Best Hat In Hand Poems
Let all the tree tops glisten ,
And gleeful children listen,
As snow drops gently fall,
To an amazing Christmas call.
Let all the people sing out loud,
Let mistletoe hang, from every cloud,
Let stars twinkle in the sky,
Let Angel choirs reign this night ,
And bring delight to human kind,
With their so lustrous light.
The midnight hour is close,
And many praises heard,
Countdown begins,
Even Santa is among the crowd,
Hat in hand, his head bowed.
The clock begins to strike,
The heavens open wide,
A nativity scene displayed,
Before our very eyes,
A heavenly Babe is born,
This early Christmas morn.
If my child came to me in need
with confidence that I would heed
his plea, responding right away,
giving my help without delay,
if then he took my gift and left,
would I not feel a bit bereft
if he gave no more thought to me
until one more emergency?
Is that not how I treat my Lord,
taking him at his loving word,
beseeching when the need is there,
forgetting him when times are fair?
Dear Lord, I come with hat in hand,
to let You know I understand
that You are there through thick or thin,
whether I lose or if I win.
So now, right now, upon my knee,
I'm thanking You for helping me
through sorrows and admitting too
the days I have forgotten You.
I long to be the grateful one
acknowledging all that You have done.
The inevitable envy we feel
When we see our neighbour’s wealth
The eternal Ferris wheel
Up now, then down
The wheel turns
To be up
And to be down
Yet the greatest of us
Rise to the challenge
Of when being up
And seeing far
Not to look down
On those below
Not to spit
And not to drop
Popcorn snow
On those below
For who knows when
A turn – and then
Those above
Will fall from love
And become in a cycle
The bottom few
On the poor man’s pew
Hat in hand
To beggarly stand
Merry Christmas to you, Uncle Sam
Leaving the jobless with hat in hand
Congress on a Yuletide roll
Brought an end to public dole --
They’re cooking their goose, not Christmas ham
*Written in 2010 after Congress made cutbacks in social service programs
Ivy-covered sheepskin, firmly in hand
the confident graduate, square-jawed and tan
Pulled offers from prestigious start-ups all over the land
a year later he played lead guitar, hat in hand
He, ever-grateful to his folks for those music lessons
They, bleary-eyed from all the therapy sessions
Yet Patience will out, and Time always tells
Perhaps by thirty-five he'll own an oil well
I loved you John Wayne!
I wished you were my father
or maybe an older brother
who’d tutor me to be tough
when manners weren’t enough
and toughness was needed
that civility be heeded
and not to brag or complain.
O I loved you John Wayne!
As soon as I was old enough
to earn the price of admission
I saw your films in succession
at the first run houses down
in the big deal part of town
and enshrined each one on a list
taped to my bedside wall
and read about the ones I’d missed.
Shucks, I loved you most of all!
Fort Apache and Red River
took pride of place on the page;
they’d eaten up my weekly wage.
I missed the Yellow Ribbon;
I hoped I’d be forgiven.
At the Rio and the Broad
(in a dicey neighborhood)
I atoned with films you’d done
before I was even born.
Western after Western
and tales of oil and whiskey
and scheming ladies, O so risky!
I hoped I’d be excused
when I compromised my muse
by adding well-built gals
to Duke and all his pals.
Montez, Russell, and Lake
made my hormones quake.
O I loved you, John Wayne.
I could feel your bashful pain
When the pretty lady roped you
and hat in hand you’d bow,
the furrow deepening on your brow,
and utter monosyllables plus “Ma’am,”
no longer a ram, more like a lamb.
O I shared you pain, John Wayne!
And still I loved you John Wayne,
your true grit and donnybrook,
your menacing brow, the look
that said, “Enough, my friend.
“This bull is going to end!”
You swaggered? (not quite it--
as if your boots didn’t quite fit?)
You took him by the horns and shook;
Plomp! Down went the snook!
How I loved you, John Wayne!
And I love you still when again I see
the doughty Duke on my smart TV
as much as Papa’s lone old man,
with fish chewed down to the bone
loved Joltin’ Joe Dimaggio
when the Clipper’s legs began to go
and he was hobbled by his heel.
John Wayne, you were the real deal.
This is a portrayal of one of my favorite paintings by
Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida: Spanish painter 1863 - 1923.
The title of his portait I am writing about is called
"Paseo a orilla del mar" or "Walk on the Beach"
Joaquin’s Girls (Caught on Canvas)
Beside Valencia’s blue sea,
two graceful women walk along.
Their beauty and serenity
could be the lyrics to wind’s song.
Two graceful women walk along.
An artist’s fair and precious pearls
could be the lyrics to wind’s song:
his wife and daughter, Joaquin’s girls.
An artist’s fair and precious pearls,
one with parasol and one with hat in hand,
his wife and daughter, Joaquin’s girls,
in long white dresses, walk the sand.
One with parasol and one with hat in hand,
both, caught on canvas with an artist’s ease,
in long white dresses, walk the sand.
Lace trailing them is billowed by the breeze.
Both caught on canvas with an artist’s ease:
their beauty and serenity!
Lace trailing them is billowed by the breeze
beside Valencia’s blue sea.
Andrea Dietrich/ Nov. 21, 2010
For Paula Swanson's Pantoum Contest
The fire goes unlit, within its granite frame
heated is the argument, cold the man.
Husband mine, please accept this suitors claim
for he is worthy of your daughter Ann.
See her downcast face, her melancholy,
she sickens so and I've done all I can.
Raise her ivory form, a father's glory
accept her young man, he's come hat in hand.
Let's end this day with a ribald story
of how you've gifted what you once had banned.
Husband mine, relent and let love have sway.
Light the fire let the lovers flame be fanned
let this fine young couple wed without delay.
Off With Their Filthy Heads
Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land
Those that say nay are simply afraid
going against the massive power laid
What power, have any over the Soul
death is always the unavoidable toll
A man walks his very own selfish path
bringing on misery and darkened wrath
Why not step off that selfish trail
avoid the sending one deep into Hell
Every king served a spiritual master
bad deed brought judgment ever faster
Yet having power over life and death
was a stone choking their every breath
Shall you be stalwart and honor true
let your gentle heart judge only you
Leave others to see your honoring him
or walk blindly with their light so dim
Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land
Yes, we dare to oppose those tyrant Kings
Slay them , give that filthy crown a fling
Off their heads with true justice abated
justice the goal never with vengeance hated!
Robert J. Lindley, 05-06-2015
Note: The term "King" is used to denote great power and not necessarily royalty
in its usual interpretation.
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Woke up and wrote this about 3 am this morning. Had refused to write it when earlier inspired that day.
I tell you, my muse is one very forceful and stubborn ruler!
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the greatest of Victorian
poets, formed a very close relationship with
Arthur Hallam and frequently visited the Hallam
home in Wimpole Street. After Hallam's sudden
death, Tennyson frequently returned to the house,
and stood weeping in the street.)
Tears, Idle Tears
When two young men are close – are more than friends,
perhaps? – as Tennyson and Hallam were,
and with one’s sudden death, the friendship ends,
what may we (faced with morbid grief) infer?
That Arthur bore the promise of the age
is well attested. But was taken young.
Is sorrow something simply to assuage,
or are there deeper wellsprings? Alfred clung
unhealthily to his. The morning rain
would lash him as he stood there, hat in hand,
in front of sixty-seven, drenched in pain
he neither could discharge nor understand:
abandoned lover, feverish and thin,
with salty raindrops dripping from his chin.
Let us put on humility,
Even being on center stage;
Remain meek and modest amid
Honor, glory, praise, and prestige.
Meekness may elicit picture
Of someone saying 'I was wrong';
Or one telling 'I need help' from
A certain group he does belong.
Yes, it brings into mind of one
Not expecting royal treatment;
Remaining lowly and humble,
Even if he is prominent.
It further raises one's image
Of putting others' concern first;
Reaching down to other people
From pedestal of interest.
The lowliness leads to wisdom,
While the arrogance to disgrace;
The former ends in accolade,
As the latter in shame of face.
Humility brings wealth and life,
While the ego castigation;
Modesty makes joy and gladness,
As pride puts one in destruction.
Hat in hand truly gains guidance,
As cap on head spawns misery;
Clothe not ourselves with boastfulness,
Let us put on humility.
Who is the Ringmaster?
Who is the pawn?
Who will decipher
When the patrons are gone?
Enter the Big Top spot the trapeze,
Allay all your fears, put them at ease.
Barnum, Ringling masters long past,
Legends of showmanship destined to last.
Performers who push human boundaries,
Whose skills outstrip all practicalities.
It's raw talent on view in center ring,
Unique marvels of practice really happening.
No single skill matters outside the ring,
Performance in life, that's the thing.
Suspend for a moment what you know to be real,
Fantasy is fostered, it's the circus appeal.
Listen to the Ringmaster's full vibrato
As he shows each act with flair.
Paces his rich voice staccato
Presenting, making you connect and care.
Never lets himself become the show,
Top hat in hand in center ring, beginning to the end.
Tells you all you need to know,
Master of all the fun, every patron's friend.
With hat in hand the truth arrives
Too tired for much ado
They tell us now that grandpa Joe
Had something worse than flu
hello Jesus I’m Johnny Cash
its been a long and winding dusty road
that I have traveled to get here
I know that I have stepped off
the right path a few times in my life
but I have known and loved you since
I was just a little boy
I really hope that that counts for something
in my life I have tried to do the best I can
to help and be of comfort to my fellow man
by my deeds and my songs
the talent that you gave to me
I pray I have used it well and made you proud
singing for my supper in the beginning was not easy for me
one of the greatest gifts that I ever received from you
and I believe that you had something to do
with finding the love of my life my wife June
I thank you for that gift that changed me for the better
June was the wind beneath my wings
I have always known she was an angel
from heaven you sent to me
I stand before you at the gates of heaven
a humble man with hat in hand
my hope is that you will let me into heaven
and be invited to join your band
They were were in
the best parlour
fine furnishing of
Victorian period
dotted all round the
elaborate room
yet a tension, an
unease hangs in the
air
Hat in hand he
stands before her
father
who hits the roof
when he asks for her
hand
I won't accept any
proposals from a
scallywag
how dare you, Sir
even suggest such a
thing
His wife stands in
front trying to calm
him
fearful he may fly
at the ardent young
man
gently soothing
things over as best
as she can
pointing out the
good breeding, an
Earl no less
Their daughter
mortified pretends
she's not there
so sad of heart as
she hears her father
ranting
will he relent? All
she wishes for, is
to be wed
despairing she shuts
herself off and
turns her back
How does it all end?
That is a moot
question indeed
will his wife talk
him round? Will
there be wedding
bells?
By the haughty
stance and the icy
cold glare from eyes
full of fire
it appears to me
that its a cause
lost before even
began
Yet where there is
love there is also
hope springing
eternal
a father never likes
to pass the care of
a daughter to
another man
pleas from her may
soften his heart,
while words of sense
and wisdom
from his wife who
will not give in
easily; so lets hope
love triumphs
written 08/23/2013
contest Charles
Haigh Wood
I have used the
british spelling of
parlour not parlor
as I feel it gives
better poetic sense