{"id":813,"date":"2026-04-27T05:09:33","date_gmt":"2026-04-27T11:09:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/talesofmanythings.com\/blog\/?p=813"},"modified":"2026-04-27T05:10:38","modified_gmt":"2026-04-27T11:10:38","slug":"one-last-ride-from-timbuktu-a-story-for-the-five-of-you","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/talesofmanythings.com\/blog\/2026\/04\/27\/one-last-ride-from-timbuktu-a-story-for-the-five-of-you\/","title":{"rendered":"One Last Ride from Timbuktu, a Story for the Five of You"},"content":{"rendered":"

As National Poetry Month comes to an end, I\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Tales of Tim \u2018n Buck:<\/strong>
\nGoing to Timbuktu and Back<\/strong><\/p>\n

Well me an\u2019 Tim, we cleaned up nice,
\nBrushed off dust and killed some lice.
\nWe hitched our boots and combed our hair,
\nThen wandered into town with flair.<\/p>\n

Down in Timbuktu\u2019s one saloon,
\nThe music played a janky tune.
\nWe saw them gals from that ol\u2019 tent,
\nLord knows just where our money went.<\/p>\n

One winked at Tim, the other two
\nJust hollered, \u201cBoys, we missed y\u2019all, too!\u201d
\nWith whiskey poured and grins so wide,
\nWe whooped and hollered, side by side.<\/p>\n

A bar fight started when Hank got mad
\n(He claimed one o\u2019 them gals was his dad?)
\nWe ducked and dodged, then grabbed our gals,
\nAnd made a break through backdoor pals.<\/p>\n

Now Tim and me, we laugh out loud,
\n\u2018Twas wild and fun and mighty proud.
\nWe learned a truth as old as sin:
\nIn Timbuktu, love sure can grin.<\/p>\n

We hitched the gals up in the bed,
\nOf Tim\u2019s old truck, painted cherry red.
\nWith Belle drivin\u2019, hair in flight,
\nWe tore up roads in the night.<\/p>\n

We passed the still where Jeb brews shine,
\nAnd Sue yelled out, \u201cNow this sure feels fine!\u201d
\nWith moonlight dancin\u2019 on her face,
\nWe let the night run wild with grace.<\/p>\n

We found a field with soft cow grass,
\nAnd laid down laughin\u2019, like pure sass.
\nOl\u2019 Tim played banjo outta tune,
\nWhile Mae howled up at the moon.<\/p>\n

By sunrise we was all askew,
\nFive hearts entangled, love and dew.
\nAnd though we left by half-past two,
\nOur voices still echo on Timbuktu.<\/p>\n

So heed this tale, both wild and true,
\nOf Tim, ol\u2019 Buck and Timbuktu.
\nFor life\u2019s a ride with turns unplanned,
\nBut love shows up like a moonshine band.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Of course, this experiment can not be concluded without the stark gothic style of Edgar Allan Poe.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nocturne in Timbuktu<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u2018Twas I and Tim, with spirits high,
\nDid cleanse ourselves beneath the sky.
\nWe brushed the grime and banished blight,
\nAnd stepped in town in fading light.
\nIn Timbuktu\u2019s lone, shadowed hall,
\nWhere music wailed, a spectral call,
\nWe spied those maids from yonder tent,
\nOn earthly pleasures darkly bent.
\nOne winked at Tim, with eyes like night,
\nThe others cried, with wild delight,
\n\u201cBrave lads, \u2018tis ye! Our hearts take flight!\u201d<\/p>\n

Then whiskey flowed, a Stygian tide,
\nAnd laughter echoed, far and wide.
\nA brawl erupted, fierce and grim,
\nWhen Hank, with visage pale and dim,
\nDid claim a kinship, strange and dire,
\nFueled by some subterranean fire.
\nWe seized our loves, in that dark fray,
\nAnd fled through shadows, far away.<\/p>\n

Now Tim and I, with mirth profound,
\nRecall that night, where joys did bound.
\nA truth we learned, as old as dread,
\nThat love in Timbuktu is bred.
\nWithin the truck, of crimson stain,
\nWe placed our loves, escaping pain.
\nWith Belle at helm, her tresses free,
\nWe sped through night\u2019s obscurity.
\nPast Jeb\u2019s still, where shadows creep,
\nDid Sue proclaim, from slumber deep,
\n\u201cAh, this feels right, this moonlit race!\u201d
\nWith silver beams upon her face,
\nWe let the darkness have its will,
\nAnd rode through starlight, stark and chill.<\/p>\n

A field we found, of velvet gloom,
\nWhere laughter bloomed, defying doom.
\nOld Tim\u2019s banjo, a mournful sound,
\nWhile Mae to Luna\u2019s orb was bound
\nIn primal howl. When dawn did break,
\nFive souls entwined, for sorrow\u2019s sake,
\nIn tangled limbs and dewy sleep,
\nA secret that the shadows keep.<\/p>\n

Though ere the noon we took our leave,
\nOur spectral echoes still do weave
\nThrough Timbuktu\u2019s forgotten air.
\nSo mark this tale and take good care,
\nOf Tim and Buck and that strange place,
\nWhere love\u2019s dark grin you\u2019ll surely trace.
\nFor life\u2019s a journey, fraught with fear,
\nBut love arrives, when spirits near.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

A little bonus, for those of you who stuck with me for this long.\u00a0 A take on the story in the classic style of Robert Frost.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Timbuktu Kin<\/strong><\/p>\n

Well, Tim and Buck, they cleaned up some,
\nLike folks do when the work is done.
\nBrushed off the road dust, picked a mite
\nOf critters off, there in the fading light.<\/p>\n

Then townward bound, with boots well-tied,
\nWhere Timbuktu, it stretched out wide.
\nJust one saloon, the fiddle\u2019s whine
\nA lonely echo, yours and mine.<\/p>\n

And there they sat, those women three,
\nFrom that old camp, wild and carefree.
\nThey called out hearty, glad to see
\nThe boys had made it, finally.<\/p>\n

The whiskey flowed, a friendly share,
\nAnd laughter rose upon the air.
\nThen Hank got riled, a sudden storm,
\nClaiming some kin, to keep them warm.<\/p>\n

But Tim and Buck, they knew the way
\nWhen trouble brewed at close of day.
\nThey grabbed their gals and through the back,
\nLeft Hank still yellin\u2019 on the track.<\/p>\n

They chuckled then, a knowing sound,
\nOf wild times had, on country ground.
\nThat love in Timbuktu, it\u2019s a grin,
\nA truth as old as any sin.<\/p>\n

The women rode in that old truck,
\nRed paint still holdin\u2019 off the muck.
\nWith Belle at wheel, her hair took flight,
\nThey tore through shadows of the night.<\/p>\n

Past Jeb\u2019s still, where the brew runs free,
\nA holler rose, \u201cThis feels to me
\nLike freedom\u2019s road, beneath the moon!\u201d
\nA simple joy, arriving soon.<\/p>\n

They found a field, the grass was deep,
\nWhere tired laughter went to sleep.
\nTim\u2019s banjo twanged a tuneless strain,
\nWhile Mae called out, through moon and rain
\nOf night. By dawn, they lay as one,
\nFive hearts beneath the risin\u2019 sun.<\/p>\n

And though they left, before too late,
\nTheir voices linger, sealin\u2019 fate
\nOf Timbuktu. So hear this tale,
\nOf Tim and Buck, along the trail.
\nFor life\u2019s a journey, twist and turn,
\nBut love can bloom, where moonshines burn.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Last Word: Finding Our Voice in the Verse<\/strong><\/p>\n

Thank you for sticking with me through this experiment in poetic styles. It\u2019s 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\u2019s dark interlude and finally Robert Frost\u2019s deceptive simplicity and a profound exploration of human dilemmas and philosophy.<\/p>\n

I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading these poems as much as I enjoyed writing them. This whole exercise wasn\u2019t just about turning a crude joke into something epic. It was about proving a simple, powerful truth: poetry is hard. Don\u2019t let anyone fool you. Mastering a form, whether it\u2019s iambic pentameter or a four chord punk progression, demands craft and discipline (and a good muse<\/a>).<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

So, don\u2019t fear poetry. Embrace it. Read it, listen to it and most importantly, try your hand at writing<\/em> it.<\/p>\n

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

Go find your own Timbuktu, the place where your favorite style meets your best story.<\/p>\n

Happy reading and happy National Poetry Month!<\/p>\n

I think we need to see more rednecks attending Yale.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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