Best Cavalier Poems
By the early years of that ancient decade, the 70's,
I'd tired of my obstreperous tomboyish games:
kickball with the neighbor kids, sledding in the winter,
desecrating the peacefulness of our street's grave yard
with our bike races, tag, and hide-n-seek.
And I tired too of the pastimes of my season preferred:
chasing siblings with a hose, giggling and gleeful,
swimming at Weed Park,
and my perpetual swinging through those long, sweet sunshiny days
longed for during classes in my school.
Old friends grew up.
Boredom anon crept upon the remnant of my childhood.
At times - through infancy and beyond -
I'd been beset by a feeling of loss
over something not yet sought.
It was something kin to loneliness, but no. . .not that.
More a sense of gloom - a sorrowing for what?
I still don't really know.
Despite the days of inexplicable forlornness,
I grew more and more cavalier
throughout the days that came
between those odd forlorn days
because my old timidity, in fact, had waned. . .
Another face, fairer, appeared.
It waxed and glowed - assured -
until those “days - in- between”
had finally surpassed the melancholy ones.
I learned to stifle monotony and squelch the blues.
I became a "doer" of too many things to name
as I went gliding through with the Gibbous moon.
Soon enough, a fullness had arrived.
And now it must disseminate.
In the years to come, I'll be wondering this. . .
Will the shining face I show the world wane too,
and will my youth's strange darkness re-emerge,
eclipsing what light remains as I drift,
having come full-cycle,
into my final
crescent phase?
5/21/14
Submitted 3/30/16 to PD's Any Poem # 38 Poetry Contest
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound
the lamas leap and the water falls-- clear,
mindful, the wind's play on the Quechua's ground.
The majesty of the Andes astounds
for from behind the clouds, the peaks reappear.
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Like great red-clay dunes or snow capped mounds;
courts rise and fall in terrain, so austere;
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Rainbows of red, blue, and gold oft surround
distant ruins of gray stones, now severe
from the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Solid, earth-bound, sun-browned, lost to the hounds,
so, Quechua shepherds bound stairs cavalier--
mindful; the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Pachamama's love surrounds without bounds,
long gone are the conquers; all life is here,
from the mountain's peak, the wooden flutes sound--
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
* Quechua is one of the native people of Peru
**The Dominican Monks set hounds trained to kill
on the natives who refused conversion.
*** Pachamama, fertility Godess in Incas Mythos
Outside of civil man’s well tended garden,
A field of briars willfully encroached,
Threatening the peaceful flowers without pardon.
Oh these gardeners fought hard as the briars approached.
“You don’t belong here, you’re not good enough!”
“You are snarled with iniquity and with thorns.”
“You live a life so very harsh and rough…”
“What good can you bring?” they said with deep seated scorn.
And the briar replied that hot summer day,
“Deep within these unforgiving boughs
Lives a flower who doesn’t have much to say
Except a story concerning what you espouse.”
“You see there lives a dragon scorned just over the way,
Who tossed opportunity and harbingers to the wind,
Because life is glorious and he loves to play…
Carefree and cavalier is how his days were spent.”
“He playfully trampled gardens carefully tended,
By pious gardeners without wings who would never fly,
Until he happened upon a flower wonderfully scented,
Crimson in color, the flower reflected beauty in his eye,”
“Eagerly he reached forward to make it his own,
But this glorious flower was protected by thorns,
And gave the dragon a prick to change his tone,
And it was in that prick that true love was born.”
“Now the dragon is older and has spent his days,
Watching over this rose, the love of his life,
Learning about beauty and awe inspiring ways.
His world now protected by thorn and briar.”
“He has discovered great beauty and learned much,
And no longer does the dragon destroy with fire.”
“But should you gardeners even dare to touch
A single branch or bough in this tangled briar…”
“You will face both the Dragon and the Rose,
Who with great love now protect each other,
From pious gardeners who would have them go,
Because neither can be kept on a tether.”
“So snip your lilies and pluck your weeds,
Make your lives as perfect as they can be,
For in this harsh briar we continue to watch love grow,
That of a magnificent Dragon and the beautiful Rose.”
Someone in a small town
gave me a place after losing my home.
The window of my room in the morning
gave waking visions of a yard in bloom.
The family cavalier spaniel
gave company when I was alone.
The park where we walked
gave a fresh breeze to ease my thoughts.
The breath of a fresh breeze
gave new life and inspiration.
The mother playing with her child
gave a moment’s affection.
The lady down the street
gave odd jobs for spare change.
The local food pantry
gave a basket of food.
Its social worker
gave words of comfort.
The brass band in the band shell
gave a song to remember.
The bartender at the corner tap
gave a free whiskey and a hug.
The view out my window at night
gave visions of a town in slumber.
The small town I found
gave what I needed most.
A gauzy haze rises from the flickering gas light,
revealing the face of a blushing coquette.
Stepping through time in voluminous dress, bustled and bowed,
a petite silhouette.
She offers her hand to the handsome uniformed, callow cadet.
She moves with eloquence, poise and grace;
He, smitten by her charming demeanor, peaceful, porcelain, angelic face.
Flustered at first, heart pounding accepting his advances,
a gentle kiss and lingering embraces.
The afternoon brought festivities of equestrian competition.
Young cadets, eager to advance, entered to raise their rank and position;
His prowess boasted by the charm of his lady admirer's recognition.
She arrives in a brimmed bonnet, settling in her seat, vying for clear view;
Awaiting her chivalrous cavalier,
preparing, taking position, for the race to ensue.
A shot is fired, she sees him from afar,
waving his silk flag of gold, green and blue.
Gallant and proud, spurring his steady steed without yield.
Thunderous hooves in a cloud of dust, neck and neck as he rounds the field;
Pursing only, the love of his lady, and winning the coveted, golden shield.
February 6, 2017 For Stepping Through Time Contest, February 22, 2017
Mr. Franklin "coined" that old saw, "A penny saved is a penny earned!"
I mused upon that fabled adage and for the olden days I yearned.
Then, a penny was worth a cent, but, alas, it ain't no more.
Ah! The myriad of things a penny could buy at the local store!
For a penny you could send a postal card through the mail.
And for a mere copper you'd get your weight read on a scale!
A penny would give you a handful of nuts from peanut machines,
And for the same, get a fistful of scrumptious and colorful jellybeans!
I recollect the cutesy cards we shared for the school Valentine party.
They cost a cent apiece and were so witty and so very arty!
As the cards were distributed, secret admirers gave a sly grin.
Blushin' lads received saccharine cards much to their chagrin!
A copper penny would purchase a huge all-day sucker to lick,
Or a twisted string of chewy red or black licorice on a stick!
You could buy a kite with your penny or some candy cigarettes,
Or some wax-bottled sugar water or silly false teeth sets!
Ain't it ironic that the profile of Honest Abe whom we so revere,
Appears on the coin that we toss about and treat so cavalier!
Even in my second childhood, I'll still pick a penny off the ground!
Shucks! "Someone's disdain for that lowly coin is my treasure found!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
First Place Win in Joe Flach's "In Other Words" Contest - September 2010
He was tall and cavalier
Wined me under a chandelier
How he was debonair
With his soft blond curls of hair
Gallant and handsome
Dance moves for a twosome
He swept me right off my feet
With a sultry accent straight from Crete
How could I ever forget that starlit sundown
And that bartender from the other side of town
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
'Twas the night before Christmas
I had myself a beer
Brushed off my apron
It was time for cheer
After all it’s Christmas eve
Hear! Hear!
It’s so exciting
A lovely atmosphere
Light fluffy snow
Santa’s sitting here
Sipping on hot coco
He’s grinning ear to ear
Comfy in his rocking chair
And looking so cavalier
Not worried by the time
Same story every year
He waits till the last minute
Until I volunteer
To pack a lunch and
Call his every reindeer
I remind him to make haste
Grab his bag and gear
Under children’s trees
Presents don’t just appear
So much to plan and do
Fly through each hemisphere
Unless he’s thinking
Changing his career
He better quick hit the road
And best be on his merry way
AP: Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on November 21, 2019 for contest THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS sponsored by JOSEPH MAY - RANKED 3RD
Candid and fully exposed as the theatre’s light dims
She stands poised, dauntless disciplined and statuesque
A stance both stalwart and defiant yet supple are her limbs
Mango hued flower, shoulder's thrown back thrusting her breast
He sits rapped by intrigue as he studies her movement
A silver fox and raven mane is neatly brushed regally back
To beautify him further would take divine improvement
Only to be bathed in her impassioned embrace does he lack
Swirls of sangria red fabric charge like El toro spark undulating trails
Laced in pearly white with azure blue print mesmerize and highlight
And flow about her generous hips in a rage of billowing canvas sails
Flamenco dancers firm legs are revealed in fish nets that boldly invite
Whilst her furtive glimpse ignites his cavalier bon vivant smile
She bewiles with onyx eyes that glisten and fingers splayed for effect
He connects in a flash with a performers come hither guile
Upon times eternal river this fiery night's tryst they shall reflect
In my youth girls would sigh, your teeth are so bright
Now, like the stars, they come out at night
Once cavalier narcissistic
I have grown much more realistic
As a witty old genius, I'm an eternal delight
Mr. Biden pledged his word
so solemn, sincere...
He's just reneged on his pledge
~ so insincere, cavalier
How does 1 cut the hair on a head that's no longer here,
prolonged was the shadow with holding tender mercy.
With I left needy, no 1 to toast our final beer.
Since have I found no inner peace,
instead I poured your love into 3 neice.
Believing you flew free upon release,
back to the deck of the Cavalier,
moored off the Cape of Good Hope
where you finally found that you belonged there
Sat on the pier, red sky at night,
Gerard's delight...
NBA Finals Prayer
Lord, blesseth thine Warriors
And treateth not thine Fans
with a such a Cavalier attitude.
Thy restoreth our soles.
Thy quickeneth and brusheth off our feet of Klay.
Thy maketh passes down for Green fast breaks.
Yea, though we've walked through
the Valley of Lebron,
we shall fear no Dellavedova.
Thy Ref and thy Stef, they comfort us.
Thou preparest a bench for Mike Miller to keep warm
in the absence of his highness' hiney Heat.
Thou anointest Anderson Varejao's head with jojoba oil;
My Curry runneth over.
Surely championships and endorsements
shall follow us all the years of our careers.
And we will dwell in the house of the Oracle for Game Seven
(if necessary).
Amen
Psalm 23, King James Aversion
Composed and published by Damian Hinman June 16, 2015
Dedicated to Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. (November 11, 1885 – December 21, 1945)
I'd fought a hundred battles
through the ages past and new
I'd been a lowly foot soldier
But at times commanded too.
I was a witness of Arab mothers
Fleeing cities under-siege ;
A new age liberator,
The commander of the third.
I had served with Ceasar's legion;
The Carthaginians; and the Greeks.
When Arthur was in his Kingship,
I was a captain of the knights
A horseman tough and skillful
Of medieval cavalier;
But ages had transformed me
to dash with iron wheels
The only time I meet MacArthur
Was in the salient of St. Mehiel
We both stood erect, calm, and unmindful
To the guns and bursting shell.
Oh well take a look at Monty
Too slow for his advance
He didn't expect me to take Palermo
or Mesina to my plan
I was reproved of my harshness,
They knew not that I was somber too
I cared not of my language
As long as my point would get through
I'd mixed my words with profanities
That my orders surely stick
My men would always remember every word
While they're in the battle field
Oh my, I hate those yellow bastards
They have no place on this earth
I sent them to the frontlines
That no more they would breed
Those swivel chair commanders
Discounted my two days time
But brave soldier deserved to be rescued
Before his dog tag stops to chime.
So my men made it to Dunkirk
To the delight of McAuliffe
"Surrender!" yelled the Nazis
but "nutz" was all he said.
I was cut off of supplies and fuel
For Market Garden's sake
But after pissing the flowing River
I held the Fuhrer's nest
So soon another war was ended
Mine enemies had lost
The iron carver claimed the glory
And relieved me from my post.
A haze…
Languorous oft in summer days
Where sundrops drip
From melting skies
Onto city grind
And parasols shade the cobbled grays
Across back alley lanes
Trains and trolleys tip toe by
As a fool in love forever waits
Among a noon bistro Paris crowd
For his girl, who is always fashionably late
Outside a sidewalk somewhere café cityscape
Young beauties amidst a mid-day stroll
Becomingly, become ever respectively
The flowers that line the picket way
Or some frilly prize ponies
Beneath carousels about avenues of Torrid place
A testament to this…
The carriage horses that turn their whiny heads
And then, when I turn mine
It’s to witness boots of cavalier instead
That step to one side
For moments languor has left
As my own prize has made red carpets rise
Those flutter lashes like shotguns glint blasts
And soon the white dove makes its notorious descent
Where the gentlemen, unbeknownst to them, become like minded ruffians
As they dive into madness for her precious handkerchief
“Oh” this women of mine, she has her perculiar ways
Just like all the silly rest
My damsel mademoiselle never enters into throes of distress
Longer lace invites mischievous about a button down dress
And her kisses offer smiles and arduent waves
With utter love contempt to them, but my hand is her biggest praise
I guess it’s the thrill of the game
And she’s the tigress and I her willful prey
Opening up the Gazette, coffee I incredulous sip and purposely hide my face
As my sweet flora strolls my way
And lands into her lover's arms
In a somewhere summer Paris afternoon café