Best Cranks Poems
A well-water pump cranks out its iron-water
crooked wire remains -- once, sturdy chicken coops
The brackish, muddy area over there, the cowshed
some withered trees dot the hills, bereft now of their fruit
A few young lads herd goats, or perhaps they are living skeletons?
cows with ribs exposed, horses with manes as limp as rags ...
Some day they'll come again, the strong, determined youth
to bale the hay, to turn the rocks over, to plow and seed relentlessly ...
He walks through murky puddles cobble stone
City full of busy sounds and movements
Time advancing enhancing improvements.
Passer-byers in the youthful sunny' hours
Social complexity of daily life
Yearning at the hand's fundamental strife.
With his organ strapped over his shoulder,
Brightly coloured, moving from place to place.
The cutest monkey, large grin on its face.
Round its neck a chain hooked to its collar.
It sits wearing a red little outfit
Trimmed in white, fancied its spirited wit.
Swishing its long tail, holding a tin cup
Dancing to music, a spark in its eye
Collecting coins from giving passersby.
While the organ grinder cranks his organ
He moves from place to place, to avoid arrest.
Laws obtain change, loitering, hard expressed.
One cold night, deep in thought, and curled in fright,
From folklore tales aimed to scare;
My rigid poise froze to a screeching noise
Outside, a voice not like I've heard before, to leave I would not dare
“It’s probably just an owl or creature of the night out there"
I muttered to myself, then pretended not to care
Oh, I recall quite vividly this icy Winter’s night
With grainy sight, the sandman came to lead me to his land
The weariness I fought but eventually he caught
Pulling me quite taut to somewhere far less bland
Where I became the leader of a marvellous brass band
And down that path sandman tightly gripped me by my hand
Trumpeters and trombone players played musically in layers
Exciting each and everyone, spreading joy to all around
But my dreams were playing tricks, my mind was in a mix
The bass tuba sounded sick, not playing tuneful sounds
Instead a grating shrill, then the whining of a hound
The lightning and the rain came too, my dream then ran aground
Alone I grew more frightened and the intensity just heightened
The shrieks and shrills grew louder with an occasional thunder clap
Taking sanctuary under bed sheets, preying for melodic sound beats
Suffering this painful feat, my soul took a massive slap
Oh how I longed for it to stop and to return me to my nap
The bleakness of that night, my mind caught in a trap
Morning later broke, the ground outside was soaked
The noise had faded but there was still a haunting in my ears
A crunch, a grind, a squeak a whine
The cause I vowed to find, and to take away my fears
From the upstairs window I saw a farmer crouched in tears
And a windmill's broken sails; the mystery closure neared
Across the muddy field, I approached the man kneeled
Sobbing over what appeared to be a dead Alsatian
He'd found it just lying there, the hound, his best friend
Downed by a falling windmill piece, killing gods creation
"A slow death" the farmer said "he must have cried out for attention"
"And my mill cranks broken causing noises of a nauseating sensation"
"Beyond lychgate lies future death" she says,
cucumbered eyes slid back under cauliflower sky,
brimming smithereens of harkening demons.
Been in saddle some time since torchlight began,
a child's silent castle ago. Chaos-times cut alleyways
through rose-lettered circles, reads trashy maid.
The journey fell sword north along shield path.
Peninsula late to temple-crawling fiend
and settle princess patter dust. Like trick glass
the moon palace emanates, a chain works
its crystal door. A shore of bane swims world-sick
with fire-wing ticks abreast, dragon-headed air:
happens to be, as the world burns...
Spring chickens looked at first
grasshopper leaves, blossoms.
Empty saddles of burnt Autumns
sit with moccasin thirst.
One ruby night ago, vampire night,
made movie set by tail light.
Wrench of fog came loose and fell.
Eye of moon too close, well...
Winged skeletal open sheet,
sanguine collar of his neat.
Began by serving up the meat.
Legs he tossed, and arms and feet.
A rise and shine ago, luster of sight,
out of scene the farmer goes.
Steel machine cranks horizon bright.
Scroll up the title i suppose.
Barn stall features dingy leather
where lasting gleam slips by candle.
Recall adventure, mural by weather.
Motion eye attached to handle.
Scoot across encrusted bucket,
folded over the eating depth.
Put filthy Kraken atop it,
swished around the damn mess.
Brave journal follows company
down the water-taped steps
to where there isn't any.
Sealed flame lights diver's quest.
A cave away, keys of hassle,
swim to shore with hopes unravel.
Brute force thunders far within.
Exact the sword to have them send.
Enter bar stool and order takeout.
Hostess charm enhanced the make out.
Her fuel adds flames to very fabric.
Her fists were fiery, action: magic.
Out of dust broom closet knelt good
ole nuke we ended up sneaking places:
peaceful village of the caring hood,
small reaches, to parking spaces.
Twisted hair in castle braids,
scoundrel bristles painting raids.
Countdown pistol official use,
punching bag for ogre face.
"Music Box"
Wind it up to work her magic
Memories in a box unleashed with a flip of the lock
Releasing a small plume, you dust it off and sneeze
Turning the key to see a little painted ballerina in action
Missing flecks of the dress she has donned for generations
Time has worn her down
She spins a few rotations releasing a tune
Of Rock a Bye Baby, how mellifluous it is
That brings you back to good times again
A favor done for winding her up
You give her life, she gives you a chance
To recall when you once spent time
With your mother in the attic
And she thought you were old enough
To appreciate this grand memento
With cranks and pins and a dancer on top
Mama recalled she was once that age too
And shown an object, the very same
A lone tear starts you crying
Remembering she who is gone
And how proud you were to take possession
The dancer is bitter sweet
While the music winds down
She puts herself to sleep
With her own tune for bed time
Silence and thought take over the room
Until the baby down stairs starts producing
A whiny tune of her own
She will have to wait though
And the box will gather dust again
Until the time is right
For The Love Of Coffee, I Tarry
Just one more cup of coffee before I have to go,
the weather is bad and the boss will surely know.
If I tarry along and fail to clock in on time,
no mercy there, excuses aren't even worth a dime.
Yes, one more of the black-Joe if you please
it settles my worries , sets my mind at ease.
I need to drink this hot coffee in a minute
my job is to drive a truck, I'd best be in it.
One last cup just for the snowy covered road
work tis' awaiting, I'll not be late or so bold.
Black magic, it damn sure hits the sweet spot,
cranks my brain, gets me going like a rifle shot!
Yes my fair lady, please pour just one more,
I need the boost to race out the front door.
That tastes so like goodness in a great kiss,
love my black coffee, morning Joe I never miss.
Yes darling, I promise this last cup for me,
I have many miles to drive, so much to see.
Few more drinks to blast me into the big race,
to deal with those crazy drivers I have to face!
Sweetheart, brew some more, that pot I drank
woke me up fine and I have you darling to thank.
Please, this cup of black magic will be my last
I'll bolt out that door, you'll see how very fast.
Just one more cup of coffee before I have to go,
the weather is bad and the boss will surely know.
If I tarry along and fail to clock in on time,
no mercy there, excuses aren't even worth a dime.
****** ******* , 02-08-2015
Entered in Rob's new contest.
(A Double Divine-form not include in your list)
She digs into her pocket's hollow space
and snags a tissue, swipes her eyes.
Her fingers touch a bar,
a rich, dark treat.
She chooses dash as treasure's resting place
then cranks the key, gets a surprise
when heater in her car
melts hoarded sweet.
She zooms around her town without a care
yet feels her appetite evolve,
while scent from heater vent
plays a coquette.
She knows the fault is hers but deems unfair
as still her nose betrays resolve
and brings about consent
to buy briquette.
Daddy’s a workaholic...
But what about the hospital stay... the loss of blood,
his ashen dignity
Slight prate about moving into a veteran’s home
Only in his young eighty’s
Workaholics don’t quit
Laboring healthward
So the tiller cranks for cultivating
and the garden is sown,
yet during it's interval of growth
he’s... vigorously active
delivering the ‘elderly’ to appointments
While taking pride in saplings
he's gathering and transporting the yield
And I, plop down on my patio swing
imbibing a cappuccino
Thinking “What a ‘workaholic’ my daddy is”!
A body of translucent blue spreads before him,
reflecting heavens of stark purity.
He flicks his shiny offering towards depths unknown,
and cranks the oiled reel.
Time pours slowly,
as the reflective lure moves through crystal waters.
Again the motions transfix thought,
cast, retrieve, move, repeat.
Until abruptly, something strikes the silver flasher,
now the dance is on.
The light weight pole bends to unspoiled water,
as the luminescent trout hurls its body above the water’s surface.
The aquatic life’s attempt to dislodge the three pronged hook fails.
But fish and man have met stares.
The dance intensifies,
a run is made,
line is peeled from spool.
Deeper the fish plunges through roiled waters.
But he will tire,
and face his likely death.
He ceases his desperate struggle.
The distance between predator and prey withers.
The angler now reaches for his worthy prize.
He captures the weighty fish through jaw and gill,
and lifts his prey from liquid home.
He has acquired what he sought,
but he knows that he must not devour this mountain rarity.
Gently, the fish is revived in the cool water.
He is released, and the two part, not as enemies,
but as two strangers,
who met in the fading twilight of the evening rise.
I've never understood how things work
gears turn and cranks crank
circuits connecting and forming a link
all of this stuff is out of my reach
its all so confusing, fuses and plugs
that plug into sockets
and HUDS that have numbers and belts that have notches
motors that whirr and shake so profusely
only do more to stump and confuse me
I'm not at all mechanically inclined
trust me I know, I've tried many times
I can't understand battery's without power
have to charge for almost a whole half an hour
drivetrain won't drive, forward or reverse
transmission whats that, this sticks stuck in first
the bumpers don't bump and the flashers won't flash
speedometer and fuel don't work on the dash
there are spots under the hood for the fluids it takes
and I don't understand how a carburetor.. carburates?
mufflers to muffle the sounds that it makes
drive shaft to control the turns that you take
key to ignition
ignition to starter
starter to the whatever the hell that you call er'
it's all so disturbing, it bothers me bunches
gas pedals, brake pedals, what are these clutches
automatic and manual drives drive me crazy
has anyone checked the oil here lately
the tires have tread to catch on the ground
hydraulics to make you go up and go down
there are switches and knobs
that serve no functions or jobs
there's gearboxes, spark plugs, fuel tanks and handbrakes
and I couldn't even tell you which one keeps the car in place
how it all works is way beyond me
I have a hard enough time just finding my keys
Clanks,
blanks,
cranks,
clash!
Slams in tank,
detours irate!
Ingenious infiltrates,
sojourns knocking,
indignation on the plank,
plutocracy dank!
Dotards are prate,
iridescence is just as late-
prime meridian,
songs obsidian,
and the incandescence great!
A lot of fancy gizmos befuddle me in this technological age,
Where perplexing computers, texting and twittering are all the rage!
I can empathize with the feller who renounced horse and buggy days,
To subdue the baffling horseless carriage that became all the craze!
Clyde Schlunk reluctantly retired his faithful horse and buggy wheels.
He was the first in town to own one of those new fangled automobiles!
'Twas simple to harness a horse, feed him oats and shoe him all those years.
Now he must master complex clutches, cranks and shifting gears!
'Twas hard to break years of habits spent driving a buggy and horse.
He still had his buggy whip near at hand in the automobile of course!
When trying to stop the machine he'd yell, "Whoa! Nellie! Whoa!"
As he tried to avoid a tree or slid through slippery sleet and snow!
His erratic driving terrified chickens, horses and little old ladies,
As he whipped about that sedate little town like a bat out of Hades!
The only pain he suffered from his horse was a kick now and then.
But when cranking the carriage he busted his knuckles over and over again!
He still hollered "haw" to turn to the left and "gee" to turn to the right!
Did the town folks' ridicule bother him? Not by a blame sight!
Clyde never learned how to control those forty horses under the hood.
He couldn't rein 'em in causing all sorts of havoc in the neighborhood!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Joyce Johnson's "Your Very Best" Contest - February 2011
There’s something to be said for shooting blanks
I get seven free tiles and my mind cranks
The word I choose is “Skydive”
Hoping to return alive
Just one of many wild-eyed pranks
Bucket list items have been on my mind
To lose at Scrabble games, I am resigned
Soar with birds and feel so free
But something’s approaching me
Scrabble police! When I land, I’ll be fined!
*Entry for Nancy’s “Scrabble” contest
October 28, 2011
This sinner here --Michelle--
learned at St. Peter Chanel
there's no point to rebel
Life without God is Hell
Not just a state of mind
also an afterlife confined
to weep, & teeth-grind
all happiness -- behind
It would NOT be fun--
not "a day in the sun!"
no chance to go for a run
the joys of life -- done
Never chillin' with friends
too late to make amends
from Love, the soul rends
and remorse never ends
I don't know about you--
thoughts of Hell make me blue
but it really exists -- it's true
souls could avoid it if they knew
A big pothole in the crosswalk
won't disappear just cuz we balk
we have to watch where we walk
to be safe, lock, barrel and stock
To step up safely, it'd be smart
to climb the ladder to God's Heart
via her--who from Him--isn't apart
the Immaculata's sweet help is a start
Say, Mary be a mother to be now
she's closer to her Son than me --or thou--
from His Cross, He did endow
her to be a mother to us all --and how!
Mary's every word in the Holy Bible
can clear up any anti-Jesus libel
her love for all nations, intertribal
more devotion-worthy than Cybele
I hope Jacinta, Francisco, and Lucia
keep up their intercessory Ave Maria
praying till the world's end: good idea
for peace in Russia, Ukraine (& Korea)
These kids turned their lives around
with the fervent prayer life they found
their sacrifices for sinners did abound
due to their vision of Hell so profound
St. Faustina also envisioned Hell & told
to lovingly warn us, not abrasively scold
read her beautiful story and be consoled
Divine Mercy's testament is New, & Old
We have a way out, with the Lamb
(in other words, the Great I Am)
it's not too good to be true, no sham
Divine Mercy doesn't wish to damn
Ceaseless tortures? No thanks!
I'd rather join the ranks
of all the repentant cranks
giving up our sinful pranks
So then here's my advice
gotta be better than "nice"
but God's grace will suffice
to grow virtue from vice
He's the Way, Truth, and Life
He understands our strife
Urging us with Love, not a knife
Loving us though our sins be rife
There's a twist to this story
I look forward to Purgatory
as more purifying than gory
for God's greater glory
Ultimately I say: Aim Higher
God created us with the desire
after this short life, to retire
to sing in Heaven's choir
The All American Chump decreed
Americans are a different breed
Education we just don't need
The poor must work to earn their feed
Housing simply fosters greed
Healthcare cripples slow my lead
My budget clearly plans for war
Let losers ponder, "either ….or"
Everyone loves blood and gore
Americans just love it more
And I, as leader of the corps,
Shall shed more blood than mighty Thor
We lead the world in making tanks
But funding conflict breaks the banks
I, alone, can turn the cranks
To make a trembling world give thanks
Or fear the worst: "Here come the Yanks"
Mothers, historians, fill in the blanks.