Best Fens Poems
Hank was a hard workin' cowpoke who really earned his meager pay.
He rode his ass Old Red from early dawn 'til at night he hit the hay,
Fixin' fences, ropin' steers and brandin' dogies in the old corral,
But he had an odd addiction that gnawed on his pard's morale!
He was a happy yodler which is alright fer a wrangler I suppose,
But his irritatin' warblin' caused him to nearly come to blows!
At night in the bunkhouse he would even yodel in his sleep,
Addin' to the din of his pals who were known fer snorin' deep!
His yodelin' caused cattle to stampede and hosses to buck and neigh.
Caused chickens to cease layin' aigs and cantankerous mules to bray!
Porkers squealed in their sty and the hounds barked and howled,
His comrades raged and cussed and the cats all hissed and yowled!
Even rattlesnakes were flustered and slithered to hide in dens,
And bands of coyotes skulked to seek cover in the nearby fens.
Frenzied birds vacated their cozy nests and fled to distant climes,
And Cookie got upset since the guys couldn't hear his supper chimes!
The grizzled old ranch boss called Hank aside fer a serious session,
Sayin', "Son, you're creatin' havoc 'round hyar with yer damn obsession!
Take yer ass and yodler to swoon the gals at the Dry Gulch Saloon,
'Cause if'n you keep it up 'round hyar, you'll hit the road and soon!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
start
The morning sun hidden behind dark clouds
Everything below covered like a shroud
The air is humid, strong winds blowing from the west
These ominous signs put everyone’s nerves to test.
Streaks of lightening flashed across the sky
Sounds of thunder made the children cry
The little ones clung to their mothers with fear
For them, poor souls, there was nothing to cheer.
Then it came with a bang, the deluge
Forcing everyone out to take refuge
Under a tree, inside a shop or any shelter
Forgetting everything and running helter-skelter.
Rain fell in sheets lashing the window pane
Water gushed down the roof-tops into the drain
Poodles of water collected everywhere
Children splashed around, such opportunities are rare.
The countryside looked like a cluster of fens
A bedraggled cockerel marshaled his hens
“Scratch for worms, you lazy bones,
Before the water evaporates leaving only stones”.
A bullfrog croaked from the muddy pool
Followed the orchestra from his music school
In the distance a peacock decided it’s time to dance
And impress the peahen with his romantic stance.
A roadside vendor sold cups of hot tea
People flocked to his stall to share it for a fee
They were caught unawares in the incessant rain
Their unsavory plight was the tea vendor’s gain.
The rain stopped and watery sunlight peeped again
Children rushed out, parents’ restraining effort in vain
They splashed in the muddy water getting wet
To them, catching cold was not at all a threat.
end
.
In the time of dead leaves,
when wide-eyed things
frowned at sound,
and snow fell through fog,
a red berry circlet
crowned her hair.
When hunger stilled infants
and frost shrouded ancients,
wrinkled laughter dappled
forests, glades, fens.
Her talons clawed
life through death,
veil through veil.
Mother. Hag. Virgin whore.
Giver, taker, wise before
gods' birth.
In the time of black robes,
when men killed
for one mouth of meat,
she walked naked
on frozen fields,
and the earth
shuddered
its young
upwards.
Mother. Midwife. Woman.
She was breathtaking.
.
NATURE NONSENSE
In the glens
by the fens
little foxes in their dens.
Among the pines
grow the vines
little squirrels use as blinds
In the brook
under foot
little fish caught by the hook.
In the sky
see them try
little eaglets learn to fly.
In the trees
full of leaves
little bear cubs hide with ease.
In the ponds
among the fronds
little frogs sing their songs.
As I stand
in the sand
I behold nature grand
Wulf and Eadwacer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 960 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game;
they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
Wulf's on one island; we're on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
My heart pursued Wulf like a panting hound,
but whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur grasped me in its paws:
good feelings for him, but for me loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.
Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods!
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, Old English, England, translation, scop, female, women, rape, raping, sex, sexual abuse, incest, lament, complaint, tribalism, tribe, clan, pack, chauvinism, war, wolf, wolves, dog, dogs, hound, hounds, cur, curs, whelp, baby, offspring, island, animal, longing, lust, passion, violence
you on one shore
I, on another
range is vast,
surrounded by fens.
furious boiling men
loaded with guns
do you hear my heartache
ooh here you come
bold and fierce warrior
take me away and all
burn away my fevers,insecurities
save me from devil's foot
may i lean on your faithful arms
show me midnight,
dawn's wind blowing around
feeling grass and sand
your gentle touch
sound of the ocean
whispering sighs
its a Wonder Wheel
Times are hard
Yet it seems to have always been that way
We all seem to have the weight of the world on are shoulders
Forgotten how to share the lode with are brothers and sisters
Forgotten how to lend a helping hand
While others flourish
Others suffers
The ghettos have grown
Fare from the plantations slaves were kept on
Is it fear that allows us to let are brothers suffer
Segregated by what they never accomplished
Left with anger asking why they will never be good enough
So they take what they can never have
Stealing slices from the pies left cooling in window seals
For their crimes they get punished
Jailed behind not only bars
But the backs of those that have succeeded
They still feel the chances that bound their grandfathers
I’m not making excess or justifying what some brothers do
We all chose what we will do
So why is it that we let sing mothers struggle
When the hardest thing they do is have to tell their kids why daddy doesn’t love them
But they thanks God for their kids, even when no one else loves them
Working the only two jobs they can
When it takes four just to make ends meet
They try so hard to make a life they never had
Keep their kids from behind bars
But you can’t keep your eyes on your kids all the time
And when things go south
They blame the mothers
When they should blame them selves for not helping out
So moms go home and scream and cry
Because their babies are falling and they don’t know how to help them
Times are hard
But they have always seemed to be that way
So we hold on to childhood dreams
Hoping that we will someday have that house with a white picket fens
Yet fairy tales seem to only be for moves
And that it seems will be the way things will stay
Like having money for war
But not enough to feed the poor
What has this world crumbled to?
A death land Satin would love to have
Unless we can look deep with in are selves
Grab the hands of are lost families
And pull them from this poverty
Once were badgers in leafy dale,
once were rabbits and foxes too,
once were pheasants in shining copse where cuckoopint and coltsfoot grew.
Once were songbirds in privet hedges,
once were bluebells for mile upon mile,
once were dark woods cool and shading hiding squirrels and foxes guile.
Once were home fed pigs and poultry,
once were food with proper taste,
once were marls with mirrored water, but now they only hold our waste.
Once were farmers in umber meadow,
once were colliers in village pit,
once were taverns for quenching thirst where now the townie and tourist sit.
Once were fens and fields and down-lands,
once were moorhen and curlews call,
once were stewards of Gods own country, where now there is but urban sprawl.
Once were leaders of Albion's masses,
once were statesmen of unbending word,
once was a land that was fit for heroes, where now only spin and deceit are heard.
Helen's brick house
was built by her grandpa James
with a specific design in mind:
the front black cross-windows
riminded one of Christ's sorrows;
when the off-white roll shades opened
the neighboors saw Helen wearing a rosette
on her blouse she herself had created
on a foot paddle sewing machine...
copying it off a Cosmopolitan magazine.
The porch's wood was cracked and faded
not a perfect dispay for begonias,
amaryllis, hydrangeas and roses
that Helen watered on drought days
to perserve them, never to be whitered
by a lack of rain when the grass yellowed.
A staircase led to her bedroom kind of mystique,
the queen bed was covered with macabre art linen sheets
and had a wrought-iron bedframe almost an antique;
often Helen heard whipers of folks who had lived
there, and she wondered if it was her imagination or dread:
" Dead people are harmelss, only living people harm others! "
No garden in that neighbohood was prittier than hers,
sweet Alyssum, purple Ageratum, white Alemone growing
under Japanese maples and strawberry trees so tempting
made it so harmonious and so lively that amazed others;
would it been complete without the merry warblings
of the canaries,of the mockingbirds and of the wrens?
The roof shingles needed replacement, they often fell down on piled logs,
and Helen stocked them up neately in a corner to save money later on;
her income was kind of low and expensive utility bills kept on coming in,
the pension her husband left her was spent on food, not on luxury goods.
When rain fell the front lawn and garden became fens able to transform
their loveliness, hundreds of leaves were left by the last tropical storm;
and Helen was saddened staring at the devastation of the lovely grass,
only the day before she got rid of those ugly weeds hiding the wild violets
and the crimson clove along the fence where birds built their nests...
I can imagine how helpless she felt seeing such devastation in minutes!
The faded timber door fought severe winters and they lasted night-long,
spring brought pleasant days, it stood open to greet their fragrance;
no thief invaded a house protected by good spirits and benevolence,
God was there and that made Helen feel at home where she belonged.
In 1961 it’s for a weekend away
On a grey winter Friday.
Out from London,
We drive north on
The A10 to the Wash.
Beyond Ely it’s flat and bleak.
It’s an impression we seek
Of a region we’ve not seen
Where at Christmas the Queen
Is at Sandringham near the Wash.
But all we see on either side
Are drainage canals and rushes that hide
Miles of flat fens, and more again,
Lashed by wind, swept by rain.
It is not attractive, the Wash.
Now the sun’s set
And it’s cold and wet.
So we seek and find an inn
Next’ the Ouse in King’s Lynn.
We’ll overnight near the Wash.
Inside the inn we sit and dine
Beside the hearth where the brasses shine.
Then we spend the night
Both warm and tight.
In the morn we leave the Wash.
To-night from a shelf I snap
Down the ‘one-inch’ map,
Numbered “124 King’s Lynn”.
It oozes warm memories of an inn
Where 45 years ago we were in love near the Wash.
Harley came from Littleport
To fight the Civil war
Then staying on,to father a son-
From Fens to fame,via a bike
On a Harley-Davidson.
Tribute to the founder of the Harley family of motor biking fame.
I
Grey spaces, but the day has broken
Hope rubs an eye, turns back to snooze
Clear water in mason jar hold one life
No frills, no leaves, ochre lotus intrudes ...
Hopes falling into grey sleep
II
Sometimes a solitary dandelion defies
All the cruelty, machinery of man, mowing all
That stick out rebel-like in manicured lawns of his lives
His dreams, his families, his nations small
Or huge - no matter but his mind ... Korea is small!
III
Field of yellow dandelions
Like a million galaxies with their suns
Daring darkness to do its worst
Or that single lotus in the fens ...
Of our concomitant creation (beauty? beast?)
IV
There where imagination has married vision
A mustang survives yet another depredation
Emerging among the blood-red poppies
Bold ... daring even woman to tame his Spirit
If she could ever catch whatever happiness is
I
Newtown, South Africa, may inspire some day
Through this time here, I must turn senses away
From adults sending kids to buy "loose smokes"
And even ears from women cussing moms, sex jokes!
II
For inspiration, I must remember to look up also
Clouds always yield forms, names, games galore
And away from plastics, pollution ... naturally
Trash trucks come each Wednesday; ignored outstandingly
III
To each clump of Acacia; hail beaten patch of cacti;
Sole tree that comorants dry their wings on, daily
And note how Nature, Life, does not quit ... growing
As we must: quiet lotuses in fens with slime ... flowing
seduction sits in the prepotence
deep blues inviting
to engulf
in the wading of her fens
without apprehension
she is slayed
endorphins exploding in air
fear interrupting of night
swords driven tight
in the waning and the might
my blood is now lain upon your hands
I lick the droplets running down your legs
consuming of what is and what was life
contentment fogging up
the vision of an attractive mind
~~~~~
she has a way of making things better
even when the devil has stepped
directly in front of my way
Part 1 of ?
Clippety, cloppety, clippety, cloppety
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
mounted for battle in all of their armor; they
rode off so gallantly through moors and fens.
How could they possibly know what awaited them?
Would it have mattered, or turned them around?
Six days out, there has been nary a sign of them,
and not a hint of a trail to be found.
Two hundred horses do not up and vanish, and
neither do two hundred knights and their squires.
Gaining the high ground, they scan the horizon, but
naught can be seen of a help signal fire.
Clearly, they passed through this meadow some days ago;
grass is all trampled and easy to read.
There, at the edge of the forest, the trail dries up.
Here, they make camp and start looking for leads.
Scouts have been sent out, but none are returning; it’s
harder to justify as the days pass.
Finally, they find a knight barely breathing; he’s
whimpering, muttering, eyes are like glass.
There at the campfire, they bind up his wounds and they
spoon him some broth and a shot of strong ale.
When he awakens, and once he stops screaming, he
gains his composure and tells them his tale.
—————
(To be continued)
Quatrains written as dactyls in 12/10/12/10 with xAxA rhyme:
3:3:3:3x, 3:3:3:1A, 3:3:3:3x, 3:3:3:1A