"wynette" poems
Listening to George Jones.
Or Mel Tillis.
Or Maybe Mickey Gilley.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.
Good loving.
Or a good feeling.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.
Listening to the original Statler Brothers.
Singing Flowers on the Wall.
Or Marty Robbins singing My Woman, My Woman, My Wife.
There's nothing greater then a good country song.
Whether it's by Johnny Cash.
Or Johnny Paycheck.
Or Roger Miller singing Dang It.
There's just nothing like a good country song.
Sure they reminds you of the blues.
Or the blues reminds you of country.
Either way the message is cleared.
There's nothing like a good country love song.
Throw in some Tammy Wynette.
Or Loretta Lynn.
Or play you some Dolly.
And you'll see the story happening.
Cause there's nothing like a good country song.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
Just sittin' back.
And listenin' to good country music.
Not this rock country they singin' today.
I'm just relaxin' listenin' to George Jones.
Singin' about the race is on to get some white lightin'.
And by my side.
Is my one true woman.
We're just sittin' back.
And listenin' to good country music.
Listenin' to Mel Tillis singin' about that Coke Cola Cowboy.
He must be a true live fella.
And soon.
We're listenin' to Loretta Lynn singin' about she's not tough to take her man.
Which is followed by Tammy Wynette proclaim to Stand by her man.
And me and my love just sittin' back.
Listenin' to good country music.
Nothin' like the country rock they sing today.
Where many artists grew up on rock and roll in their youth?
Just sittin' here listenin' to Waylon Jenning.
Or maybe Merle Haggard.
Or that Bakerfield's fella singin' about just act naturally.
Which I feel he's talkin' about me.
While I'm just sittin' back listenin' to some Willie Nelson.
Another one of those outlaw fella.
This is music to my soul.
That I could hear all day long.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
The midway queen
And her glossy posse
Flutter in formation
Up and down the B-29s and the AN-24s;
On the prowl and on a mission
To drop the bomb on Bobby
As they swoop past his snow cone cart.
They call themselves the Wing Women.
They call themselves the Tail Gunners.
They call themselves the Shotgun Girls,
And there’s powder residue in their curls.
Tail Gunners haunt the midway strip at twilight,
Feasting on the fiddle music
And old time pedal steel
That haunt a country boy’s heart.
But the sun has already checked out,
Along with Bobby and his shop pals--
Slipped off in granddad’s Cadillac
With a jug of John Henry
And a bag of M-80’s
Billy brought down from Decatur.
They’ve headed for the low country;
Toward the clinking of green glass,
The hollering of the swamp hounds,
And the flannel sheet warmth of the river folks.
Back on the midway,
Shotgun Girls peel off one by one
Like petals from a flower,
Pedaling back to rose scented spreads
Garnished with chlorinated pools and garden parties.
But the midway queen pilots on;
Around the Stewart’s root beer stand,
Through a cloud of Blazing Swine smoke,
Past the kind-eyed ice cream lady,
And into the seedy underbelly
Where clown grins lurk behind balloon tosses
And rebel flag trailer curtains lace the landscape.
Understanding her defeat,
The midway queen retreats
To her own suburban sprawl,
Places her crown on the dresser,
And gazes through open windows
Into her Georgia sky,
Wondering what it’s like to be a constellation--
Wondering if constellations come up with five-year plans--
Wondering if she should do the same.
The midway queen quivers
In her new found old time way,
And drifts off into a glassy sea
Of crackling Tammy Wynette records
And broken heart banquets.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC