Best Mows Poems
I used to mow the lawn with joy.
And trim up all the trees.
Prune the hedges, tend the garden.
Way down upon my knees.
Shoot the bull with good time friends.
Now, most of them are gone.
And, I know my day is coming.
I guess it wont be long.
BUT NOW......
I sit in shade, with tea in hand,
And wave out to the guy,
Who mows the lawn and trims the trees,
While I just sit and sigh.
I dream about the friends I've had.
We always sang life's song.
And, I know my day is coming.
I guess it won't be long.
AND SO......
I've made some new friends here and there.
It's hard to be alone.
Have shared some stories, had some fun.
A few more friends have flown.
Created some new memories.
When memories are strong.
And, I know my day is coming.
I guess it won't be long
WELL......
I wrote those verses years ago.
But, I'm still going strong.
And, I know my day is coming.
I guess it won't be long.
Jim starts the day with good intention
Jobs need doing that require his attention.
The garden needs a good sprucing up
His vegetation 'triffids' are running amok.
He mows the lawn, trims the hedges,
Creates those nice, neat lined edges.
Weeds the borders, deadheads the flowers,
Feeds the plants their nutritional powers.
The hard soil is dug, ready and prepped
To sow the seeds for home grown veg.
Must not forget to prune back the tree
A labour of love is what it can be.
Hours of work that seemed never ending
His body and limbs, stretching and bending.
Sun burnt skin, his head now aches
Back is killing him, so takes a break.
Joints and muscles moan and groan
Weeds now gone are finally dethroned.
Jim's bones applaud with clicks and cracks
His badge was the sting when a wasp attacked.
Admiring his garden that he has served
His body felt it carried every ache in the world.
The thing Jim will remember and quickly did learn
To wear factor fifty to avoid the sunburn.
29.08.24
I look at the deputies,
On the benches of the assembly,
They work for the nation,
But they haven’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
I listen to journalists,
They like champagne,
They like good words,
But they haven’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
The baker is very busy
through its chocolate croissants,
His butter croissants,
But he didn’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
The retiree in his car,
The doctor, in his office,
The delivery people are in a hurry,
But they haven’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
The spectators are happy
When the game starts,
They support players,
But they haven’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
Manet and Picasso, Monet,
Matisse and his friends, Lully
Are great artists,
But they haven’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
It’s better to love Gérard Philippe,
Simone Signoret and Gainsbourg,
Philippe Noiret and Belmondo,
But they haven’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
Sébastien, knows how to manage a cinema,
He is the king of Spain,
Of France and Navarre,
But he didn’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
The neighbor of Melou Street,
Walks her lapdog,
He mows his lawn often,
But he didn’t, that’s for sure
Only honey in the head,
It’s better to know humans,
Garage owners or farmers,
Pharmacist, or Bookseller,
Journalists on France TV 2
Teenagers or guardians of peace,
They are on the lookout for your faults.
He mows the lawn,
doesn't every man?
He mops the kitchen,
a gift of great value.
He shells pecans,
saves the pith for me.
He roasts peanuts;
we love peanuts!
He plants blackberries,
brings them in a bucket.
He builds bird houses,
cooks his own suet cakes.
He picks wildflowers,
shows me where they grow.
He makes up our bed,
most every day.
He bakes banana bread,
serves it warm, with coffee.
You will notice, I sometimes
wear a Cheshire grin.
An unsophisticated feller attending an auction could find himself in a pickle!
The nuances, subtleties and gestures used in bidding could cost him a pretty nickel!
A city feller decided to attend a farm auction to see what it was all about.
Alas, he accumulated a heap of needless stuff before he could figure it out!
He was fascinated by the tractor, manure spreader, horses, hogs and cows,
And the chickens, goats, manure forks and hay to be auctioned in the mows!
The auctioneer began his alien spiel and the feller couldn't understand a word,
But farmers in overalls and John Deere caps knew exactly what they heard!
Bidding began on an old steel-wheeled 1925 Model D over-used John Deere.
The feller watched others offer their bids as he reached to scratch his ear.
The auctioneer yelled, "SOLD to the man scratchin' his ear over by the fence!"
He was the stunned owner of a tractor - it happened so fast he didn't have a chance!
Next up for bid were a fancy chamber pot, two horse collars and fifty feet of hose.
The feller in all innocence swatted at a pesky fly that had landed on his nose!
The auctioneer yelled, "SOLD to the guy who swatted his nose for fifty dollars!
Son, you got a steal! That's an antique thunder mug and so is them there collars!"
The auctioneer opened bidding for twenty bales of newly cut alfalfa hay.
The feller was distracted for a moment and waved at a pal across the way.
"SOLD" said the auctioneer, "Please write a check for this stuff to my able aide!"
The hapless guy was wondering how he'd explain to his spouse the purchases he'd made!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Blood of the brave
More you grow, the more you seem to stay the same
See the time mows you and your aims feel the same.
Folks come and go; they don't seem to give a damn
You would sell your soul to not be the kid of shame.
Time passes and exhausts you, your soul is dying
You feel the burn of misery and your heart weeps
Your dreams are fading, yet you try
Somehow, to overcome pain and its whip…
And you live day to day
Search in vain a way
Between an unchanging past, a present of damages
And the hope of a better future, my Homage
Here comes the day.
Be my hero, the man who started from zero
To showing the way of not being a social zero
From the huts and the wood that forge you brain
None of your suffering will be in vain
Weave your dream nest and wait
Kids shout,
“School’s out!”
So soon,
it’s June.
July,
temp’s high.
Kids play
all day.
Ump’s call:
“Foul ball.”
Grass grows.
Dad mows.
Sun’s hot.
Pool’s not.
Rest time,
sublime
Mom’s made
Kool-Aid
Childhood,
so good
June 1, 2022
entered in a Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest Placed 6th
Closer than breath is my God,
Though I seek Him far from near.
Though love for me He holds dear,
I pine for things my heart does tear.
His thoughts and acts are about me,
Making my good His great desire.
His word guides my heart to aspire
To attain His goal before I retire.
What else should I ask of my God,
When in Christ He meets my care?
He should grow me as wheat, not tare,
Lest I at my calamity stare.
By my strength no good comes,
For Christ in me does His will.
When on the cross He paid the bill,
There He set me free from the mill.
He's with me to guard and guide;
Ensure I take my steps in His light.
Before me, His way is bright;
I need not stumble or grope in fright.
What needless pain I bear up,
Missing out on the rest Grace bestows!
I'm a dungy dust that weakness mows,
Not a dazzling diamond that in strength glows!
© 2013
The acoustic hallows,
stark face follows...
The guns show line's in the time's,
as drifty as sand and wines...
The larkspur gives them grows,
the English meter mows,
we don't show,
anything we want to know-
time to create plaster now,
let off on a few rafters,
dynamic and enigmatic...
It is so hardly sparse,
it's waiting on the cart,
it's everybody to dart!
It was a cloudy sky
Drizzle had just stopped softly
On this enchanting evening, I was lined lucky
As there was an ugly beggar who deserved care, swiftly
I stopped my car before that hotel
where sometime I used to visit for coffee
during my return from office, to home to dwell
Being pose area, side of it were shops selling toffee
I gone straight to that beggar
Enquired what he may desire to eat
He was holding one bit of an used cigar
Face to face, he was not willing to meet
I used to treat deserving beggar with food of his choice
Someone will ask for a particular dish
But this man didn't even raised his voice
Repeatedly I failed when I tried to ascertain his wish
Finally the shopkeeper guided and coded
saying he wanted only a matchbox to light his cigar
When I tried hard to get, every shopkeeper just eluded
As the increased anti-tobacco canvassing had worked clear
The beggar rejected money as well any dish
His world gets filled with just a matchbox
He stood firm and let me only to pish
As I too never keep such item in my toolbox
He loitered and left the place, helpless
Upset with this, I too lost my interest to eat
I also left without eating, as I became useless
Even in bed, with this thought, I felt my heartbeat
I get delighted to treat deserving beggars, stomachful
Or else with alms, to their handful
But above failure led me sorrowful
As I could not be fairly useful
It is the beggar who gives me a chance to serve
Of course, I had heartfully attempted and offered
Altogether, I sincerely strained everyone of my nerve
But he neither cared my efforts nor allowed to be adored
This miserable failure mows me miserably for the past two years
More so, whenever I used to cross that place every day
True to say, my eyes were about to cloud with tears!
What woes remain more for my heart to say?
Copyrights reserved
Beating drums mark his last march and fifes play lowly, a breeze blows on blackthorn blossoms,
Raised high above on hardened shoulders for the mourning march, that slowly glides him along,
A hero, a name carved in precious polished stone, this is his last the most important journey,
The drums roll, bearers sway quietly with each step, a fife plays sadly bringing burning tears.
Winter, its hard wrinkled face and rough horny hands froze men to death stuck in no mans land,
It has no friends in this evil hated war and happily takes wounded men, a trophy to its might,
Thick mud is sometimes frozen and is like granite as the brave settle waiting for the whistle,
Some died with honour, their bravery hard to understand, bearers proudly shoulder such a man.
The parade stops at a grave, they lay their comrade down on planks of wood covering the hole,
The innocence of sweet youth taken away, living with bitter hating men, fear drives them on,
This boy was different he believed in the cause and he died for that sacred belief, honour,
The drum roll stops and a bugle plays the last post, men with their head bowed pray for help.
At home all are working in their gardens, a father mows grass, turning earth fresh and mellow,
Young flowers spring up in his boarders they have a delicate, poetic beauty a snow drop grows,
His boy, in fields far away, just as delicate as these new flowers when he took the shilling,
A father stops, can he hear the drums slowly and fifes playing lowly as his boy is buried into the ground.
Like his fathers before him, he was a tiller of the soil.
He loved the old farmstead that was built with sweat and toil.
He farmed with Clydesdale horse and cantankerous mules,
A sickle bladed mower, sulky plows and other John Deere tools.
He rose before the sun was up to milk his Jersey cows,
To feed the fowl, his cattle and the Poland China sows.
This was a way of life for him, never taking any vacations.
He cherished the farming life despite its many frustrations.
Tho' he'd seen unprofitable years, floods, hail and drought,
With indomitable courage, he chose to press on and see it out.
He knew the successful fruition of crops was a roll of the dice,
But he steadfastly labored on taking his chances at any price.
His fields of corn, wheat and oats were a beauty to behold.
He prayed he'd get top price when his various crops were sold.
At harvest, his mows were overflowing, his bins flush with grain.
Come next Spring he and his horses would begin the cycle again.
In overalls and an old straw hat, he toiled 'neath the Hoosier sun,
Laboring from dawn to dusk - it seemed his work was never done.
He clad his little son in overalls and assigned him simple chores,
Saying, "Work hard my boy - someday this will all be yours!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The evening air spreading its soft chill,
Playing with the blue mountain to nature's will,
New snow flakes engulfs the barren hills,
Taming my heart with tender warmth and thrills.
At the inn the keeper holds a lighted candle,
For us to follow with our packaged bundle,
With grace I wish to avoid a scandal,
Watch my man close the lone door by its handle.
Firewood burns in the wooded homestead,
Spreads it warmth over the snug cushioned bed,
Waits to partake in our action unsaid,
Melting moments for me to love or dread.
Delightful face turns to look up to me,
Candid sensuality in phantoms plea,
Urges me to be forthwith naked and free,
Passion denudes barriers under siege.
Anticipation now burns to aspire,
Taut space between our naked bodies perspire,
And I blush in its heat with hot desire,
Keep my eyes closed as he sets me afire.
Intoxicants flame touched by libations
Sequesters inflamed wet-lip deviations,
Within pleasure kiss gratification,
Outraging tongue's in communication.
Open my eyes to his tactile fondness,
Soon hands engage the spherical hardness,
Force me to opt with resoluteness,
And lie on my back touched by tenderness.
My desperate palms crawl over his back,
Nuptial quivers awake rapture's with knack,
Crazy teeth dig and wildly bite his neck,
Betwixt the legs he performs his attack.
In anticipation I surrender,
As he sets to probes the naked blunder,
Rave’s down the silky valley to plunder,
Unzipped by the latent strike, I thunder.
Reeling from the quick fervent thrusts I cry,
With rage responding to his sadist try,
As he pulls back to enter and defy,
Totally exposed I shudder and sigh.
Quaking with delirious pleasure I cuddle,
Both legs entrapped within the carnal struggle,
Brace quivering bottom in the muddles,
As petals rock within the moist puddles.
Smiling at my denuded enslavement,
Holding my arms in ardent deployment,
Torments my frail defiance with enjoyment,
While his knee's direct steady placement.
Seething with resistance his hardness grows,
Raw power sustaining his taming blows,
Ecstasy mows the bulging heat to sow,
Freely we climax in its cosmic flow.
Begs reprieve for his ebbed shrunken demands;
While in love he obeys all my commands.
Beating drums mark his last march and fifes play lowly, a breeze blows on blackthorn blossoms,
Raised high above on hardened shoulders for the mourning march, that slowly glides him along,
A hero, a name carved in precious polished stone, this is his last the most important journey,
The drums roll, bearers sway quietly with each step, a fife plays sadly bringing burning tears.
Winter, its hard wrinkled face and rough horny hands froze men to death stuck in no mans land,
It has no friends in this evil hated war and happily takes wounded men, a trophy to its might,
Thick mud is sometimes frozen and is like granite as the brave settle waiting for the whistle,
Some died with honour, their bravery hard to understand, bearers proudly shoulder such a man.
The parade stops at a grave, they lay their comrade down on planks of wood covering the hole,
The innocence of sweet youth taken away, living with bitter hating men, fear drives them on,
This boy was different he believed in the cause and he died for that sacred belief, honour,
The drum roll stops and a bugle plays the last post, men with their head bowed pray for help.
At home all are working in their gardens, a father mows grass, turning earth fresh and mellow,
Young flowers spring up in his boarders they have a delicate, poetic beauty a snow drop grows,
His boy, in fields far away, just as delicate as these new flowers when he took the shilling,
A father stops, can he hear the drums slowly and fifes playing lowly as his boy is lowered down.
Color me Douglas Fir Green;
I feel so feathery-branched.
My constitution is supreme;
My core competes with oaks.
I was built to last and stand tall;
I cannot say as well of cousin spruce.
Taken for granted;
the human species, mows me down;
I become boxes for habitation.
My strength is a human weakness;
Over time, I’ll disappear,
I must to shelter my nemesis.
The human species uses my kind;
we can’t defend against
their growling weapons.
Humans build deadly weapons,
They’ll eat right through my soul;
I am only a defenseless tree.
12-28-19
I am a tree Poetry Contest
Delilah Ventura