Best In A Trice Poems
I was reminiscin' the other day about times that were more sublime,
And got to thinkin' about those old stores called Kresge's Five and Dime.
I recall browsin' through Kresge's Stores as a lad with Mom and Dad.
There ain't no more Kresge's Stores as far as I know and that is very sad.
There was a Kresge's in every sleepy town along Main Street.
Sittin' on a stool at the lunch counter was always a special treat.
Munchin' on a hotdog and tater chips and then a slab of cherry pie,
Or maybe a sundae concocted by the soda jerk would lighten up my eye!
Notions galore were displayed on tables, bins, racks and shelves.
Friendly clerks stood by to help but folks generally helped themselves.
The cashier put yer money in a tube that sailed off into space,
And in a trice returned yer change from some mysterious place!
I recall the squeaky wooden floors and visitin' the store at Christmas time,
When Santa Claus doled out bags of candy to kids at each Five and Dime.
Alas, those neighborhood stores have been replaced by huge national chains,
And only pleasant memories of Kresge's Five and Dime Stores remains.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
I was damaged with a heart like ice.
You entered my life and in a trice
had melted my frozen layers
one by one. I've become
hot as a furnace next
your skin, my soul
twin. Let's begin
to live as one,
my dearest
honey
bun.
A Chinese lad was at table dawdling with his pork and rice.
This upset his mama-san who reprimanded him in a trice!
"Clean your plate! Children in America are starving, son!"
And she continued to berate him - her tirade had only begun!
"Your papa-san has a great job while dads in America are on the dole.
Our economy is booming while that of America is lagging, on the whole!
Papa makes good money to provide Americans with the things they need.
You should be very thankful for the jobs they send here, yes indeed!"
"Kids in America can't get a job even with a college education,
But, son, America will provide you with a job in any old vocation!
This is the land of opportunity, my boy, thanks to American capitalists!
You must appreciate all they have done for us Chinese communists!"
"Not so long ago your father and I didn't have a yuan to our name.
Now we have a house and brand new car - life will never be the same!
So I don't want to hear any of your sass or fiddling with your food.
Thanks to the generous Americans, they have lifted our nation's mood!"
"I want you to clean your plate and grow strong to follow in your dad's shoes.
Uncle Sam needs you to make TVs and shirts or anything else they choose.
No more lip! Clean your plate! I want to see those chopsticks flying!
Think about the kids in America who'll got to bed tonight hungry and crying!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
It was the Main Street hangout for the teenagers of its day.
For a nickel they could dream as they heard the jukebox play!
Wispy white metal chairs surrounded tables topped with glass.
(There were secluded booths where lads could woo their lass!)
From the tin covered ceiling hung a fan with its whirring blade,
And arrayed along the soda fountain were the tools of the trade.
Symmetric white and black tiles covered the spotless floor.
A gleaming steel and marble counter completed its bright decor!
Presiding over all was a guy oddly named the "soda jerk."
Clad in impeccable white, he took great pride in his work.
He was a wizard at his craft and when his sorcery was done,
He'd whipped up a heavenly treat that couldn't be outdone!
A Hamilton mixer, scoops and ladles were the tools of his trade.
In a trice he'd make a root beer float or some tasty lemonade,
Hot fudge sundae, banana split, soda or strawberry shake,
Cherry coke or any such concoction you'd ask him to make!
The "soda jerk" did his duties with consummate skill and grace,
Always with a ready quip and a contented smile upon his face.
Fast food joints or drive-ins today do not have that elegant flair,
That yesteryear's soda fountains and ice cream parlors had to share!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
THE PENGUIN
Way down south on a continent frozen
The penguin a tough life has chosen
Though you’d think he’d be coy
Like a super-cool playboy
You’ll find him out preening and posin’
With movement on foot unexciting
He shuffles along then goes sliding
Though on land a slow coach
In depart or approach
In the water he goes like greased lightning
He’s a little short in the leg
Dressed bespoke (can’t wear off-the-peg)
Hand it to this ice capper
He always looks dapper
Even when he is hatching an egg
So the penguin’s no slouch, he’s a winner
By sartorial standards no sinner
He’ll emerge in a trice
From the Antarctic ice
Already dressed for dinner
EVERYONE KNOWS
Everybody knew that the earth was flat
There were lots of bumps so not flat as all that
Though ships seemed to sink out of sight in the distance
They would come back with reassuring persistence
But everyone agreed from the peasant to The Crown
Clearly up was up and down was down
They all knew that the earth was the Centre, the middle
Sun and stars all around, it couldn’t play second fiddle
Galileo demurred; didn’t fit his equations
But revised his opinion on powerful persuasions
So reality continued to veer from the actual
‘Till they could not deny all the evidence factual
The theories of Galen from centuries ago
Said blood moved in the body by ebb and by flow
Then Harvey discovered the blood’s circulation
Requiring that science give reconsideration
Though facts showed that Galen’s old theory was failin’
Some proclaimed that they would rather err with old Galen
Now everyone knows climate’s in bad transformation
Based mainly on computer model simulation
CO2 is now villain and viewed as a bane
Yet the plants and the trees relish more of the same
We are told it is true, scientists agree far and wide
Like when Earth was flat, and blood moved with the tide
But science is dominant, and considered unmalleable
Except that the scientists are human and fallible
Just like all human race they have weakness, will amend a
Set of data not fitting their venal agenda
Use your eyes, beware those things everyone knows
In a trice could be gone like the yesteryear snows
I still savor the thought of the zest that I caught
When you joined us that night after school.
Tara figured out why, since she’s so sage and sly;
She left early to show it was cool.
With her sis Tara-gon, Ginger sighed with a yawn,
“My, it’s late!” to clue in that nut-Meg.
“Would you look at the thyme!” came the reechoed chime,
With a wink from Corey-ander pal Peg.
Well, I felt like a god, though it seemed somewhat odd
That they all should jus’ curry, but hey,
When you gave me a smile as we two walked a while,
It dissolved my perplexed caraway.
In this teenagey bliss, I leaned in for a kiss,
Little knowing what I was against:
You demurred in a trice, “Though hot pepper is nice,
I insist that it’s parsley dispensed.”
With a panicky cast, I apologized fast
In my chili confusion and dread,
But I saw your eyes light, and we had a nice night
Holding hands at the cinnamon stead.
---
Credit where credit is due: I got the idea for this from Michael Wise's very original poem "A Spicy Story," posted here:
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/a_spicy_story_1100057
Once upon a time I could change the oil and give the car a lube,
Tune the timing, change the plugs and patch an inner tube.
In days of yore I'd do simple jobs beneath the old elm tree.
Nowadays, I daren't twist a wrench without an engineer's degree!
In olden days things were simple to work on beneath the hood.
Stuff crammed under the hoods today is not at all understood!
Why! You must pull the doggone engine to fix a simple leak,
And everything is diagnosed by a smart-alecky computer geek!
Now I can't even locate the spark plugs, I must humbly confess,
And where the life-sustaining battery reposes is anybody's guess!
I must even contact the local garage to get the radiator filled.
'Tis plain to see that all is governed by the national mechanic's guild!
In simpler times the way to detect an errant rod and piston knock,
Was to put a screwdriver to your ear and listen through the block.
Nowadays, technicians lounge about with computers in their paws,
And in a trice can flesh out your automobile's ailing flaws!
Back then, I could replace brake linings and distributor caps,
Change a fan belt or replace a gasket or two perhaps.
But all these fancy gadgets are beyond me - I can't figure them out.
So I'll gnash my teeth and sit beneath the spreading elm and pout!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
If I were really rich, I would live in beautiful Bermuda,
Sipping rum swizzles and fishing for wily barracuda!
I'd buy a fancy sports car in which to cruise unbound,
And join the Mid-Ocean Club to play a daily golfing round!
I'd own a sailing yacht on which to entertain my friends,
Sailing 'neath moonlit skies as around the isle she wends!
I'd buy a splendid cottage on The Cut in Olde St George's town,
From there to savor dramatic sunsets watching olde Sol go down!
I'd dine on fish and chips at my favorite pub, The White Horse Inn,
Listening to quaint calypso music by the Talbot Brothers therein!
On balmy evenings I'd stroll Old Maids Lane and Shinbone Alley,
And watch the Gombey dancers gyrate as I leisurely dally!
If I were rich I would move there in a trice,
To loll on the pink sandy beaches of that island paradise!
Entry for Mystic Rose's "If You Were Rich Contest"
(11 November 2015)
Desert dust devils reign supreme
Swirling in conditions extreme
Dry, cracked river bed yawns wide
Depleted source long denied
Armadillo negotiates
Lost to his instinctive traits
He halts to sniff a draught of air
Frenzied digging does then occur
Grubbing for ants, worms or mice?
He digs a deep hole in a trice
Ground darkens to a muddy brown
The scent of water.......his home found.
I am alone on the island of death
Around the bodies of hundreds
Natural disasters happened a little earlier
All dead
My enemies, allies, relatives
Some of the most intimate
I am on mass of ruins
Loud noise...Moaning...Unbroken silent in a trice
I am just at the end
There are no tears in my eyes, no fear in chest
I am speechless
I am in the midst of so much death, destruction
Creation is alive
It's my responsibility to rotate the wheel again
Just me.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
A wizened little old man hunkered over his bench.
Gnarled hands wielded screwdriver, hammer and wrench.
Hung on the walls of his shop, all types of clocks were arrayed.
He'd been a clock maker for decades - he was master of his trade.
His quaint little shop was set in the Black Forest of Bavaria.
For his horology craft he was renowned in all the area.
Always smoking a pipe, the smoke forming a wreath about his head;
On his cluttered workbench, springs, gears and wheels were spread!
He could repair any old clock in a trice,
And have it back up and running for a reasonable price.
He could make you a fine clock from oak or cherry wood,
That would make you the envy of the neighborhood!
He adjusted pendulums to ensure a synchronous tick and tock.
Grandfather, cuckoo and mantel clocks he made from stock.
He took pride in his guild and his clocks are antiques today,
And in antique stores and museums, you'll find them on display.
To make his clocks he used no fancy lathes or tools,
Nor did he learn his craft in one of those elitist schools.
He dear old Father taught him everything he knew,
Telling him, "Son, be accurate and "timely" in all you do!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
My Dad was a very practical man, so adept at many things.
Why, he could fix my bike and replace a watch's springs!
Many times I stayed by his side as he worked late into the night.
I learned so many things from him as I simply held the light!
He could tear an engine down and put it together again!
He could hang a garage door or replace a broken window pane!
He showed me how to tie a fishing fly and how to make a kite!
I learned so many things from Dad by simply holding the light!
Growing up during The Great Depression things were really tough.
He even had to repair our shoes with heels and soles, sure enough!
He was a talented carpenter who made sure things fit snug and tight.
So many things I learned from Dad by simply holding the light!
If the old John Deere tractor wouldn't start he knew exactly what to do.
He knew how to doctor his horses, hogs, cows and little puppies too!
He could butcher a hog in a trice and cure its hams and bacons right.
I learned so many things from Dad as I stood and simply held the light!
He could repair an inner tube, repair a harrow and shoe a horse!
He mastered the use of a dowsing rod and could trace water to its source!
Dad was and is my hero and taught me always to do things right.
So many, many things I learned from Dad as I simply held the light!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(after a drawing by Ghirlandaio)
We see that it was dashed off in a trice,
without a trace of reticence or nerve.
The contrapposto thigh, the shoulder’s curve,
are perfect. Nothing wasted. All precise.
And yet it has the power to entice,
with just a hint of maidenly reserve;
vitality and vigour, volatile verve,
it offers us a glimpse of paradise!
There’s movement in the stillness. Chimes unheard,
the breeze, unseen, that’s ruffling the flounces,
are ghosts in the machine: thus Vergil’s Word,
the gentle kiss of gesso, makes, announces
the life that’s in those folds and clefts and flourishes.
The Word’s made flesh - and what it strokes, it nourishes.
[Continued from Part Two]
The elder took no notice of risking life and limb.
Hither, thither ran the children, glancing up at him,
while indulging mindlessly in each impulsive whim,
with no apprehension of the future looking grim.
Their chances for salvation seemed increasingly slim…
That aged man’s deep compassion filled him to the brim.
The father knew the children liked any strange device,
exotic playthings, trinkets, whatever would entice.
He needed now to improvise a mode, in a trice,
that could capture their attention— something to suffice
to hold their young imaginations— to be precise,
a mechanism marvelous, no matter the price.
He had stores of immeasurable wealth, beyond doubt,
and his warmhearted love was impartially devout.
Just then the elder had the thought that not in the least
would his limitless riches and reserves be decreased,
even if to a kingdom vast he were to dispense
his overflowing fortune… so why shouldn’t he hence
give out his wealth directly to his progeny all,
before the children’s catastrophic deaths should befall?
The aged man reflected on what tactic to pick—
an expedient means that was sure to do the trick.
He told the children of exquisite toys he possessed
along with lots of precious carts of the very best
craftsmanship and quality, that all had been designed
expressly with the youngsters’ own enjoyment in mind.
The elder next, in order to persuade them, stated
that right outside the house at the entrance awaited,
to suit the young ones’ fancies skillfully created
goat, sheep, deer, and ox carts, ornately decorated.
He said that they must rush to leave the mansion, in haste,
and he’d give them everything— there was no time to waste.
Then the children finally fulfilled his desire
and scurried in a race safely out of the fire.
The father beamed with bliss that the urgency had passed.
They had securely left the burning building at last!
When they’d exited and scampered out, they all sat down
on the dewy earth and asked their father, with a frown,
where the toys and carts were that the elder had portrayed
for their own special likings to have been tailor-made.
The youngsters had escaped and the elder’s heart was eased.
But now each one of their capricious wants must be pleased.
[Continued in Part Four]
~ Harley White