’s flame?
Who of You is daring enough to close Your eyes and in space alone, simply drive- drive away?
The same Someone’s and Who’s-of-Who’s, on occasion holler at the moon with expectation of a bark back; or is God but a prestige to fools that We allow to wear Normal on Their crummy ******* name tags?
Sometime around Christmas there is a salivating peace, sifting downward on ordinary people, whom really don’t feel like being cold, you know?
This is me, rotting away on the carpet, a blanket’s blanky for the floor, just staring through the shutters on the vent below my brow; in the reality of it, I should probably schedule a spring cleaning…not for the vent folks.
You see- and I’m trying to be as casual as I can- I’m about to ******* pass out, you know what I’m saying?
This is that incredible moment where I’m the Bob Feller of dozing off, 9 innings of shut-eye talent, but at 2 or 3 in the morning…it looks as though I’m bringing in Mariano Rivera to close it out,
I can almost smell the scraps of mowed grass, kicking up from his cleats as he jogs closer to where home is; I never really find out if he makes it to the mound…
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
I've spoke of the pork rind
And my love for it's crunch
Now I must give due credit
To whom I'm having for lunch
The Pig or the "Porkster"
In my circle he's fondly called
But to all the outsiders
He is simply known as the Hog
He comes in many flavors
Bacon, Chitlins, or Ham
There's even an air of mystery
In the can known as Spam
He's at all the major holidays
The guys a Rock Star
Those sweet on him call him Honey Ham
Oh...you know who you are
Why he's even in China
Where the Royal Family has succumbed
I hear the Emperor's pet name for him is
Pork Egg Foo Young
Well I could go on for days
Talking about that little feller
But could you please pass the Mustard
........ preferably the Yeller
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
A smoke-filled room, a loud gaffaw, the barmaid pours a beer,
the pub is full of country blokes and Aussie atmosphere.
Some 'Chisel' thru the speakers, the racetrack on the telly,
pool table sending iv'ry ***** to its underbelly.
Walls adorned with history, and heads of native birds,
the Nation'l Anthem in a frame, 'cause no-one knows the words.
An ag'ed man sits in the corner, sipping at his ale,
his teeth are stained, his liver's shot, his ragged skin is pale.
Young buck swaggers in and, as the room lets up a shout,
he tips his head in mock salute and takes his earnings out.
Good mates standing at the bar as jugs are passed around,
the yarns are flowing freely to impress the growing crowd.
The old man in the corner holds his voice above the din,
"You boys want a story, eh? Well, buck up and listen in.
Jus' the other day this feller was sat here at the bar,
he held his glass with steel hook, his cheek, it had a scar.
That scar, it ran from ear to chin, ****** it was shockin',
angry, red and all inflamed, he'd taken quite a coppin'.
With legs the size of tree trunks an' a barrel for a chest,
he looked as though, with just one blow, he'd put a man to rest.
I ventured on the happenings, and nodded to his claws,
he turned to me, quite wearily, and spoke, after a pause."
As if to emulate the mood, the old man waits a bit,
he squints his eyes upon the crowd and makes a show of it.
"This bloke is felling up a tree, 'bout fifty foot or so,
a lightning bolt, he gets a jolt, the chainsaw he lets go.
It backs up from the branch and lops off both his paws,
then, before he thinks to catch 'em, they hit the forest floors.
He’s with them soon enough, as the rest of him descended.
I shakes me head, 'Christ!' I says, tryin' to comprehend it."
The crowd is leaning forward and the air is getting tense,
the old man lights a cigarette, just to build suspense.
He slowly sips at his beer, then lifts his head to speak,
"Me eyes then trail from steel claws to mark upon 'is cheek,
'That how you did your face in, the chainsaw misbehavin'?'
He took a pause, held up his claws, and shrugged, "Cut it shavin'.""
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:02 AM UTC
Mediocre rhythms,
Mediocre rhymes,
Where is it this road heads?
Take me to where the Mary Jane grows like dandelions,
Where the magic mushrooms lay thick like a carpet on the floor.
Who gives a **** where the future lay,
20 years down the line,
'Sept what regrets one has about not livin,
Grabbing the tail of the tiger of electronic sonic sound,
Flying through the airwaves so fast it makes your cheeks flap like a 90's cartoon.
BREATH! SCREAM! SHOUT FOR THE LOVE OF ******* GOD!!!
Give it your all and leave your reservations at the wayside,
Cuz we aint stopping to ****
Spend your nights as an outlaw,
Fly by the seat of your pants,
Give a down-on-his-luck feller the coat off your back,
He sure as hell needs it more,
Curse up a storm,
Yell up to God,
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW!
Call me manic,
Call me a *******
Call me a brilliant man,
Carry my cold corpse to a pine box and dump it in,
Cuz I plan on saying **** you to the funeral industry,
Let the worms and the bugs have my bag of meat,
Carry on and sing a song,
Have a shot and chug a beer in my memory,
Sing a drunken song and cheer.
Jan 22, 2023
Jan 22, 2023 at 12:15 AM UTC
She had a fading tattoo
on her thigh
which caught my eye.
Winnie asked me
to help her
bath Florence
as she was alone
and I wasn't busy.
You don't mind
if Benny helps me
bath you
do you Florence?
Winnie said.
Me?
no make my day
for a young feller
to see my tattoo again
first time
in many years
I can tell you
Florence said.
Used to be
a dancer
back in
the early days
danced on stage
up in London
and sometimes
when we toured
we went all
over the place.
Once Winnie
had helped
Florence undress
I saw the tattoo clearer
it was in blue and pink
and was of a dancer
doing the can-can.
Is that what
you did Florence
the can-can?
Winnie said.
Yes that
and other dancing too
did more than
dancing too
other times
she laughed.
I smiled.
She had her
grey hair long now
as Winnie
had unpinned
the hair to wash it.
Had a young feller
who wanted
to marry me
but he got himself
killed at Mons
and that was that.
Another one came
back blinded
and although
I could have
married him
I wasn't keen
on marrying
a blind bloke
you know what
with me dancing
and touring
and having to
help him
I couldn't do it.
I think he married
some other girl.
Florence went quiet
had my chances
but never did marry.
Bet you were a looker
when you were young
Winnie said.
Got a photo
in my drawer
when I was a dancer
one of those sepia jobs
faded a bit like me
but you can see me
as I was then.
We eased Florence
down in the bath.
I wondered how many
other men had seen her
like I did
but didn't ask or say.
Once in the bath
Winnie did her back
and Florence talked on
all about once upon.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC
I blame the weather
I blame a ***** sweater
Whatever I can to stay inside
For those around I cannot confide
I've always kept to myself
For my ways are judged
Judged by sinners themselves
Who value objects above life itself
I do not follow foolish trends
Nor do I twitter an instagram of my facebook post
For I have very little friends
But my pack is ever so close
We come from the same hood
****** capitol Chicago
Land of crooks and killers
Where only real winners make real figures
Where crooked politicians and crooked cops
Make more money from thugs selling rocks
Than they do from working Chicago blocks
Have you ever heard of a more twisted paradox?
You tell me why they need the newest trucks
With the finest leather for the felon feller
A golden cell is still a cage
Where a killer lives for days as your relative lays forever
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Love unfeigned, how can it be
Truly known: by deed or by word?
Take old Sisera for example, my lady,
Who fled with his glittering sword
To the tent of Jael, the beloved wife
Of Kenite, from the face of Barak.
And of her requested he for his life
Water, and she in action was not slack
To offer him milk instead, and did cover
Him again with a blanket. Sleeping in peace,
She crept softly to him with a hammer
And nailed down his temple with ease.
Yet to her did he entrust his safety,
Seeking from the smasher vain security.
Consider Joab, too, how he by his fine
Speech killled Amasa his worthy cousin;
Taking his beard with his right hand
As though he would give him a kiss grand,
Whilst his left hand had a thirsty dagger
Waiting; and he pierced the good feller
Through with his wicked blade. How the tongue
Of men do flatter oft in order to do wrong!
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 5:42 AM UTC
There's a cat in the rafters. I really want to get him out. I heard a meow from the closet and it wasn't one of mine. I am entirely compelled to draw him down, as I can hear the commotion from the aluminum vents, but I know it would only cause disturbance to our own two pets.
This is really killing me, like a dog watching a squirrel from under a tree, I have never passed up a chance to grab a cat, like a gambler who's never passed up a bet. I could easily get him down, cats come to me. I could lure him with the birdie and drive him to the SPCA where he'd find himself a cozy, insulated lock slot for the night. But, on the other hand there may be some poor boy or girl attempting to coax their precious pet as I was not too long ago.
There, I've put in my ear plugs and made sure the closet door is shut. I sure hope the poor, little feller finds his way out!
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
Have prayed and praised and fasted,
And have done all what one knew to do.
Still sick, jobless, barren or indebted,
One would be wondering what anew
Is to be done more, for a miracle
To happen and dislodge one's obstacle.
Are God's ears deaf, one may think,
Reasoning if his eyes are not blind?
For how could he allow one to sink
In the sea of sorrow, if he is kind
Indeed to every member of his creatures
On earth, whom he daily nurtures?
Yet, the Lord is faithful forever
Despite the many spites of one's life.
Though one may not now be as that feller
Rich, hale and hearty, or like that nymph
Heavy; yet God shall the situation turn
Around. To every even, there must be a morn.
He that for compassion wholly a widow's
Mount of debts leveled and gave progeny
To Sarah and Anna, who alone windows
In heavens made and healed grave infirmity.
Christ can this dead raise and cause that dry
Bone to live again; no pain escapes his eye.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
Speedy data transfer vine
indexed in junk DNA
Instantanious communication
no possibility of delay?
Holo-fractal hookups.
Is everyone on the line?
or
are we listen--ing too slow
are our ears to big to tell
ack from nak, yes from no
The solution? maybe
Quantum time!
Just one eternal grandfather clock
with only a TIC,
never a TOC
delays maybe caused by reneade gyres
like intestellar,
"slowdown feller"
invisible, swirls, with gushing spires.
E-fracting for minutes, hours, years
decades, eons, epics and more.
As pools of whirls slow,
there appear open doors.
but
The locks are no where to be found
The keys?
All scattered on the floor.
What is that, hissing sound?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
Benny's the new boy
in class
he sits at the back
with some kid
called Rennie
while the teacher
Miss G
yaks on
about Schubert
or some feller
putting on
some LP
as they sit
and put on
interested faces
the girl who
smiled at him
on the school bus
is there
looking over at him
beaming like
a new sun
her eyes bright
as fresh stars
he looks
at her briefly
then looks away
storing her eyes
for some
other day.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
Father knew **** about Vietnam,
Says Bill, other than what he heard
On the radio or the newspapers or
All that other spiel from red necks
Or dumb heads, he knew nothing
About the real war or the reasons
Behind the death fields. Bill inhales
On his cigarette and takes in the
Young feller undressed and laid
Out on the bed with his thin arms
Behind his head, his ***** hanging
Limp like something dead. He watches
As the youngster looks up at the ceiling,
A cigarette held between red lips, his
Pale blue eyes like ponds of shallow
Water. We pulled out of Vietnam quicker
Than a ***** drops her draws in the end,
Although we in the know knew it’d come
To that even before the politician could
Pull up their pants and put on the public
Faces. The youngster sniggers, pulls on
His smoke, some private joke, Bill considers,
The shallowness of youth, remembering
Young soldiers in Vietnam and elsewhere
In later years blown up or out or dead or
****** in the head. The youngster gazes
At Bill wondering if this guy was some secret
Government agent who could **** as good
As he could **** whether it was all just talk
Or whether the guy could walk the deadly
Walk. Bill smiles, the innocence of youth,
He muses, stubbing his cigarette **** into
An ashtray, remembering the young kid
Whose throat he slit in Mexico some years
Back as he sat and **** some double cross,
Some dark deceit, Agency orders, job done,
Neat and clean, unknown, unloved, unseen.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
Buster ******** was his name
and poetry was his game
he would swagger into town like he was it
the mudder feeking sun of a *****
He could dance a good jig
for he did not play a lot you see
when the bullets came in flying
he would love to dance with them
Buster could be really kind
he loved life and it's wonders
he was one of a no teller
was Buster ******** that feller
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
But on this occasion he calls that his
Bottled up feelings in a flurry to the sis
Can be expressed--to say "he loves her."
So thirteen times he her number alone
Dialed; but she's not there with her phone
Until the epiphany departed from that feller.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC