Midwest Poems - Poems about Midwest

You cannot exist unless you have a gun This is the Midwest You might want to kill a deer Or an enemy Or an enemy’s kin Or an annoying grouse Get your gun Let’s practice shooting We can shoot out windows Or doors Or people’s cars This is the Midwest, we will be forgiven Everyone has a gun We all wanted to be sheriffs back in the day No...

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Several semis have jack-knifed The blizzard has made the air fog-like Highway patrol has closed the interstate down Electric cars cannot run in this weather There is treacherous black ice Many pile ups of cars, some injured, eight dead Frostbite is waiting around the corner to set in Tell me again why we live in the Midwest?...

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Outside "Clio" history lays simply on cobblestones ways Between its bricks just stays; an hourglass, measuring days, It sees the beauty in each worn stone, a story etched, with a life all its own Within the cracks, it settles in layers so deep, there's no need for grandeur or fame or sleep Symbols of freedom, pure, simple, and true The Omaha stones shared...

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snow ice frost icicle January teeth are chattering February also March has been called off this year a new ice age in the Midwest we will not be planting until June...

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robin family is annoyed at Spokane’s rainy weather They get a yellow umbrella and stay together Let’s go back to the Midwest says the father, loud. Yes! The wife agrees, looking at a new storm cloud. They huddle together, bracing their feathers in the wind. Mommy, Daddy, Zin and her twin brother, Finn. At the end of the storm, they decide...

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I readily admit I am a country bumpkin But I am no buffoon I am in this to build others up To help others win To raise up my neighbors and my friends We hear about the coastal towns Both east and west coast have terrific reputations Their people are more sophisticated, more stylish, chic. It is fashionable at both coasts to be...

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The sun rises in a watermelon sky Green leaves welcome the newborn light shivering in the crisp air Watercolor wings amid the blooming blossoms flutter in the breeze The verdant high hills and gentle ravines awaken to the Meadowlark’s chorus in Nature's melody Bite Size Poem no48 Poetry Contest...

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Here in my suburban acre of Ohio; I feel the generations, the hungarians, the irish and germans, the dutch, the blacks, the shawnee. We are not a melting pot, we are birds and critters brought here by wild, wild winds. I am a grackle with my own grackle language, I expect you who live in the same tree with me have your own way of making...

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We accept tornadoes here, expect them, tick them off as they pass by like demon dreidels. Usually they are not a big deal unless they are. Spring culls its little lambs in all sorts of ways. The murder rate in Chicago climbs ever higher until the city prays for more snow. Folks in their privileged trailer parks get rolled like dice. A pressing need for body bags creates...

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Let's go ice skating, like when we were kids! We skated indoors at the Chicago Arena. My leather brown case with peacock satin interior, And gold locks that shined like the morning sun. Those figure skates, polished were my pride and joy. The Arena was huge and had its own organ. So proud we were to skate to real music. I was so unsure of...

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The magnolia The frontsman of the spring The pear is jealous...

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Dark tornadic skies batten down the Oz hatches twisters by the score...

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Jumping Jehoshaphat’s! It is a down home true hillbilly hootenanny! They are jiving and whirling, and the accordion is a twirling! I run to find my square dance dress which no longer buttons. My boobs are hanging out like Jane Russell’s but I do not care. The cousins are in town, and with them that Arkansas whiskey humor. Grandma...

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In the Bible I have pressed a photograph of her and on its back the words she wrote said she'd always remember me on a Greyhound bus I rode down roads that endless seemed through a countryside that never changed and every small town there could be every town had a school or it had a church where we would stop for the night and another...

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Exit gate C opened up, And the followers flood Turnstiles overcrowding, And fallen ticket stubs A namesake for the estate Just off of 23, On the way to my place In the southern United States We've been distant, More than I envisioned, But I invent connections the whole drive down. I think in 2014, when I was 18 or 19, A midwestern soundtrack For late night soccer...

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