Best Fedora Poems
The atmosphere rings with the bell like calls
of the plover flock, long before they are spotted.
The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky.
Markings of white and coal black weave,
wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream.
Sigh makers they close on the beach
at high tide, the horizon shivers the
sand blanches. These ravishing scavengers
light on the tattered edge of wet to dry,
dawdling with the dead.
Plovers are diminutive scroungers, one-legged
dancers, hopping to the pull of tide, dining on
crab-eggs in black-tie and feathered tails, their
gray skull caps lined with a black brow.
Sparrow-small birds dress to the nines.
A feast for the birds, fall crisps, crab moltings,
go on for endless miles. September is beginning
and soon winged ones will fly to sunny shores.
The cold Atlantic will moan for the loss of music,
the unstitched sky will part. The avian choir is off
to the mud flats of Carolina.
First Published Eunoia Review January 2015
Tree branches bowed under the weight of the snow,
like penitents kneeling, as Christmas shoppers reveled
in the joy of the season. I left the house and struggled
through the snow-clogged streets to meet a man
I hadn't seen in years. He was the model of discretion,
a confidant. I could always count on his fidelity and trust.
I shivered, pulled the scarf more tightly round my neck,
and pushed my way through the milling crowds to await
his arrival. And there he was. The old familiar shambling gait,
the oft-worn brown fedora perched upon his head,
and suddenly I felt better.
I chose a dimly lighted tavern. We ordered drinks and dinner;
linguini and shrimp, a dish for which we shared a common relish.
Our conversation was tentative at first, until the effects
of the alcohol loosened our tongues, and we talked of Oxford,
days full of happy memories.
But later, as the evening wore on and the tavern's customers
left with errands of their own, we were left alone.
Silence descended. Thoughts of earlier in the day came crashing
down upon me. He sensed something was wrong, as he always did.
"She left me," I blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably.
He said nothing, and gently squeezed my hand.
Moonlight tango
It was a Saturday night, in Buenos Aires, 10:30pm, to be exact. It was a hot summers night, and you could see, and feel, the steam rising from the cobblestone street, here in La Boca barrio*. This is where it all began over a hundred years ago, and you can still see pictures of tangos faded heroes of yesteryear hanging on the walls.
The tango hall was packed with caballeros* in their suits and suspenders, and the damas* dressed in their red dresses, and stiletto heels. Still feels like the roaring 20's fedora hats and all! With a glance, and a flick of his baton, the orchestra leader motions to the bandoneon* player to begin, and so he starts dum dum dum, dum dum, dum dum dum.
The men tilt their fedoras slightly to one side, and stride ever so elegantly across the hall to pick their partner, and together they glide over the black and white checkered marble tile dance floor. The moonlight filters through the skylights, illuminating the smokey haze, that permeates the Milonga* hall.
The dancers have their gazes fixed on each other, and they move and glide to the incessant syncopated rhythm of the bandoneon. The violins and cellos join in with their plucking sound matching the tempo of 2-4 time. The dancers are dancing chest to chest, and then cheek to cheek, moving and gyrating, in time to the beat. As the tempo picks up the pace, arms and legs entwine, and then separate and entwine again. Spinning and twirling, strutting and whirling, they dance into a frenzy, at a frenetic speed, all the while staring with a look of love, (or at least of passionate desire) and what else would you expect to see dancing the moonlight tango?
* La Boca barrio- downtown neighborhood where tango was born
*Caballero(s)-gentleman(men)
*Damas- Ladies
*Milonga- tango dance hall
*Bandoneon- Small accordion style instrument.
John Derek Hamilton
February 07,2017
For Vera, Leanna and Leslie
Today in church I was rapt as I listened to the words of the pastor,
As she spoke about the death and glorious resurrection of the Master!
But I must confess that my mind ran amok and wandered,
As I reminisced about Easters past upon which I pondered.
I recalled Easters of yore when our little girls were small.
How they anticipated the Easter Bunny, ready to have a ball!
Their mother, Vera, was an extremely talented seamstress,
Who made for each of them a gorgeous lacy smock and dress!
She insisted that they have new shoes, gloves and fancy bonnet,
Trimmed with lots of lace and colorful flowers upon it!
Vera wore an outfit including new shoes and hat with dressy flora,
And I of course had to wear a suit and tie and a ridiculous fedora!
Off we marched to church and Sunday School in our fine attire,
To hear the awesome Easter Story and a cantata by the choir.
After, a repast was prepared by Vera with ham and sweet pertaters,
With other tasty fixin's including a salad of garden-fresh termaters!
The girls relished the chocolate bunnies and eggs that they found!
I recall so many Easters with my family when joy would abound!
Fast forward to today when the girls from home have flown,
As they carry on those traditions with families of their own.
Alas, we lost our dear Vera this past July but I have this one consolation;
Today she celebrated Easter with CHRIST HIMSELF in great jubilation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
If you are cathedral of consecration
I'm the voluminous chime summoning souls
If you are the moonglade mountain peak
I'm the fedora of snow atop you
If you are the bantam flame of hope
I'm the mammoth lantern you sit in
If you are the magnificent crown of laurel
I'm the koh-i-noor glowing your majesty
If you are the whorly petals of the gypsy-sue
I'm the daggerlike thorns of flaw
If you are the bard of the Zambezi
I'm the first sonnet of your anthology
If you are the mythical firebird
I'm the scarlet embers of reincarnation
If you are the forsaken pirate ship
I'm the glubs of your drowning
If you are the ancient persian pearl
I'm the millions carats speaking your worth
If you are the sacred vial of eternity
I'm the gluck to the kingdom come
If you are cathedral of consecration
I'm the open arms of the door of mercy
My Pet Poems, WOODY
Not long after our heart-stealing beauty
Watson passed, Jim drove me off from
The breeder’s and I sat in the passenger seat
With a cocker, colored a light maize/vanilla,
Cupped in my palms on my lap, while we
Discussed what to name him. He was
Our peace, to be our joy after the pain.
Alert, turning his head to note our voices; and
More comforting, like nostalgic times past,
Like a loved sweater kept for Saturday’s, or
The splendid fedora my dad kept placed just so
Atop his Chinese cabinet.
We called him Woody. It fit. Happy pup,
One dog even Jim’s mom adored, as
She offered to dog-sit and bought him
A stuffed monkey that he took 5 years to
Tear up, with only the squeaking head left.
It was playing ball that Woody loved.
Not even to walking with us in the park without
Scouring all over baseball in-fields and outreaches
For any and all balls he could find, at times
Eagerly perplexed about how to
Fit two in his moth at one time, which was
Much easier with tennis balls than softballs, but
The geometry missed him, making
Him huff laughs, while he kept trying to fit them.
Cocker’s hair grows long and, then, we
Couldn’t afford a groomer, so I’d trim him myself.
Once when he was older, I nipped him.
There was blood and I wept with apologies, until,
I’ll never forget, I learned from him on that day
About forgiveness. For he seemed to say,
Licking my hand, “What’s wrong, momma?
No harm done.” He comforted me. Not I, him.
If ever, there were a case to be made
For God sending us
Some angels in the form of dogs,
Woody was one,
Bringing love, lessons, loyalty, and laughter
— as dogs will do it — dear boy. Miss you.
Play ball!
—————————————————————————————————
(c) sally Young eslinger 2021
Thanks be to God
Every Sunday after church
Old great-aunt Dora
Full bloodied Cherokee,
In her finest dress and fedora,
Drove her pink Cadillac
To the San Joaquin River.
She would stop in the same place
And sat on an old stump,
Under a camphor tree,
By the riverbank,
And would cast her fishing pool,
Drinking her moonshine liquor.
Old widow lady of ninety-two;
My dear mother-in-law
Lives by herself
With nothing else to do.
She sits in her chair
Next to the window
And stare out for hours
With dreams of her past.
She carries a small chrome plated,
Stud nose 22, pistol
With white pearl grips
In her purse.
Don't get in her way,
At the grocery store,
She will ram her cart
Into yours and say,
"Sorry I didn't see you."
Then there’s my sister.
“She’s crazy as a Loon;
Howls at the moon,”
My husband would say.
Her long-distance relationships
All in her mind.
Her husband
Doesn’t seem to mind,
But watches over her shoulder
When she cooks,
To make sure
Everything she uses
Is clean before he eats.
Their two daughters
Walked the same path.
Live in a world
Of hallucinations
And delusions,
In denial
Of their illness
Of schizophrenia.
11/19/2020
Six Relatives Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
I Wonder if He Wore a Fedora
He passed a few months ago.
I looked through a few pics
of him when he was young.
He grew up in the depression,
so there weren’t many.
Black and whites, no dates.
None of him smiling,
just a vacant stare,
familiar at that time,
Hand me downs clothes
of a cotton farmer,
Hardscrabble life for this
child of the 30’s.
He didn’t talk much
about that life.
Well, a few times:
how he got two pairs
of shoes a year,
oranges for Christmas.
Patched pants so short,
the kids made fun of him.
Never made it past the eighth grade.
By the time he was eighteen,
his hands looked fifty.
Twelve to fifteen hrs.
a day picking cotton will
make a young man old.
I picked up another picture.
Some other man from the 30’s,
sitting on a bench in front
of the Memphis Zoo.
Wearing a Fedora.
Sophisticated looking.
I wonder if my dad wore a Fedora.
I asked a lot of questions
when I was young.
But that wasn’t one of them.
I can’t ask him now,
but I know what he’d say.
“Those were for the rich, son,
The Boss-man.”
“Not common folk like us,
who knew their place.
You can’t be more
than you are.”
But he was wrong.
Although he was raised
poor common folk,
he worked all his life.
Loved one woman.
Raised his children right
and loved his God.
He died a rich man.
He would have looked
damn good in a Fedora.
11/5/16
Feeling like a lost soul I sit, as the train rocks me to and fro
the woman next to me is jovial and pleasant, with a glow
We chat and pass the hours sharing amicably without restraint
then she tells me she is heading for London to marry, oh how quaint
Perhaps your marriage will be blessed from heaven? this I say
as the gentlemen across from me smiles, cool as the month of May
I can see from his polished shoes and his gray fedora hat
that he's a man of well to do, much accustomed to small pratt
Later in the evening as I sip my tea with clotted cream
I notice how he stares at me, as if I were a dream
Feeling lonely and quiet daring I invite him to sit down
it is then that I do notice, that his eyes are chestnut brown
"Going to London to visit my grandma" I say, "she lives by the sea"
"I can escort you Mademoiselle," he says, then tips his hat at me.
Chose # 3 a passenger on a train
I found him slumped over his Remington No.5, no more "Elite Typing" for this poor fellow. His Fedora was on the floor beside him, flat as a pancake with a stilleto heel print in the centre of it. Other than a pair of McCalls boxers, he wasn't wearing anything. The "Besame Red Velvet Lipstick stain on his crotch, matched the color on the cigarette butts in the black ashtray on his desk. I noticed the ashtray was embosed with a logo from the stork club.
I had been to the Stork club a few times, it's over on 53rd street. Not the kinda place for an ordinary gumshoe like myself. This guy musta been a regular, there were match books all over the apartment. In a place like that you never know who you might bump into. I seen Frank there one time, he didn't give me a second look. I tried to get into the Snub room once but couldn't get past St. Peter, maybe he didn't like that I was wearing a single gold earing.
I did some calling around, it seems the poor chump was Vincent Scott, a rich banker from Hollywood. He had been about town with a Dorthy Lamour Wanabee. She had the attitude but was a bit lacking in the looks department. Mind you for a balding middle aged banker, she was probably the Cat's Ass. Rumor was that he was planning on leaving his wife and two kiddies. Judging by the two, one way tickets to Cuba in his desk drawer, plans were well under way. I guess that bullet hole in the center of Vincent's forehead kinda spoiled his plans.
My Fetish. I adore you.
Wedges. Pumps.
Stilettoes. Brown.
Baby Blue. Black.
Red. Pink are all so
beautiful. You make me
feel like a lady. Nikes.
Timberlands. A pair of
killer boots. Match with a
fedora or a fresh to death
leather coat. Uggs, Steven
DSW, oh my how I am grateful
for you. Loafers. Buckles. Straps.
Peek a boo toes. Strapbacks. ON SALE.
Played dress up with my mom's and the
love affair began. Leopard. Bows. Fashion.
Class. With leggings. Jeans. Skirts. Suits.
Bikini underwear with a special Boo. Bags
the same color, high heels assists with what
some say is my sex appeal. Pretty details draw
attention from all ages and genders. A little girl's
obssession grown into a woman. Closet packed sparkling
eyes, legs dancing, carrying me into the next life lesson.
I give you tribute and pay homage to you. I love you shoes.
I remember how I cried
The day my father died.
The doctor laid the blame
When he said that cancer came:
Lymph nodes, lungs,
Philosophy of Carl Jung,
Words of explanation
For everything, no blame,
Too late for shame.
The final service was long.
I tried to be strong.
But the stench of red carnations
Can still fill my imagination,
People’s faces,
Words of the Lord’s graces.
Planted in a peaceful lawn,
For the shell of this world is gone,
Yoked into heavenly bliss.
But, when I think of him
There's so much we missed.
I remember how I’ve sighed,
Thinking of my dad with pride.
I’d sit on his knee
My ear to his chest,listening to him hum,
And he’d give me his pennies for free.
He would mow, I’d sweep,
Then we’d have a snow cone treat.
Poles, bait bucket, tackle box,
Days we spent fishing from piers and docks.
Hair black like Elvis’,
Ears and features like Clark Gable’s,
Loud animated stories
Of his oil company job,
At the dinner table.
Fedora, big pleated trousers,
A pocket watch on a chain,
When I close my eyes
I can see him again.
I look in the mirror and can see his eyes,
Staring back at me in an eternal guise.
He didn’t live on to see me grown,
Missed out conversation on the problems I’ve known.
But his gifts of life,
And his gifts of earthly love
Still ground me on earth,
Angelically guarding and guiding
Like the finest made glove
Existing throughout our human family's
Journey of love.
I never knew what amazing was
until I kissed my husband's lips
or felt him laugh when we danced
I had no idea he liked to play
isn't that very sad!
but he played games with me
It is wonderful that he now makes me laugh
but I am more excited I make him feel silly
until he bunny hops with me closely
As we fell we laughed and laughed
I had no idea he was that type of man
I can see he thought the same about me too
I love the way he flirts with his eyes
or that he loves my Fedora hat
and laughs when he sees me wearing it
Driving my convertible with our pit bull in the back
but my favorite thing ever was how he loved me
I have never known anything as perfect as that
I guess you can say our love is best
when it's all in a laugh
together building new memories
Thank you Lord for him and that!
Have you heard the term “man of many hats”
Well you sure haven't heard this version!
When I wear a cowboy hat and saddle up
I'm Jesse James, an amazing conversion!
At times I feel brave and put on a fireman's hat
The wee kiddies all wanna be my friend!
Tell them I was once knighted by the queen
Probably lying's not a good message to send!
The hard steel hat of a construction worker
Turns me into a this macho type man!
The only problem is, I'm scared silly of heights
And I make lots of trips to the can!
Once put on the hat of a big strong viking
Sure scared all the people around me!
Pulled out my sword to impress them all
Ended up cutting myself quite badly!
The ultimate though is when I wear a fedora
I look handsome and quite debonair!
Till I speak and I sound like a Donald Duck
My image needs a lot of repair!
Guess I'm most comfortable in my jester hat
Tried others but this fits me the best!
My goal is to put a smile on some faces
All my friends with whom I've been blessed!
© Jack Ellison 2015
I doff my fedora to the feller who invented pertater chips!
That genius developed the ideal thingy in which to immerse our dips!
How could we survive sans our weekly fix of Dominoes pizza pie,
Or a half-dozen Dunkin Donuts consumed on the sly?
Ain't nothin' as finger lickin' good as Kentucky Fried, original of course,
Or a Wendy's triple bacon 'burger when you're as famished as a horse!
Ah! The myriad of Mexican fixin's offered by the local Taco Bell!
Chimichangas, burritos, tacos, tostadas and enchiladas as well!
Japanese and Chinese establishments offer mysterious and fancy fare.
Try sushi, octopus, crawfish or deep fried squid if you dare!
If you crave ice cream, cookies or a hunk of cake or such cuisine,
Hie yourself on down the street to the nearest Dairy Queen!
For the hotdog aficionado there are weenie varieties galore;
Foot longs, chilidogs, smothered in sauerkraut and so many more!
Want some scrumptious and satisfying grub that'll fill your belly?
Get a ham on rye, thick salami or a Rueben at the neighborhood deli!
At Dad's BBQ you can order any kind of barbeque with greasy fries.
To top off the pancakes at The Village Inn you can buy chocolate pies!
Doctors and nutritionists would cringe at such a diet of course.
Fiddle faddle! I'll keep on eatin' that stuff with absolutely no remorese!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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