The Drifter, The Outlaw and Dog, and The Hobo

Howdy, y'all.

This is to be my National Poetry Writing Month thread, and in order to really get into it, I thought I'd write a series of poetry pertaining to my main three alternates (Land Shark ((The Drifter)), Sam and Dee-Oh-Gee ((The Outlaw and Dog)), and finally Steve ((The Hobo))). I hope my poetry is enjoyed, as I plan to make it comical and synical, thoughtful and mindful, round and about, and every which-way of my own style.

So, tonight, I start off with my closest alternate, Steve, the Hobo:


Far back, yet still close,
there was a time
when those who rode the rails
and those who ate meal tails
were vast and plenty.

They were either homeless or jobless,
or just free to be.
They cooked from the can
and did the jobs no one would.
They were the essence of the
worker without strife.

This is all Steve,
as Steve is all this.
Would you believe?
Could you believe
that Steve held high the world?
It above him,
he down below,
but he doesn't mind.
This was freedom's crutch.

Living in a past not his own,
Steve lives on.
Walking, talking,
burdened by the world above him,
yet smile, broad as his shoulders,
never uncreased his cheek.

Would you believe?
Could you believe
that Steve was an angel
in disguise?


Okay, so I'll admit, not exactly my best work, but I did just crank this out of thin air after a minute of thinking. Of course, after reading it over, I can't help but wonder, Which part of me is Steve? I guess in a symbolic sense, one could say he is my nostalgic side, the side of me that yearns for the old ways of life that were missed by generations. Another could say he's just my happy, content with the world and situation of life side. Who knows? Maybe after getting the other two poems about my other alternates down, things will become clearer.

Okay, another poem for tonight. Yes, this one will be written right now.

Sam The Outlaw and Dog

Walks with no shine,
demons two steps behind.
Shadows stalk like dogs
because insanity's
not all that he hogs.

The world is gone
people real were none
his drum beats off
to the one with the gun.
Because victims can't run.

A pad, pad, and a sniff, sniff,
as a demon follower grows stiff
and lunges at his master's gain
as soon as the gun goes bang.

Outlaw born,
with no laws at heart,
walking's all he he does
and none can take him apart.

'Cause the world is his,
and bein' in it you got no biz'.



Well, rather interesting, don'cha think? I know, yet another odd story styled, vague poem. It's about my cowboy/outlaw alternate. The end is my favorite part to be honest. I love using colloquialism in any of my writings.

Hey! I especially enjoyed this:

Walks with no shine,
demons two steps behind.

I'd like to suggest that you maybe try to step away from forcing some of the rhymes like you've done, because you get out these really great lines and then the next are hampered by rhymes that seem hollow, just put there for the sake of rhyming every once win a while. Feel free to let the poems unfurl without those, especially where they come with difficulty or don't seem to fit what you originally started writing.

I'm looking forward to more, so keep writing.

LandShark (The Drifter):

On the rodes,
on the streets,
stalker of shadows
and king of creeps.
Walks on dirt
or gravel,
or hard concrete,
padding along
on cold bare feet.
Who is this?
Why does he walk?
This is LandShark
and the world is his sea.

Everything's covered in dust
from his jacket to his shoes.
It falls and slaps the ground
with each step he takes
while the wind whips around,
grinding more in his face.

Thumbs to the sky
while cars speed by.
His motto speaks true,
even if it never follows through.
Either way, he'll walk along,
sack strapped to his back
and a goofy grin to greet the world.

Who is this man?
Who is this LandShark?
Goofball drifter?
Comedic traveler?
All and more
one could think.
But one's never for certain,
because one never knows,
like a shark attack,
when, or where, he'll strike next.

Blah, late update. I'll start remembering to add another on here everyday sooner or later. If not, I'll just write two a day.

Summer Day:

On the front porch
lies an old dog.
Yellow, shaky, and tired,
it sleeps in the shade.
Peaceful, warm, cozy.
No one disturbs her.
She's happy, that old dog.

Off in the distance,
sweeping the fields for food,
are the birds who flew off
late last fall,
while the leaves fell hard
on the ground.
Though nest now gone,
they'll survive.
They'll pick up sticks
and rebuild it anew.

Much closer than the birds,
the daisies bloom in my pots.
Pop, pop, pop, pop,
I imagine they say
as they burst out,
eager to greet the summer day.
What a magical feeling
to share the day with the daisies.

Oh, summer,
what majesties do you hold
for me this year?


*Note: I actually really like this poem. I think it's nice in it's own way. Short, simple subject.