Best Gewgaws Poems
Do you like me for my form
And my cosmetic moments
With their conceits and affectations,
Bejewelled with glittering gewgaws,
Hinting at the scents of summer,
All show but no substance,
Holding back the acrid stench of death?
For you ,my beauty is but word deep.
Perhaps you see in me your soulmate,
Reflecting what you inwardly believe,
Allowing you to remain in your comfort zone,
Safe from all challenge
And the barbs of pointed criticism.
Secure your world stands
As long as you do not look behind
Or beyond horizons that hold you bound.
Or are you just a voyeur
Sailing on the seas of sensation
Living your life vicariously
To avoid precariously
What you dare not,
Rather like the lady of Shalott,
Reading life through someone else's mirror
To save your soul?
Maybe you do look deeper
To see where we differ.
Confident in your own skin
You are ready for new terrain,
Awkward and stumbling though that may be.
You look before you leap
But forge fearlessly forward,
Willing to face all that lies ahead.
Be all that as it may,
I am but a poor poem,
Taking my existence
from you, the reader.
That is my fate.
Begotten,not made,ugly by my creator,
Accepting myself for what I am,
Yet I am fully at your disposal or neglect.
Categories:
gewgaws, introspection, on writing and
Form:
Free verse
The very first automobile that I ever owned,
Was a 1937 Ford sedan that was many times preowned!
I bought it when I was a junior in high school as I recall.
It would do about 55 miles per hour with the pedal to the wall!
I paid two hundred and fifty bucks for that snazzy set of wheels.
I worked at a grocery and a gas station to pay for that deal of deals!
Now, in my feckless youth, a plain lookin' vehicle wouldn't do,
So I adorned it with useless gewgaws to express my point of view!
First thing I installed was a fanciful knob on the steerin' wheel,
And not a few times it rapped my knuckles and made me squeal!
I had a pair of chrome spotlights to give it a modicum of sex appeal!
On the tailpipe was a gadget that projected a thunderous peal!
I had twin aerials installed, one for show and one for radio operation.
Attached to each was a foxtail that evoked curious fascination!
I affixed rear wheel fender skirts and mud flaps with red reflectors,
White sidewalls, fancy gearshift knob and feelers to act as curb detectors!
I had a guy install a horn that played, "Mary Had A Little Lamb!"
Cops thought it a nuisance and on many occasions it got me in a jam!
Dad told me that buyin' such stuff was foolish but I was havin' a ball!
(Years later, I myself found that you can't tell a teenager anything at all!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
gewgaws, funny, teen, me, me,
Form:
Rhyme
Eldest daughter – I Praise
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot your horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged ,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
koolaid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and locomotive -
complicit in behavior
comparable to pedophile,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
Categories:
gewgaws, anger, december, father daughter,
Form:
Rhyme
Way back before this baby boomer waz astute
countless decades before aye became long in the tooth,
and also prior tomb ma sporting dentures to boot
fond memories rush more than so far back
envisioning illusory wind blown steppes
(wait...this visage belongs to thine
long since deceased maternal grandfather
hub hill eave didst hail from Kiev,
or some place thereabouts) within the mind
of this prevaricating aging
"FAKE" barnstorming ole coot
preserved records (those times b'fore cds or dvds)
and now rewinds tape when family of origin
celebrated Xmas secular Harris
house style rendition of Magic Flute,
though genealogy steeped in Judaism
recollections abound of boyhood mirth
devoid of rubric asper orthodox and/or reformed
Judeo-Christian religion,
which essentially means,
I did not give or take a hoot
nonetheless cherish fond memories,
when ma late mum
relished making a hoo ha,
and got tickled and pickled pink
rousing a hullabaloo wrapping presents
and jamming three knee high stockings
with healthy goodies such as fruit
cuz, as a devotee of Carleton Fredericks,
she frowned on giving out sweets
particularly to three children she begat,
and iced hill easily recall her poker faced
feigning complete ignorance and surprise
sheep played “dumb” as did father
convincingly not giving a hoot
puzzled asper neatly wrapped and
stacked gifts under decorated tree
while distorted reflections of stockings
fractal shimmers from metallic gewgaws
in tandem of nostalgic magic
worth mo' than any amount of loot,
perhaps Christmas festivities a flash point,
when some jolly codger (papa)
dressed up, sans Santa Claus suit
and petsmart dogs doubled up as reindeer,
whose canine barking, cavorting, and dashing
haphazardly set them on a direct route
to pandemonium as crashing trimmed tree
cacophony elicited laughter, punctuated
with irrepressible escaped bursts of flatulence
(ah wont mention hoof from)
that emulated a toot.
Categories:
gewgaws, age, angel, childhood, christmas,
Form:
Light Verse
Come strutting you tongue-wagging muckrakers.
Sit beneath heated helmets, waiting for curls and
swirls in you blue hair. Your polished silver will soon
be displayed for all to marvel and praise.
Oh, the seven deadly sins, like the rings
of Saturn, circle heads like haloes and
adorn everyone. For who is without
greed and pride? Rocks are hurled,
but words hurt more. So wipe your
faces, you sucklings of bitter wine.
Set aside your beads and bangles,
and pull up a chair, for there is one
more vile. Come! Dine on your words.
Listen to the cruel sewage spewed from
the thin man's lips, more rancid than yours.
Yet he never sucks back the fulsome black muck.
For he alone is the eighth ring.
Behold the fair-haired talisman!
Barbed spears fling awry and land everywhere,
for no one is safe. He alone is the archer, the
chosen one to deliver truths...
the esteemed messenger.
Perhaps it is his ruse, an angle,
a gimmick, but his scriptures make less
sense than dime store gewgaws,
for his feet have not filled other's shoes
and his steps leave no prints.
The wounds may seal but never heal,
and he, (along with the blue hairs)
will preach in a hollow church to
a deaf choir. The only offerings will
be tears leaking down deep furrows and
face curves, landing on scarred lips,
never to be swallowed.
Categories:
gewgaws, anger, feelings, how i
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)
Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition
generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid
for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets
to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to snatch
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,
Categories:
gewgaws, appreciation, creation, dedication, encouraging,
Form:
Ballad
I thought I knew
What I was dreaming:
The night time walks
And daytime talks
The future pledged of seeing;
The midnight phone calls
And certain gewgaws
The heart defined of meaning;
The swapping letters
And evening ventures
No longer seem existed;
The solemn promise
The spirit noticed
Refined and all retracted.
But all seems false
And love seems vain
I have no words of truce,
I'll drudge myself
In scattered pieces
And paint them with my youth.
Categories:
gewgaws, lost love, recovery from...
Form:
Rhyme
Little known holidays occurring on February fifteenth...,
awaiting commercial sponsors to become...
what else...,but hand over fist money makers?
(http://www.holidays-and-
observances.com/february-15.html)
Excess Valentine's surplus sweet treats
and assorted paraphernalia
need not go to waste
said sappy accouterments
can be repurposed
quickly without haste
less pronounced celebrated fetes faced
overwhelming stiff as an arrow baste
in love potion, understandable
no satiny frills laced,
or some other eye catching
emoji, persona, symbol...
awaits deft ploy of marksman/
woman to lift from obscurity,
whose ontological, mythological,
historical...basis replaced
essence mined to the Maximus,
and references to FACTS erased
with brilliance craftily distilling
entrepreneurial finesse aced
to broker psychological seduction,
(albeit subtle) synchronicity braced,
sans free market capitalism crux
linkedin at optimal nexus enterprize prefaced
with salient mania to generate profit raced
to the forefront of popular media
adulterated and of course embraced
by president of United States with
many commercial donning merchandise,
quoting P. T. Barnum,
there's a sucker chased
and born every minute, and
trumpeting how to make
a stack of money
(held together by
toothpicks and paste)
tall as the Taj Mahal,
which occasion aced
with fanfare including
handing out signed "FAKE"
copies of 'The Art Of
The Deal' amazingly graced
on podium along with
candies, gewgaws, tsatskes...
toting, praising, lauding...merits of:
Angelman Syndrome Day
Annoy Squidward Day
(Sponge Bob Square Pants)
International Angelman Day
International Childhood Cancer Awareness Day
Lupercalia
National Caregivers Day -
February 15, 2019
(Third Friday in February)
National Gumdrop Day
National Hippo Day
Nirvana Day – (Buddhist)
Remember the Maine Day
Susan B. Anthony Day
World Information Architecture Day -
February 15, 2019
(Third Friday in February).
Categories:
gewgaws, america, appreciation, celebration, february,
Form:
Free verse
Though discriminatory asper discerning
legitimate information TIME
Magazine considered
a reliable trustworthy,
and valuable source to this rhyme
stir, who perused cover story, sans
January 28th, 2019 issue as prime
material to concoct
more serious than amusing
poem mindful not to spoil mealtime
sharing insightful ruses not so sublime
utilizing underhanded tactics that chime
with markedly innocuous discordant
undertones for longtime
(within realm of information technology)
garnering bajillion zeroes
after face value of dime
(I chose that denomination...
just book haws), suit clime
mate here, plus yours truly
aspired to fuel inquisitiveness,
since text unable to display mime
relayed by this messenger,
who questions gravity of crime
head honcho blithely
involving selling personal data
thus affecting prospects of incipient wartime.
every keystroke action typed by me,
and everybody else linkedin into web
foregoes their life details free
for selling treasured binary binded bits we
bull leave tubby encrypted, yet algorithms
invested with secret electron size key
sophisticated to sniff out valuable trove
within every pixel typed into ever re:
screen of every Internet app pre
pair ring the equivalent
of voluminous dossier lee
ving nary a trace, yet data packets
more precious than fine spun gold,
invisible electronic bursts glee
fully swept up like nobody's business – see
ming to provide a wellspring
of many a cottage industry
similar to a pugilist on par with Muhammad Ali
generating revenue, and
driving profits with accessory
trinkets or gewgaws hyped up as de
facto plum purchases, perhaps purchased online
whereat vendor (unbeknownst to patron) sells
vital transaction information to data broker he
or she obviously for a price - yes our SECURITY!
Categories:
gewgaws, abuse, betrayal, confusion, dark,
Form:
Free verse
I take my pain to where ragers rage and writhe
in their self-absorbed gluttony on all-winter days
their tea cups are only for them
interspersed with silence and solitude
the streets are buildings without them
who are the signposts talking too?
I could have been one of them
I was one of them
and still am if hills facing the sun are cloud covered
and I don’t look out of the window to notice
then, in those un-costumed days, I am
but, and it has taken rotations of earth
backpacking through antonyms, through tropics
I have conquered tinnitus, now a comfort blanket
aiding sleep as a heart monitor line crossing a screen
I have conquered deep wells, now jews harps
jaw harps if you prefer, gewgaws, yes I have conquered
the cave of crawling space days
goblins are only a light switch and their rising finger away
but my rising finger plucks at overtones and distances
between neurons, between stars, between mees
its sound soothing, rubbing balm on a restive chest
the vibrations are fizzing and feeding me
I take my white noise and float away
sound, my therapy
Categories:
gewgaws, inspirational, introspection, life, mental
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Doors are used to come and go,
To lock out and lock in
Doors are not very welcoming.
Doors ajar disquieting
Half-hearted gap foreboding
Door neither open nor shut is worrying
Do your doors ajar become you?
What do your doors say about you?
Do you care? Others do?
Because doors separate humans from apes
What's mine is yours without doors
Because laws outlaws gewgaws
Open your doors left ajar, to live an open life.
Categories:
gewgaws, freedom, house,
Form:
Free verse
Paternal grandmother's headstone - Beth David, Elmont, Long Island
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.
Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.
Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.
Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.
Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.
Categories:
gewgaws, absence, america, death, fate,
Form:
Free verse
He obtains fancy chopsticks,
hardly uses them, forgets he has them.
He drapes ornamental trees
with cheap pocket watches
let’s the batteries run dry
hardly ever looks at them.
A suitable receptacle, a container
or an old cigar box must be filled up
with whatever is small enough
to be collectable.
Seashells he keeps in chests
along with unusual pencils,
pens, and pen knives.
There are other acquired
gewgaws and fripperies.
His poetry is a collection also.
One day he will move on
to yet another creative collection
of his ever expanding hollowness.
Categories:
gewgaws, poetry,
Form:
Free verse