One Last Ride from Timbuktu, a Story for the Five of You

As National Poetry Month comes to an end, I’d like to wrap up the tale of Tim and Buck and Belle and Mae and Sue. This can be a Hollywood trilogy like no other, with an amicable ending, to boot.

The Tales of Tim ‘n Buck:
Going to Timbuktu and Back

Well me an’ Tim, we cleaned up nice,
Brushed off dust and killed some lice.
We hitched our boots and combed our hair,
Then wandered into town with flair.

Down in Timbuktu’s one saloon,
The music played a janky tune.
We saw them gals from that ol’ tent,
Lord knows just where our money went.

One winked at Tim, the other two
Just hollered, “Boys, we missed y’all, too!”
With whiskey poured and grins so wide,
We whooped and hollered, side by side.

A bar fight started when Hank got mad
(He claimed one o’ them gals was his dad?)
We ducked and dodged, then grabbed our gals,
And made a break through backdoor pals.

Now Tim and me, we laugh out loud,
‘Twas wild and fun and mighty proud.
We learned a truth as old as sin:
In Timbuktu, love sure can grin.

We hitched the gals up in the bed,
Of Tim’s old truck, painted cherry red.
With Belle drivin’, hair in flight,
We tore up roads in the night.

We passed the still where Jeb brews shine,
And Sue yelled out, “Now this sure feels fine!”
With moonlight dancin’ on her face,
We let the night run wild with grace.

We found a field with soft cow grass,
And laid down laughin’, like pure sass.
Ol’ Tim played banjo outta tune,
While Mae howled up at the moon.

By sunrise we was all askew,
Five hearts entangled, love and dew.
And though we left by half-past two,
Our voices still echo on Timbuktu.

So heed this tale, both wild and true,
Of Tim, ol’ Buck and Timbuktu.
For life’s a ride with turns unplanned,
But love shows up like a moonshine band.

Of course, this experiment can not be concluded without the stark gothic style of Edgar Allan Poe.

Nocturne in Timbuktu

‘Twas I and Tim, with spirits high,
Did cleanse ourselves beneath the sky.
We brushed the grime and banished blight,
And stepped in town in fading light.
In Timbuktu’s lone, shadowed hall,
Where music wailed, a spectral call,
We spied those maids from yonder tent,
On earthly pleasures darkly bent.
One winked at Tim, with eyes like night,
The others cried, with wild delight,
“Brave lads, ‘tis ye! Our hearts take flight!”

Then whiskey flowed, a Stygian tide,
And laughter echoed, far and wide.
A brawl erupted, fierce and grim,
When Hank, with visage pale and dim,
Did claim a kinship, strange and dire,
Fueled by some subterranean fire.
We seized our loves, in that dark fray,
And fled through shadows, far away.

Now Tim and I, with mirth profound,
Recall that night, where joys did bound.
A truth we learned, as old as dread,
That love in Timbuktu is bred.
Within the truck, of crimson stain,
We placed our loves, escaping pain.
With Belle at helm, her tresses free,
We sped through night’s obscurity.
Past Jeb’s still, where shadows creep,
Did Sue proclaim, from slumber deep,
“Ah, this feels right, this moonlit race!”
With silver beams upon her face,
We let the darkness have its will,
And rode through starlight, stark and chill.

A field we found, of velvet gloom,
Where laughter bloomed, defying doom.
Old Tim’s banjo, a mournful sound,
While Mae to Luna’s orb was bound
In primal howl. When dawn did break,
Five souls entwined, for sorrow’s sake,
In tangled limbs and dewy sleep,
A secret that the shadows keep.

Though ere the noon we took our leave,
Our spectral echoes still do weave
Through Timbuktu’s forgotten air.
So mark this tale and take good care,
Of Tim and Buck and that strange place,
Where love’s dark grin you’ll surely trace.
For life’s a journey, fraught with fear,
But love arrives, when spirits near.

A little bonus, for those of you who stuck with me for this long.  A take on the story in the classic style of Robert Frost.

Timbuktu Kin

Well, Tim and Buck, they cleaned up some,
Like folks do when the work is done.
Brushed off the road dust, picked a mite
Of critters off, there in the fading light.

Then townward bound, with boots well-tied,
Where Timbuktu, it stretched out wide.
Just one saloon, the fiddle’s whine
A lonely echo, yours and mine.

And there they sat, those women three,
From that old camp, wild and carefree.
They called out hearty, glad to see
The boys had made it, finally.

The whiskey flowed, a friendly share,
And laughter rose upon the air.
Then Hank got riled, a sudden storm,
Claiming some kin, to keep them warm.

But Tim and Buck, they knew the way
When trouble brewed at close of day.
They grabbed their gals and through the back,
Left Hank still yellin’ on the track.

They chuckled then, a knowing sound,
Of wild times had, on country ground.
That love in Timbuktu, it’s a grin,
A truth as old as any sin.

The women rode in that old truck,
Red paint still holdin’ off the muck.
With Belle at wheel, her hair took flight,
They tore through shadows of the night.

Past Jeb’s still, where the brew runs free,
A holler rose, “This feels to me
Like freedom’s road, beneath the moon!”
A simple joy, arriving soon.

They found a field, the grass was deep,
Where tired laughter went to sleep.
Tim’s banjo twanged a tuneless strain,
While Mae called out, through moon and rain
Of night. By dawn, they lay as one,
Five hearts beneath the risin’ sun.

And though they left, before too late,
Their voices linger, sealin’ fate
Of Timbuktu. So hear this tale,
Of Tim and Buck, along the trail.
For life’s a journey, twist and turn,
But love can bloom, where moonshines burn.

The Last Word: Finding Our Voice in the Verse

Thank you for sticking with me through this experiment in poetic styles. It’s been a blast moving from the simple rhyming couplet to the manic energy of a punk anthem, through the cynical intellectualism of Tom Lehrer, the formal rigor of a Shakespearean sonnet, the sassy heart of a Dolly Parton ballad, Edgar Allan Poe’s dark interlude and finally Robert Frost’s deceptive simplicity and a profound exploration of human dilemmas and philosophy.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading these poems as much as I enjoyed writing them. This whole exercise wasn’t just about turning a crude joke into something epic. It was about proving a simple, powerful truth: poetry is hard. Don’t let anyone fool you. Mastering a form, whether it’s iambic pentameter or a four chord punk progression, demands craft and discipline (and a good muse).

But the reward is immense. When the rhythm and the rhyme connect, the result is a satisfying pulse that reverberates long after the poem has been read. It creates a memorable moment, whether that moment is profound, ridiculous or a perfect mix of both.

So, don’t fear poetry. Embrace it. Read it, listen to it and most importantly, try your hand at writing it.

Because whether you identify with the intellectual rigidity of the Yale grad, the crude humor of Tim and Buck, the independent spirit of Mae, Sue and Belle or the sheer creative anarchy of Weird Al, we all have a unique niche in this storytelling medium.

Go find your own Timbuktu, the place where your favorite style meets your best story.

Happy reading and happy National Poetry Month!

I think we need to see more rednecks attending Yale.