Home » Poems » Best » Jim Sularz » Best Jim Sularz Poems

Best Poems Written by Jim Sularz

Below are the all-time best Jim Sularz poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.

“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.

The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.

Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!

The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.

Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”

They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”

Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

A Politician's Creed

© 2012 (Jim Sularz)

We are conceived by short sightedness,
nurtured with unbridled power.

We believe in self-interest,
and the dollar almighty.

As masters of deception and treachery,
we father hatred and misery.

We revel in our own injustice,
wallow in our lies and debauchery.

We believe the ends justify the means,
and we will prevail at any cost.

War is our flagged banner,
diplomacy is retreat.

We are judges and lock key,
and will suppress all opposition.

We shall never relinquish our fraternity,
to the higher purpose of the people.

And through their manifest ignorance,
will our aims take flight and conspire!

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

Emptiness Has No Regrets

Two throws of tens and let the dice roll,
that some may live, and some may die,
and at death, are comforted by soul’s mantle light.

For deep beneath a vast ocean of lies,
that have always foretold a promised place -
where no righteous man or woman have ever been …

Is where bright stars never rise or fall,
and wide rivers that cease to ebb and flow,
where angel’s trumpets neither sound nor blow -

Is where blindness shadows endless tears,
and jihadist dreams that fall on deafened ears,
where lost Caliphates, Mullahs and prostrate Emirs … 

Is where emptiness has no regrets, 
a naked silence, shattered monuments,
where four seasons weep, and all Heaven ends  - 
 
for their faith’s reward  -  is abandonment.

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

Stops Along An American Dream - Part 1

I can hear the whistle blowing,
two short bursts, it’s time to throttle up.
Conductor double checks, with tickets punched,
hot glistening oil, on connecting rods.

Hissing steam and belching smoke rings,
inside thin ribbons of iron track.
Winding through the hills and bluffs of Omaha,
along the banks of the river Platte.

A summer’s breeze toss yellow wild flowers,
joyful laughter and waves goodbye.
Up ahead, there’s a sea of lush green fields,
below a bright, blue-crimson sky.

Over plains where sun bleached buffalo,
with skulls hollowed, and emptied gaze.
Comes a Baldwin eight wheeler a rolling,
a sizzling behemoth on clacking rails.

Atop distant hills, Sioux warriors rendezvous,
stoke up the locomotive’s firebox.
Crank up the heat, pour on the steam,
we’ll outrun them, without a shot!

‘Cross the Loup River, just south of Columbus,
on our way to Silver Creek and Clark.
We’re all looking forward to the Grand Island stop,
where there’s hot supper waiting, just before dark.

On our way again, towards westward’s end,
hours passing without incident.
I fall asleep, while watching hot moonlit cinders,
dancing eastward along the track . . .

My mind is swimming in the blue waters of the Pacific,
dreaming adventures, and thrills galore.
When I awake with a start and a jerk from my dreamland,
we’re in the midst of an earth shattering storm!

Tornado winds are a whirling, and lightning bolts a hurling,
one strikes the locomotive’s right dash-pot.
The engine glows red, iron rivets shoot Heaven sent,
it’s whistling like a hundred tea-pots!

The train’s slowing down, there’s another town up ahead,
must be North Platte, and we’re pushing through.
Barely escape from the storm, get needed provisions onboard,
and switch out the locomotive for new.

At dawn’s first light, where the valley narrows,
with Lodge Pole’s bluffs and antelope.
We can all see the grade moving up, near Potter’s City,
where countless prairie dogs call it home.

On a high noon sun, on a mid-day’s run,
at Cheyenne, we stop for grub and fuel.
“Hookup another locomotive, men,
and start the climb to Sherman Hill!”

At the highest point on that railroad line,
I hear a whistle and a frantic call.
And a ceiling’s thud from a brakeman’s leap,
to slow that creaking train to a crawl.

(Continued - Part 2)

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

Homecoming

©2010 (Jim Sularz) 

Was it by chance or pure circumstance,
that the path I took, led me far out West? 
An island hop, a drifting castaway,
with treasured moments, of bygone yesterdays.

Where family, friends, who all grew old,
there, one by one died, as I was told.
Faint northern lights, where Paul Bunyan swings,
I’ll take back from time, my boyhood dreams.

I’ll renew the love, my heart holds high,
and celebrate in life, what remains of time.
I’ll turn back this vessel, that’s been adrift,
to a warm embrace, a last-forgotten kiss.

And when this journey draws near complete,
I’ll feel the soft Earth, cool, beneath my feet.
On that final hour, deep within my soul,  
will live a place I once left, I’ll still call – home.

So, bury me high within the hills,
with the purple lilacs and the daffodils.
Where loons wail, and sighing willows weep,
where Hiawatha, rocks us fast asleep.

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

Six Men Dead - Part 1

© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true story of Frank Eaton – AKA “Pistol Pete”)

At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle slope on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.

In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….

Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campsey’s and the Ferber’s.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s murder.

When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!

Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!

Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.

By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”

In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!

Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.

Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.

Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!

Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.

With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.

Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.

(Continued on Part 2)

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

Climb Up the Tall Ship's Masts

© 2010 (Jim Sularz)

Heave Ho! Aweigh, the ship’s anchor,
Lads, climb-up, the tall ship’s masts!
Unfurl the sails white billowed,
all pray, the stiff trade winds blast!

Men briny from white-capped oceans,
Terra firma’s, a distant quest.
Feel the salt spray, stinging the faces,
of the ship’s crew, tossed fore and aft.

We’re compelled to sail the oceans an’ seas,
with a plumb compass an’ a ration’s tack.
Tattoos an’ a gypsy squeeze-box melody,
the gale blows on our ruddy backs.

All hands scramble, to assemble on deck,
for the Captain rings-hard a muster.
Churning waves in our rudder’s wake,
luminous, with a strange glowing luster.

Land Ho! A calm, deep harbor,
a smoke filled pub an’ a bonny lass.
But the sea’s, our only steadfast lover,
an’ she beckons, to call us back.

We stand proud to call ourselves - mariners,
Men without fear, we tame the high seas.
Bright stars as our comforting beacons,
fair weather with God’s given speed.

By moon beams an’ dawn’s faint daylight,
we’ll turn our ship’s namesake back.
Heave Ho! Aweigh, the ship’s anchor,
Lads, climb-up, the tall ship’s masts!

Details | Jim Sularz Poem

Stops Along An American Dream - Part 3

Morning breaks again, we chug out to Bryan and Carter,
at Fort Bridger, lives Chief Wash-a-kie.
Another steep grade, snow-capped mountains to see,
down below, there’s Bear Valley Lake.

Near journey’s end, some eighty miles to go,
at Evanston’s rail shops, and hotel.
Leaving Wahsatch behind, where there’s the grandest divide,
with fortressed bluffs, and canyon walls.

A chasm’s ahead, Hanging Rock’s slightly bent,
a thrilling ride, rushing past Witches’ Cave.
A lot more to see, from Pulpit Rock to Echo City,
to a tall and majestic tree.

It’s a picnic stop, and a place to celebrate,
marching Legions, that crossed a distant trail.
Proud immigrants, Mormons and Civil War veterans,
it’s here, they spiked a thousand miles of rail!

We’re now barreling down Weber Canyon, shooting past Devil’s Slide,
there’s a paradise, just beyond Devil’s Gate.
Cold frothy torrents from Weber River, splash up in our faces,
and spill west, to the Great Salt Lake.

It’s a long ways off, from the hills and bluffs of Omaha,
to a place called – “God’s promised land.”
And it took dreaming, scheming, guts and sinew,
to carve this road with calloused hands.

From Ogden, we’re heading west to Sacramento,
we’ll forge ahead on CP steam.
And when we get there, we’ll always remember –
Stops Along an American Dream.

“Nothing like it in the World,”
east and west a nation hailed.
All aboard at every stop,
along the first Transcontinental Rail!

(The End)

Best Poems Written by Jim Sularz

When the River Flowed

Soldiers Called

Ghosts of Buzzard's Breath

A Politician's Creed

Emptiness Has No Regrets

Stops Along An American Dream - Part 1

Homecoming

Six Men Dead - Part 1

Climb Up the Tall Ship's Masts

Stops Along An American Dream - Part 3