Best One Armed Poems
Well, you asked for it so here goes!
I'm five-feet, eight inches tall from scalp to toes.
Born October 1930 in Indiana - so there, I've revealed my age.
I'm blessed with great health even at this elder stage.
Happily married to my dear Vera for 62 wonderful years,
And we've met life's vicissitudes with laughter and some tears.
Two daughters Leanna and Leslie but, alas, lost Mark, our boy.
Through the years they've brought Vera and me so much joy!
I'm blessed with 6 grandchildren and 4 great grands.
(I hope to stick around for more as my family expands.)
Enlisted at age 17 in the Air Force in 1948 retiring in 1978.
Assigned to Morocco, Germany and Japan which was great!
I 'fought' the Korean War in Bermuda dodging sea shells.
Met Vera in Bermuda and in Texas we rang those wedding bells!
Retired as a Chief Master Sergeant, the top Air Force enlisted grade.
'Twas a challenging, exciting life and I'm sure glad that I stayed.
While in the Air Force I earned a degree in Justice Administration,
And upon Air Force retirement became a Colorado Bailiff for my vocation.
I like folks who keep their word, are punctual and I don't suffer jerks gladly!
Me and the Lord are working on this but I have very little patience, sadly.
I love God, family and nation and enjoy writing poetry and even though,
I've penned nearly 1200, alas, as a bard I've made very little dough!
I like steak and taters and a sip of Beringers White Zinfindel now and then,
And going to Cripple Creek to play the one-armed bandit when I can.
Sorry if I bored you but once I began writing the words just seemed to flow.
Now, you probably know more about me than you ever wanted to know!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Regina Riddle's "Bio Poem" Contest
With a pull of the arm
the eyes started to roll
Sweat poured from the pits
as if nothing at all.
Tears smudged the rims
from the pull, roll, and ring
When the fruit salad face
Showed a lop-sided grin.
boxer
quick youth
roping doping dropping
the one armed ghost
champion
I was encompassed within the sullen lust
Of gentrified prepositions
Incomplete adjectives layer the magnitude of
My emptied valor
I became entrenched in the touch
The smile
The tears
Of wistful elegance
This onyx cry
Now turns into an everlasting echo
I sing to these gated heavens
Where visionary angels no longer
Give me a second glance
Expectations rot unto red herrings
As supple conundrums
Insist my smile
Will “be ok”
The most conformed lie,
The most performed cry,
I was ever beaten with
…
Salted whips bless this tenderness,
Her one-armed caress
Diluted into illicit “flawlessness”
And I would have digressed
But, I became stronger
When she yelled at my infantile stance
Hunchback of forbidden damns
Burying our luminescent memories
In fear’s corrupted sands
My vulnerable love
Now life sentenced
She turned my open arms
Into vindicated assault rifles
As she cocked the clip
Of my abused remnants
Oh, how your abandoned grace
Blessed my broken rosaries
With silent goodbyes
Yet, here on bent knee
I still cry
I still cry
…
For the return
Of your identity
All of your eloquent mistakes
As your altered ego
Strokes the girth
Of fear’s liability
And I dare you to push back against
My scarred & humbled smile
I do not fear you today
I do not fear you tonight
I will not fear you tomorrow
No matter the weight of my sorrow
For my poignant love
Will always shine brighter
Than your poisoned fear
Of my tattered innocence
©D.J.E.
These people make me sick
These false prophets
These religious money pits
These well dressed demons of deception
Nothing but
Con artists
Liars
Purveyors of pure sacrilege
Pretending to offer you salvation
Offering you the comfort of the lord
For a price
Selling you a seat in heaven
The more you pay the better your accommodations
Religious travel agents
Without their blessing
You’re doomed to be left behind
You wont get into heaven
Without your donation
I myself believe in religion
Support all religions
They may be different in their views and customs
But the end goal is all the same
Eternal peace
But these people are different
They to,
Want peace…
Your piece
My piece
And anyone else’s piece they can get
Their goal is simple
Fleece the flock
Sell them promise
Sell them an eternal ticket
Guarantee them eternal bliss
For a price
Sell them anointed hankies
And blessed books
Promise them wonderful lives
With their religious looks
They are the one-armed bandits of the new age
With a bible in one hand and a credit card machine in the other
We take Visa, MasterCard, American Express and Discover
But no checks please
We need your “prayer” right now
Not in 7-10 days
These people make me sick
There are so many of them
Saying they represent God
Flashing 800 numbers
Requesting your “prayers”
Which will only be “answered”
As long as credit card is valid
Are people that dumb?
I mean really that naïve?
Do they really believe?
The cheap suits
Silk ties
And piss poor acting of sincerity and caring
Do they not see the obvious?
Are they truly blind?
Do they want to be spiritually slaughtered?
Do they not remember the one very important rule?
You never have to pay to pray!
All God has ever asked of anyone is their faith
Time, is your most valuable asset
It is what you have the least of in life
And this is what you pay to God
Your time devoted to him and your faith in him
Wake up, before it’s to late
You don’t have much time left
Spend it wisely
Spend it on God
Eric (and sometimes not)
Bourbon street and candy canes two unicorns in disguise,
Nickels for an easy dime,
And a quarter for a rhyme.
Shooting stars and colored moons aces to the heart,
A world through rose tinted glasses,
And dreams left standing gone from the masses.
Take the day out of night and the night out of day,
A different drummer a different song,
And the one-armed bandit takes what's wrong.
A cloak and dagger game of men and mice,
Every bait and switch of hand,
And the piper leads to the promised land.
Lucky was such a lucky dog.Who had such
a lucky owner.That one day, the two went
walking together in the park.Only to hear the
other dogs bark.The owner said! 'Lucky, today's
my lucky day'.So he went ahead, and bought
a lottery ticket.Over at the local supermarket.
Then he rubbed the lottery ticket, onto Lucky's
nose.Only heaven knows, how lucky Lucky's
nose could be.Because, before you knew it.
The owner of Lucky.Was as rich as can be.
The owner of Lucky.Was a walking money
tree.And Lucky! Was just a lucky dog strolling
along.Luck! Was on Lucky's side once again.
When the owner of Lucky.Went to the horse
racing track.The owner of Lucky, bet on Slippery
Shoes to win in the seventh.After the horse won.
The owner of Lucky had loads of fun.Again! Him
and the dog went strolling along.So the very next
day, the owner took his dog Lucky, to the big casino
in Las Vegas.Where he sat next to Lucky, and
played the one armed bandit slot machine.
Before you knew it.The owner of Lucky hit a very
large jackpot.The place went wild, and everybody
was happy.Everywhere the owner went, with Lucky
along.The owner would win.Only to hear his favorite
song.So the next time you buy a K-9.Name him
Lucky! The lucky dog..
Pet Story Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2003,2014..
ALL rights reserved.
From Sixty-Three to Sixty-Seven, we watched it,
upon our tiny TV screens.
We banned all phone calls or interruptions of
these fascinating scenes.
Dr. Kimball had been convicted
of the murder of his wife.
On the day set for his execution
he'd escaped and ran for his life.
He ran, looking for the true murderer,
the one armed man he saw,
at same time steps ahead of Lieutenant
the dogged arm of the law.
I watched every single episode
of those four seasons, so
how did I miss the ending
on the last night of the show?
For nearly fifty years I've wondered,
did he win or did he lose?
If he's still running, I am certain,
he's worn out those running shoes.
There was a local lad named one-armed Joe
Who was an alligator wrestling pro
He misjudged the 'gator's snap
Resulting in this mishap
He dined on 'gator tail as quid pro quo
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The full moon glistens on the fallen snow;
He still has a couple of miles left to go,
As he walks on home from the bus depot;
Of his visit there nobody yet knows.
His deployment in Iraq has come to an end;
The Purple Heart hangs on his chest;
Of his shortened tour he told no family or friends;
His left sleeve is pinned to his vest.
The Greyhound bus that dropped him off,
Passes him rolling down the road;
The shrapnel he carries in a chewing tobacco tin,
As he marches along in the dark and the cold.
The long driveway to the house he grew up in,
Has not been shoveled of the snow;
The lights are still on, as everyone within,
Prepares for a midnight mass to go.
They are startled by noises out on the porch,
And wonder at the knock on the door;
They all rush in to see who it is,
As he drops his duffel bag upon the floor.
A one-armed hug isn’t so bad,
On the Eve before a Christmas Day;
When received by a hero son
Who’s been missed ever since he went away.
They all went to church with tears in their eyes;
One family of thousands of more;
Overjoyed by a wonderful Christmas surprise -
A soldier coming home from the war.
Futile attempts hurt
One armed man punching the wind
Life is frustrating.
Futile attempts scar
One armed men punching the wind
Unable to vent.
Some say:
Secrets lie in the dead of night;
Darkness covers everything in sight.
Hiding behind night’s veil like a sprite;
Secrets never reveal their hidden insight.
Some say:
A secret lies within an entire continent;
In the folds of a mountain monument.
An eternal secret lies darkly embedded,
Inscrutable as destiny and equally dreaded.
Some say:
Secrets exist that are not worth knowing;
Earth’s dark places are not worth going.
Pretending to be secret lends a little fame,
Not worth the cheap cost of its covert name.
Some say:
A secret bears the indelible mark of mystery,
That preserves an enigma down thru history.
The Grand Sphinx offers an unsolvable riddle,
As enduring as a one-armed man with a fiddle.
Some say:
There is a secret in the night’s darkness,
A deep dark mystery known for its starkness.
The darkness was here yesterday all thru the night;
We cower within its flicker until the ascent of light.
Some say:
A secret lies in the calligraphy of the wrinkled shell,
Hidden words engraved under a religious spell.
But no, the secret lies within the core of the nut,
Whose seed seeks protection in this outer hut.
There is no secret that life has not foretold;
The mystery we hold up its essence to behold.
The secret of the universe lies quietly within.
The Mystery will never unravel, but forever spin.
At least, that’s what some say. . . .
If ever I had to have a country victim of pedophily : LXXXVI
[Note: 216,000 cases of pedophily, perpetrated by the clergy, have been recorded by the Catholic Church in France since 1950.]
If ever I had to have a country, would that it be a country where no infant boy or lad need ever fear of being the victim of pedophily
Let it also be a country that sent no Albuquerque or Vasco de Gama, Drake or Raleigh, Cortes nor Dupleix to undermine the « street arabs » and « orphaned » heathens under seal of the Papal authority
For, remember how I was persuaded to assume the rôle of Ministre d’État Plenipotenciary without Portfolio or Duty, the Saviour of down-trodden Womenkind (O, « A Daniel come to Judgement ! »),
for I’d turn Torquemeda, revive the Inquisition, the Ace of Papacy
Will I let fresh-cheeked choir boys nor novice sacristans in strict page-boy linen, candle or Cross in hand lisping psalms disappear in the dense stench-filled folds of priestly « soutanes » behind pillars under Roman arches or polished teak encrusted encasements their stifled cries for help choked through holy promiscuity
Nor will I let Henry the VIIIth behead his wives in the Tower for failing to provide him with a male heir nor let no Archbishop lie bleeding at the Cathedral at Canterbury nor no politicking murder
stain some Florentian cathedral to foist the House of Medeci
You guessed right alright, I’ll take over the Tower of London as my foremost torture dungeon, call out the Swiss helmeted Guards with their spears and while I keep puffing at the Havana cigars (a chest-full gift from Fidel Castro, in grateful acknowledgement of inestimable services rendered to soft-ball gals in shedding excess weight on the ground) and keep crying out « Habemus » Pope to drown out the squeals yells and screams issuing from pedophiles pierced by Swiss lances in the rears of millions of priests found guilty
You bet that’s what I’ll do even if the entire Order of the Malte forgot about the Crusades against the Turks and Saracens - and poor one-armed Cervantes – during the Battle of Lepanto just to crucify me
And so what even if I never ever had no country with orphaned infants and laddies to pity
© T. Wignesan, Paris – Octobre 14, 2021
My freshman year is ending and I’m as busy as a one-armed juggler. Of course covid is back.
It reoccurs at the worst times, like a movie slasher long thought dead.
When we have something scheduled very early in the morning, we call it an “early-burn.”
This one early-burn morning I had a 7am meeting. Peter and I had met for breakfast because he’s back in my life and he’s ALWAYS up and out early.
It was snowing and we were hurrying, because somehow, I always cut things close. I think I tripped over my shoe-string on a patch of ice. I went down hard and I heard this loud ripping sound. I’d ripped my pants badly and my book bag spilled too. I’m scrambling around on the ground in an attempt to grab some loose papers the wind was scattering.
Peter says, “Wow, your panties are really thin.”
I jump up “I feel you don’t know where our boundaries are,” I laugh, “you’re so nasty - don’t just stand there grinning - HELP me!” I indicate two papers for him to chase. I looked to see how bad the rip was (BAD). Of course, my coat was short that day, so I untucked my blouse. “How does this look?” I asked Peter.
“That works,” he said, giving my fix his imprimatur.
The two of us managed to corral the papers. “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen,” Peter said.
I realized I’d ripped my pants leg and scraped my knee badly - it was bleeding profusely.
“God Damn It!” I went off.
This lady comes up - seemingly out of nowhere - this old white Christian lady who we’d never seen before. She was so out of place and random and she says, “I really don’t think you should be talking like that in public.” She wasn’t harsh.
At that moment, a gust of wind came up that made me lower my head, as though I couldn’t look the old woman in the eyes but I was just ignoring her anyway - having my own set of issues to deal with.
She had a point though. I’m cursing too much these days. I feel like If I admit it, maybe it’s ok but I am trying not to cuss anymore - well less maybe - at least in a negative way.
“I think you look fu-kin’ GREAT,” would still be acceptable.