Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.
Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,
As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.
If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.
An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.
The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.
Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.
Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.
These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,
As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.
These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,
Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,
Long poem by
Steven Medellin | Details |
The Whiskey Bottle Wish
One late summer night outside a saloon in the mid-west, an intoxicated Dusty Rogers, stumbles out of the Bar nearly taking one of the revolving doors with him. As he flutters on out, he catches his fall on the walkway hand railing in front of him. Focusing his sight with a loose grip holding the railing, the other hand has tighter grip on a bottle of Whiskey. Hesitantly letting go of the rail he musters up enough hand eye coordination to fix his hat and pull up his pants. As the drunken man walks down the strip of a quiet town... A quiet town after all the rooms in the bathos are vacant, when all the liquor has run dry from every bottle, far after all the lead and gun powder filled the air ... It's then a quiet town. An hour walking and countless chugs of sweet, sweet whiskey; the drunken Rogers, has been taking over with the urge to piss. He sees a hallucination of a building up ahead about ten feet away. He pulls up, face nearly inches from what he thinks to be the wall of the building, but is in fact a towering cliff side standing over fifty feet staring down on him. He starts to piss on the cliff side soaking his pants and boots. He places the bottle down with his left hand as his right hand is stretched out flat on the wall holding himself up. He's leaning forward so much it appears as if he were holding up the mountain. He begins to mumble.
“You drunk. You will always be a drunk... That's all they ever spoked about me. But, why? How did this... How did any of this happen?” His right hand slips and his face crashes into the jagged cliff side in front of him. He groans in agonizing pain while he is lies in his urine. Bludgeon face he shouts up at the stars.
“Damn you! You tooken everything from me. You left me all alone! Why didn't you take me too! Am I not good enough for death...? I do anything to feel the blaze envelop me. Like they so did... “Wiping his tears he whispers. “You should have tooked me with them. I should have burned on that train with my family... That was my destiny instead I bare the mark of Cain." looking up at the sky as if expecting an answer. “Just sit up their laughing as you strip everything from my hands and fill this void with this damned bottle."
As he continues to wipe the tears off his face, he gets to his feet zipping up his pants and is about start to walk along the mountain side. In his peripheral he's sees the shimmer behind him. Turning around he Picks up the bottle of whiskey and stops to eye ball the remaining two or three gulps. Looking at the bottle and he starts to rub the side as if where a lamp. “I wish to see my family" holding back the tears forming in the corner of his eyes. "You took everything from me so in return, I'll take all of you!"
He takes a swig and starts walking along side of the cliff shouting obscenities. In his anguish he stumbles and trips upon a metal beam railing falling flat on his face. Instead of picking himself up, he reaches for the whiskey and goes to take an even bigger hit from the bottle. Franticly shaking the bottle to get out every drop out he chucks the empty bottle in the air. The bottle never breaking hits the ground skipping and flipping along the gravel. Below his feet wooden planks placed about a foot apart from one another lay in a row. Running up the side, adjacent to the planks, runs a solid steel beam. The drunk has no idea he has stumbled onto train tracks leading into a tunnel right through the mountain. He thinks he is walking down a hand railed stairwell leading to a basement. He walks on the tracks towards a tunnel, he loses his balance and reaches for non-existing handrails but the rails are too low to grab so he trips over a plank of wood and falls on his face once more.
“What...What kind of crap is this?" he cries as he lays out on the floor half conscious. Suddenly he starts to laugh the intensity grew as he was trying to get to his feet. He only manages to sit up facing the blackened tunnel ceiling as if it was a starless night sky. “What are you waiting for? Stop toying with me. If you want then come take me. I'm here..." a loud whistling sound comes charging through the tunnel growing louder each passing second. With a shaky voice and a sense of uncertainty he asks.
“Trumpets? Is that roar trumpets I hear? Is that you?" as the ground starts to tremble the sound grows immensely; numbing all senses. Then, a bright light comes ripping through the darkness like a bullet through midair. The light striking his glossy eyes blinds him. The ground rumbles violently as the whistling sound becomes deafening. He chuckles and spreads his arms wide open and says “You finally answered my prayers." he closes his eyes, and black was the last thing he saw.
Long poem by
Shadow Hamilton | Details |
Two friends were travelling to the east seeking unexplored lands
eventually they reached some grim looking tall mountains
slowly they made their way up to the summit and stood there
Breathlessly they were amazed by the panoramic view before them
Vast areas of open lands stretched out with lakes and forests dotted about
"what a wonderful place" said McLeod "lets climb down and explore it "
they set off it took a long time to get down to the valleys below
they set up camp by a crystal clear spring full of big fat fish
"Supper" said McBram "lets try to catch some" with only their hands
they set about fishing, soon four
fat silver fish had been tickled out
lighting a fire they found a good flat stone on which to bake the fish
the teasing enticing smell of the fish soon filled the air
They saved two which they smoked to carry with them
that night as they slept a bear raided the camp stealing
the smoked fish. Luckily sated it did not attack them
"Drat no breakfast" said McLeod " lets catch and cook some more"
Finally ready they set off following the stream down to a lake
there were plenty of familiar fruits and berries for them to gather
also many strange ones that tempted them "best not eat them" said McBram
"They could be poisonousness". "No look the birds are eating them"
Reassured they tucked in eating a few and collecting some for later
suddenly with a mighty sound a mound rose up with a cave in it
the two friends looked at each other in bewilderment . "What's that
where did it come from?" asked McBram as slowly they entered the vast entrance
An eerie light flooded the cave, it was being emitted by some red crystals
they looked at each other and going over to them they touched them
with a flash they were suddenly spinning through time itself
crashing down they found themselves many moons in the past
Before them they could see strange looking people that bowed before them
a weird man dressed in skins with a stick that was shaped like a snake
pointed it at them it seemed alive as it hissed at the friends wreathing
"These are the promised ones" he said "The ones foretold of in prophecies"
"They have come here from the future to fore-fill the ancient legend"
the friends were feted by these people who treated them like kings
and the following day they were led to an ancient monolith
and strapped to it. "What is going on" asked McLeod "why have you tied us up?"
"To stop the dragon carrying you off" said the shaman "The prophecy foretells
you must defeat it to rid our lands of its evil purpose. At full moon it takes a maiden
and some of the children and feasts on them. You with your swords of iron can
defeat it." "Well we have never seen on before" said McLeod
"How are we supposed to defeat it" "I have a magic potion" said the shaman
"drink it and its fiery breath will not harm you. With its protection you must
then strike the dragon in both its eye then its heart" Giving them their swords
the villagers scurried off to hide. Soon there was a mighty roar and the dragon
flew down breathing fire, its talons outstretched to grab them. McBram went
for its eye running his sword into it sending it blind, while McLeod struck it deep
in its heart. The dragon fell to the ground and laid there dead. The villagers
came out of hiding and prepared a great feast in their honour
Towards the end of the celebration the shaman gave them both a bowl
"Drink this, he said "It will return you to your own time" So they drank it
and found themselves again spinning through time. They saw many different times
and strange places as they were whirled back to the present
Unconscious they laid on the ground slowly coming to, they were back at their camp
on coming to they looked at each other in puzzled bewilderment. Talking about
what had occurred they decided it must have been an illumination. Until they saw
lying on the ground some dragon scales collecting them up they returned home
Their friends scoffed at their story saying they had dreamt it all, there were no
longer dragons in this land. The two friends showed the others the dragon's scales
which were stared at with awe and amazement. Right there and then the two
friends decided they would stay at home safe with family and friends
Maybe to be continued
Long poem by
Katie Pukash | Details |
When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood
just how much words effect us.
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.
Long poem by
Reg Rhodes | Details |
A Mutual Enemy
By Reg Rhodes
My friend and I have a dangerous and mutual enemy. It is called alcohol, and
it is killing her.
Masquerading as her best friend, the alcohol is cunning. Repeatedly, it sells
her dreamy promises of escape from reality.
The alcohol is baffling; it keeps her convinced that she is not sick, that
another drink wont hurt.
Powerful in its relentless pursuit of her soul, the alcohol exposes its true
intentions, slowly draining her life.
Escape from reality was only an alcohol induced illusion, the relief only
Only small traces of her once-vibrant personality remain, her proud stature
reduced to an unrecognizable slouch. Her once healthy figure now skinny and
Alcohol; now the great betrayer, is tenanciously pursuing its goal to kill my
friend, just like it tried to kill me.
The alcohol is merciless, and it aspires to steal her soul.
The alcohol is patient; slowly destroying my friends life, drowning her in a sea
of loneliness and despair.
She frantically swims for shore, and it is so far away. Miraculously, a raft
materializes. Gods concern is apparant.
She rejects the concept of God, even In the face of adversity. She is stubborn,
and refuses to see the raft, rejecting Gods help. She swims right by.
The alcohol shows no sympathy; it destroys it's victims slowly and painfully.
The alcohol is poison in her body; it doesn't care that her liver is shutting
It pays no mind to the plethora of mysterious health problems, the endless
barrage of doctor appointments or the many surgeries she must endure.
The alcohol is cunning; providing her with a dark veil of tears, keeping her
blind to her own terrifying reality.
The alcohol is the great deceiver; keeping her wrapped in a cloak of denial,
the pleadings of her friends and family go unnoticed.
The alcohol is the great repressor; It stole her smile, her laugh, her
The alcohol knows nothing of love; it has no regards for her kids, her family or
The alcohol silences her fear of death. It replaces happiness with anger, joy
with sadness, and confidence with bewilderment.
The alcohol is the great supressor. Warnings from her doctors go unnoticed,
she no longer fears death.
The alcohol keeps her in a constant state of self loathing, sadness, loneliness
My friend and I have a dangerous and mutual enemy that preys on our
unaided will, it makes her blind to Gods love for her.
Stripped of her many wonderful attributes, she no longer sees his plan for her,
or what he had in mind when he created her.
If only she would stop pushing God away, and allow him to embrace her with
his love, forgiveness, tolerance and understanding.
If she could only understand that only God can restore her sanity. That only
he can relieve her of the unbearable cravings and compulsions to drink.
If only she could believe in a higher power greater than herself, give up her
stubborness, drop to her knees and cry out for help.
Even an inadvertant prayer can be powerful, provided she has an
overwhelming, genuine desire to stop drinking.
For her, a spiritual awakening would mean freedom from the bondage of
A liberating fact for her is that she doesn't have to drink anymore.
The chaos and turmoil in her life will disappear.
Tumultuous mental torture will be removed, and she will feel serenity and
She will find that God will do for her what she couldn't do for herself.
Hand in hand, my friend and I will skip our way along the road to happy
Our dangerous mutual enemy, no longer a threat.
Long poem by
tattooed writer | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/junipers_daughter_picks_a_man_635530' st_title='juniper's daughter picks a man'>
Juniper’s Daughter Picks a Man
On a cold rainy early winter night Juniper’s Daughter landed her flying disc on the car park of Aldi and went for a beer. She was dressed in casual attire so as not to stand out, she wanted a man and did it the old skool way. Juniper’s Daughter sauntered in the bar held the door open with one hand and let all of the men in the venue get a good look at her, in turn she took in each of them.
Most were crap but one caught her eye. She slowly looked his way and made eye contact and entered the pub, walking over to him. Two dozen sets of male eyes and several female tracked her as she went to the bar and stood next to the man. The witch shook her hair and ruffled it with her hand.
Turning she glanced at the man and announced in her Danish accent, “Hi there, you gonna buy me a drink then?”
The man looked at the young woman beside him noticing that she was toned up under her loose fitting casual clothes and replied, “Yea why not. What are you having?”
“Why young man I’ll have you! I mean I’ll have a beer!” Laughed the witch slightly blushing, this got the man exited and guaranteed his interest in her.
His gaze never left Juniper’s Daughter she looked into space at the spirit bottles upside down behind the bar. The man ordered the drinks in a flustered voice, losing his cool a little? She smiled gently at him and asked his name, he replied, “Jason.”
“I’m Anna but people call me The Witch due to my blond hair and looks coz I’m from Denmark. I don’t mind that actually.”
“Really? I’ve never been to Denmark but I like their beer they make, really good. Have you drunk it?”
“Oh yes my love, I’ve had it many times. Thanks for the beer.”
The couple were quiet for a minute drinking their drinks and thinking about the other, he liked the blond lady. She wasn’t like local gals and did she really want him or slip up?
She liked the young man from first glance and soon she would make love to him in her flying disc after their drinks. Moving closer to the man, Jason, Anna gently held his hand and slowly moved her face towards his and kissed him once on he lips.
He didn’t back away or resist, he met her kiss and parted the witch’s tongue with his kissing her deeply, she closed her eyes and ignored the envious looks from other people at the bar and tables in the pub. A few people whispered and pointed, this doesn’t normally happen and who was this foreign gutsy stranger?
After a long timeless kiss the witch let her hand brush Jason’s jeans feeling his bulge, they kissed again and finished their drinks. She whispered that she wanted him and held out her hand, he took it and followed her. Together they left the pub and walked over to the car park where he thought her car was parked.
Long poem by
Danny Sroda | Details |
By Danny Sroda
There is a story which has been untold
Which I cannot any more withhold
It's about a man who you all know
Who lives out in the land of snow
Father Christmas was his name
Until that episode of shame
When he started wearing all that red
And he became Santa instead
I wonder if you've ever thought
If not I think you really ought
To consider why he made this change
If you think about it, it's quite strange
One day he was a fairy tale
Until his agent made a sale
Like David Beckham, he was sold
To the ones who promised lots of gold
So he changed his name and changed his clothes
He was dictated to by those
Who thought their business could cash in
On Santa's warm and friendly grin
Before he knew it he was cloned
When he read the contract how he groaned
What have I done? the old man said
I must have sawdust in my head
They've got me by the crystal balls
In all the schools and shopping malls
There's a fellow with a clip-on beard
Who all the children think is weird
They know it's not the real me
But still they sit upon his knee
So they can humour mum and dad
And show them it's no passing fad
And that they always will believe
But they know it's really uncle Steve
Who's dressed up in those silly clothes
They can recognise his big red nose
Dad says it comes from too much beer
He looks like Rudolph the Reindeer
While those impostors take my place
I have to work a crazy pace
I've only got one Christmas Eve
To make certain that I will achieve
This mammoth task that lies ahead
While all the children are in bed
Seven billion homes in just one night
Do you think I get some strange delight?
In driving through the sleet and snow
In temperatures fourteen below
Poor Rudolph dreads it every year
So do the other eight reindeer
Delivering seven billion gifts
Through avalanches and snow drifts
Can be a pretty tricky feat
When at every house we have to eat
A carrot and a large mince pie
And if I drank the brandy I would die
Still I suppose it could be worse
Just think if it was in reverse
If I didn't get a tasty treat
No carrot for Rudolph to eat
We'd have to go to Pizza Hut
And then the boss would kick my butt
He'd refer me to the HR clerk
For going AWOL whilst at work
So I need to get my conscience clear
My image rights have cost me dear
It was making me uptight and stressed
So with this letter I've confessed
You see I am just like the rest
In the rat-race and depressed
facebook.com/alchemyofwords to read the rest!
Long poem by
Nathan Logan-Cooney | Details |
“I heard a note once,.” Charles said with conviction and bass from his gut.
Every night with chuck we reached this point ,
Existential storytelling, usually after four drinks or eight drinks.
Talking about government and it’s corrupt nature, the idiocy and beauty of religion,
And even the joy and sorrow of love, tonight’s ramble is brought to you by our
“The Joy And Sorrow Of Love, making and breaking the dreams of many to come and
Taking a slight sip of some brown alcohol Charlie smiled and giggled,
putting his drink down with one hand
and covering his smile with the other wiping away the dribble of “Tela “from his chin.
“One that sung strong and proud”
Than he kind of shifted himself for comfort
With raspy sad reflective tones he stopped all our babble
With whiskey staring off into space or the wall
The side of me that is more romantically inclined would like to
Think at the time he could still hear this sound
in the dead silent pauses in between speech
“It’s funny, as I heard it was like it was already there
And the horn just reminded me to listen.;
A single note sad and sweet.
Walking the line of beauty and horror
A sadness only heard by those reminded
By some brass and a girl.”
We all sat and took this in silence
There weren’t that many of us,
Just four drunks and a bartender (I should of rounded up to five)
In a dimly lit wood paneled dive both happy and sad.
“What was the name of that song?” they all chuckled
as the young one sat in awe of all the others .
I was shammed by there disbelieve of my lack of comprehension
“Hey chuck, name that tune.”
They all chuckled a little more and shook there heads.
As the bartender filled our cup Charles lowered his head close to me grinning
Perking up as he told me,
“Hey man, there ain’t no name foe that song, well there is but it’s different for
“??” I responded with my hand out in a “what the ?” manner.
“I’m telling you the song is the same for everyman but it has a different name for
stopping to sip once again and my receive response.
“Ok, Ok, I guess” I responded still with a slight ignorance in my voice.
I could see there was love and pause as he stopped to crack the silence .
“The birth of my daughter”
I shrunk, no really I did, to such a tiny proportion
that I could stand in the barstool jump for my drink and fall violently to my death..
Frozen and tiny I sang up to him “I must of missed that one!”
The room exploded.
Long poem by
Paula Swanson | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/grandpas_hammock_268478' st_title='Grandpa's Hammock'>
Every year it was brought down from the garage rafters. Green metal frame and
springs, green canvas with white fringe and a little green pillow. It was laid out, hosed
off and erected. Grandpa couldn't have done it without us grand kids. He said so. It
was placed in a spot of honor. Just a couple of feet from the picnic table and in a spot
that was always in the afternoon shade. A folding T.V. tray was placed next to it to
hold cold drinks and snacks. Within a few days, the grass under the frame would be
brown and dead. The grass at the sides of the hammock would just be plain gone.
Scuffed away by feet, as we kids sat on the edge and swayed side to side.
After mowing the lawn, washing the car, or doing any other chores needed, Grandpa
would go inside and put on his "Hammock clothes". This consisted of a pair of Bermuda
shorts and a ribbed tank style Tee. White socks and brown sandals completed the
outfit. Once dressed appropriately, he would head for the hammock. The first "sit" of
the summer season was always a bit touchy. One had to get use to the hang of it.
There he would stand, next to the hammock. Cold drink in his one hand, the T.V. tray
forgotten. His slightly bald head and stick thin legs already slightly sun burned. Slowly,
he would start to lower himself. Reaching back with his free hand to grab the edge of
Of course us kids, grandma and mom would all be spying out of the corner of
our eyes to watch this ritual.
Then came the "Grandpa Sit". Grandpa would rock slightly forward and back on his
feet. 1-2-3 and ....SIT! A few wobbles. A couple sloshes of his lemonade. All of us
yelling "Whooooaaaaaa". He would sit there on the edge of the hammock, holding
himself steady with one hand on the edge. His feet firmly planted on the grass and his
other hand holding his cold drink high aloft.
Now, the sandals needed to be taken off. One of us grand kids would run over and
help take them off. Tickling his feet as we did so.
So far, no damage to life or limb.
Ah, but he was not yet fully on the hammock yet.
Now came the "Swing and lie down" move.
Slowly, grandpa would reach behind himself and grasp the far edge of the canvas.
drink in his other hand still held aloft. O.K.....1-2-3...SWING the legs up and quickly lie
back. Let the hammock come to a stop.
On the ground on the other side of the hammock soaked in lemonade.
Summer was officially started!
Long poem by
Robert A. Dufresne | Details |
After Tom left, Bill slugged down his coffee, donned his Stetson and slipped out the side
entrance. Tom saw him for a split second and quickly looked up at the ceiling as if he didn’t. Bill grinned. On the whole, his relationship with the guys in his precinct was a good
He jaywalked across the busy street to the police impound lot where he had parked his
black forty nine Buick. He bought it in Texas after deciding he’d had enough of the Texas
Rangers for a while. He had put in for a leave after steady busting his butt for fifteen years
mounted and un mounted all over that Lone Star state. He remembered retiring his last horse there. “Harry Hoss the Boss” was what he called him. After old Harry retired, Bill decided to do the same for a while. He enjoyed the Ranger gig but got burnt out.Time for a change.
Driving up to Nova Scotia to see old friends, he thought he’d stop in the Big Apple to see how folks lived there. After getting four different sets of directions from strange talking people and getting lost just as many times, he stopped at a bar named Paddy’s. Disgusted with his ordeal in the Big City he dropped in to relax for a bit before getting the hell out of that crazy town…if he could only find the way.
The atmosphere of the joint was vaguely familiar. Folks of all ages enjoying each other's company. Bill bellied up to the bar and ordered a double shot of Jim Beam. He looked into the mirror through the row of liquor bottles behind the bar to see a few guys on his right engaged in lively jibberish about the Yankees. Seated on his left was a rugged looking gentleman in a brown Fedora hat looking right back at him. He was knuckling onto a three finger glass with about four fingers of Scotch in it judging by the bottle planted near him. He grinned at Bill and said, “You lost cowboy ?”
“Reckon I am at that. Good talkin’ to a stranger I can understand though. The name’s Bill “he said putting out his hand.
“They call me Brick“, he quipped exchanging a short strong handshake.
Bill pointed to Brick’s drink and said “How can you drink that horse piss?” Here it was three
years later and he still remembered Brick’s answer.
“It’s easy Bill… bottle, glass, mouth, stomach.” They both laughed and they had been
buddies ever since. Bill smiled in recollection . Somehow after that fated meeting, Bill never
did make it to Nova Scotia....
Bill came back to the present and climbed into his Buick. ...(cont.)