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Best Grouse Poems | Poetry

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The Best Grouse Poems

Details | Grouse Poem |

STIFLE

Try opening your ears and shutting your beak
You never listen, incessantly you shriek

So now that my claw has stifled your chatter
I’ll give it to you straight; here’s what’s the matter

The hatchlings have flown, you’ve empty nest syndrome
You’ve even tried squawking at the garden gnome

What you’re experiencing is menopause
Please realize that this is part of nature’s laws

One of our babes invited me to her nest
Where I will be treated as an honored guest

I would suggest you try finding a new spouse
One who doesn’t mind listening to you grouse

If need be, I’ll get a restraining order
I’ll take no more of your panic disorder

If you try stalking me, you’ll get a surprise
Such attempts might lead to your own demise

I am retiring and just want some peace now
The cat’s my friend, so beware of his meow

Details | Grouse Poem |

Peat-whisky dreams


Evening finds ascension
on a red grouse wing;
the brilliant copper sky 
fades to twilight beam.
 
 
It wafts the weathered flora
of a season’s ending term,
as young skylarks soundly sleep
in the nearby bracken fern.
 
 
The purple hue glints playfully
on a steep highland muir,
with lovers lying blythesome 
on the fragrant heather floor,
 
 
their drunk love on crescendo
with a piper's distant drone;
sharing peat-whisky dreams
amid the summer’s final gloam.




***********************

Details | Grouse Poem |

Without A Clue


The guests were partying in the big house
a burglar sneaked in armed with a lead pipe
Mrs. White in the kitchen bastes a grouse
Colonel Mustard had guests caught in his hype

A candle stick shone while hung from a rope
in the library Miss Scarlett, dressed in red
felt a cold shiver when a hand did grope
then led to the study, she, filled with dread

In the hall a loud bang sounds with a boom
a revolver echoed…  Reverend Green fell
Professor Plum in the billiard room
bled from a dagger…a final farewell

In the lounge, Mrs Peacock ( what a wench )
reflects on her actions, holding a wrench

© 9/6/2014

This sonnet is based on the game of Cluedo it has 
been the source of many hours of entertainment
and the source of many an argument, possibly 
leading to murder.
Mr Green was originally called Reverend Green
it was changed to Mr. for the American market.

Details | Grouse Poem |

Lagos

Lagos drags herself to work
She wakes and she burns
Sleep-drunk her belly churns
With footfalls on her tired back

Fumes rage from cars and trucks
Chimes in traffic hiccup
After rainfall her guts brim up
With clouds of dust and heat

Traders sell from window shops
Hawkers shout their goods and wares
In the bustle no one cares
As Lagos buries her face in the din

Moneymakers march around
With gaping holes in their smiles
Waiting quotes from a thousand miles 
Like eager miners of coal

Area boys in nooks and crannies
Unemployed lungs roaming the streets
Perpetrators of criminal feats
By-products of greed and corruption

The politician`s pensive mood
Surmise a swell time in the House
Passings of bills for a little grouse 
And time to loot the nation`s fund

Black beauties stroll past night clubs
Delicate bronze bodies in brocades
Outlines like silhouettes of sunshade
Waiting for Lagos` filial embrace

Lagos drags herself to sleep
She sleeps but she burns
In perpetual mirth she churns
While footfalls die away

Details | Grouse Poem |

Cowboy Hoe Down

On a Sunday in the evening
The old barn becomes a hall
Social place where every weekend
The town folk go for a ball.
 
The inside is decorated  
Lights are lit, the banners sway
By the walls barrels and cartwheels
Wooden stools and bales of hay.
 
Everybody loves a shindig
Where square dancing is the craze
Violins, guitars and banjos
Loud hillbilly music plays.
 
There’s a guy who’s always present
He’s the handsome Cowboy Kurt
On his head a leather Stetson
Dressed in jeans and chequered shirt.
 
Carol comes in golden pigtails
Gorgeous looking in flared skirt
She stands out; her smile is charming
She is hot and likes to flirt.
 
Cowboy Kurt looks quite appealing
He taps his feet to the beat
As other couples are reeling
Pretty Carol takes a seat.
 
Kurt decides to mosey on up
And lay his heart on the line
See if Carol would share some grub
Perhaps a swig of moonshine.
 
Tiny Carol surprises Kurt
Chugging down half a bottle
She eyes him coyly, looking pert
Then starts to jig full throttle.		
 
Stunned Kurt is reeling to and fro
As wee Carol takes the lead
Dance floor clears; they put on a show
Kurt looks like a tumbleweed.		
 
Music wouldn’t stop fast enough
For Kurt who couldn’t square dance
Carol is made of tougher stuff
And has high hopes for romance.
 
Totally lit and loving it
Carol trots to the outhouse
But when she returns, Kurt has split
“Where’s my man?” Carol does grouse	
 
In his truck Kurt has hit the trail
Head still spinning from the dance
Carol sits upon a hay bale
Hoping he’ll return to prance
 
After the hoe down was over
Banjos and fiddles tucked away
Cowboy Kurt was still a rover
Out cold on the hay Carol lay.


------------------------------------------------------------
Written 6th October, 2014
A collaboration by Paul Callus and Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Grouse Poem |

Wild Rugged Wuthering Moor

How I love the  Wuthering heights rugged landscape
Of the wild savage moor
As I stand upon a rocky outcrops
High on a windswept Tor.

Under the  blue sky canopy before me
Lies sweeping lush green and tawny vales and rolling hills
Land so wild and unforgiving
As the cold wind begins to bite and chill
Carpets of lilac heather providing shelter
For grouse rabbit and mouse
Somewhere in the distance
I catch the site of an old dilapidated stone farm house
Battered and in decay by the harsh temperamental weather
Every day.

Silver ribboned streams gushing and rushing ever flowing
Sparkling in the sun as lazy trout swim and pout
Trying to kiss the sky.

Little white woolly dots majestically graze on idle days
As the ravens take pieces of wool for nesting away
Suddenly the sky turns black and the icy rain begins to pound
And somewhere in the far distance I hear a deep rumbling sound
Cracks of light flash in the sky and the thunder now close by 
Gives out a mighty roar
I feel the power shake the ground where I stand
And it shakes me to the core
A mixture of fear and acceleration sweeps over me
As I watch far from safety in awe.

Suddenly as it started the thunder stops and the sky begins to clear
A rainbow crescent appears and the lark twitters once moor 
As the started wild ponies and heads of deer reappear
The  overpowering smell of damp earth
I'm soaking wet my cheeks red and aglow
I'm lost in the wild untameable timeless beauty
That I have come to love and know
In my isolation I find peace of mind so serine
I am not  just a visitor
But at one with nature and part of the scene.


Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. June.

Details | Grouse Poem |

In The Forest that Surrounds

Deep in our forest woodland,
	where white tailed deer roam free,
I thought to take a moment,
	to listen quietly,
to the whispered sighing,
	of breezes in the trees.
As pleasant a sound as I have ever heard,
	for my senses it doth please!

There I came upon deer grazing,
	they showed no sign of fear,
the moment was endearing,
	as they watched me standing near.
Silently I stood watching,
	twas heaven sent for me,
until a Ruffed Grouse drumming,
	disturbed my reverie.

Like a painted pastoral scene,
	captured by an artist’s eye,
it was a moment frozen in time,
	though time itself flew by.
Then with their white tails swaying,
	they trotted down the glade,
which ended my encounter,
	with a moment heaven made.

It’s often I remember,
	that quiet, forest scene,
when Nature’s generosity,
	with pleasures seldom seen,
offered me an insight,
	into her hidden realms
where her favour was revealed.
	A delight that overwhelms.

Rhymer.  May 22nd, 2016.

		

	.

Details | Grouse Poem |

The Wily Goat

The purple on his chin was tellin'
there was just no use to lie.
That pesky, good for nothin' goat
had eaten Mother's pie.
She  had set it on the porch 
jist to cool it down a bit,
and don't you know that goat had come
and calmly eaten it.

My little brother looked as if
he was inclined to cry.
They'd warned him things
would have to change
or Billy Goat would die.
I got a rag to help him scrub
that bright dye off his whisker.
He could appeal to Mom's good side,
but didn't want to risk her.

That goat had climbed on everythin'
from our new car to house.
He'd eaten nightshirts off the line.
No wonder Mom would grouse.
I'll kill that goat", our mother said
a dozen time or so.
Of course she didn't mean it but
our brother didn't know.

Now little brother'd come along
when most of us were growed.
He never seem to learn the ways 
the rest of us all knowed.
He didn't learn to work around
our mama's laws and such.
He had no wiles to pertect him.
His goat was sure in dutch.

Bein' so much younger must be tough
and not too easy sailin'.
His best friend was this pesky goat
and that was fast a failin'.
He guessed the only way to go
was take his goat and run.
He didn't think to take a coat
and weinies and a bun.

The rest of us when we run off,
we knowed enough to take
some warm clothes and some
sandwitches 'n even choclit cake.
We were all scared when brother
didn't turn up for a meal
and we could see the worry our
mama began to feel.

So Daddy got his good horse Dan
and took the dogs along,
and said he'd just go scout him out;
be sure nothin' was wrong.
It seemed a good long time before
we saw Dad ridin' back
with somethin' on his saddle.
It looked much like a sack.

But it was our little brother
and he was sound asleep.
Dad found him in the orchard
with apples in a heap.
His cunnin' goat had climbed up
in the ole apple tree
and flung down the ripe apples,
as nimble as can be.

So brother wasn' hungry
but he was mighty weary.
Our mother grabbed him in her arms
and all of us were teary.
That wily goat was smart enough
to prove himself a winner.
He'd saved our brother and himself
from becoming our goat dinner.


By: Joyce Johnson

Details | Grouse Poem |

Amidst Highland Glens


"without a care in the world the Grouse freely roam"

A quiet hush abounds amidst the scenic Highland Glens
Whilst saltire skies above silhouette a Golden Eagle against it's blue
Swooping shadowing heathers to return to soar above the Ben's 
It's keen eyes in capture seeing movements amongst the mornings dew 
For chicks it has to feed, from the heights down she flew

In quiet posture
Amongst the ruins of a croft
A Kestrel perches
Caressing the horizon
In awe, but so vigilant

On skeletal branches, crows a caw-
their safety in numbers allow

Details | Grouse Poem |

Ann Romney's Blouse

Mitt Romney’s wife was criticized
(Though she was not defensive)
Because she chose to wear a blouse
Considered quite expensive.

She wore it on a TV show
So she would look her best,
But journalists decided that
She’d failed the litmus test.

All those who like to criticize
Were ready with their clucks,
Delighted to reveal that blouse
Surpassed nine hundred bucks!

Though prices through the stratosphere
I cannot comprehend,
I wonder why reporters care
What politicians spend.

John Edwards’ haircut, Palin’s suits
And now Ann Romney’s blouse,
Provide the ammunition so
The columnists can grouse.

Such splurges prove to all of us
Those folks are out of touch.
They have no clue that most of us
Would never spend so much.

Yet still, I find it strange these facts
Are told with fevered pitch; 
Beware of candidates like these – 
They’re not like us – they’re rich!

Details | Grouse Poem |

Where The Antelope (Used To) Play

Where the antelope used to play is now shopping malls and plats.
Man in his insatiable greed has encroached upon its ancient habitats.
Not so very long ago on the plains just a few miles out of town,
Were herds of these graceful creatures that now have dwindled down.

Also, pushed from the verdant plains are the mighty buffalo,
That grazed upon the lush, green grasses not so very long ago.
Upon these sacred grazing grounds are now concrete parking lots,
And densely cluttered cookie-cutter houses on quarter-acre plots.

Where have all the magnificent wild turkeys gone,
That used to preen and strut about at the break of dawn?
Even the lowly prairie dogs, their burrows they've had to flee,
To accommodate covetous developers who've gone on a building spree.

Of the wily fox and skulking coyote, there are fewer to be seen.
They were forced from their hunting grounds and have fled the scene.
Desperate flocks of grouse and pheasant have also taken flight,
To raise their young elsewhere, escaping mans' spreading blight.

Deer and elk that once peered shyly from almost every copse;
Their environs now occupied and overrun with tacky shops.
'Twould be novel if man would recall that these creatures were here first,
And consider them when pursuing their unquenchable expansion thirst!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)

Details | Grouse Poem |

Slanging it up Down Under

In the land of Oz, we're all fair dinkum,
Every bloke, Sheila and Healer too.
By crikey mate, if you get us started,
You'll regret the day I guarantee you.

In bonza days some may call hard yakka,
With an esky chockers and a barbie that blares.
Strewth! I tell you even our bogans are grouse,
Where else can you find platypodes and Koala Bears?

So spend an arvo or two and don't be a bludger,
Smoke a durry and blow the froth off a few.
You'll be saying "Man, that was a bloody ripper",
So get off your dunny and tell a furphy or two!

If you're thinkin' of comin' over, but not too sure,
Just have a go, ya mug, you may just find.
The best place to go walkabout and make new friends,
But don't be a goose and leave your goon bag behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We're as Aussie as "You Beaut",

We're as Aussie as the Holden ute.

We're as Aussie as a kangaroo,

We're as Aussie as we're "True Blue".

Details | Grouse Poem |

Indigenous Creatures of My Writing Desk

There is an antique writing desk
in my little study
handed-me-down
from generations of would-be
writers in my family

And there are ancient creatures
from days gone by
living in this old desk still
evil, larcenous little creatures
envious of literary skill

This explains much

Lately, I have caught them unawares
aghast, thought I imagined them
but they are really there
surly, sinister, repugnant creatures
in my writing desk

There's a putrid little jerk,
called Pernishicus who lurks
behind the piles on my desk 
glorying in the mess
a malevolent, grimy-mauve gremlin
 
Who preys on newly created works
stealthily spraying them
with foul feculence
as soon as I commence
my writing- 

...Sometimes missing slightly
and tagging my hand
making it hard to stand
myself (much less my writing)
for days on end

Then there's a creepy
mesmerizing fiend
they call Spelbadger
a translucent thing, quite obscene
who shifts in the shadows and purrs

With dark eyes deep- constantly changing
like stones from mood-rings
set in his skull
he psychically bullies,
intimidates and muddles
until my poor brain
is worn and dull

And perhaps worst of all
is that one, Grumblesleaze
with pale, glowering eyes diseased
a gray-green, mangy looking thing
whose famous quirk
is that he has the gall 
to grouse about my work...

As he viciously shreds it
then glunshing and munching
greedily devours it all
leaving no note
or trace of remembrance
of my past brilliance
behind

Oh, out of spite
he might leave a few
of my ill-penned
unfortunate lines
I planned to cut anyway
or pull my worst attempts
from the waste-can
and lay them out
to remind me of my failures

Yes, this explains much

For there was only one before
our one lone ancestor
who was able to write
at this desk prolifically
tapping out volumes rather heroically

'Though tiresome and tedious
dry history and drivel
which, no doubt, shrank and shriveled
and lulled these creatures off
to sleep for years

Until we woke them up
broke their hibernation
with more interesting stories
and imagination, colorfully crafted
ingenious, piece after piece

Clicking and clacking away
on typewriters, keyboards
generation after generation
of irritatingly gifted writers
disturbing their peace
it had to cease...

Details | Grouse Poem |

Sylvia's Double Life

She bustles
her boys out of bed
grouse, groan, growl
groggy gripes
snarky snipes, as they squabble
their way to breakfast

Packs their lunch
crunch, smack, munch, they eat
hurry boys-
catch the bus
flurry and fuss all the way
outdoors, scuffing floors

She sighs, so
relieved, can't be peeved
not today!
her Tuesday
to spend her own way, so she
tidies up, takes off

Catches train
excited to see
city sights
outlook bright
she perks up, suddenly a
plucky pup- young, free!

Sylvia
housewife on the loose
no restraints
restrictions
glorious contradiction
of her daily life

Not his wife
or their mother- No!
Today she's
just herself
happy, hopped down from the shelf
and gone out to play 

Takes her time
slowly strolls up the
street, feeling
quite complete
savoring silence, she sips
sugary coffee

Has a word
with little old man
in the park
half deaf, he
BARKS his reply- my oh my!
People stop and stare

Sylvia
doesn't even care
He's lonely
and so sweet
puts coffee down, and pulls him
to his feet, and they 

Dance and sway
around the park, glad
no longer
sad, lonesome
little old man, but Dapper
Dan, a youth again

Coy, he toys
and play-flirts with her
happy smiles
silly grins
blows a kiss as she moves on
remembering when

Next she spies
an odd street vendor
racks of caps
gaudy hats
in all their silly splendor
ridiculous fun

And she must
have one! So many
to choose from
she picks one
with feathers and fake plums, so
garish it's charming

Then she stops
at the five & dime
wasting time
gathering
a hoard of candy to eat
by herself- her treat!

She buys two
plastic six-shooters
too, popping
caps, BAP! BAP!
She pretends to shoot all the
crabby folks she sees

Not amused
they glare at her and
criticize
mean looks in
their eyes, she should “act her age”
the world's not her stage

But they're wrong
today it is, and
she's a whiz
real McCoy
thirty-seven and a half
year old, grown-tomboy

All day long
(at least until three)
she is free
rollicking
rowdy and raucous, climbing
trees and scraping knees

But before
the kids get home and
husband comes
she transforms
Housewife-Sylvia once more
catching up her chores

When they ask
“What'd you do all day?”
she smirks, says
“I'll never
tell” and they roll eyes, thinking
they know her so well...

And she laughs
plotting next play-day
in her head
where she'll go
shenanigans she'll pull as
she paints the town red!

Details | Grouse Poem |

My Old Ford

MY OLD FORD


I once had a '50 Ford
I bought it just because I was bored
It had been setting in a farmer's field
Where it had stopped and wouldn't yield

I hooked it behind Pa's old pickup truck
And out across the field I struck
Headed for the shade-tree mechanic's house
Knowing he would cuss and grouse

I parked this junk heap in his yard
He grumbled and sputtered long and hard
But went to work on it with skillful cunning
Certain that he could get it running

Get it running is what he did
I tell you, I nearly flipped my lid
My friends and I, all that summer
Rode the dirt roads in that little hummer

Until one day, it finally quit
And we knew that was the last of it
So I dragged it back to the farmer's field
Where it still sets and will not yield


	28 August 2011

Details | Grouse Poem |

The Lament

Solomly the mist drifted aimlessly,
cloaking moor and heather, the 
curlew and grouse silenced by
the haunting of a solitary piper.
Kilt clad from rocky outcrop,
the lament Land Of My Youth
echoed ridge and valley.
Beckoning the lost footsteps, 
the gillie, the baker, the bankers 
son, the urchin that raided your 
orchard, once names, once faces, 
now empty spaces at the dinner 
table.
And the tune reaches out beyond
the gorse and fern to strange lands,
names we failed in geography at 
school but now etched in heart
and epitaph.
The lofty peaks point skyward like 
prayers some unclimbed, some
unanswered. The grass will grow
where boys once ran, the laughter
now an aching memory.
The piper stills plays beckoning
souls not names, the stag raises 
its head and the eagle circles
this land of our youth. To duty 
or glory from boys to men, from
men to earth. The orchard will be
quiet tomorrow and the hills less
worthy. At the dinner table a
serviette to dry the tear and the
piper will fill the glen.

Details | Grouse Poem |

Cowboy Hoe Down

On a Sunday in the evening
The old barn becomes a hall
Social place where every weekend
The town folk go for a ball.

The inside is decorated  
Lights are lit, the banners sway
By the walls barrels and cartwheels
Wooden stools and bales of hay.

Everybody loves a shindig
Where square dancing is the craze
Violins, guitars and banjos
Hillybilly music plays.

There’s a guy who’s always present
He’s the handsome Cowboy Kurt
On his head a leather Stetson
Dressed in jeans and chequered shirt.

Carol comes in golden pigtails
Gorgeous looking in flared skirt
She stands out; her smile is charming
She is hot and likes to flirt.

Cowboy Kurt looks quite appealing
He taps his feet to the beat
As other couples are reeling
Pretty Carol takes a seat.

Kurt decides to mosey on up
And lay his heart on the line
See if Carol would share some grub
Perhaps a swig of moonshine.

Tiny Carol surprises Kurt
Chugging down half a bottle
She eyes him coyly, looking pert
Then starts to jig full throttle.

Stunned Kurt is reeling to and fro
As wee Carol takes the lead
Dance floor clears; they put on a show
Kurt looks like a tumbleweed.

Music wouldn’t stop fast enough
For Kurt who couldn’t square dance
Carol is made of tougher stuff
And has high hopes for romance.

Totally lit and loving it
Carol trots to the outhouse
But when she returns, Kurt has split
“Where’s my man?” Carol does grouse

In his truck Kurt has hit the trail
Head still spinning from the dance
Carol sits upon a hay bale
Hoping he’ll return to prance.

After the hoe down was over
Banjos and fiddles tucked away
Cowboy Kurt was still a rover
Out cold on the hay Carol lay.



*Written October 6, 2014 
by Paul Callus and Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Grouse Poem |

PLAYTIME




Dreary dreams drift
Sorry schemes sift
Lousy lines lift


Frenzy frames face
Gifts glimpsing grace
Troubling times trace


Play pretty poise
Verge vibrant voice
Chant clever choice


Mind moving mouse
Grip gaining grouse
Book beaming browse


Stay singing streams
Dust display dreams
Shout succinct screams


Live lovely light
Nudge nagging night
See special sights


Zealous zest zooms
Reach rustic rooms
Bright blossoms bloom


See sexy sway
Weave wavy way
Prime prancing play


Live lovely looks
Brave brilliant book
Catch clever cook


Reap rapture's rhymes
Trace transit times
Create calm chimes


Fling funny flop
Dream dewy drops
Sense secret stop


Mind makes magic
Dream dreads drastic
Toils trade tragic


Peace prompting prize
Seek sweet surprise
Reap rapid rise




Leon Enriquez
02 December 2014
Singapore

Details | Grouse Poem |

Vanishing Animals

Listen to poem:

(African human populations are being killed off by war,
famine, disease, and neglect...much like many rare
other species...when will we pay attention and try to
help them?)

Time,
stretching out, encompasses curtains,
on distant savannas, of shimmering heat.
And animals vanish:
ibex and antelope;
elephant; grouse.
Here once, now going or gone.
And time vanishes now.
With animals gone, one has no focus.
Moldering greenery, mute,
moves mainly in wind --
pliant life, submitting to breezes,
passive in sun. Rooted in spots
not chosen or won.
Plants do not vanish.
They prosper.
We do not prosper.
We vanish, as animal,
and go hardly noticed.
A dirge, as animals vanish.
We vanish unnoticed.

Details | Grouse Poem |

Fried Chicken

Durin' my nearly four-score years I've had many a grand repast,
But there's one delicacy that will never, ever be surpassed!
There ain't nothin' like a huge helpin' of luscious fried chicken!
Ah, just thinkin' about it makes my pulse begin to quicken!

Mom was an expert at preparin' a bird for the old iron fryin' pan.
The hapless fowl was beheaded and plucked in the shortest span,
Cut up, seasoned and fried before you could count to ten,
Leavin' the old rooster crowin' in bewilderment sans one hen!

The preacher made his periodic visits for dinner at our house.
Mom's admonition to us kids beforehand always made me grouse.
Sayin', "Let the preacher help himself to the choicest parts!"
So we kids usually ended up with the necks, gizzards and hearts!

If I was asked to plan a dinner menu, here's what it would be:
Heaps of fried chicken, mashed pertaters, gravy and iced tea,
Sourdough biscuits, garden fresh carrots and sweet spring peas,
And for dessert a huge slab of cherry pie ala mode, if you please!

Nowadays the Colonel touts chicken from San Diego to Nantucket,
With all the fixin's in a box, bag or a handy two-gallon bucket,
Spicy or original and fried in lots of grease to a crispy, golden brown,
But I prefer my spouse's southern fried 'cause it's the best in town!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Details | Grouse Poem |

Heat Unrelenting

Fires are springing up all over and blazing across the land.
The brave firemen working hard are severely undermanned.
The wheat crop, rippling in the breeze, is beginning to look dry.
Each July day has opened with a brilliant, bright blue sky.

Its the hottest July recorded in usually rainy Puget Sound.
My pretty lawn has withered and my perennials have browned.
We've not had the usual showers in the quiet of the night.
The leaves on my majestic Oak appear as though they were hit by blight.

Our red sunset holds no warning to which sailors must take heed.
There is no promise that tomorrow will bring the rains we need.
Forgive me Lord for grumbling when you sent the endless rain
And I promise I lwill never grouse about dark skies again

Written July 30, 2015

Details | Grouse Poem |

The Refrigerator

I used to be so clean and proud of myself,
In my youthful days,
Good looking and so cool,
Just seem neglected now,
It’s affected me so much,
That voices from my inner self,
Keeps me awake all the time,
There’s no let up from them,
No rest!
Constantly calling for help,
They say that they are being strangled,
By something furry and grouse, 
Growing all around them,
Sucking all the strength and life from them,
They say they don’t even like,
Living inside me anymore,
I’m dirty and horrible they say,
They would rather be thrown into the garbage bin,
Than a dark and disgusting place like this,
It’s a living hell!
Something is eating away at me,
It seems to be taking over,
“Is there any hope for us?
Could we ever escape from this?
Become clean once again.

Contest name 
A Tribute to a major Appliance
Sponsor Mary Oliver Rotman
03/10/2015

Details | Grouse Poem |

Perfect Circle Piston Rings

The Perfect Circle Plant was where most kids went to work as a general rule,
To begin a life of donkeywork upon graduation from the local school.
I dreamed of things far beyond the horizon like visitin' Rome or Istanbul,
Not a life of drudgery in the plant or plowin' corn behind a ploddin' mule!

I suppose I could've gone to work there, married and had a flock of kids,
But such a mundane life would've driven me to booze, landin' me on the skids!
They made expansion rings and such for airplanes, ships and tanks.
Not for me!  I chose the Air Force!  For that I've always given thanks!

While I enjoyed the beauty of Bermuda (where I 'fought' the Korean War),
My peers were waitin' for quittin' time, performin' their borin' chore!
I reckon they made about five bucks an hour turnin' out expansion rings.
I only made a hundred bucks a month, but it paid for my youthful flings!

I just couldn't see myself turnin' nuts and bolts and payin' union dues,
Or catchin' hell from the ol' lady for stoppin' by the pub for some brews!
While I was dinin' on steak and sippin' Tom Collins' at the Plantation House,
My pals back home were eatin' meatloaf and listenin' to their spouse's grouse!

I hasten to say that the Perfect Circle Plant provided my friends with needed work,
But operatin' a planer or lathe eight hours a day would've driven me berserk!
Should I have taken Dad's advice and hired on at the plant had I to do it over?
Nah!  I wanted to get off the farm and leave the county 'cause I'm an avid rover!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Details | Grouse Poem |

THE ELEPHANT AND THE MOUSE

The elephant told the mouse
'I am sick of your grouse'
The mouse wagged its tail
Brought a bunch of cat's mail
'Look! all's written to your spouse'.

Details | Grouse Poem |

Hunting Deer with Dad

One morning, sometime in the Fall,
we went up to our cottage on the lake,
and I put on my camoflauge,
and sharpened my broadheads for the hunt.
My dad and I walked silently through the gray woods,
noting every little barkscrape on the thick trees,
carefully picking our way around brush and ferns.
We found the blind,
a simple affair of branches and logs.
Sitting down, I stretched my bow taut in anticipation,
feeling the plastic fletch on the cold carbon shaft.
A grouse stomped through, a noisy bird,
and my heart started to beat;
I thought it was a deer,
but relaxed infinitely when I daw the fat bird.
Not ten minutes later,
the call of a whooping crane shook me from my thoughts,
and I saw a little figure creeping towards us.
A bobcat, small and lithe,
crept past us,
slinking low to the ground,
the little stump-for-a-tail- held low,
and I smiled at the little feline,
though it didn't smile back.
My feet were cold,
we went back to the truck without a sound.
I love hunting with Daddy.