"stagecoach" poems
I remember it well
As if it were yesterday
We geared up and set sail
And embarked upon unfamiliar waves
It was I captaining the vessel
With One-eyed Sven my quarter master
He could cut throats and roll pretzels
His weapon of choice was his bow caster
This wasn't a mission of plundering
That alone left the crew in a state of wondering
No, we weren't looking for buried treasure
But for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
My first mate Mr. Obanion said to me
"Captain are we off course?"
Then my boatswain , Wiley asked sheepishly
"Aren't we going for *** and ******
I looked them in the eye at the same time
"Gentlemen, this ship is headed to Dublin"
"We're going to see a good friend of mine"
"Now get back to your swabbing and scrubbing"
This was an order of business not some sort of cruise
I'm sailing with a ship of one track minded fools
We didn't set out on a vacation of leisure
Were on the hunt for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
I did not mean to keep them in the dark
But they would think less of me
I needed these things
For the women I married
You see we'd been on the rocks
And I know she wanted these items
So I went over the sea with a fine tooth comb
Until I had finally found them
My men had sailed endlessly for months
They were worn down and ragged
Waterlogged and exhausted
While I always came up empty handed
But I had to save my marriage
Salvage my relationship
I knew it would work
If I gave my love these gifts
We reached the golden, calling shore
Of the beautiful Dublin
From the River Liffey and headed north
My friend Seamus let me come in
I came out shaking his hand
I was satisfied with my purchase
Until I was questioned by my men
What it was we came for in our searches
I had to show them, I was under scrutiny
I pulled out two stagecoach seat covers and a pair of pants
They were enraged and called mutiny
They blindfolded me and bound my hands
Now I'm marooned on some unmapped island
And I see my ship riding that horizon
This will sadden my wife, oh how it will upset her
She will never receive her sheep skin seat covers or her Scandinavian leather
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
he always calls me by my given name
whenever he finds himself back in town;
mariela on the dotted line,
mari in the moonlight.
ella if he's feeling smug,
bunny when he's looking for God.
he knows my history is shaded with blue,
marred by narrowly-won home-front wars.
everything about me reminds him
of Heaven and sweet, honeyed beaches.
sandy cheeks from moonbathing, ****
by clyde's stagecoach motel on the coast.
barefoot and manic, he tastes like sugar
and complements the *** on my tongue.
green-eyed with envy, but he's sweet
enough to make my mind grow hazy
with the lust of a woman gone mad from her fears.
he rolls through on the tail-end of a storm
and dizzies me until the dream ends
and i find he's left me only morning dew.
he tells me i'm an angel, lazily smoking
cigarettes while he lounges, gloomy, by the pool.
sunshine bikini singing sailor songs softly,
cool in my gold hoops dancing between
his open thighs, signaling gamine doom.
he's larger than life, starry-eyed,
reading me poetry against his olive chest.
i could die here, i know this, listening
to the gentle tune of his heartbeat.
he tells me he'll love me only until tomorrow,
but i'm not so sure that's the truth.
when the playdate ends,
when the sun dies slow,
when my love goes home
i'll awaken,
but not just yet.
Feb 26, 2022
Feb 26, 2022 at 10:31 PM UTC
Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man.
“I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says.
The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says
“There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.”
The sorrow is genuine.
He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed,
wafting an odor of smoke and earth.
A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket,
has a dark stain. His silver beard
is neatly trimmed.
On one wall above the safe is a giant
mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach.
The man says, “There might be—”
“No. It’s always the same.”
For a moment he closes his eyes,
a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass.
Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich
over the countertop through the teller window.
“Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod,
and he walks away with a limp.
I cash my check, a big one
from three days of messy labor
for a matron of the horsey set.
“He lives by the creek,” the teller says
without my asking. “Under a bridge.”
Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars,
I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard.
I might offer the man something.
He might refuse to take it.
Anyway, no matter:
he has disappeared like the last stagecoach.
Only the blessing remains.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
With your eyes so grand and a rose in your hand
On board a mystery ship that I do not understand
When I see the moon rise above the land
I can see your eyes again.
Last night in a dream I met a roman queen
With a mask of gold and blue.
And I could not help but wonder and even kinda ponder
If the roman queen was you.
I never really showed when they laid you to rest
In the stone of early May.
Far passed a dozen trees in mud bending knees
To the gods wishing you would stay.
I once saw an angel with the glow of a lamp
She was lighting up a loansom hall.
And I saw her for awhile running with a smile
Past red lockers in the time of fall.
Today I saw a shield covering a field
Like a dead poets badge of grace.
Upon the ridge I saw this light
Turn radiance from night
And the glow was Samantha's face.
I had heard of her tomb one sad afternoon
It was a cast iron work of art.
Then I heard them close the lid and I ran away and hid
With hot swords drove through my heart.
I see you floating through the heavens passed the stars and the moon with you're hand on a green balloon.
With my eyes up to the sky I can not help but cry
The princess had left too soon.
I saw the crossing guard weeping very hard
Of the pain that was in the ground.
And then I saw him sleeping through the flood that was reaping with sweet spirits and their speaking sound.
I sat down and saw a wolf making his call
To the loved one he could not find.
Oh, beast I hear your sound Tiberius lost the crown
And your trumpet sounds just like mine.
Out of all of these ghosts my brain waves and hopes
For the drifting we all shall do.
And on the other side we look forward for a ride
On a stagecoach that will lead us to you.
When the rain goes away making blue skies from grey
You'll paint colors in the sky.
And we will ****** the color blue and a purple paintbrush too and make life from things that die.
I just hope that you know wherever you may go
That I'll always think of a girl.
There will be flowers all year long and a man who writes a song of a young lady who lit up the world.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
Stagecoach trundled, rutting, wheels
Soily grasp, grabbing at the earthy recipe
Cart....horsing around the outdoorsiness
Ferris wheel spun, gathering passengers
To overlook the show ground, smattered
Four legged races, saddled with encumbents
Bobbing in display formation. Far above
I caught sight of circular ribbons emblazoned
Lapels holding onto prize winners, suffering
The pin ***** jabbing at willing winners
Left foot first, hopscotch to the flap of tarpaulin
Billowing their precious overgrown greatness
Of perfect vegetalia, proud, excessive....of the
Dinner plate variety. Don't touch their polished
Surface, they deliberately await photographic
Validation; future growers, challenging champion
Chompers, terrorising super-veggie heros
I wonder what becomes of former ground growers
Do they take a back stage bow? Uprooted with
Those of a lesser kind, jostling for saucepan space
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
imagined moment vivid
split second prior scythe’s felling contact—
panic, fear gripped soul, constriction
shadowing hand clutched chest
the final occurrence
my last breath
a life’s span of years
the reaper’s patient approach
confident encroach, task assigned
above reproach, his grim stagecoach
my taxi toward mystery forward
the grind of wood spoke wheels amidst
drop of steady hoof against
an astral road cobble stone
the anthem of death performed
by angel orchestra the
conductor my heart ceasing beat
what memory does surface
allowing in moment to bask as
my life to fade?
sons, opportunity misspent
a wife, her caring consideration unmet
parents, who lack receipt of admiration
the instance impossible to own preparation
to say that which ought be said
a careful avoidance of things that not
rather plead for one last word
a beggar to show heart’s comprise
adoration without question at
time of demise
love, more than a hug
but time spent
love for them—taught shown felt
love and its spread
upon which would serve
death’s beautiful bed
to take the hand of His angel
rather the reaper to dread
a confident smile knowing
in arms their embrace
will be felt once again
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
It's 1969 in Lancaster where time is lame
where the stagecoach calls as
the bandage falls from
the legs of the clock,
where the face looks on in utter shock as
the tick tock bleeds its last.
Once when time was fast and the mornings flew
and we as kids knew what to do
with the leftovers dropped from the feast of the day,
heading on down to skinnydip in the bay and
catching the final splashings of rays from the sun,
racing through that tidal surge and the urge to run
forever
never entered our heads.
Sleep left me to bed down with the awkward nights,
puberty and the rites of man
where passages can twist and turn on
the long road to learn the
lessons in life.
And I enter again through the door of
wanting much more,not knowing
what wanting is waiting inside and ride
down the years, through jam doughnuts and
tears beside and alongside
the shadows which echo the laughs
of my youth.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
He was a brawned and ugly gun-slinger, and he came from the wild west;
He had the names of six dead Texan boys, tattoed on his chest;
His hat was 15 gallons tall, his long-coat midnight black;
He wore his holsters mighty high and he said his name was Jack.
He rode a palamino horse on the day he came to town;
Three deputies were in the street, and he shot those suckers down;
Dismounting by the sheriffs door, he hollered out a cry,
*"Get yer no-good chicken *** outside, today yer gonna die."*
The sheriff boldly stepped outside, a shotgun in his hand,
*"You'd best be coming quiet son, or your life aint worth a ****
Jack tipped his hat and curled his lip, he turned his head and spat,
"You shot my brother, sheriff, and yer gonna pay for that."
The sheriff paused to ponder, then he slowly shook his head,
"Your Jimmy robbed a stagecoach and he left the driver dead."
Jack grimaced at his brother's name, and his hands twitched by his side,
"You can call it how you like", he said, "But I'm gonna have yer hide."
The sheriff put the shotgun down, and they faced off in the street,
His hands were poised above his guns, he was sweating in the heat;
He waited till he saw Jack flinch, and his hands flew lightning fast,
His trusty colts were smoking as they fired their deadly blast.
For a moment they both stood stock still, then Jack fell to the ground,
His face was full of shocked surprise, but he never made a sound;
The sheriff felt a tinge of pain, and he saw his badge was bust;
As the blood came seeping from his chest, he fell into the dust.
The townsfolk still recall the day, when Jack rode into town,
And every year they say a prayer, on the day they both fell down;
They were buried up on old Boot Hill, their graves were side by side;
The sheriff renowned for killing Jack, with the man who took his hide.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
(Geraldine was walking on the deck while waiting nervously for Fredrick. Frederick appeared suddenly while speaking quickly and gesturing.)
''I've waited for you all day long to come up with fuel.''
''I went to buy charcoal, water and outdoor lamp oil.
At a crossroad, I saw a stage driver being so cruel
To whip his horses to run faster; the oil spilled on the soil.
He drove a stagecoach; my horse was frightened by the sound
And my trolley overturned. I had to come back to buy
Again three barrels of oil.'' ''That oil spilled on the ground, ''
Said Geraldine, ''the money has gone, and this is not a lie! ''
I don't ask you to tell me where you really spent the money
It makes no sense to ask you for the truth. Is she beautiful?
Did you have a good time? To wash laundry in public, honey,
You may bring her here. This way, you can be dutiful.''
''I love you, '' screamed Frederick, '' so, you think you're funny.''
''Well, I may be funny although I'm never stupid.''
He held her, ''I sold some jewels. Take the money.
I could lie to you, but you're the one. I'm down with Cupid.''
''Do you remember that man having a ring with a skull? ''
''You've met him in Constantinople, '' ''I've met him here, too.
He was in that stagecoach liking this way his horses to cull.''
He laughed saying, ''I'm a captain in search for my crew.''
''Frederick, I want to return home at Khadjibey.
Do you remember when we've met in the port and you
Gave me an emerald cut gold ring shining at the ray? ''
''I've asked you to marry me, '' ''I love you; you know it's true.''
''Then why do you want to turn back home? '' ''You know I'm scared.''
'' This is our chance. If we turn back in that unknown trading port
For slave markets, I will not survive; I'm not prepared
To ask the sanjak bey some protection and support.
I am Italian and I saw so many things.
I saw the terrible fate of those becoming galley-slaves,
Women enslaved being sexually abused, in sufferings,
But someone living in Khadjibey is a 'plough and a scythe.' ''
'' Is this artwork painted by Paolo de Matteis or not? ''
Asked Francesca coming to them. ''What are you doing here? ''
''We really like to admire that splendid island a lot.''
''Shall we offer them a string instruments' concert, Chiara dear? ''
(To be continued…)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
Waking two hours before dawn,
my young grandson and I,
The old stagecoach Inn was
dark and silent, squeak
of floorboards underfoot the
only discernible sounds.
A crowd of deer bounded away
off the green front lawn as we
sleepily made our way to the truck.
A bright yellow full moon was on
descending ebb, in a star clustered
sky, allowing just enough light,
to light our way by.
The high desert two lane road was
fully deserted, only our headlights
pierced the darkness. Within seconds
they began to appear, darting from
both sides of the narrow road, as if on
a mission, hypnotically attracted to our
headlights I assume. At 60 miles an hour
almost impossible to miss.
But, god knows I tried. "Thump, Bump!"
"Thump, bump!" Another bunny under my
wheels, swerving not really mattering, miss
one hit two others. Jackrabbits and cottontails,
as if Kamikaze inspired, eight or ten at a time
from both sides of the road darted headlong
trying to cross. Fast as they were some did not
make it.
We stopped counting the carnage near 100 hits,
no way to tally the many we missed. No joy in
keeping score of the newly departed. By the time
we reached the Alvord Desert, the ride transformed
into a 25 mile surrealistic trip. Who could have
known there could be so many?
Blood on my tires and my soul, I did not intend.
Out on the vast dry white, hard caked, once long
ago lake bed, now desert, we sat watching the new
day's sun rising up from behind the distant eastern
mountains. This quiet inspiring moment having
been our goal of intention.
All the while, I was distracted from the
magnificent scene before us, as I kept
seeing and hearing the repeated echoes of;
"Thump, Bump! Thump, Bump! Oh no,
not another!" In my guilt ridden brain.
Why they do it I can not say, compelled
perhaps, like moths to a flame.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
who i intend to
**** don't ride stagecoach 'cause it
makes her fuckin' puke
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
when I think of K I think *****
gross, crawl under the bed find the lost shoe
drag out the ***** & *******
& have an op-art party
when I think of m I think of the holy earth
in its orbit around the sun;
I think of snooch when kdf cro sses my mind; idk why I've seen the light I can smell the light
I just want to sing praises to her golden fleece;
her *** is several miracles at once
ya, for the deluge is coming she's insti nctively brilliant & beautiful
w/ the son of god in cat
racing rapid space; come low & sing softly
M to me means I can walk 1,000s of snowy, sandy, snowy miles w/out stopping
I look for u on the stagecoach; the old film I saw;
her musi c is awandering; she got write love right brain
d d d nor not des loi aa s kil she got gypsy blood
she is behind me isn't she speak Eng lish e I'm thinking thnk
eyes th ing of KDF makes me . s, .
. cream into my cookie jar; .
oh the bowl is so hollow I no now know
she is a silver shadow on my her Spanish childrennn shattered mi rro r M e she makes me strong stronger than any mortal man has a right to be Lo we a
**** is a strong st s I she knows I''m smoking looking over her open fan eyes aglitter w/ phosph erus sulfur bu we lov
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
It was a past about a horse and a Cowboy
But it wasn’t a story of Indians in attack, but happiness being a joy
This was a time when the West had already won
It was some Navajo Indians who became friends among
The Navajo Indians shared cultures and traditions
The Cowboy trained the Indians in how to ride a horse
It was a nature care thing having no force
The Navajo Indians lived in their own reservation
You could call it preservation
The Navajo Indians were trained for battle and attack
Yet some people wonder about that
But the Cowboy instilled that there was trust
He also showed no need to fuss
The horse even familiarized himself with the other horses of the Navajo Indians
Everyone got along
This was the books past back that needed to belong
This was the chapters throughout the book
All one has to do is just take a look
Western movies always portrayed Indians with Wagons and Stagecoach attacks
However, that was the movie’s action fact
It didn’t always happen like that
There was calmness but some fear with uncertainness
People were living in assumption and not on trust
Yet the Cowboy and a horse showing Indians can be friends
But the book illustrated in not to live in fear
A book that showed the story right
What was darkness have shed some light.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
Documentary on fast forward,
lacking commentary, towns flash by
Coronation Street domestic dramas,
ordered rank and file urban pedantries.
Perhaps like one of those old westerns,
where they wound the scenery past
a mock-up stagecoach interrior,
so that's where all the porters went.
Rolling landscapes, seascapes, mile on mile,
stiles and paths and telegraph poles,
rain fraying skies and foaming sea,
criss-cross links and creaking carriages.
Slowing down, a shuddering stop,
stiffened limbs begin to flop,
stiffened brains still travel dizzy,
busy station, platform tizzy.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC