Larger Font   Reset Font Size   Smaller Font  

Porch Poems

Tracy Farr

Porch Poems

  by

  Tracy Farr

  * * *

  Published By

  Porch Poems

  Copyright 2014 Tracy Farr

  * * *

  * * *

  Introduction

  Writing poetry is a lot harder than it looks.

  You'd think you could pop out a dozen or so a night just by putting together some words that rhyme, or at least come close to rhyming, but that's not the case.

  Good poetry needs guile to elevate it to a higher poetic standard, and a sense of guile takes time to develop.

  The first time you went fishing, you probably scared all the fish away because you were too young, too noisy, and too impatient to have developed any measure of guile. The fish saw you coming, booked a flight to Reno and left you by the bank swatting mosquitoes.

  Eventually you learned to sneak up, drop the bait, keep quiet, and wait. And you were rewarded with at least a brim or two.

  Poetry guile is the same as fisherman guile. If you want to write an acceptable poem about fishing, you just can't walk up and write:

  I've been wishing, wishing, wishing,

  To go fishing, fishing, fishing.

  Too obvious.

  You've got to say it in a way the readers don't understand what the heck you're talking about until the very last moment when they do.

  The summer breeze

  rippled across the still waters

  like a scene from Macbeth,

  where the longing of manly deeds,

  like fishing, perhaps,

  waited to be done.

  See what I mean?

  Guile!

  I’d like to thank my wife, my three kids and multiple cats for their support in this artistic endeavor. Their acceptance of my constant hours of porch sitting, without getting upset that I wasn’t around much when the dishes needed washing and the yard needed mowing, helped me find poetry just waiting for me outside my front door.

  A special thanks to former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins for writing poetry that is fun to read and easier to understand than Shakespeare. His work inspired me (Bill's, not Will's). I hope I have followed his example.

  Tracy Farr

  * * *

  Straight Flying

  I was lounging on the porch this morning,

  coffee cup in hand,

  when a Little Yellow butterfly flitted

  over my feet

  and disappeared

  around the corner of the house,

  only to flit back a few minutes later

  the same way it came.

  Butterflies seem incapable

  of travelling in straight lines,

  but if one ever could,

  I’m sure it would fly off to the mailbox,

  then down the gravel road to the next pasture,

  through the barbed-wire fence,

  past the herd of Guernsey cows,

  over the round bales of hay,

  follow FM 149 to the next county,

  buzz the old limestone courthouse,

  fly well above the tree tops

  to swim in the sun for awhile,

  then shoot a straight line down the coast

  to the Florida Keys,

  out to the Bahamas,

  Jamaica, the Virgin Islands,

  and spend the rest of its short life

  lounging on some exotic porch,

  sipping on hibiscus and bougainvillea

  while dreaming of being a pirate.

  * * *

  Some Things You Should Never Forget

  I forgot today was Wednesday.

  I was so busy with my own doings –

  take a shower,

  brush my teeth,

  comb my hair,

  dress in matching colors,

  put on shoes,

  fix my lunch,

  check my pockets for wallet,

  pocketknife, phone,

  spare change, chewing gum,

  find my keys,

  time to go,

  do I have everything?

  Yes, I think so.

  Down the driveway,

  off to work,

  don't be late –

  that it never occurred to me

  it was Wednesday.

  Trash pickup day.

  Oops.

  * * *

  The Truth About Poems

  Poems are cats

  that never come when called

  (unless food is involved)

  and then

  dart out the door,

  disappearing

  into the night.

  * * *

  Front Porch Haiku

  The breeze off the lake

  is Lyle Lovett cool and soft.

  This old porch feels it.

  Get out the guitar.

  Let's make Willie Nelson proud.

  "Crazy" in B-flat.

  Playing the old songs

  On a six-string hand-me-down.

  Grandpa’s hands to mine.

  I love the night sky.

  Moon, stars, planets, Milky Way.

  Astro-smorgasbord.

  Spicy meal, cold beer,

  good friends around the table.

  Later, 42.

  * * *

  I Went to Write a Poem

  I went to write a poem

  but a song slipped out

  and skipped

  across the meadow

  looking for dandelions

  and butterflies.

  * * *

  Six-String Guitar

  Me and my pony are riding out west,

  We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best

  Little six-string guitar that my money can buy.

  Get along, little doggies, get along.

  They say I was born in a wild winter storm,

  My mother did bundle me up to keep warm

  With a blanket of wool and a buffalo hide.

  Pa did his best keeping wood on the fire.

  My mother she’d sing me to sleep every night,

  She’d sing me of cowboys, such sweet lullabies

  Of the trails they did ride o’er the mountains and plains.

  Pa drank his coffee and fiddled while she sang.

  Me and my pony are riding out west,

  We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best

  Little six-string guitar that my money can buy.

  Get along, little doggies, get along.

  I was raised in the saddle, I was raised wearing spurs,

  I was raised roping cattle and tending the herd.

  I had me some schoolin’ like all children do,

  I learned how to read and to write my name, too.

  I went on my first drive when I was just twelve,

  Rode two hundred miles on the old Western Trail.

  We cowboy’d all day and we hit the hay late,

  But Cookie made sure we had beans on the plate.

  Me and my pony are riding out west,

  We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best

  Little six-string guitar that my money can buy.

  Get along, little doggies, get along.

  I don’t drink much whiskey, I much prefer beer,

  I cuss just a might ‘cept when women are near.

  When I promise to do something, I see it through,

  ‘Cause that’s what a good, honest cowboy should do.

  I don’t know how long I’ll be riding these trails,

  I hope just as long as all horses have tails,

  But if I do meet a pretty gal dressed in pink,

  I’m chuckin’ my saddle and spurs in a wink.

  Me and my pony are riding out west,

&n
bsp; We’re headed for Ft. Worth, gonna buy me the best

  Little six-string guitar that my money can buy,

  Get along, little doggies, get along.

  * * *

  Twitterings, Part I

  Got nothing witty to say.

  Sippin’ on a coffee.

  Listenin’ to the crickets.

  My poison ivy’s cleared up.

  Just slapped a mosquito.

  Old rusty Ford flareside

  with one flat tire forever

  resting in the driveway

  enjoying this cool Texas evening.

  Just him and me.

  I don’t care

  if my blue metal chair

  is old and rusted;

  it’s trusted,

  and sits in an honorable place.

  Sunday is a mug of hot coffee

  sitting next to the morning paper,

  not touching,

  but engaging in some serious eye contact.

  God shouldn’t expect us in church

  when He provides us with

  a cool summer morning,

  a hot cup of coffee,

  and a porch.

  I’m being lazy today.

  I was lazy yesterday but I kept it to myself.

  Today I feel like sharing.

  My old grandpa would say,

  "It's hard to hate a man

  who knows how to make

  good coffee

  and sourdough biscuits."

  * * *

  Housework

  I feel like such a lazy father,

  watching my teenage daughter

  skip around the house

  doing house work like a new hobby,

  straightening wobbly

  knickknacks and whatnots,

  cleaning cabinets and countertops,

  sweeping floors

  and dusting all manners

  of surfaces and curios.

  .

  Yesterday she folded

  washed shirts,

  washed dishes,

  washed windows and swept

  away cobwebs from the porch –

  the same cobwebs

  I’d been meaning to sweep away

  for weeks.

  And who knows what tomorrow will bring?

  Maybe she’ll plant

  a tomato garden,

  unclog the gutters,

  or change the truck’s oil.

  Replace the filter

  in the house air conditioner,

  or build a tool shed out back.

  There’s really no telling.

  And that’s why

  I feel like such a lazy father,

  watching my teenage daughter

  skip around the house

  doing housework,

  while I sit on the porch

  writing this poem.

  * * *

  I’ll Have a Cup of Joe

  A cup of coffee was just fine

  when you could have one for a dime,

  but now it costs three bucks and up.

  Oh, how I miss my 10-cent cup.

  * * *

  The Trouble With Men

  The trouble with men is we don't ask for help.

  I know this for certain, I'm one of the lot.

  When losing our way in a foreign location,

  we won't ask directions no matter the cost.

  We’d rather drive circles all over the town,

  than stop at a store and admit to a clerk

  that we’ve made a mistake and we’re all turned around.

  So we drive ‘til it drives our whole fam’ly berserk.

  Take cars, just for instance, if they blow a rod,

  or something is leaking all over the ground,

  we’ll open the hood even though we are clueless.

  It makes us feel better and look quite profound.

  But you and I both know we haven’t an inkling

  what spark plugs and camshafts do. Really, it’s true.

  Still, we will look keenly and grunt complex noises

  ‘cause that’s what a manly mechanic would do.

  When it comes to plumbing, a man’s inclination

  is to bring out the wrenches and hammers and such,

  then bang on the pipes ‘til small leaks become torrents

  that flood entire houses. Me kidding? Not much.

  But women don’t worry ‘bout dialing professionals

  to fix a wee leak, and to not would be dumber

  than men who are trying to fix broken toilets

  with duct tape instead of just calling a plumber.

  * * *

  Texas Haiku

  Fancy boots don’t scoot

  through Texas dirt like old ones

  baptized in hard work.

  Mornings chilled and served

  over hot treeless prairies.

  Texas a la mode.

  I sweat wind and dust.

  The Brazos flows through my veins.

  My soul sings Texas.

  I’ve been to LA

  once was one time too many.

  Texas suits me fine.

  Texas hot is hot.

  Not like some Midwest baking.

  Caliente, hot.

  * * *

  Hammer and Nails

  I'll never understand

  how a man can,

  with two hands,

  hammer a home together

  on his own land

  and move in,

  turn on the stove,

  grill some burgers,

  watch the game on ESPN,

  drink a beer or two,

  call it a night,

  head to bed

  and sleep like a baby,

  while his wife worries how long it will take

  before the whole thing comes tumbling down.

  * * *

  Twitterings, Part II

  I love putting on a brand new day,

  tucking it in,

  and letting time smooth out all the wrinkles.

  Power’s out,

  got candles burning.

  Storm outside,

  that rain keeps pouring.

  Freight train come, let’s hop aboard.

  Gone to see my baby.

  And when the Lord opened the heavens,

  rain filled the septic tanks

  and there was no flushing

  for 40 days and 40 nights.

  Noon courthouse chimes

  play harmony to my radio’s Dvorak.

  The grackles keep time the best they can,

  which is not at all.

  I ain’t no saint or prophet,

  just a poor cowboy

  with pockets full of empty poetry.

  Kids today.

  They don’t know what it’s like

  to play outside,

  fall asleep in the grass,

  have Uncle Harry burn off ticks with a lit cigar.

  * * *

  Love My Willie

  Love my Willie,

  yes I do,

  Love my Willie,

  how 'bout you?

  Love my Willie

  day and night,

  Love my Willie,

  he's alright.

  Love my Willie

  stoned or not,

  drinking whiskey,

  smoking pot.

  Love my Willie's

  ponytail,

  in or out of

  county jail.

  Love my Willie

  he's the man.

  When he can't do it...

  ... God will cry tears over Texas.

  * * *

  I Discovered Billy Collins

  I discovered Billy Collins last Thursday.

  He was standing behind a microphone. God knows how long he’d been there.

  Just waiting.

  Waiting, I suppose, for me to make eye contact so he could begin – and be discovered.
/>
  Litany began it all, followed by The Lanyard, Some Days, and To My Favorite 17-Year-Old High School Girl.

  There were many others, but those were the first.

  I bought some of his books.

  Doesn’t matter which ones.

  I was hooked.

  I liked his poetry.

  I liked HIM.

  I could understand what he was saying without a college English professor's interpretation.

  Or a handful of Tylenol.

  And he didn’t seem to be angry about anything.

  Anger seems to hold a lot of weight in “serious” poetry.

  Anger, love, dying and death, the death of love, being angry about not being able to revive a love that is deceased.

 

  And drinking.

  Lots of drinking in poetry.

  Drinking, drugs and loose women.

  But not Collins.

  You can’t classify Collins as an angry drunk young man bent on changing the world with words that either rhyme or don’t, in a way that will make YOU angry enough to drop some acid and chase loose women – poetically speaking, of course – because he’s not all that young.

  He’s more like your favorite Uncle Richard, if you have a favorite Uncle Richard.

  Quiet, but funny; bald, but distinguished; would give you the last beer in the fridge and then go out and buy some more.

  Prefers hockey over football, and can cook a mean brisket.

  Billy Collins.