Best Hunches Poems
Within the dark mystery of evening,
he listens to two interchangeable discourses
One the gentle persuader, the other, life's ultimate blamer.
Troubled by these seething exchanges,
both conscious and unconscious currents resound,
As the master's inner thoughts boom,
pounding into trails of indecision
with wired quizzes on his mind.
In silence, he weighs dark and light perspectives-
question left unanswered in the din
of reflection,
and through gradual flow of spontaneous musings,
Logic nags his cerebral strains-
scientific, structured assessment of matters which do not really matter...
Somehow, amid the debate where reason pauses with the fragile voice of instinct, the heart remains silent
offering gentle hunches revealing the
wisdom born from honesty, truth...
Slowly, this inner prompting arises
as the master in quiet introspection
realizes: the mind can lie , pride is ego- based ...but the heart, can it in conscience cope with deceit?
Lurking in the darkest shadows,
she looks for one of us to hound,
trying to catch a little glimpse
as she staggers along and limps
Spittle and drool keeps dripping
from yellow teeth and snarling lips.
She whines and hunches her back
picking out one of us to attack.
Alone because she's made enemies
of those who once pitied her, but
she never let us howl our intentions
and blocked any effort of intervention.
With watchful eyes she tries to be sly
and has an ego that's rude and annoying.
She's always waiting for the chance
to trounce, then do her trophy dance.
She takes swipes and nips at our butts
when she thinks she has the upper hand,
but her whining doesn't matter to us.
Our pack calls her 'the ornery old cuss.'
Let her coo and take those falsetto bows,
and let her think she's a ruling queen,
but we all know she's just a looney hyena
while we laugh at her haughty demeanor.
^. .^
1/31/17
Poetry in an animal's view
contest by Jamie
a foreboding sound
echoes in a thunderstorm....
mourners at a grave
--
a torrent of rain
muffles the sound of crying....
watching crows scatter
--
one wet crow hunches
on branch of the brittle oak....
dark clouds hover low
~ ~ ~ ~
For Skat's "Dark Rain" haiku contest
18/01/2016
At the end of the rainbow
I stand in my garden looking to the sky,
The beauty of it, it just catches my eye,
Across the sky and behind the trees,
Stretching across the rivers and seas,
Down the valley, across the mountains
Streaming down like water from fountains,
I follow the path to the end where I’ll see,
Whatever the rainbow has in store for me,
I crawl to the finish I’m finally there,
But all I can see is a book and a chair,
The book tells a story, of adventure and trust,
And then when the story ends just turns to dust,
The story was mine and it was long and rough,
But the moral of the story was that life can be tough,
You just roll with the punches,
And live life by hunches,
Life is a journey like that in the book,
You learn so much like to dance and to cook,
So by the end of your days have learnt all you can,
And don’t live your life like a stage by stage plan,
Live your life one step at a time,
And I guarantee you’ll have a good time.
I hail each bronze, red, and blue coloured dawn,
as pulsing heart mould torch flame of bliss,
to gaze across some awestruck mint sprig lawn,
that golden birthright never goes amiss
Eye beam urban verve one duly savours,
coruscating joie de vivre street life,
bursts of swift dash coffee’s hazel flavours,
cell-phone upbeat day ahead hubbub rife
Blue robin high pitch chirp from chimney top,
sets the tone for morning wonders brightly,
activate those spark prompt hunches nonstop,
schedules met in narrow windows tightly
In suburb or in city centre fair,
skies and pavements segue with deft flourish,
your dreamland ticket ace broad daylight flair,
groundbreaking spurt fantastic, let us nourish
Dynamic itch to stray amid blind alley,
lurk within some parboiled notion latent,
steel clad zone that mosaic sculpted tally,
animated focus me the claimant
dear tall child,
your bones probably don't fit your frame yet;
they shift awkwardly,
and your spine hunches and slopes.
your hands are likely to be dry and grimy,
legs speckled with ant bites
that sting like fire.
spending those arid days snatching lizards off the hot terracotta wall,
next to the withered rose garden belonging to your shouting mother.
unfortunately for you,
the shouting will never stop;
your mother will bleed her vocal chords raw
trying to scare out your soul to place of her own.
there will be so much hardship,
but you will learn so so much.
so much.
to drown the world out,
just think about horses.
she will see you as strange
no matter what you do
just hop in the saddle
tighten the reins, grip the mane,
put your filthy Velcro sneakers into the stirrups,
and think about horses.
you will be a weird girl, it will hurt.
but suffering is just suffering,
and voices are just words.
you will become a strange young man, dear cowboy-
but you will always be that tall child.
a dear,
dear tall child
Twelve rounds of excitement
Two rivals smiling in the middle of enchantment
The bell rang...
Both fighters were wild
Two rough hands still mild
The bell rang again -- end of first round.
Second round...
Gaiting horses, eluding kicks and punches
Baiting bodies, protruding hunches
Third round...
Fighters in merry-go-round
Hide and seek on square ground
Fourth round...
Faces smearing, eyes rolling
Bodies perspiring, allies chanting
Fifth round...
Feet hovering, foot work disintegrated
Temperature rising, hard punches connected
Sixth round...
Audience clapping; boxers hitting
Attacks jabbing, gloves slugging
Seventh round...
Whacking arm follows, gloves batting
Ulnar bone gallows, heads swatting
Eighth round...
The champ fighter grinning, nailing one hard scour
Second fighter fainting, flailing above the litted floor
Ninth round...
Stronger fighter grinning again with right hook
Left hook thrashing, down the second fighter of blind look
Tenth round...
Challenger flogging, kept on rising
Challenger pelting, the champ fell on floor gasping
Eleventh round...
Both warriors pummeling, whipping, jostling
Switching, clubbing, lashing, drubbing
Both fighters fell on adulated white floor
Before the ninth count both warriors stood tall
on wrestled floor
Twelfth round...
Last two minutes of peppering round
Both fighters staggering until the challenger dropped first and gaunts.
Champ still standing, waiting for the ten counts...
Last twenty five seconds of the final round,
First fallen fighter with a bigger heart stands
Champ dropped on his knees --
Laid flat on aproned, famed canvass
Ten counts numbered as confetti lands...
The winner and challenger standing in the corner, beaten and bruised
Bleeding profusely after winning a dream never cruised.
Tame the treacherous TRESSES.
BEFORE battling BRAVE BEAST
IN IRONIC INTENSE IMPRESSIVE
DANGEROUS DUNGEONFUL DREAMS.
MONUMENTAL MORNING MESS MUSES
BREAKFAST BREAKS BLUENESS
TIME TO TEST THE TERRITORY
SINCE SATURDAY SEEMS SO SLOW
TURN ON THE TV TO TRACK THE TREASURE TROVE
MOSTLY MUSING MOTHER OF MOMENTOUS
MYSTIFYING MATINEES
NEXT, NUDGE THE NUTS
AND HELP HARRINGTON HUNT HIS HUNCHES
MUST MEAN MERRY MOVIE MUNCHIES
LET'S LOOK AND TAKE A TOSSING TIDE
OR RATHER RUN AND RISK A ROCKY RIDE
THE THEATER TWISTED AND TEASED THEN
FINALLY FINDING THE FEATURE
WE WOUND UP WISHING WE. WERE WISER
WHEN WE REMINISCED ABOUT RIDICULOUSNESS
THE ECHOING END
MY MATINEE FREE-SPIRITED FRIENDS
In old fuzzy slippers, she makes her children's lunches
wondering and worrying if her husband has any hunches
of where she goes or what she does while he works each day
or that she spends her time thinking, "While the cat's away..."
In worn bedroom slippers, she kisses each darling cheek
a good mother is always loving. Role models should be meek
She hurries her young ones to the bus and off to school
aware of the ticking hands of the clock, but playing it cool
Doting mother, affectionate wife, in fuzzy slippered shoes
but there is another pair, the sexy ones she'll soon choose
Tucked in the closet are ones she keeps hidden, anticipating
how they make her feel, and the man who will be waiting
In black stiletto heels, she becomes quite a capricious flirt
Her husband has no clue. Oh, how much he would be hurt
if he knew of those sexy shoes and tight-fitting slinky dresses
the perfume she wears for him, the way she curls her tresses
And when the deed is done, she slinks her way back home
to bathe her secret sins away in a tub of bubbles and foam
Into those well worn slippers, she will slide her cunning feet
to welcome home her family, with a smile so sugary sweet
August 1, 2017
Two Pair of Shoes
for John Lawless
Simple Step In Beauty
Passion flower towers at the crown of a radical Hippies’ heart revolution in waiting
blossoms for such longing deep sensual trust freedom justice compassion to prevail
Opens closes unlatches the moment past future spins memories for contemplating
of what to hold dear whom where and when cycles keep spinning on dialectical scale
From root to blossom up towards down from equality empowerment and social exclusion
love can be synthesized smelt scented with fragrance aroma communal power infused
When ‘Passiflora’ is lived and ‘ en-lived’ ‘en-storied’ to the meaning essence’s restitution
condensed ‘ad integrum’ oozing emotion reason strength determination dis-confused
I am a dreamer idealist so my favourite flower recycles in truth and all magic seasons
it grows and weaves amorous bouquets bunches and hunches inter-webbed branches
No strings no inequality no tyranny of hierarchy attached no spider web of treason
marque demarcate marginalize but complement resolve hypocrisy oppositional tranches
My flower reaches for nature for fusion not terror domination colonisation of minds
wishes to swift and sift gently the torments thunders blunders ring in winds of change
make love and not wars intercourses in slow rhyming rhythm in place and overall time
If we all cherished this flower we ‘d be more peaceful and turn anger to guardian’s ‘ange’
08th August
ABAB CDCE EFEF GHGH
The Healers in Ecuador
Ecuador lush greens, and iguanas galore
The smell of the Hibiscus so sweet they implore
The hunches of folk maidens found in books
Adventures in paradise; listening to brooks
Healing the soul from whence it came
Releasing the bondages from deadly games
The essence of breath found in the jungle untamed.
The healers explored vast botany ignored
Within the person the pilgrims restored
Instead of a pharmacy excepting a bribe
Drops from lush plants heal souls that subscribe
And, hope soars as the eagles proclaim,
The Boehme folk maidens brushed them and gently lay claim
Healing for anyone without any shame
Thanking The Earth for royal bounties it shares
Requesting in return to replenish its’ ware
This poem is dedicated to Ingrid Neiman and Dr. Induli "The Healers of Ecuador"
By Bonnie Jennings
~March sprays his icy musk
robin hunches in her feather hut...
but fireflies will soon greet us
with tiny pale green stars at dusk...
Just not soon enough~
Things wuz purty quiet 'til them thirsty cowpokes stormed into Abilene town!
They'd been on the long and dusty trail and wuz ready to toss some whiskey down!
The trail boss paid 'em thar wages sayin', "Boys, behave yerselfs! Yer on yer own!"
They invaded the town like a swarm of locusts chased by a Kansas cy'ber'clone!
Like good cowpokes, they saw to the needs of thar hosses, feedin' 'em hay and oats,
Then skedaddled to the Long Branch Saloon to sate thar dry and thirsty throats!
They wuz met with open arms by Madam Bonita and bartender One-Eared Bob,
Who heard them coins a-jinglin' in the cowboys' jeans that they intended to rob!
Pianner Player Two-Fingered Pete played, "Thar'll Be A Hot Time In Town Tonight!"
He'd seen it all b'for and knowed b'for the night wuz done there'd be a wild fight!
Bouncer Tornado Tom tried to confiscate thar rods, but the boys had none of that!
After all, a cowpuncher feels mighty naked without his pointy boots and handy gat!
Some of the fellers started gittin' a bit too familiar with Madam Bonita's soiled doves!
Rabble offended at sech liberties with thar wimmin, resulted in pushes and shoves!
One-Eared Bob seen trouble wuz brewin' and placed his trusty 12-gauge on the bar,
And yelled, "I don't want no trouble! If'n yer lookin' fer trouble, git on outta h'yar!"
The boys paid no mind to Bob and started cussin' and tossin' aimless punches!
But Two-Fingered Pete brought peace and order playin' one of his sagest hunches,
Singin', "Oh, Where Is My Wanderin' Boy Tonight?" bringin' the rowdy bunch to tears!
The Sheriff mused, "I ain't seen sech tranquility at the Long Branch fer many years!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Copyright (All Rights Reserved)
Intricately planned, all eventualities covered
No more excuses, thickly buttered
When darkess falls, She'll be rid of the pain
After everything, she'll never see him again.
Lie after lie, empty promises, fuelled with deception
destruction, humiliation untold dejection
No more pushing, no more bloody punches
She's found the truth to all those founded hunches
Now he'll pay for the damage that lies deep
that made her crumble to the bottom of the heap
but now she's strong, now she's vexed
Now she knows what's coming next
Conversation overheard, etched the plan
to rid her of that demon man
In shadows she follows
surreptitiously in the hollows
inviolable now with evil as her guide
love and protection, for so long denied
made her turn to satan's side
She with equanimity, her mind on avaunce
Primed for the deed, she knows her sentence
He's to late to beg for his repentance
He's unaware of the death knell
Moonlight casts a lurid luminence, a black magic spell
His last tryst once more under the bridge, lit his cigarette
Like an apparition before him, his face she wouldn't forget
Stupified, eyes open wide
who would speak for him Jekyll or Hyde
just about to say !
but he didn't have a chance
She blasted him away!
So burdened by a crushing silence more weightier than words
born from likened mirrored thoughts
These reflections shown in slackened hunches
They come to bear such cruelty
Carried with this certainty , seen darkly down and dragging
in the fell of fallen shoulders
Which question in their ways of inner fearing fractured feelings
Things best left or right unspoken
For answers to them may they be or not a gambles die
cast in chance of truths best left unseen
Toys for such capricious ways of wanting at a leisure
that seems torturing to say the least
When words of praise and tribute laid down thoughtfully
so willingly
Yet none return to me