Best Haws Poems
Past the haze of campfires glow,
Along the rocky shore, where
Fireflies dance & laughter rolls,
The Raven waits for me.
Butterflies and Bumblebees,
Blind to futures past, await the
Day the harvest brings, the songs
Of journeys last.
Until that time, the calm I seek,
Must scurry to and fro,
The devil hems and haws with me,
But goodness only grows.
I look around, the change I see,
Lays scattered in the wind,
The final breeze I yearn to feel,
Lies buried in the end.
October, '18
Oh, boy! It's poem time!
I think I'll try a little rhyme
What goes with the word 'Claus'
How 'bout paws, jaws and hee-haws
Next I'll do 'a little trick with Nick'
Pick, Quick, Lick, Sick, Wick, Tick, Chick
Did you get it, that Nick's short for Nicholas
Just like Tick is short for 'Tickle Us'
And of course, I mustn't forget 'Kringle'
Why, there's mingle, tingle and bi-lingual
Yes, darling. I've finally found my niche
We're on our way to becoming rich...
So, here's a peep at my next fab new jingle
Once we were married ~ now we're single
My name is John--the work horse
And I was teamed with Prince.
We could easily do a job at which
An Arabian horse would flinch.
Prince's work is over now.
He's buried in the pasture.
I am too old to work so hard,
According to my kind master.
He tells me I must take my ease
And to just enjoy my leisure,
That he is going to retire
And be a lazy old geezer.
But he still drives the plow team
And I just follow after.
I try to mind his gees and haws.
He doubles up with laughter.
When he keeps his promise to retire,
I will stop working too.
We'll spend our time malingering
Beneath the skies of blue
Written Feb. 29, 2016
Upon this bank where the May flower grows,
with bright orange-red poppies and marigold,
of old memories nestled in crimson hills;
The rills sigh 'neath hushed wood,
of many broken silences,
of many sweet-shadowed things;
sunlight stretching 'til yawning glade
The May queen weaves her hawthorn,
pink flowered haws, and spins her song;
Cupid stringing his arrows along
the deep delved path where the lovers stroll,
starry nights ------
to have in this little dimple of the world:
(Love was always in the growing)
Sometimes, not often enough to count, but every so often, my mind wades in memories, causing ripples in the wake of my dreams. That shiver the timbre of my loneliness of voice. Gees and haws as I in driven feeling try to find direction echo from a preadolescent past as Grandad sits beside me on the faded wooden wagon seat weaning me from mother's milk with warm beer. I flash onward to Midway Island staring upward into wheeling swirling birds that somehow never touch. Then bank to sit at sunset sipping Andre White and watching my beloved stare at a group of white tail deer as they peer into our truck. Sometimes it's a wading woven to wrap me in contentment.
He hems and haws
Nervous, fidgeting
Opens his mouth
Nothing comes out
Palms turned upward
He shrugs his shoulders
His eyes roll around
In their sockets...
His voice wavering
He stutters, stumbles
Wh-What k-k-kind of
Qu-Question is that?
On a sunny day in late September
we were on our way to Runswick Bay,
on a walk that we gladly remember,
meeting people on the Cleveland Way.
Assorted folk with the same idea
taking in distant views over the sea,
a gentle breeze, the far horizon clear,
nearby hips and haws bright on bush and tree.
Whoever you meet, just what do you say?
Should it be ”Hi!” or rather “Hello!”?
Is it “Good morning” or maybe “Good day?”
If they greet me first I go with the flow.
Whatever is said may offer a clue,
tell you something about the other,
whether there is further chat to pursue
or just some remarks about the weather.
Having arrived we sat by the beach
eating our sandwiches watched by some dogs
and seagulls, waiting to swoop or to reach
for tasty morsels, whatever drops.
After a paddle to refresh my feet,
there were four and a half miles to return
to Sandsend for our walk to complete.
First there were steps to climb by the burn,
passing more people too breathless to greet;
grateful to pause we let them pass by
with a nod or wave – but wished for a seat!
There at the top a gate was held wide
by a couple with smiles to wave us through.
We paused as I stretched my cramp to ease
also to remove a stone from my shoe;
then onward we trod refreshed by the breeze.
Off the cliff face using the updraught
fulmars glided scanning the sea below.
Retracing our steps, features we'd passed
informed us how far we still had to go.
High on his combine, late harvest to reap
the farmer raised his hand as we stopped,
paused to pick blackberries more sharp than sweet.
Speckled wood butterflies near to us dropped.
At last we came to more steps to descend,
holding the rail as these tested our knees.
Pausing again with views of Sandsend
and spray from breakers whipped up by the breeze.
Back at the car there was salt on the screen.
Time to examine my blistered feet
and to doze awhile, pondering the cuisine
of Whitby and just what we might eat:
Scampi and whitebait with too many chips,
cans of ginger beer to ease it all down,
observed by gulls we looked at the ships
that brought our supper to this port of renown.
* * *
We count our blessings that we were able
to escape to the coast for refreshment
before Covid restrictions on travel
could prevent a day of enjoyment.
I get my mass shootings mixed up
every day-another one-
makes you somewhat numb
the killers are all much the same
lifetime losers- twisted agenda
so quick to place the blame-
They can plan and finance their mayhem
then claim that they're insane
spared the sparky chair and ball and chain
a lifetime of freebies...at the peril of my pay-
There's a pack of mad dogs lying in wait
ready to unload their unbridled fangs
time to (perc) up folks-time to lock and load
at least you'll give society a chance
when the next time bomb explodes....
Bernie and the hee-haw gang want to give these A-holes
the right to vote--
By lane and path the English hedgerow,
In which so many wild things grow,
For centuries has crossed the land –
A world of nature, close at hand.
In Spring the blackthorn's cloaked in snow,
Its pure white blossoms first to show.
Warm breezes waft them to and fro,
Then Autumn brings the jet black sloe.
The blackbird, chaffinch, dunnock, wren,
Oft hidden from the sight of men,
All prosper in this habitat,
So suited to its purpose, that
A bountiful harvest supplies their needs,
With insects, hips, haws, sweet berries and seeds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTUMN
gold red yellow hues
bewildered confused my mind
the colours of death
-
a breeze a leaf flies
gales trees defoliated
alive future... hope
-
squirrels buried nuts
their survival depends
both ways sustenance
-
wildflower meadow
their vitality returned
stored a future waits
-
all animals know
instinct kicks in... shorter days
asleep do they dream
-
kicking up dried leaves
blackbirds a robin redbreast
we hear the rustle
-
bright bright hawthorn haws
yew berries red keep well fed
death for me and you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Earthly treasures drag me down
Pleasures and short term comforts
All my heart's desires
feels like i cant stand a chance
but my eyes are open wide
and getting off the way is my choice
Sitting all by myself
end times signs l see
fear of death and hell covers me with a strong shivering
noway to escape for i am so blinded
looking at these beautiful and sexy girls
walking half naked, cant vent
wish i could hold a hundred grand
to spend with haws and bitches
enjoying life dearth is coming
feels like after dearth comes cipher
with no treasures to hold
Life is supernatural, metaphysical
we all came from something
and we are going somewhere
will i stand the taste of time
with these useless short term desires
Cover me Lord
The treasures that l hold
the beaut that i posses
they are stealing my time
Lord, would you take me as i am
show me the right way to live
and make me taste the fruits of paradise
White rabbits in the clouds again, and other things I cant explain,
Like washing drying in the sun, and white lace curtains being spun,
And faces smiling through the lace, soft voices from another place,
That ask me never to forget those starlit nights when we first met,
Each graceful silken countenance looked only for another chance
To muse again on sunny days, on other worlds and other ways,
On muslin air stitched satin rain, and days when we will meet again
In dream held precious memories, as fingers touch across life’s seas.
As dormice waken in the Spring, they rub their eyes and softly sing
Of winter slumbered sights that gleam, and every silver silent dream
That traced it’s fingers on their head while they slept soundly in their bed,
Of Summer days that beckoned long, of whispered winds and Robin’s song
And in the lark winged Summer flow, with natures glories still aglow
They’ll feast on blackberries and haws, while rabbit friends on far off shores
Think fondly of those long gone times, of parties, songs and nursery rhymes,
While dormice rub their eyes once more, and doze just like they did before.
And as the visions gently pass, came Alice through the looking glass,
Behind her from the rabbit hole, White rabbit sang with heart and soul
His watch was dangling on it’s chain, in jewel painted Summer rain
He knew at once that he was late, and thought that Alice wouldn’t wait,
But when he saw her standing there, in white lace dress and golden hair
He hugged her with his memories, as fingers touched across life’s seas,
And faces smiled upon the air, at stories that they used to share
For muslin air stitched satin rain can heal the most incessant pain…
Peachy keen verboten maiden jailbait
USA plum ova ripe fruit
inevitably, inimitably, invariably,...
whets whistle pubescent magic flute
impossible mission to rein with absolute
zero sucks esse to temper acute
raging testosterone, I attribute
overbearing animal urge doth constitute
difficult surge protector
resultantly, subsequently, untimely...
not inconceivable teenage
parenthood does contribute
overwhelming responsibility
adds complex twist making destitute
expense regarding sudden newlife
analogous how simple surface
Möbius strip doth render convolute
frivolous shenanigans offer pointless dispute
buck haws fawn hook caisson
akin to holding back the tide, disrepute
fallout, whereby accountability ideally
one must distribute
between minors, who risked major shock
generally ill prepared to handle
grasping hot wire strong
enough to electrocute
call of the wild heedless,
when in throes to execute
human reproduction hard rock
tune somber sober air thenceforth
issues out magic flute
after drenching, dribbling, drooling
residual expulsions 'pon hirsute
tuft possibly engendering hyperacute
revulsion basically atavistic
copulation recalls imbrute
tell tale swollen belly of gal doth impute
culling instinctual maternal institute
fancy free footloose
promiscuity makes involute
sober reality moot point,
whether one or both kids feel irresolute
adding insult to injury
mama's papa's none to happy
swiftly kickstarts harried styled jackboot
careful pops not to damage unborn
vital umbilical cord taut as jute
strong enough to harness malamute
and/or team of huskies in conjunction with
wild horses or domesticated
breeds Equus caballus
couldn't drag away even for one minute
infinitesimal speck - trim
unmistakable to misattribute,
how basic multiplication
one cannot miscompute,
and product will upend and misroute
grandiose plans leaving
puppy love mute.
on weekends, Mondays, and maybe Fridays too/
across the Bebop time zones/
people be digging at flea markets 4 Bebop jazz gold/
walkin', talkin', lookin' workin' the price/
on a table way in the back/
I dug into a crate of LPS and found jazz vinyl alongside a vacuum cleaner/
It was Mark Murphy singing vocalese/
and the young Roland Kirk before Rahsaan was in there too/
both in mint condition for a buck and a blunt/
we all smoked a few/
as I looked out over the galaxy of tables and booths/
I saw the knot of people selling their unwanted stuff/
Man, what a ride to shuck-N-jive about the vintage jazz LPS you can't find/
Miles, Base, Stanley Turrentine, Hampton Haws, and Annie Ross/
are there for the taking' in a jazz flea market vinyl heaven/
come early before the sun up with a flashlight in hand/
to dig deep into the tables and crates to find a record of Cliff Jordan with sax in hand/
You can dig all day at record stores, flea markets, and online vintage jazz sites/
and not find one 1950s jazz vinyl LP you are looking to buy by choice/
Man, that's such a drag on the jazz-diggin' society/
my time is up walking through the dusty aisles and tables filled with junk/
so dig, all is not lost/
I bargained for and got Cozy Cole's Topsy Part One
now I'm on my way to a garage sale I got hip to the other day/
to were back in the day/
Blue Note jazz vinyl covers had a whole lot to say
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!