Best Jointed Poems
(and long brown stockings)
I detest these stockings,
they're coarse, brown and ugly.
I hate the garters more;
elastic circles that cut off
circulation and fail to halt
the laddering down my skinny legs.
If only . . . I picture myself
in warm jeans and no teasing
from Tommy Rogers.
I put the garters to better use,
roll the repulsive stockings
down around my ankles.
Tommy taunts,
"Who gave you
jointed toothpicks for legs?"
I lost it.
Now, Tommy has a black eye
and my nose is in the corner.
She waits,
eight black spindles joined at one end by a pivot, a compass.
Each pinpoint balanced at the intersections
of self-drawn polygons.
Legs jointed like the fingers of a skeleton,
deft, dexterous as a harpist.
Body in two sections with ample abdomen,
the African who carries the water jug on her head.
Or an Indian, the untouchable with her caste mark,
the microscopic grains dropping through the hourglass
like drops of blood.
Blind, she has the surrogate sense of a seismograph.
She would feel a disturbance in the web
were it only a thought.
Never mind she lives in a dark corner
as devoid of light as she is of personality,
she needs neither.
She does not look as the wrapped body of her cannibalized mate
as at a gilt-framed photograph of the dearly departed.
The egg sac is not a silk-lined bassinet,
the hanging ornament
to all her future hopes and dreams.
She is absent of frontal lobes,
moralizing modifiers,
second thoughts.
An instrument of logic,
mate=food
sac=young,
syllogisms minus all prepositions,
additional excess cargo to be jettisoned
as the dried shells of devoured prey.
No welcome mats on the front step,
no settees in the parlor,
no cunning seductress with scarlet claws.
Only a modem waiting in the spaceless black.
I reckon I'm showing my age and am pretty well set in my ways,
But I have zero tolerance for the 'noise' called music nowadays!
The metal bands and rap are loathsome to my sensitive ears.
I haven't heard a melodic tune on the radio for over sixty years!
Pleasing to the ear was Vaughn Monroe and his mellow baritone.
Likewise, the romantic, comprehensible crooning of Vic Damone.
A songster who could stir even the most unromantic soul,
Was the silky-smooth delivery of debonair Nat King Cole!
I truly enjoyed the ballads belted out by the ever-living Elvis,
And got a kick out of watching in action his double-jointed pelvis!
Delightful were the songs vocalized by cheerful Doris Day.
It was so relaxing listening to the Velvet Fog, Mister Mel Torme!
Will there ever be another Glenn Miller, Perry Como or Peggy Lee,
Dinah Shore, Frankie Laine or Jo Stafford entertaining me?
Oh, to hear again The Mills Brothers and their sweet harmony.
Now all I hear is dreadful screams and gross disharmony!
Today's drivel to my romantic soul gives me great offense.
'Tis alien to my ears and doesn't make a bit of sense.
Music back then invited you to hold your gal in close embrace,
As you danced and murmured sweet nothings face to face!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Entry for Nayda Ivette Negron's "Favorite Music Type" Contest
Did you know the Gecko cannot blink ?
No I did not, but it sounds alluring that image
Of a focused lizard reptilian in glorious intent
From hide bound tail to protruding cheeks and jowl
So I blink, too tired to contemplate the enemy who stalks
Unruly neighbor holding night long juice jointed jamborees
Where alcohol steams the atmosphere with its truth venom
Inhaling vapours that create this courage that carries cowards
Yes I will blink, sleep deprived laborer courting reluctant pens
Refusing to yield hidden gems and buried treasures like jade
And tanzanite blue rhythms that accompany melodies and dirges
Legend has it that only the cry of the lion is met with sympathy
That of the lamb actions firing coals and flaring wood piles
Eager to consume flesh of the flesh returning it to the soil
Crosses are only temporary and sting in Easter
If carried by the many Simons that dot our unholy lives
Mother was the first and most enduring taken for granted
Only Gecko’s know the patient denuding effects of focus
Turning this pages that refuse to yield riches
And daily only seem to offer me
The menses of aborted dreams
The Spider
The spider climbs from inside a drawer
Then, on eight legs he scuttles to the floor
Walking closely by the kitchen wall
Moving slowly toward the open door.
On hairy jointed legs he stops and waits
Then he turns and appears to concentrate.
Looking at me with large arachnid eyes,
For a moment he seems to hesitate.
I wonder now, what can he see
(I do not know arachnid 'he' or 'she')
His expression is meant to terrify,
He's staring intensely straight at me
Should I run away or should I stay?
Then, to my absolute dismay
This tiny monster that seems so large,
(Something I remember until today),
Springs suddenly up on to my chair,
Not heeding that I am sitting there.
I give a loud cry of great surprise
Then, (it is genuine I do declare),
This alarming monster is no more,
He turns and scuttles toward the door.
No longer a hairy fiend grown large,
Just a tiny spider on the floor.
Barry Stebbings
4/5/2016
A solitary sandpiper picks his path
Three - four maybe a score
Find them on any sandy shore
Marvelous kaleidoscope of mobility
Double jointed tooth pick legs
Old time movies jerk ahead
Staccato motion, roaming and roving
Pointed beak pecks at sand
As if going treasure troving
So intent upon the chore
Hopping over grounded wave
Flap and fly three feet away
Running, racing rain or shine
Like a cycle rider in a line
Skip, leap, nary a peep,
Always hunting, peck and bob.
This no eight to five job.
i want to be something
i want to be original
but not “original”
i have terrible vision
i have my moms toes on the right, and my dads on the left
i am double jointed
i am see by the teacher differently in every class
from quiet as a mouse to complete smart alack
i love the idea of watercolor
but don’t like painting
my life feels like a run on sentence
But my eyes will worsen with age, originality will become an idea,
my feet wont matter,
my joints will fail,
i’ll graduate.
there will be a period at the end of my sentence;
what am i waiting for?
i don’t sleep much
i think sunrises are great
late nights are long
im emotional
i write
i draw
i act
just like everyone else
hate is a strong word,
but not as strong as loathe
(so we can use hate here)
i hate john greens characters
i hate society
i hate gender roles
i hate Instagram
i hate living in a world where
blindness and damage is a trait of beauty.
but don’t miss the point just as so many others have
i love humanity
with our freckles
and desires and tattoos
our dreams
our cliches and clichés
our pets and cameras
and music and fuzzy carpets
and sports and peoples devotion to them
i am in love with humanity
maybe one day i will be more content
with mine.
best friend, children, first love, games, heartbreak, life, moving on,
SKIP TO MY LOU! ©
Harmonizing rhythms
Rotations synchronize to
Skip to My Lou
My Darlings
Couples take up ends
Two turn rope 'required'
Like me with you
Two ends
One jumper
Take turns
Work ends timing.
Double Dutch
Double quick
Pavement recounts
All the licks!
Skipped times
Challenges anew
Missteps loose turns
Rope Splits
Stop skip
Mid crisis
Ends must be reunited
Another ‘Skip To My Lou’
Game starts
More to chance
With knotted ends
'Jointed' again
Start the count-down
One, two, three,four,
You missed stepped---
And loose
My turn!
Crowds of young children were roaming the streets,
they had to be home before late,
she heard giggling voices and shuffling of feet
and that chirping squeak from the front gate.
A muffled discussion on whose turn to knock
and a voice said “ I did it last time”,
just as at that moment a key turned the lock
and the grandfather clock gave a chime.
Their argument stopped as the door slowly swung,
the child at the front led the call,
“ Trick or tre- “ then he stopped, air was knocked from his lungs
from the sight of what slouched by the wall.
A few strands of hair framed a husk of a head,
black sockets where eyes used to be
wafer thin was the skin, from all colour had bled
and it's mouth like an inverted 'V'.
With a tongue that resembled a corpulent slug,
and hands twisted as if double jointed,
the children reeled backwards as with a loud crack
it lifted an arm and then pointed.
“Begone!” The thing hissed, spitting bile and hate
as the kids ran without further ado,
“And the last of you out will you please close the gate!”
But you'll find frightened kids never do.
The daughter looked up from her paper and smiled
as it shuffled over to her chair,
“Thanks, Mother” she said “Time to go back to bed-
You'll be needing your spade, it's right there”.
For contest 'Halloween', sponsor Eve Roper
Sung to the hymn of “The yellow rose of Texas”
I was cursing down the road
tired and all a lone
just a passing through ole` Oklahome
So I shut down and pulled in-
to this old run down joint
I went in through the back door
and I got myself a beer
I was sitting at the bar feeling mighty tired
When I noticed this GOGO dancer looking right at me
She came up to greet me, and said her name was Bee
Well, my that GOGO dancer she sure looked good to me
She looked to be bread in ole` Kentucky
But just a crumb down here
She’s knocked kneed double jointed
with a cauliflowered ear.
She smokes them white owl stogies
and drinks them rum and sodies
I see her habits are quite brutal
in bed she’ll be Apple strudel
Well now that GOGO dancer she looks good to me….
I think it’s best time for leaving
Or in the morning I’ll be a grieving
MY O MY THAT GOGO DANCER
SURE DID LOOK GOOD TO ME!!!!!!!
The rubber soles of my sneakers scrape along the sidewalk
as I go down the streets of my small hometown
with only a flashlight and the dim streetlights to illuminate the darkness
I walk my way through piles of scattered dead leaves
jack o' lanterns smile brightly as they sit in window sills
hanging in trees, white sheeted ghosts are stirred by the chilly night wind
paper cut-outs of black cats, witches, and jointed skeletons decorate doors
my vision is distorted by the eye holes of my mask
I can see just enough to find my way to a house
my sneakers thump up the wooden porch steps
with a cold hand I reach out to knock or ring the door bell
I say those three words which earns me my first treat of the evening
no harm done, you will get no tricks or mischief from me
then it is on to the next house and the next welcoming porch light
as Halloween night nears it's end, my bag of treats starts to feel heavy
my feet are tired and sore, yet there are still a few more houses to go....
I hope I can relive these sweet memories someday, with my own children.
A beetle races from its deep hiding
To gather more food for the morning!
Amidst its fields of fruits and bananas,
In the open plains of African savanna.
A tiny black bug, glowing in the sand
It shoots across the sun-dried land
Busy pace and not enough time,
to roll back a nitrogen ball sublime!
Every morning at the break of dawn
The beetle is out as agile as a fawn
It is suited black from top to toe,
Like some tycoon with trade to grow!
It wore no tie, has no briefcase
But had jointed legs for life’s race,
two large feelers that sense the air
To locate discards from cattle’s rear!
Large balls of partly digested grass,
Are a high carbon and nitrogen mass,
Will be stacked over and well stored,
For beetle generations,a wealth hoard!
The storage den is a deep deep hole,
That has a fortune of dung ball rolls,
Collected diligently in an insane craze
To store away in the underground maze!
This busy businessman drives no cars,
But still navigates with milky-way stars,
Can precisely locate mound of waste,
And roll them home for a later date!
It’s desire for earning has no bounds
In a day it makes very many rounds,
hoardings often exceed the life needs,
Yet every morning for more it speeds!!
And finally one day it meets its fate,
A flick of tongue and it’s a lizard’s waste!
In the brief history of this beetles life,
Are the resonance of our own strife!
When the earnings exceed our own need,
wealth becomes just a measure of greed!
The meaningless chase of that wealth,
At an immense cost to our own health.
We may detest the beetle for what it brings,
The beetle has no value for gold savings,
Here is a lesson to us all with greed,
What we already have, is all that we need!
Balderdash
I will not listen to iris eyes,
those lids for covers; frightened lies.
And cannot hear the nostril's fear
that calls you to me over here.
Balderdash
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way
Balderdash
I will not listen to faint of heart.
Half a story; a lie apart.
And cannot wait for one more pause.
A lie; your drama; without a cause.
Balderdash
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way
Balderdash
I will not listen to yellow bellies
who's waves break lies to coward's deli's.
And will not watch a brow fall down
without it's fear; without it's crown.
Balderdash
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way
Balderdash
I will not listen to crooked smiles
who's heart beats twice in self denial.
And will not watch the gizzard sink
to form a gully's fear of shrink.
Balderdash
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way
Balderdash
I will not listen to jointed nose
that prays for healing, as one knows.
And will not notice the patient smile
that lies back to you a waiting while.
Balderdash
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way
Balderdash
is all I say.
Balderdash.
Going my way.
(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this toke kin “FAKE” hemp
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).
As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
specializing in cannabinoids
my favorite delta-9-tetra
hydrocannabinol (THC),
isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
while athwart the potty
i.e. measuring adequate perforated
square roto root er, sans
regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber pot
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
in drag at a joint where Billy Bong
banged on by the hands of
a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per southern cause during
the Civil War and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide available
instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield),
whose faith the any almighty power
could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
the analogy with a kumquat?
There we were all tightly fit in a round circle of love
Pipes jointed one to another fed love from up above
Love was flowing through, with fruit each one supplying
Peace, patience, long suffering, we were not denying
Through the pipes a rumor flowed, meant for me to hear
They never liked me, I knew that, so why should I care
I didn't see the enemy laugh, as I became disjointed
I did not love but did uncover, as my finger I pointed
Then that one became offended and kinked up it's head
"I know that I am right and I can't forgive them yet"
Guilt and condemnation came and kinked the other low
It wasn't long before the love there ceased to flow
If I think more highly of myself than them, I am risen
I stop the flow if I don't forgive, and I can't be forgiven
Forgiveness can't flow to me, if I rise above my brothers
To receive the fruits of love, I must humbly love the others
Now I see and understand, "you reap what you are sowing"
If I don't sow fruits of love, it will keep me from growing
If I am to blame for hurting you or causing you to grieve
I ask for your forgiveness and forgiveness you'll receive
His love flows through my rusty pipe with some impurities
But as loving fruit flows through from you to me, it cleans
Humbly forgive my haughty pride that hurts, but don't forget
I am still under construction, God is not finished with me yet
He is using you to wash out of me these ugly impurities
And for you to learn long suffering and mercy, you need me
He cannot come, make us His bride, till we are one indeed
Until the weld of love that flows, brings us in unity
For all our hurts and insults were laid upon His back
All He asks from us, is that we do not take them back
He said, "Father forgive them, they know not what they do"
And to us He says, "Forgive them as I have forgiven you!”