Best Introspectionold Poems
lonely shadows fly like phantoms
sodium arc lights sickly yellow
the pallor of puss; an old mans bellow
the young rages for parents they never had them
the quiet cold of ebony rain
sepia toned photo seeking remembrance
young old women with too much experience
raspberry lip gloss she's homeless but vain
tenement skyline
lighthouse for the lost
children at sea
drowning in a ocean of humanity disdained
the writings on the wall
dope fiends in the hall
penitentiary collect calls
to grandma who accepts them all
mournfully I hear Marvin Gaye
"brother, brother, brother there are far too many of you dying"
lying in bed silently crying
"we got to find a better way here today"
Old barns, old folks and old wine - an unlikely trio upon which to muse,
But the analogies will become manifest as upon each I proffer my views.
Though the vicissitudes of life have taken their toll on each (that is very clear),
They tend to become more beautiful and majestic with each passing year!
Old barns once sported crimson paint and were so handsome in their day,
But o'er the years the scorching sun turned their boards to a silvery gray.
A fragile framework of hand-hewn oak and wooden pegs holds them together.
They lean precariously but despite the howling gales, they resisted raging weather!
Like old barns, old folks may wear a few scars and wrinkles here and there,
And lean upon a cane to steady themselves and wear crowns of silver hair,
But 'tis the inner beauty of their very souls that shines in all they do,
Having overcome the storms of life and the seasons they've struggled through!
Alas, old barns and old folks lose their sap as their years steadily decline,
But they gracefully mellow as they age like a splendid vintage wine!
They've both maintained their dignity through many trials untold,
But each of them must ruefully face the fact that they are growing old!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
A sudden scurry of light
flashed across the darkened sky
cosmic particles flew across
the horizon creating enough light to
attract these wandering eyes.
A fiery display like fireflies
leaving a trail of glowing embers
weaving a pattern of radiant light
through the darkened night.
A sense of cosmic games being played
by bodies as old as time itself
falling from heaven's grace
in a flood of color and flames.
Across the sky comets moving like balloons
on a string to the delight of children
looking into the night.
Again appeared in that expanse of space
the death of a far away star
blazing its eerie trail across the night sky -
leaving momentarily a ribbon of light; then to be seen-
-no more.
A celestial grand plan put in place
by other than man, only He could devise
such a thing to hang stars as ornaments
in the sky, leaving man to provide only
names for someone else's scheme.
Everything in life has its time and place
yet what more to seek, but not to find,
than a falling star to treat these old eyes of mine.
So whenever our call comes to follow these flaming beauties -
shall we go quietly to a darkened space,
or shall we like these celestial things, leave this life
in a blaze of glory - a lasting moment of beauty and grace,
as we move on to some other place.
The terminal prophesised an eternal line
of moving faces arriving at their destination,
mothers hold their screaming babies
as the business guys drank their coffee
like insomniac puppets on strings
valleys n lagoons of young children and elderly folk
all moved in a singular motion
to a melee of sound buzzing above their heads
a hubbub of civilisation on soap dish.
Back to life with the old soul and the funky dollar bill
like genoas khan lost in new York city
with new York city blues,
watching the jet planes fly above the mass of buildings
circling the weather stations in New Orleans
in autumn winds and summer rain in Chicago
floating like clouds with its over whelming usual conscience
Towering over towers of old motor’s
with junk yard hands on the dog
and the women drinking buds swearing at a elderly man
for having a faulty back tire on his bike
and the look of hell shaved fear on his face,
used to be in Korea and nam probably still thinks he is.
We've passed it by........so many times
Along this twisted........ asphalt highway
A sign that's nailed,....... so crudely fashioned
To peeling bark.......upon the yoke of gnarled, old cottonwood tree.
It marks a fork of the ....backwood road
Where gravel branches....bends and sways
And meanders through......the glade >>.....???
Where lies a ...... dry creek bed >...
And poison oak thrives ......and secrets hide >...
Home for an old battered mailbox.......lonely and bereft >...
So many times,.......so many other days in passing by >...
Catching glimpse of........peeling painted evidence >...
Of something which lies....... beyond our view >...
Have I wondered......... pondered, what lies beyond... >...
What course if .........we followed.... >...
If just this once ........we turned and broke away >....
.......... ......................................>.....>
.......... ...................................>......
Changed our course....... followed the unknown.
Where the creek ......... runs dry,
And banks are rife........
With chokecherry....... and willow scrub
The leaves layered....... with chalk white dust
........
Will we ever know .............
......... What lies beyond the fork in the road?
......... Will we ever know?.....
No bitterness, better than me
No measurement of sour, nor apple pulled off
No old man on a corner talking to himself
No old story
No hurt that hadn’t hurt already
No cause for sounding off
No worse than you
No reason for all the things said
No worry, when no one worries, when I’m dead
No reason
No reasonable rhyme
No worries while I’m
No wonder. . . out of time, with
No bitter. . . less. . . than what I left behind
Form:
When others sleep
I lie awake
Waiting
For night
To become day.
Rubbing
The sun
From my eyes
Everything I
Tried to forget
Comes back
Like an angry wave.
Hearing about the hurricane
And the neglect
I went to New Orleans
Barely knew the place
Only what I heard
Creoles and Mardi Gras
The Big Easy and
Good times
A distant city singing
Its own sad song
From the South.
Long days and
Months later
A fever came round
From damp nights and bad food
A public health doctor
Looked at me
With an innocence
And worry
I haven’t seen
Since childhood.
Restless
One night
I set out
Towards the outskirts
Of the city.
Fires burned everywhere
Violence
Lay waiting
In gaping holes
Of empty houses
And abandoned cars
The spider web of
Death
Hovered above
Waiting for its next victim
I thought I saw the worst
But I hadn’t.
On a garbage strewn road
Was an old woman
Patiently
Stirring some sort of gumbo
In a beat up tin pot
I approached her
In the darkness
We were
Two solitary
Figures on a dirt road
The space between us
No more than a foot
From the fire
The veins on the back of her hands
Stood out
Her face hidden in the flickering shadows
“I’m noticing you
You’re a stranger
You don’t belong here.”
Looking past me
She asked,
“Tell me mister
If they put a man on the moon
Can't they rescue people in a flood?’
I had no answer
Tapping the spoon
Against the side of the pot
She spoke to no one in particular,
“Must be
We got to be people
On the moon
Before anyone can help us”.
Behind us
Shadows moved
Heavy voices were heard.
A sudden downpour came
The rain turning
The dirt road to mud
The old woman shrugged and left
I walked back to camp
Leaving as lost
As I came.
The night
Became a faint memory
I slept forever
Exhausted
I opened my eyes
To see wet clothes
And muddy boots
In the corner
Of my room
Then I knew
The night
Hadn’t been
A dream after all.
The house wasn't much to look at,
Although it was grand in its day.
But we never got tired of visiting,
Or seeing the family on Sunday.
The floors were old and creaky,
The walls were strong and tall.
The yard was ever the smallest,
Yet, we still found a way to play ball.
The clock in the kitchen kept pendulum time,
Its gentle gongs...as the hours were to go.
The louder sounds of plinking from the front room,
As we toyed with the keys of the old piano.
The sweet aromas from the bakery next door,
Wafter over us in the air.
Always reminding one of that pleasant place,
Filled with cakes and cookies and eclairs.
We didn't understand the words,
That our Grandparents often were to say.
The polish banter among our parents,
The adults kept their secrets from us that way.
Our Moms were helping Grandma in the kitchen,
Our Dads on the porch playing cards.
We ran our own little games outside,
More noise and laughter from the yard.
Only the memories now remain.
And sometimes after a day of aching hands and weary feet,
My mind turns to those happy childhood days,
As I remember the times spent...on Erie Street.
Beauty …
Has this word lost its meaning?
Is not the flower opening its
pedals to the morning more
beautiful than the
repressed mother
dressing up her 8 year old to
compete in her own,
lost dream?
Is there not more beauty in
the 9 year old with
no mom
who still loves life and
achieves her dreams?
Has beauty really become
bought
and Nature can only take you
so far?
Isn’t beauty helping someone cross
the street? Fixing someone’s flat?
Carrying groceries to
their car?
Breast implants, nose jobs,
tummy tucks and
collagen are being touted
as the new you …
really?
Aren’t you beautiful when you smile
because you heard
something funny? Or when your
eyes glitter
because you see something you love?
Isn’t beauty the crickets talking at
night as you think?
Holding hands with one
you love
as you walk bare-foot in the
grass? Isn’t that beautiful?
Beauty …
Don’t lose sight of
what it really is.
DREAMTIME: STATE FAIR OF MIND
the barren vendor
sold wishes
to those
hoping
to
forget
at the back of the room
wizened old men
sat together on a bench
across from old fur hats
tricornes and hamburgs
bowlers and fedoras
high hats, admiral hats
and others
too rare
for my knowledge
or experience
all positioned firmly
on
head stretchers
covered in dust
a reminder
linking the past
now
the old Black man
who governed this booth
sold large
round chocolate bars
handmade
of finest quality
he offered my friend one
but
strangely
ignored me
everyone
gathered in the field
as wagons passed by
on parade
the
atmosphere
was quite gay
carnival like
friends
waving to each other
no
one
recognized
me
petals
they fall freely to the ground
why do they not fly
is the earth so warm that they must be reunited
where were you when you saw me
I wonder this a lot
was I truly beautiful in my simplicity that I was and I am
that I blossomed something unique
O how plain she is; you must of thought
she must be hiding a great sense that I must uncover
life is so boorish
especially in times like this
times where the bed and laying in it, is the event of day
and my hand is the person I will be speaking to of things of not
Am I selfish?
Am I a human being that wishes the well being of other human beings
or do I wish for a mass of people to die to better my own comforts
so there will be more room for me and my love
and less people to decimate this planet
I love puppies
I love kittens
I seem to love creatures in the infant form
Many others do also
we coo and aw the babies of others
and cuddle the month old dog
but does it mean we appreciate life and it's giving
or do we cherish the beginning of youth
and wish to discard the coming of age
the coming of the old looking face in the mirror that you not know be yours
or the fear of death is coming closer with every year
and step of a body not young
ever changing is the swallow in the sky that does not fly
but stay stuck in the throat of one that has not eaten...
sometimes I think
sometimes I think too much
sometimes I think I have too much time on my hands
The old and young are seldom near,
Their voices sound apart:
What makes one laugh, brings one a tear,
Each has a different heart.
The young think Love’s a Tragedy,
And older men are fools;
The old reject youth’s honesty,
And challenging of rules.