Best Mustered Poems
Youth, Life, Love And Its Most Precious All
When young, life was full of joy and great thrills
I recall that was how happiness feels,
a new toy a trip to the nearby park
birds singing, magical flight of a stark.
Ice cream served on a sweltering hot day
out of classroom watching a new school play,
Majestic day fishing, feet in the pond
our favorite movies, we were so fond!
Growing up, tremendous change had to come
too oft heartache became the rule of thumb,
Love gave its kiss and even sorrow too
in its realm, sweetest of desserts were new.
With such beauty and deep satisfaction
sometimes came the opposite reaction
truest of our sweet love, was denied-rejected
in pain hurt, we felt our soul was neglected!
In living through life, its good* and its bad
if wise, we could find depth of what we had,
love and sorrow are both needed to grow
happiness found, oft sorrow comes in tow.
Treasures great and small are in youthful past
best we embrace it and not run too fast
Through it all family, love matters most
without that, time was no more than burnt toast!
Robert J. Lindley, 7-10-2018
Poet's Note: On July 10th, 1978, a most beautiful and very precious soul that I loved so very true and deeply died in a car crash. Her death almost completely destroyed me and this is the first time I have ever mustered up the courage to write a poem about it. She was its " good *", - its greatest beauty* at that time in my life, its most - precious all*....
For 40 long years, I could not find the courage to sit to write this tribute to the memory of her sweet and kind soul.
I have now found such, because "family and love matters most", and I am now truly blessed with such a God given gift....
My eldest brother, nine years old,
Thought he could break a horse.
Our mother strictly forbade him.
A mother’s right of course.
Her young son mustered all his wiles,
Hoping he could sway her.
Unwilling to be defeated,
He vowed to disobey her.
He gathered a rope and bridle,
Went to the big corral.
He was there to break a wild colt,
Three brothers there to yell.
Our youngest brother, four years old
Yelled, “I’ll tell Ma on you
Unless you take me up there
And give me a ride too.”
In his eagerness to hush him,
His big brother agreed
And lifted him to the bare back
Of that big, trembling steed.
Our father came in nick of time
To salvage little brother,
Then watched as his son rode that colt.
No one told our mother.
Dispatched by Mark Antony to fetch his queen
An Egyptian with beauty of world renown
Five-thousand mighty Roman warriors sailed
Committed to driving Egypt’s army down
Cleopatra was basking on a Nile barge
While the fleet remained offshore waiting for night
‘Neath the cloak of darkness warriors arrived
To surprise defenders and battle incite
Fully armored Roman forces held the edge
Razor-sharp swords pierced Egyptians’ tanned skin
Into the gently flowing Nile, Egyptian blood spilled
The desert soldiers’ garb was softer than tin
When heat rose with dawn’s light on the pyramids
Only a few hundred Egyptian soldiers remained
But they fought with the courage of a thousand more
Determined to protect Cleopatra’s reign
Defenders fought with valor; none sought mercy
Just as victory seemed within Rome’s grasp
A bloody trail to the palace had been carved
But Cleopatra lay dead, bitten by an asp
Noble Antony awaited his army
Rejoicing when the first ship came into view
But they’d waged their fiercest fight futilely
Now they mustered to strength to tell Antony too
Warriors’ hearts were filled with compassion
The sign of a truly devoted band
As they offered support for their ruler’s loss
Antony felt the power of each and every man
*But for the fact that Antony and Cleopatra
were lovers, this poem is entirely fictional.
Antony and Cleopatra actually wed and
Antony moved to Egypt.
Entry for the “Roman Legion” contest
With the autumn
like the trees
I turn
and shed my graces
bare
but for mustered
reservations
for a long nights
depression
that's as faithful
as the seasons
11.30.17
Composed for Russell Sivey's
Choose A Topic: Depression and Sadness
Submitted to Laura Loo's
Free Verse: Winter Blues
2nd Place
Submitted to Julia Ward's
Your Favourite Free Verse Poem From October 2017 or November 2017
Poetry Contest
We had a garden gnome named Griselda
the bane of our small bungalow
she was nasty and mean, at times quite obscene
the worst that you ever could know!
Her garden mate, Gregor, had feared her
but one day he mustered the nerve
with all of our backing, to send the girl packing
with cleverness, cunning and verve.
But she was vindictive by nature
and wouldn't let 'bygones' be gone
if it took all her years, she would stir up our fears
her plans were all plotted and drawn.
She waited 'til we'd quite forgotten
her villainous, vile, evil reign
then with fierce aggression, she took bold possession
of our lovely, dear, docile domain.
She poisoned the pansies and lilies
and shredded the sweet climbing vines
she disturbed my repose, when she broke the windows
with a shriek that sent chills up my spine.
She tore down my front porch swing
shattering the flowerpots and planters
mad wreckage in her wake, as she sought all to break
taking off to the back at a canter.
I squared off to defend my back garden
grabbed whatever I thought I might wield
at first, on my guard, as I entered the yard
I found she was hardly concealed...
And 'though she seemed alone in the garden
I soon found that I was mistaken
for, succinctly put- I was bound head to foot
and carried off, unhurt but shaken.
Griselda had built quite an army
it seems, in her time far away
for gremlins and trolls, from the caves to the knolls
were under her terrible sway.
They answered her orders directly
and smugly, she smiled and she smirked
a gleam in her eyes as she planned my demise
as her minions continued to work...
Heaving in stones from the quarry
they were piling them higher and higher
and my strength gave away as to my dismay
I saw they were building a pyre!
But Gregor'd escaped all their notice
as he'd hid 'neath the back garden shed
and despite his wee size, he would prove her demise
at his bellow, her company fled.
He used a cheap trick, an enchantment
that he bought from an old witch named Rue
and it seemed there were thousands (as far as the eye scanned)
of Gregors that came into view!
Her face was distorted with terror
and she promised that she'd stay away
and off like a blip- she jumped on a ship
and sailed to somewhere near Bombay.
Being lost seems to be my only option these days
Confusion appears to outweigh common sense in my life
My ability to reveal truth from lies has wreck havoc on my brain
I now strive to train my thoughts to linger in limbo
Never truly desiring to leave
This is now my fortress my solitude
Fear/Despair/Lies/Failure
As I clutch my razor and feel the etching of the sharp metal
I’m forced to think back to a time when
I had a dream, had a plan, had a voice
Now all I have is just a corner
Not even my corner
As my peripheral view is constantly reminded of
Your pathetic attempt to hold on to the past
To a woman that I’m sure was drowning as am I
In the room of torture, clutter and stale air
She has now become my hero
Because she mustered enough strength
To run and start anew
New this sounds foreign to me
My tongue has difficulty allowing
The syllables to dance off my lips, mouth
I have to stop and regain my composure
Hope is something of the past
Hope is no longer associated with me
I now live in a corner stationed between
Past & Despair
Robotic movements mimic life
But as you approach you stand to smell
The vile carcass of my flesh slowly dying
Despair is my friend
Past is my new position in life
I had peace, love and happiness once
I felt it flee each and every time I
Entered your suffocating presence
Mister Kill Joy you have successfully
Accomplished your task of
Killing Me!!!!
the cultivators
taught how to walk and talk
they approached as a group
each with a bowl of bread
given unto them by a lord
trying to speak and be strong
i said, "time moves along,
it, can't stand here all day
in contest.....i say...you say"
then they all talked at once
in different directions
throwing corrections
at everything i'd pronounce
my resources mustered
as their actions grew flustered
as my patience waned
at their reactions
their creations grew louder,
i said, "just cut the chowder,
leave now please, and don't come back"
the storm eased and mine was the final thunder clap
long since when
i've not seen them again
i can tell you they are much less
than sourly missed
in fact they've dropped off
their radar somewhere else,
excepting, of course
for their last recourse
(every once in a while)
a pamphlet at the door
I knew when I opened my eyes,
That last night was my last night here.
I felt it in my soul, as I lay there,
Listening to the breathing next to me.
I cried in bed knowing this would be hard,
But when is love an easy thing?
I mustered just enough energy,
To get my things and leave.
Though I was crying on the inside,
I couldn’t answer why I was leaving.
I couldn’t even say goodbye,
I could only walk away.
And If I can’t have his heart,
Then no one can...
_________________________________
For Nathan's, 'The Opposite Sex' Contest
There was a little painting in my yard
It was of me
I had a colourful palate with a bunch of brushes
I had no clue
of how to mix colours
of patterns that would mean anything
a vision for shape and size
of all things an aritist was born with
there were just frames and canvases
scattered everywhere I could see
I mustered the strength to lift a brush
and dip in some paint
it seemed like an orange or blue
one stroke after the other
and I felt liberated from reality
every minuscule of beauty seemed to bloom
all in one flash of a second
what would you call such an experience?
streak of eccentricity? a dream?
Reality woven neat and safe in an imagination. . . .
Most leery was I at the introduction,
not knowing if poet or possible seduction?
but after a while I mustered "hellooooo"
and 15 years later I've now come to know
That if I could convince Ron Wilson to write
he'd put it all down in the heat of the night.
"I'm too busy, he said, I just want to work!"
A poet's ... a poet, stop being a jerk!
Well he finally wore down, joined Poetry Soup,
VeeBdosa's his name AKA endless loop
A TRIBUTE TO MY BROTHER HUBERT W. HINSHAW, T/SGT, U. S. ARMY
8 July 1918 - 2 August 2014
Another World War Two hero has fallen from the shrinking ranks.
He was one of the Greatest Generation and we owe him a debt of thanks.
During the time of national peril Hubert heeded the call of his nation,
Leaving family and hearth behind to serve with honor and dedication.
He served his God and nation long and faithfully giving it his very best.
Now he sleeps 'neath hallowed soil having ended his earthly quest.
Hubie joins the ranks of his comrades whom he served with in the war.
With them he awaits Gabriel's bugle call for forming up once more.
No doubt there was a happy reunion with those who have gone before,
Mom, Dad, George, Lloyd, Opal and Cecil who welcomed him at The Door.
Dear Hubert you served with valor and courage all through life's patrol.
You'll be standing tall when you're mustered for the final calling of the roll.
During the battles of Guam, Leyte Bay and Okinawa, how you sacrificed.
What a glorious day when you reached out to touch the face of Christ!
You served mankind well and this day He'll place upon your brow a crown,
Saying, "Hubie, you served My people and your nation with great renown!"
YOU'LL ALWAYS BE MY HERO, HUBIE!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Hell hath no replete replica like an Ohiohell
memom memoboys dispelled with lovelessloss lorn laments
measured in misgiven gravid neutral grautities of cool compromised cruel
capsid cascades of dreary demented drowsy dump deep demented deny desires
with wilfull wallowing in unsupposed not to be here
herein two boys born to a numbnuts army husbodad and a
WTF what is happening in/outside this family 50's acircle
what comes next in the uneducated female nonintuition of a
deaddad accidential with a pity piss payoff and a whatdoIdo **** attitude
totally in reverse of an arkansas hope of upheaveal. GDMFSOB, who could I/we haVE
BeeN in the assinine scheme of things with someone in an intersomewhateducated semistate of minimal MFconsciousness. We play the hand we are dealt in the vast unscheme of unness.
WTF, and where/why does God take part and lessen a small boy's dream of donated dadhood by taking it away and leave him left to faulterflounder in a boyhood abyss. Dead, devoid, denied to the manmale circumstance of what the future folds to be delivered to doting descendents, like my three sons. with whom I struggled to
shower, impart, enable, enbibe, instill, foster, enliven, and all that I did not experience yet faux provide with an inner soulsense to a measured milestone of mannered man manufactured love and tendered texture of all mine to give with that that is mustered macro from a micro counteanace of humocapped coperal deliverance. All's fair they say unless u have been there and then it's every man for himself---and then, I dare u to get in my way---------no holds barred, look out for I am a survivor, all the way.
Hi, my name is Dave, and according to my grandparents, I wasn't supposed to live to be raised. Go figure.
This is my Homophone contest submission
Ewe No A Lyre
their once was a man with a bore
who worked down at the local bizarre
the bore eight corn colonels four lunch
and blew genes whir awl the man war
owe the bore eight serial two
from a plait unlike me oar ewe
we wood knead a bowl and a spoon
ore a mop wood bee totally due
won fine weak day mourn wile working
he brood tee four the men who maid toys
making tee and giving assistants
was that witch maid the mane men
his buoys
his gnu fame was nice
and it urned hymn
a day too lien back and relax
sow he went strait too his sweet
and wile still on his feat
he eight mince, mustered, pees and bare meet
at work he aloud his ant two chute bawl
butt four know obvious reason at awl
she through bred and plumb pi at
the goal
he chaste her aweigh
butt owe my he felt sow bad
sew he cent her to scents and a flour
and aloud her two come back inn an our
the gilt she felt
brought her pane
four she new she ode hymn sew much
she gathered her teem just inn thyme
two sing thank ewe sow very much.
win he herd the whey
they whir singing
it brought a tier too his I
he ran too the gait
two waive wildly
wile screaming a hi pitched buy by.
by Rochelle Harris
For lack of attention
And lack of invention
They couldn't help it
Now we can't stop it
With mustered pretention
Living in the keyhole
The pretty lies are sold
Women of appetite eat
Cannibal spawn tweet
As our credits roll
Just out of light
In the shadow of right
Men counterfeit valor
Then duck and cower
Lacking a will to fight
Fast forward life time
Wonder past its prime
Cut and paste history
To create a mystery
Of victimless crime
Remember what to say
Regurgitate yesterday
We salted the earth
And lost its worth
We lost our way
Alone in the corner
The facts adorn her
Through rise and fall
Truth awaits us all
As we learn her cure
Folly laughing loud
The trashy and proud
Can't see it there
Behind the despair
Death with its crowd
The cigar box reposed upon the closet shelf for nigh on fifty years.
Oft his family wondered what it held. Perhaps some treasured souvenirs?
The old man, a veteran, had fought in the European Theater of Operations.
He never talked about that nor did he ever boast of any special decorations.
Alas, he mustered for that final call of the roll to begin his eternal bourne.
His passing left behind a loving family and a grateful nation to mourn.
Rifle shots echoed o'er the hills - the clarion sound of "Taps" was played.
The Chaplain rendered words of hope and in hallowed clay he was laid.
His son sorted through his Dad's things learning facts he never knew.
Neatly folded in a trunk was his army uniform looking almost new.
He found hundreds of ribbon-bound V-mail letters to his beloved wife,
Expressing his love and hope for their life together beyond the terrible strife.
He was curious about the cigar box and pulled it down from the shelf.
There he found treasured things that his Dad had kept to himself.
His dog tags on a chain, faded snapshots of his wife and old army pals,
Staff sergeant chevrons, his honorable discharge and some old decals.
He choked back tears of pride as he discovered the coveted Silver Star,
And the citation that read of his bravery for heroic actions on the Saar!
There was also a Purple Heart and two Bronze Star Medals he had earned.
He was in awe of his humble but heroic Dad and the things he had learned!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved