Best Fords Poems
Black Death Among The Shadows Does Gaily Roam
Black death among the shadows did roam
deep in solitude its power reigns.
Nowhere and everywhere it calls sweet home
and always its appearance brings pains.
Through fords, over mountains into gentle seas
fate sends its messenger in a black shroud.
Never to be stopped by the many crying pleas
or women moaning and wailing out loud.
Its only victorious foe, the light of eternal life
where our Redeemer's truth and divine love grows.
Delivering us from depths of misery and strife,
brought by suffering from fear of death's throes.
Black death among the shadows does gaily roam
Yet tis forever forbidden in God's sweet home.
Robert J. Lindley, 4-21-2016
Note--- INSPIRED BY A THREE POEMS READ THIS MORN..
My thanks goes to these three great poets for the inspiration
to write this sonnet this morn-- Peter Duggan, Lin Lane and Seeker..
~
A broken torpedo got wedged in my eye,
making me squint out some tea
Laughed at a submarine sauntering by,
hoagies afloat on the sea
Gathering minnows from dams ‘bout to break,
opening flood gates again
Stood midst a puddle dressed up like a lake,
watching a red herring trend
Drove to the village where parrots can sing,
lyrics in cracker crumb chords
Clarinet solos encrusted with bling,
blended with Chevys or Fords
Fell off the wagon as drunk as a dog,
staggering, swaggering tail
Some call it beer but to me it’s called grog,
others will shout out, “it’s ale”
Snuck through the door where the hairdresser sleeps,
fondled her comb and her brush
Searched for the broom that her half-sister keeps,
swept but there wasn’t a rush
Gather your hopes in a jar on the sill,
pay past-due taxes on time
Ignore this verse, it is meant as a fill,
another stanza of rhyme
So here we have it, whatever you find,
words I decided to write
Merely a world that exists in my mind,
keeping me up late at night
Hoping for meanings as words start to dance,
all to a random request
Not even this has the faintest of chance,
I think it’s time for a rest
~
There were warning signs proclaiming "DANGEROUS CURVE AHEAD!"
But no one paid much attention to them as on they recklessly sped!
On that treacherous stretch was a bend known as "Dead Man's Curve,"
Where many souls began their eternal bourne because they failed to swerve!
Other signs along that mountain road had more profound things to say,
That should have alerted folks to slow down ere there'd be a price to pay!
"PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD!" was erected by the Presbyterian Church,
But speeders ignored that sermon and met their doom for failing to lurch!
"ARE YOU PREPARED TO MEET JESUS?" admonished another sign.
This one was sponsored by the Baptist Church and was nailed to a pine.
But this homily went unheeded and many guys crashed through the railing,
Sailing o'er the thousand foot cliff, their auto, the desert floor impaling!
"THE WAGES OF SPEEDING IS DEATH!" read this creative message!
The Happy Valley Church of God had posted this not so subtle presage!
The Pentecostal Church's warning sign read "REPENT ERE 'TIS TOO LATE!"
'Twill ne'er be known how many ignored that hint, rushing to their fate!
The valley floor below was strewn with wrecked Buicks, Cadillacs and Fords,
Dodge pickup trucks, Happy Times motor homes and four Honda Accords!
On that winding stretch 'tis best to heed signs regarding "Dead Man's Curve"
Ere you join those hapless souls who met their doom 'cause they failed to swerve!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go hump yourself, If you want my schtick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
I grew up in the rockin 60’s
Everything back then was new
Rock ‘n’ roll and Chevy’s
There wasn’t anything we couldn’t do
Hot rod Fords and street drag races
The girls wearing cashmere sweaters
The thrill of youth that showed on faces
That easily laughed at serious matters
Saturday night sock hop dances
Slow dancing with your steady girl
Sneaking a glance at other girls
Thinking maybe next, I will give her whirl
Oh, we had our gangs, punks and hoods
But everything was settled just by fists
Honor was always avenged, as well it should
But black eyes topped the list, not death
Mellow days and careless nights
Drive-in movies, who watched the show?
The heavy petting, and then the fights
“You’re my steady, but that far I won’t go”
The slow drive back to take her home
The sweet goodnight kiss outside her door
The promise that I would never roam
The secret wish she would give me more
Life was tough, and hard to take back then
Or so we thought, but soon would learn
Boys grow up, becoming men
Go places where men die, and bodies burn
It all happened so suddenly
A heartbeat, a blink of the eye
It all happened so viciously
One day to live, next day to die
High school grads, college illusions
Hot rod Fords, and street drag races
And then began the Western Union
“We Regret….” were all the traces
Left of lives that once lived for life
Those that did come home to peace
Now live with lives full of strife
And only wish the pain would cease
This is the Cannabis song,
they've turned something good.
made is seem wrong,
It's illegal why?
Come on politics,
don't be shy
So many uses for this wonder drug,
Wonderful for clothing and sometimes rugs,
Fords model T car was built from hemp- the very best,
Mayflower sails were too they passed the test,
1619 Jamestown settlers had to grow the crop,
It's absorbent fibers make the best cleaning mop.
clothing more solid and sturdy,
Eco-friendly for the fish and birdies,
replenishes soil with nutrients it once dropped,
known as the most efficient rotational crop,
artists for many years used the oil as paint,
use hemp money to pay for that date,
hemp oil could end the gas crisis,
Piss off Shell, Chevron, they don't like surprises,
Lets not forget the physical effects,
One of the best ways to let your body rest,
ointments for sore muscles and lotions for skin,
once it's ingested, ooh feels like a wonderful sin,
The many Cannabinoids help with cancer,
better than chemo not guaranteed to end the disaster,
Certain strains provide mellow for those with epilepsy,
imagine being the kid who just cant sleep,
take a dose once or twice a day,
they now see the sun's shiny rays,
Cant leave out the repair of brain cells,
the ones that alcohol beats up then bails
Why is it illegal you ask?
Politics wear the greatest masks,
Constantly paid off by corporate interests,
Wanted monopolies to bring them pocket book bliss,
Pharmaceuticals, DuPont, Randal Hearst, now Alcohol,
Couldn't stand the competition this “drug” brings at all,
To ensure the public wouldn't be informed,
Made GOV medical testing illegal and provided propaganda ****
So many other details,
but this must end sometime.
For some great information on cannabis
visit the http://NORML.org website
We had wringers on our washing machines,
And four dialed numbers made telephones ring.
Transistor radios with only AM,
Vineal records to play, and you could stack them.
And, Hope entertained during our wars.
We had Jack Benny, and Rochester too,
Uncle Miltie, and Captain Kangaroo,
Milk in glass bottles brought right to our door,
With red paper caps you took off to pour.
And Hope entertained our troops.
We had prayer in school, and devotions each day.
In the pledge to our flag, “under God” we’d say.
We respected leaders, and our teachers obeyed,
Went out at night without being afraid,
And Hope entertained at our wars.
Before CD’s and Ipods, we had stereo.
Drive Inn movies were the place then to go.
We drove our Fords, and Chevrolets,
And Desoto was popular back in those days.
We had Hope entertaining our troops.
TV’s had small screens in black and white.
The entire family watched the shows at night.
Life was very uncomplicated then,
Girls became ladies and boys became men.
And Hope entertained at our wars.
From our own back yards we saw sputnik fly.
We had hula hoops, and played “I Spy”,
“Kick the Can”, and “Hide and go Seek”.
Home made ice cream , back then, was a treat.
And Hope entertained at our wars.
Back then kids rode in the front seat of cars.
Our moms canned stuff in glass mason jars.
We rode bikes without the protection of helmets.
Never heard of acid in rain, or other elements,
And Hope entertained at our wars.
We were so lucky to have lived in those days
With Bob and his funny entertaining ways.
“Thanks For the Memories”, we’ll never forget,
We will always remember without regret
Bob Hope entertained at our wars.
R J L
SEPTEMBER. 2007
Ford Anglia
Ford Anglia, Ford Anglia,
You were always my favourite Car.
Distinctive shape and two-toned colour,
In the showroom, you were the Star.
Cortina, my Cortina,
Your sleek lines made a statement.
People would often turn their heads,
In wonder and amazement.
Zodiac, mighty Zodiac,
A real Man’s motor was this big boy.
Leather seats and chrome hub caps,
The Daddy with his pride and joy.
Escort, oh classic Escort,
You certainly broke the mould.
A family car that thrilled a generation,
So popular, millions were sold.
The old Fords had some character,
Unlike Fiesta, Mondeo or Focus.
Though the exhaust fumes weren’t too green,
Carbon Monoxide used to choke us.
9NINtyFIVE5
9NINtyFIVE5
CharlaXFabels
CharlaX
Eye the fabulist fabelist maker of dreams for ewe still remember the poem eye
wrote where eye mentioned the fact that eye think they are liners for birdcages
the most that people have been to me is nice there was a few Christians who
liked some of my poetry for JESUS. This is not a fable in the puerile sense of the
word. BUT this ewe is a giant dandylion poem eye make them bleed eye scritch
and scratch them and twist the ending oblong into infinity. Eye feel a need to
defend myself to my detractors after all even CharlaX had a mother. It was more
than that a family eye had a place to eat a room to sleep. An important man is
never needed until the end too late to make the needed differences. Pomp and
pestle pistle listed they sent my picture eye won a contest all they wanted was for
me to buy a lot of plaque. FlaX and cotton homespun medley lay upon the
CharlaX belly nice long drinks in the afternoon writing a poem making a fabel
swan it leans this way and that way falling to pieces and parts of words become
gentle rain long dripping drops of waterial motion lapping at shadows of love.
Fancy markings of worded pleasures for years of estranger in the wooded glen
fords and glen glens. The caterpillar tracks in the proper syntax is a Diatribe.
Nominal feeds paid out and lost in space with gasses let loose that rival skunks
in size and areal width the size of that thing just look Ethel the size of that thing in
centimeters all alone would equal the lower belt of corn in the Midwestern state
of Iowa they called CharlaX to come he wielded his Hermann Maurice axe phone
and refused to budget a car rental he does not hitch hike anymore he walks back
and forth from one glorious day into the next of time come forth thou CharlaX from
the grave concerns of formidable returns on investments given in earnest
anticipations of reaped rewarded inclinations please come to Kansas and chop
the wheat down with your western ax make bread for all the millions of the crew.
The penny tossed in air so heated by debated frenzy of the sharkless few was
tails a lucky brake for yew.
The pricking needles of cold stars and hoarfrost
hypnotizingly sparkling in the dense crispy air,
a half-sky pearl hallo crowns the dead mercury-liquid Moon;
violent blizzards have been finally superseded by severe frost.
Grasses are peacefully sleeping under the snow whiteness.
Fords, Mercedeses, BMWs, Nissans are moving slowly
groping their way through thick clouds of exhaust mist;
rare chilly passers-by hurrying
towards a hopefully better for existence place.
Here, in the rare air of winter, through the mist
and frost of weariness and apathy,
through the concrete substance of the night wind,
a brightly lit advertising poster screams right into eyes
and minds:"WE WILL WIN! United Russia", and the never
hibernating on his three-color way grizzly-bear
looks as ever strong, resolute and satisfied.
There is no bum soaker, no thief, no whore
under the dead-festive-rosy light of the street lamps.
No single crow or dog or jackdaw in the dead space
of eternal frost. All they have gone.
In winter, conscience seems to be a too abstract matter.
The colored scraps are much more essential.
Nov 25, 2011
------------------------------------------
a constructive critique is welcome
Standing silently in the doorway, a tough looking man
With hands above his shoulders grasping the doorway jamb
His face dark and lined,, hands wrapped in a boxers stance
Sweated profusely , paused to let his breathing die
He broke from his routine, stood resting and looking around
Letting his eyes wander as the city passed on by
Chatting , laughing having a good time
Girls with young men ambled merrily by
Somber men dressed in dark flannel suits
And black lacquered boots, saying nothing
Walked quietly on
Fords and Chevys’ putted up and down the street,
braking for red lights and cars in full retreat
honking when someone crossed their beat
with their headlights turned on looking mean
Kids played stick ball in the alleys ,
strangers and enemies once, now all pals
Families gathered on the front stoop
Talking and eating dinner or snacks
Lazily whiling away the warm summer nights
All in all a peaceful dreamy evening filled with delight
He paused in the fading twilight, closed his eyes
Still no one noticed him , the city passing by
the scene shifted/, time slowed/and died
to early morn, parting mists, the smell of thyme
He was there with his sweetheart , twenty years before
Laughing carousing , being a great bore
On a warm summer eve, Singing in the breeze,
everything brand new,driving up the avenue
Too late he didn’t see the car ,
flying apart it broke them in two
They all died that eerie summer night
As time passed on by,Still he meets her
driving up the avenue
He woke in the city once again , a boxer by trade
Doing his routine , letting time fly
Pausing to look out the door ,
His eyes wander on a warm summer eve
As the city passes longingly by
A Cowboy's Last Will
The old cowboy struggled for breath,
Heartbeat faint, his eyes set
He whispered softly before death -
"Wait! I ain't finished yet! "
"Don't lay me where my feet are cold
Or where the lightnin' plays.
Keep me from rushin' waters bold
And where the rattler stays.
Don't put me where they might stampede,
I've seen enough of that.
Or where the cliff face might recede,
I'd rather see it flat.
Keep me from where the Norther blows
And ice grows on your chin.
I've seen enough of sleet and snows
And brutal killin' wind.
And most of all protect me well
From sandstorms in my face.
I'd rather face the fires of hell
Than sand in my last place.
I know I'd rather be laid down
Where I can feel at home.
Maybe I could be laid in town
So I won't feel alone.
Why not just put me in a place
Where I can hear a tune.
Just lay me underneath the stage
In that Longhorn saloon."
Those were the last words that he spoke
They shrugged and said "Why not?
A cowboy in a bar who's dead -
That ain't a brand new thought."
When you pass by in your new Fords
And if you really care,
You'll find him underneath them boards,
The Longhorn S'loon's still there.
Rusty dusty pick up trucks
Old Fords and busted Chevys
Trucks that tear the road apart
And some stuck down the levy
Showing off at the truck show
All polished up and nice
When an old man in a beat up Ford
Looked us over once or twice
It don't matter how the cover looks
It's what's beneath the hood
You may look awful pretty
But, with no power...it's no good
You wanna get the ladies
Remember, it's what's beneath the hood
Although they like a real good ride
There ain't no ride, if there's no wood
I smiled and I watched the gent
Walk and laugh and smile some
He'd mumble something to the girls
And they'd follow to where he'd come
His truck, was old and battered
Wasn't tricked out like the rest
But, when it came to having girls around
This old man was the best
It don't matter how the cover looks
It's what's beneath the hood
You may look awful pretty
But, with no power...it's no good
You wanna get the ladies
Remember, it's what's beneath the hood
Although they like a real good ride
There ain't no ride, if there's no wood
A truck may last a long long time
But you've got to use it right
You've got to check the engine
And try to run it every night
I remember what the old man said
It's about what's there beneath the hood
The girls don't want it pretty
The girls, they want it good.....
It don't matter how the cover looks
It's what's beneath the hood
You may look awful pretty
But, with no power...it's no good
You wanna get the ladies
Remember, it's what's beneath the hood
Although they like a real good ride
There ain't no ride, if there's no wood
Once more we have a blazoned trail to muse Chasing Greendragon's tea hidden in the sea As the one that drinks bitter he thinks better too In Columbia's taverns men do conspire to be free - Here verses were written and deciphered An age of brown paper print sliced the main sail Taking liberties before crossing the wide fords as Glass bottom tankards ring like church bells - - Reciting mail from stage to stage runs the news in ire of the kings sweet acts and torrid teas After seven years weakend but cloak and dagger true Blaming drunk french indians who poured it on the sea - Beginning the royal blues again the revolution turns A few good men came from these upon your standard But war like a fire has no repect of persons it just burns Unlike these local bars men's constitutions were driven hard
'Bee' put on a bar-be-que for bringing up the past,
and of course he added drinking. Now the die was caste
for stories bringing laughter from dubious glory days,
when our oats were being sown while living single ways.
Naturally it wasn't long before the 'art of studery' had died,
and leaving all the juicy stamina that our minds provide
for the love of every man’s desire that lasts until the brain,
dissolves into memory loss and cars are not thought of again.
Ah! Those Holdens flashing FJ and the Fords called 'Customline',
that prowled the streets for 'pick ups' who gave a 'come on' sign,
brought back the memories to all that only 'Hilly' could correct,
when mentioning the better Ford - was his beloved Prefect!
But did that bring on laughter and a scowl on 'Hilly's dial,
who set an argument in motion amid comparison and style.
"Customlines" 'Hilly' said "Might lure girls with the V8,
but guzzling 'carby's' kept you broke and always on the slate".
"Hilly's' right" 'Bee' mentioned, and then he added reasons why.
Of course owners of the 'kingmobiles' sed "Yeah nice try!"
But 'Bee' wouldn't let old 'Hilly' down, saying "It was just by chance,
that I realized a Prefect's perfect when we went to a dance".
"And as it happened two sisters were at the dance this night,
and 'Hilly' with his silken style had set their hearts alight.
The rotten 'bugger' took advantage by herding them up there,
and mentioning his stamina would satisfy the pair".
"When they seen his Prefect it's enough to make them swoon.
Of course they let him take them home. But they lived near the ‘moon!’
And if 'Hilly' owned a 'Customline' he would have been a fool,
'cause halfway home he would have found, he'd run out of fuel".
"Later 'Hilly' then convinced me of the Prefect's fuel consumption.
They mustn't cost a thing to run. If I believe in his assumption.
'Hilly' said he'd drove a hundred miles, but I think that he's bluffing!
Because he tried to tell me - he'd driven all that way for 'nuffing".