Best Broad Shouldered Poems
He smiles at me.
As though the weight
Of psychedelic visions
Were insubstantial
And inconsequential;
A trivial thing.
Broad-shouldered emotions
Mushroom through
Organic momentum
To greet my pain,
A throbbing haze
That is my post-script.
Narcotic serenity
Wraps around my brain,
Slurring everything
In my tilt-a-whirl scene,
Until the funhouse
Sweeps me away.
I feel myself shrinking
Like Alice In Wonderland,
But I am not afraid
Of the beautiful myriad,
Understanding how addictive
Compulsiveness can be.
Opulent pleasure
Invades my space,
Stinging reality
With a new perspective,
Numbing submission
In a morphine choke-hold.
Sound and color bend,
A sensational delight
Of exotic flairs
And pendulums humming;
It’s unlike anything I’ve known
Except for his smile.
Bold, wide, and gently rolling or narrow, crisp, and clear,
rushing over bedrock. Broad shouldered to carry the burden
of the depths, or lithe and athletic, coursing swiftly down a
stream. Men stand and gaze transfixed by the timeless
rippling and unfolding of your waters.
The Rivers
Provider of food and bounty. Transporter of goods and
people. Pathway toward dark, uninhabited places.
Prime mover of the soil. Your course and banks perpetually
changing, birthing lowlands and broad deltas. Seeker
of lower elevations and home of deep wellsprings.
The Rivers
You bequeath the gifts of the waters from your eternal flow
to the veins and arteries of all life on earth. You are the
medium of cool, molten flow; a go-between from modest rivulet
to vast sea or ocean abyssal. Your soul composes the antiphonal
music of the waterfall and rain bearing cloud. Motion is the
purpose of your existence or eventually, all life perishes.
The Rivers
Men seek more than your bounty. They crave more than a
quick drink of your cooling waters, hoping to slake a passing
thirst. Our souls yearn for more than adventure along your realms.
We long to meld our spirit with yours; and in doing so, to feel eternal.
The Rivers
7-31-14
Now soaring high above the lands
that form the Big Sur shore,
her wings enjoin the wind and sky
set free forevermore.
Where hills, broad shouldered, meet the sea
eternal, vast, and blue,
and cloud-laced skies above the earth
now greet her soul so true.
She soars, a butterfly set free,
o'er all her life has seen.
Her memory, still rich to us,
now shares its golden sheen.
And longer than white waves have coursed
the California shore,
and deeper than the ocean or
the heavens men explore,
the gentle hands of God will guide
her wings forevermore.
For Nancy
7-16-15
They sit gossiping
around on chairs
Under shady walnut
Sh! Sh! Backbiting!
Abusing! Loud laughing…
having fun!
A proud young man
newly appointed
Abused his pupils in
anger
When I in innocence
interrupted him
And reminded of his
class,
For the poor pupils I saw
were waiting
Opening their books on
their bags.
Another one, a Master, I
saw was pulling his
inferior female
colleague’s arm
And dragging her in…!
A lecturer kissing his girl
students on cheeks,
whispering in their ears,
and
embracing…!
A broad shouldered tall
teacher would kiss and
bite
The plum-cheeks of my
fair-looking class-
fellows,
One among now is a KPS
officer!
An old lame teacher,
A drinker, abused the
pupils all the time,
Often sitting cross-
legged, lighting a cigar.
O! Let’s stop it here…
but a sick Sikh
headmaster
Now I see had been
highly communal
Would beat at prayer-
time
The poor pupils
sweating in sun,
Without seeing the
wooden-slates
And beating with willow-
twigs their soft thighs.
Thanks to the highly
disciplined modern
schools
In private sector
But the curriculum be
child centered
And not fatiguing and
boring.
O O! Recently I have
heard of the teachers
Who gave me a
humiliating nickname,
One is shouting and
hurling stones at people,
Another is dumbfounded,
hardly talking to any one.
Whom have you hired
teachers...?
Drivers and Boucher—
I wonder and I ponder…
But, let I at least protest.
Old Jane Gallagher,
she was fine,
in that sun shining on an every-day-girl sort of way.
Giggling
as her checkers clacked and she stacked up her kings,
funny
how young women enter men’s senses and take over their hearts.
Young women
with fresh friendly faces, and smooth, soft skin,
basking in the glow
of adolescent light
during comfortable, warm, summer days,
embedding colloquial tones
into malleable brains of dreaming young men.
There, they reside in ideal perfection
with their skinny naked step fathers prancing around,
showing off hairy legs and sipping cheap booze
to numb exhibitionist tendencies.
Soft-shoeing on the men’s room floor
in your red, felt, hunting hat,
what do you think you’re doing?
Young man filled with illusions of sweet girls
sipping sun tea and playing games with neighbor boys.
That handsome sporty roommate
scraping off his five-o-clock shadow
is going to conquer your innocent princess
in the back seat of a darkened, parked car.
Go down and tell her, “Hello!”
Go on, don’t be shy!
She only bites at the peak of her lust.
Like you had a chance,
putting a half nelson on your sporty roommate,
your skinny arms couldn’t hold old Jane,
let alone, a broad shouldered stud
wearing your hound’s tooth jacket.
Poor skinny hipster should be writing about sexy Jane Gallagher,
not sexy men entertaining Jane’s periphery existence.
Better let some repulsive coincidence
take your mind off the intimacy you’ll be missing.
Your coming-of-age tale
will be watching an unkempt recluse
squeezing a large puss filled zit in the mirror.
I once knew a young cowboy in Tulsa.
He was broad shouldered with longish blonde hair.
He rodeo’d with the best of that breed,
And he was champion of our county fair.
He was something to see with the women.
Always had a new beauty in his sight.
Never heard ‘em complain about nothin’-
He disappeared in the dead of the night.
We’ve got a high school rodeo team now.
About the best that you’ll find anywhere.
Four ropers, three bull riders and a clown –
They are all broad shouldered with long blonde hair.
8/30/2017
For poetry contest Bittersweet for Kevin Shaw
You reek of fancy smell
That one worn by a kingly son
You spend your daddy’s golden coins
And drive like a daring prince to town
You open doors like gentlemen
And lead her way to tricky nonse
You smile like she was your world
And dance until she finds romance
Which bait did she first bite?
Was it the fancy smell
Of your rotting four-wheel drive?
Was it your golden coins-
Which piled up credits from your daddy’s bank?
Or the gentle gesture like a sheepish boy,
But tigers roared behind you as time went by.
So which part did you get her fooled?
For neither are you a pretty man.
Nor a roguish broad-shouldered cowboy.
Your small eyes know no mystery
No deep soul to unravel
Your hair is losing healthy strands
And boy, those wrinkles lining up!-
Where did that stress come from?
Your nose they also didn’t seem right
Your lips, oh never mind!
Your brain can count a hundred times, I’ll give you that.
But let x be you, and y be her,
A riddle you cannot solve
So one last time I ask
Which part did you fool her eyes?
He was the leader of the band till age ninety-three
Won the Senior Olympics five-mile race thirty times
In the Depression Dad worked to feed his family
And succeeded by pinching all nickels and dimes
Never raised his voice in anger; that was not Dad’s way
Gave money to educate Native Americans
But he didn’t once mention the cash he gave away
To animal rights causes and disabled veterans
At six feet, broad-shouldered, he handled Mom’s depression
And brightened children’s lives with his dramatic antics
Making up stories on the spot with imagination
He mastered the art of pulling laughs from his bag of tricks
Friends were jealous; none had a father as kind as mine
Imagine the pride I felt when he walked me down the aisle
A humble man who never complained, not even one whine
Though I’m alone now, Dad made my childhood worthwhile
He didn’t wear Superman’s cape or have a magic ring
Some might have mistaken him as an ordinary man
But Dad set the bar so high, to me he was a king
No boys could ever match him, the hero of our clan
*For Jeanette Fisher’s “Holding Out for a Hero” Contest
An Old Cowboy's Thunder
I stopped at a bar with a big neon star,
And looked for a seat in the crowd.
I saw a grizzled old gent who looked pretty spent.
He sat alone at a table, tall and proud.
I said "Pardon me, sir, this place is a blur,
Do you mind if I pull up a chair?"
He said, "Join me, my friend, an elbow we'll bend,
And talk about things we may share."
I judged him four score, but he could have been more,
And he'd cowboyed all over the West.
His face was like leather from the sun and the weather.
There was a poet's heart under that vest.
8/16/2016
As he told of a time that stood out in his mind,
A huge cowboy walked in through the door.
He was broad shouldered and lean and looked kinda mean,
Like he wanted to settle a score.
When he spotted our place he set a smirk on his face
And dragged up a chair and sat down.
He said, "If you don’t mind, this place is all mine.
Go sit somewhere else in this town!"
Well, the old man just grinned while he scratched at his chin,
Like he'd seen this movie before.
He just sort of rose and broke the cowboy’s nose
With a left that came up from the floor.
Then he hit him with a bottle that was goin' full throttle
And left him sprawled out by the table.
He sat down with a sigh and wondered just why
Folks will take on more than they’re able.
Well, I left there that night with a different insight
On just what might be true of Old Men.
Look beyond what is pale and seems ever so frail,
And just imagine where that old man has been
“Politics is a contact sport” —Steve Chabot
It ain't over 'till it's over —Yogi Berra
Loug And Doug
Pleasant gentlemen both, broad shouldered and tall
Good sports who respect the umpire's call
Playing the game with pride and joy
Sincerely humble, never coy
Staunch New Yorkers with their eyes on the ball
A Young Cowboy From Tulsa
I once knew a young cowboy in Tulsa
Broad shouldered with long blonde hair
He rodeo’d with the best of that breed
And was champion of our county fair.
He was a sight to behold with women
A new girl every Saturday night
Never heard ‘em complain about nothin’
They all said he treated them right.
Then one night in the dead of the Winter
He left town and was never seen again
We heard he had settled down in Texas
Or he was seen in Lawton now and then.
The time passed quickly since he left us
All the women got on with their lives
Thought they couldn’t live without him
Now they are all makin’ excellent wives.
We’ve got a high school rodeo team now
About the best you’ll find anywhere
Four ropers, three riders and a clown –
Broad shouldered with long blonde hair.
I knew a rodeo cowboy in Tulsa
Broad shouldered with shiny blonde hair
He was a sight to behold with women
Knew 'em all at our county fair
We’ve got a high school rodeo team now
'Bout the best you’ll find anywhere
Four ropers, three riders and a clown –
Broad shouldered with shiny blonde hair
July, 2016
For Contest Two Stanzas - Two Only, for Broken Wings
Now that the half-lit vigil of the housewife has ended
And the petitions for forgiveness have begun,
To what shall we aspire?
The worlds are set in motion
And the damaged walls were mended,
Not by the strong willed, broad shouldered
Man of action, but rather
By the joining of two minds,
The blending of thought and feeling,
Shared silences that resonate
Beyond the realm of words.
Copyright © 1997-2018 by Benjamin Toney. All rights reserved.
Image credit: Mending Wall by Robert Frost
I knew a rodeo champ in Tulsa
He was broad shouldered with shiny blonde hair
He was a sight to behold with women
And knew all of them at our county fair
Then one night in the dead of the Winter
He left town and was never seen again
We heard he had settled down in Texas
Or he was seen in Lawton now and then.
We’ve got a high school rodeo team now
'Bout the best you’ll find anywhere 'round here
Four ropers, three riders and a young clown –
They're all broad shouldered with shiny blonde hair
September 24, 2016
For Contest 210, Brian Strand
“9/11”
I have seen the Sword of Anguish
As it seared its blinding wrath across the faces of millions.
I have tasted the salt of their tears
Released in painful droplets of anger and fear.
I have watched the father, stooped and broken
As he speaks of the deeds of a heroic son.
Ached for the void that engulfs the husband
As he listens to the frightened sobs
Of the wife who knows she is lost.
I have peered out through the wide eyed innocence
Of a child - hopeful, confused, afraid,
Then gone.
I have felt the fatigue of the broad-shouldered saviors
Who toil in disbelief while numbing themselves to the pain.
I tell myself: “*It is, too, much.” -
That the price of survival is, too, costly to pay.
I ask the question: “Why?” -
In the morning when I face the day;
Upon the return to home - when your presence is missed;
In the middle of the night when I wake - reaching, reaching, reaching.
Grief is physical to me now -
A gnawing volcanic mass that rises from the pit of my stomach
And hurls my suffering up and out of me in so many screaming voices.
“Time will heal,” I tell myself -
Smoothing over the scars until they are merely
A distant reminder of what you meant to my life.
But I will remember -
Always…in small agonizing sobs
That I hide in that private part of me -
And you will be with me
Again,
And again,
And again…..
Jan Pearce
In Commemoration of 9/11