Best Concocting Poems
When the Goddess of aroma
graces my caffeinated soul,
her milky quartz crown
shines in shades
of ineffable pleasures.
Invigorating arabica stars within
my senses to rise
like steamy silhouettes~
laced in seraphic
aura of lotus chastity….
If coffee personifies
the electrifying taste
of my longing soul,
will fruity scents stir,
to evoke hidden
metaphors within this
mocha heart?
I’ll sketch
decaffeinated skies
with roasted beans
of brunette bliss.
Let colors of the
golden sun splatter
harmonious hues
of cosmic sanctity.
I’ll embrace the
aromatic elixir of life,
brewed with
floral hints of faith~
allowing unfiltered
essence of
meaningless mornings,
to reawaken an undying
thirst to illuminate
fading stardust.
Quenching serenity
from granulated values,
that depict
karmic kismet
across divine rivers
flowing with
spiritual awakening.
Perhaps, with every
sip of espresso,
we indulge a scoop of
cocoa gratitude,
expressing the
inner purity,
while happiness pours
into a crystal clear cup
of constant clarity.
There the light
of cinnamon
oozes amidst the
cleansed canvas of life,
to rescript an
ethereal ingredient
that guides us back to
a realm of rosier runes,
where ego has no palette
to rest upon,
for within us dwells
an immortal barista,
concocting healing drips
from caramelized visions.
I’ll hold on to these
unexplored cravings,
while the liberty of
conscience remains~
the first ray of
warmth I inhale.
When daylight befalls like
tints of tuscan tiramisu,
let me find the strength
to lure pale pigments
of weeping wind~
I’ll be the thread
that untangles unsettling
webs wrapped in
bitter breezes,
for the king of solace
and I, will become one;
celestially intertwined,
infused in bronze ink,
as one in a million flavors.
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
The old fisherman sat in his dory
Empty nets, but concocting a story
It would sure mean his life
Should he greet his young wife
At the dock without financial quarry.
Now his wife was as fit as could be
With the girth and the might of a tree
He considered her ire
Then began to perspire
And headed his boat ... out to sea.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Tax & Finance Limericks - Old or New" Poetry Contest, Carolyn Devonshire, Judge & Sponsor.
I am blurred
lines circling
in spirals
into the
deadly depths
of darkness
taste of
my remorse
is flavored
with seasoned
cream cocktails
of regrets
I've been
caught on a
honed knife edge
as cobwebs
of fading
onyx Dreams
savor burnt
poisoned thirst
to let go
of every
smoke and ash
that blinded
my senses
from seeing
the dirt you've
fed my soul
in the name
of bloodlines
that never
existed
as all your
recipes
I've learnt through
the menu
of decayed
white lies served
in sweet disguise
staining faith
within a
heart shaped void
where demons
devour me
through midnight
now I'm my
own savior
concocting
an essence
to relish
and revive
without
iron schemes
to shackle me
Some people hide behind smokescreens
so that they can deceive others,
with elaborate schemes,
hoping to fulfill their dreams on the
sweat of the innocent,
refusing to repent,
refusing to be remorseful,
concocting lies while precious time flies,
until nothing has been accomplished.
Form:
Bouts of lightning flashes,swirls
And lightens up the pitch, black night
Of our neck of the woods
Tailgated by stealthy footsteps
Of growling, grunting, moaning and roaring thunder,
As in gnashing and grinding of canine
As rain, like beads of sweat, acne and goose pimples
Break out on my forehead and entire body,
Sprouting like yam tendrils from the earth;
meandering as water in rain gutter
From a million hair follicles,
Teasing my entire body
And finally docking by hook or crook
Like a boat at it's embedded tributary
Between my negritude toes
I google in consternation, bewilderment
At your obstinate attempt
As pestle on bits of grain in motar
To pound a defiant, renegade earth
Back against the wall in rope-a-dope
To submission and surrender
Powerful strokes of koboko whips
Descending from heaven
As plague upon pharaoh and his kinsmen,
Drumming endlessly on thatch roofs
And corrugated iron roofs alike
Concocting rhythms more intoxicating
And damning than heavy metal music
Images of African women
Resiliently scurrying, shuffling,
Between thatch huts and drooling rain;
Scuttling to retrieve rain water in pails
And ebony children
Drenched in rain like weather beaten bats
Savoring every drop from the whinning sky
Rain,
I yearn for your spirit
But dread your fiery, fury,
Flash and flood
Come rain, soak me in your mist;
Drape me in your dew and moisture
Rain,
Your ghost evokes succor and misery!
It's ever present behind our minds
A truth that is a leaded cloud.
The Reaper is concocting designs
Tailored for a black-creped shroud.
In the midst of joy and lightness
There relentlessly lurks the fact
That our moments of brightness
Are but a blink in life's short act.
Subdue those fears with a smite!
Dance in the sunlight of each day.
Banish black musings with might
And with laughter keep them away.
Exalt for having been a living being.
Celebrate the sweetness you knew.
Praise God for hearing and seeing.
Be fulfilled when earth life is through.
Henry Ford satisfied the masses, we may all agree,
By concocting the venerable Ford Model "T".
He said, "You can choose any color as long as it's black!"
And he even tossed in a spare tire, crank and sturdy jack!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
OK, your turn Ms. Rix!!!! (Or anyone else who wants to join in
the Clerihew battle!!!!)
People make assumptions,
And that's not always good.
Instead of thinking just the best,
As one another should.
They'll often add to what you've said,
The thoughts in their own minds,
Changing what you meant to say,
To something less than kind;
Giving what you meant in jest,
An unfamiliar ring,
And something really innocent,
Becomes another thing.
It's easy to assume a thing,
And then go spread the story,
But when you do you carry tales,
And cause much undue worry.
Concocting things from what you've heard,
Is such a petty pastime.
It serves us well to check our thoughts,
And bring them all back in line.
Remember, don't believe the things,
That sometimes you will hear,
For truth or lie, it matters not,
The price you'll pay is dear;
For those who spread about such news,
Have naught to do but lobby.
Perhaps we should suggest to them,
That they pursue a hobby.
Once upon a time,
There was a girl who thought of herself as being a great Dame
She would walk alone
And tell everyone that she had a heart of stone
She pushed off her admirers
Claiming they met not her desires
She broke many a hearts
By simply refusing to be their sweethearts
But one day, while she walked in the lonely forests
She came face to face with an enchantress
The latter was busy in concocting spells
To make of herself the world's only belle among the many belles
Angry for having been disturbed
She threw a curse on the great Dame
Be hated, she said, be ugly and be forever un-loved
Be made of fire so that anyone who touches you does perish in your flame
The young girl could do nothing
She tried to be to the world a bit more humbling
But everyone rebuked her
Everyone despised her, hated her
Why, if she did try to be good,
She scorched as would be a piece of fiery wood
If she did reach out to a young lad
She was laughed at, as if she was one so mad!
Why, she thought many a times of jumping into the raging sea
Maybe it would be good, if she did die way too early
Arrogant she had once been
Arrogant and one so mean!
But yet, she found not the courage to do such
She found not the courage to kill herself as such
Nor could she open her veins
Nor could she inflict on herself, other pains
Lost and discouraged, she sought out the mountains
She would live there, all alone, and in disdain
That was when she came face to face again with the enchantress
I shall cure you, only if you do allow me to be your mistress
Such was done and the young maiden became an evil slave
She accepted to do many evil deeds for her mistress, so abusive
So much that one day, as she looked at herself in a mirror
She shrieked with horror
She was old, wrinkled, ugly and witchy
No more did she have any beauty
Why, her life had been cursed, her life had been arrogant
Now, she could only accept her Fate's punishment!
The politically correct nonsense of today is so very absurd!
The language of my native land has become so terribly blurred,
By those who devote themselves to concocting such inane idiom.
Such prattle is as puzzling to me as is the element of iridium!
Now, it's chic to refer to postmen and befuddled college freshmen,
As postpersons and freshpersons whether they be woman or man!
Even folks with sticky fingers are given a title deemed more proper:
A shoplifter is delicately called a "non-traditional shopper!"
The wino in the gutter and the falling-down drunken driver,
Are each tenderly referred to as a "substance abuse survivor!"
Even the Father of Creation is no longer referred to as "He".
Monikers like "Daddy", "She" and "A Being" were created by the laity!
The so-called social engineers want to sink without a trace,
Cheery "Merry Christmas" with ill-chosen greetings in its place!
After all, 'tis Christ's glorious birth that we commemorate,'
Not the winter soltice or some pagan rite to perpetuate!
Seems 'tis normal nowadays to blame everyone but one's self,
For problems and predicaments in which one finds himself.
I could go on ad infinitum on this topic but space won't allow,
But I reckon the reader will have perceived how I feel by now!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
There once was a prolific chef named Stu,
Who whipped up vittles for a Navy crew.
He was aptly named,
And was also famed,
For concocting a most sumptuous stew.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Of the many things that I like I could go on ad infinitum,
But it would take reams of paper should I list every item!
So I'll confine myself to ten or so things that I like best,
And at some other time I'll bore you with the rest!
I like inscrutable cats and crispy onion rings,
And light classical music featuring melodic strings.
Although some persnickety folks may have their doubts,
Fiddle faddle! I happen to like Brussels sprouts!
I like folks who practice The Golden Rule.
I just happen to like my spouse - she's a real jewel!
I like juicy beefsteak termaters fresh from the vine.
I savor Beringer's White Zinfandel for my taste in wine!
I like concocting poetry though a Shakespeare I'll never be.
I like autumn when crimson and gold cloak every tree!
I could write of pickles and Snickers Bars but I'm limited to ten,
So I must meticulously edit this "masterpiece" and set aside my pen!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 in Joe Flach's "Top Ten" Contest - July 2010
Jamaica was always known for cultivating
the brightest and the best,
Academically, most scholars soared through
all their tests,
Our Island provided warmth and beauty,
Yet, the music of the modern generation
has tarnished our reputation,
Most, think of us as gun slingers, drug
dealers and vagabonds,
Our women are viewed as piranhas on
the run,
Through advertisements and word of mouth
Jamaican men are viewed as abusers or elusive
Baby Daddies or hustlers who cruise around in caddies,
They don't love us anymore,
The hate shows as they cleverly try to shove us through the doors,
concocting crimes and airs of suspicion,
Being a Jamaican has become a whirlwind
of negative labels such as aggression, crimanalism and drug running,
They never tell the real stories how the other half lives,
They don't love us anymore, so they would rather show
our lives hanging from the ballads or on the skids.
How can one fathom the most curious emotion of love?
Some ride the very idea of romance their entire existence. Straddling along the
bareback spine of annoyance and tyrannical and zealous possessiveness.
To allow one's self to derive hope and idealistic success, from an originally prescribed
placebo- concocting happiness. Or so we think, as mind-blocked as we are from
voracious persistence. Blocked upon block, upon block.
Tempting the sheer catastrophic gal of aggravated ignorance. We play the fall game
upon a field of cacti, and this emotion seems to captivate our consciousness at a
hallucinogenic level allowing us to drop. Drop. Drop...effortlessly.
It appears to be so minute in a realistic importance, love, but in actuality, it weighs
down more than half of our humanistic ideology -consequently, a cataclysmic downpour
of unfathomable preponderance. Fathomable by the most blissful of minds..