"lynyrd" poems
When backpacking, there are certain
rules that everyone knows like
take less than you can carry;
you’ll pick up things as you go.
Be careful when hitchhiking;
follow your gut instinct. Always.
Stick to your budget;
you don’t wanna run dry in Kansas.
What no one actually tells you is:
Don’t fall in love
with a town or
with a boy in a town.
Oops.
A boy who is settled and nestled in a town is dangerous.
The other roaming, free-loving boys are fine, because
they understand and you understand
that, like a Lynyrd Skynyrd song, your
both freebirds who must be traveling on.
These boys are easy to love and set free.
Townies, on the other hand, are like rose-colored poison
which seeps into your every thought,
but then you don’t really mind.
They show you that their quaint little town
doesn’t just look like magic.
It is magic.
They show you that there’s something beautiful in
greeting the mailman with
“how’s the wife?”
the charming town diner
where the pie is county-famous
the declaration of love on the water tower
written in red spray paint.
The boy shows you how to fall in love with a town,
and in the town you fall in love with the boy.
They should start printing warning labels on backpacks:
WARNING: don’t fall in love with a boy
who is settled and nestled in a pint-sized town
because he will clip you wings.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
157 Riverside Avenue
I can hear the razz-ma-tazz piano, ah the sound so sweet
lead up to an old thyme rock tune, making me tap my feet
the clubs have come and gone, changing names over and over
but the music has never left, on this south side of Dover
rock and roll star wanna be's, long hair and fancy pants
kickin out the tunes for us, hoping that we'll dance
here's a tune by rocker Lynyrd, or one by Stevie Ray
even some old R & B, like Sittin on the dock of the Bay
we sat around and drank our beer, raising hell till 2 a.m.
had to go to work next day, and survive that crap mayhem
it did not really matter though, we'd do it again tonite
cause we were young and feisty, and the music made it all seem right
loud guitars and crashing drums, a fiddle and a flute
as long as it was in the right key, we didn't give a hoot
every Thursday thru Saturday night, drink shots and smoke **** too
it just didn't get any better then, 157 Riverside Avenue
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 3:16 PM UTC
157 Riverside Avenue
I can hear the razz-ma-tazz piano, ah the sound so sweet
lead up to an old thyme rock tune, making me tap my feet
the clubs have come and gone, changing names over and over
but the music has never left, on this south side of Dover
rock and roll star wanna be's, long hair and fancy pants
kickin out the tunes for us, hoping that we'll dance
here's a tune by rocker Lynyrd, or one by Stevie Ray
even some old R & B, like Sittin on the dock of the Bay
we sat around and drank our beer, raising hell till 2 a.m.
had to go to work next day, and survive that crap mayhem
it did not really matter though, we'd do it again tonite
cause we were young and feisty, and the music made it all seem right
loud guitars and crashing drums, a fiddle and a flute
as long as it was in the right key, we didn't give a hoot
every Thursday thru Saturday night, drink shots and smoke **** too
it just didn't get any better then, 157 Riverside Avenue
Gomer LePoet...
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
ending with five beats.
Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
seven-four, five-four.
Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
creative fossils.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
That Smell
Lynyrd Skynyrd
For Courts Music Challenge
The stench it fills the nocturne air
Of wicked thoughts and fevered chains
With needles polished none to share
In search of risen stoic veins
To seep within the bloodstream deep
And paint a picture filled with lies
Now drains what sanity you keep
On roadmaps built of bloodshot eyes
This strength you take from solaced fear
Where chemicals now come to play
A weakness coincides your tears
As every moment fades away
Back alley streets of littered death
When life it bids a dark farewell
Oh how the banishment of breath
And echoes crying oh that smell
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Like Lynyrd Skynyrd
I'm as free as a bird
and lord help me
I don't want to change
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
As a days long setting rest raises full at mid day.
Crosses of cross sections lay so effortlessly bare and without nakedness.
The trust of introspection and outward expression in the electric calm.
We begin to see the ease of the whole as one, few as it began,
to grow, to many, many more and so it has now its motion of true flow.
We, the fallen and found, the trusted frail and broken souls.
We my dear friends are the bested and tested, the wondrously curious and strengthened.
As the reed is week and the stalk does bend and break, so are we in this endeavor a bunched thatch as a fist full of stalks, flexible and strong, to bend and bow, as the arrow of truth and love is thus flung into the nights eyes.
Our intent now full of the ease and unblemished heart, we effortlessly await the wake of waves to crash as they bash the rigid stones that were cast against our tides of past pained and strained.
For the we i speak is far more than itts outset had counted, measured and touted, For the we I speak is now the multitudes of bashed and bruised, the Truest of loves and wanting of love in the Alma of our cores.
And in this I find, the simplest of things the hope all of our mothers ever had for us to be those simple people, beautiful and grand in our truest of intended designs.
Beautiful to the core with the world soon to explorer and kindness the virtue that shall never be ignored.
As the Wake of waves to begin to break, many strife may come to rest at our shores, yet for us, all , whom have stood along this edge, these pains that might come will not be ours to own, No, these will be the death throws of all the swine that have bitterly wallowed and twisted our lives and did all they could to destroy our hearts wedded beds.
The gentleness of the multitudes on this day, grace a glimpse of the Deerhearted friends I do speak, for my dear beloved people, of the purest and loving waters your souls do drink.
and in mine heart you will always have a home, here on the loveing and honorable golden shores of the very core of me, the you in me and the in between everything.
Say Love, ,, Alma...
(P.S. Thank you Detroit for the saying "Say Love" you know who you are.)
Jill Scott "A Long Walk"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSYMKUtNuw8&list;=PL1X51wyhBF7-q3cJh8zRJm5aMyI5WK0be&index;=1
Simple Man - Lynyrd Skynyrd -
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMmTkKz60W8
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
Give me stars and bars and collard greens,
sweet lemonade and simple things,
Stevie Ray Vaughn and Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Texas brisket and beans for dinner.
Deep fried okra, and cornbread,
Black Diamond melons on a flatbed,
don’t be stupid, but if you start,
we’ll just say, “well bless your heart.”
Always fixin’ to go do something,
usually fishing, or maybe hunting,
running ‘round our stomping grounds,
never know what can be found.
Jack and coke or Coors Light Beer
copper still, dripping out clear,
fried catfish on Saturday,
in the barn for a roll in the hay.
George Strait sings out The Chair,
while we enjoy fresh country air,
sitting on the truck tailgate,
holding her hand and feeling great.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
You are a bundle of baby blue balloons
tied to the rail of a gate; the entrance
of used car parking lot.
A man, who
goes by the name Joe is doing his
damnedest to pawn off an old mustang,
the year: unknown -- he has yet
to be familiar with specific car models;
he was the manager of
Costco for 20 years before
getting fired for ****** harassment.
His wife is at home.
He speaks two different languages.
You over hear him, and can't help
but giggle to yourself, each of You
swaying in midair like the fur
of a dandelion.
It must be nice to have two sets
of limbs, upper and lower body
movement; it looks as if
a clusterfuck of genius
has taken the form
of flesh.
Perplexed, You
let one of You
go. You never come
back down.
This is easy
You think.
Joe has failed again; this is 3rd time
today; unable to muster up the courage
to call his wife for support he turns
to a little coke he has in an old
Altoids case kept in his left pocket.
The restroom is where
all the ***** shameful
practices of humans take place;
You call it: "The Encasement of Perserverence"
Clever thought, You say to Yourself
drifting there, alone in Your
grave of gravity.
I see You and wave, but You
pretend to not notice me
and continue to float
like a cloud.
Joe comes back, sits on a red
chair outside the main entrance;
where the sliding glass doors
no longer slide. He hums
a sweet little tune; Simple Man
by Lynyrd Skynard.
You sing along, but through
your film so no one can
comment on Your bad pitch.
It's another day in Tuscon, Arizona.
The sun begins to set.
And we're sulking like undiscovered
mermaids under this umbrella
of 'what the **** do we do now?'
Night will come soon; hinder our progress
with it's unique way of settling the score.
There is no stillness, and You're
no longer a bundle of baby blue;
You are a bomb bound to burst
once the needle of morning
discovers where You live.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
Have you
ever been
in a
convalescent
home?
Hugged an
old person
all alone
There’s that
musty smell.
Hell
It’s
every where
Even in
Their hair
.
Yet nobody
else notices.
Should I
tell Grandma
it’s there?
I’m not
Suggesting
Snarky
Comments
Rather
A
Graceful
Hew
Of
Compassion
I
Could
Never
Pretend
I don’t care
I certainly
would want
to know
If I’m
giving off
A pig pen
Glow
A Horrific
Odor
As I get older
A
Bad smell
I can’t tell
Do others
ignore it
From me?
Is it
dead skin
in their
clothes
that makes
me
want to
hold my
nose?
Nobody knows
for sure
If they did,
there would
be a cure
For now,
Lots of
Quality
Expensive
Perfume cologne
A multitude
The old
Condone
As
Grandfather
would say
“pull
my finger
The odor
will linger”
I will always
remember
that smile
on his face
He was
An old
Chester Cat
Top hat
Grin
He
Used up
all nine
lives
Just
Like that
A
Mischievous
Smile
The bright Side
when
I pulled
his finger,
That
Incredible
smile
Also
lingered
Inspired song;
That Smell 1977
By Lynyrd Skynyrd
BLT webster’s word of the day challenge
4-3-25 SNARK
Is a formal word that refers to attitude or expression of mocking irrelevant, and sarcasm
4-4-25 HEW
Is commonly used with to, to mean “ to conform or adhere to something”. Hew on his own, has several meanings having to do with cutting or shaping with a sharp tool, such as an ax.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 6:46 AM UTC