Best Petered Poems
Corsican sand
on the Rio Grande
Simon Bolivar weeps
the night asleep
Renegade cycles
hogs gone mild
Gehinnom's Mayor
Timothy Leary's child
Zebras abound
in Peppermint Land
Alan Ginsberg howls
from primal jowls
Leopold Bloom
did not predict ZOOM
Cosmic collisions silent
without Daniel Boone
Country music
Mix in Ragtime
from Alexander's Band
to Motown Rhyme
Andy Warhol's mind
spilled out in soup cans
Campbell's pork and beans
Welsh Rarebit also-ran
When free association
Met psychic gestalt
The resultant metastasis
Petered out beneath salt
Stream of Consciousness is out
New Age Meaninglessness is sin
Wherever Narcissism reigns
Foot Worship rushes in
The best poems at night
often come unbidden
J. Cricket fervently wished
This one hadn't been written
Categories:
petered, angst, confusion, crazy, howl,
Form:
Rhyme
The grandfather clock just struck twelve, that magic hour of night,
And there he sits drumming our fingers musing about something to write!
He's been biting our nails and running our fingers through his hair,
Scratching his head, searching for witty or apt verse to prepare!
Ah! Now he's flexing our digits and I detect in his eyes a gleam.
We think he's collecting his thoughts to concoct a masterful scheme.
Something comparable to works by Whitman or Riley, no doubt.
These fingers should get some credit, no matter how it turns out!
What will it be? A poem about religion, politics or the billowing seas,
Little children, old soldiers, love gone sour or scarlet hued trees?
Perhaps a few stanzas about cowboy lore - only the Lord can tell!
Our fingers just fly over the keyboard - that old coot types pretty well!
We're getting numb and need rest but he provides no reprieve.
He's typing at least seventy-eight words per minute, I do believe!
But never fear, we'll manage to keep ahead of his versatile mind,
And keep pounding away as thoughts from his prolific skull unwind!
Well, he has completed what he considers a masterpiece at last.
We're petered out and ready to curl up - we have typed so fast!
But all of us from our thumbs to our pinkies have had a blast!
We pray he never gets writer's cramp - that would leave us aghast!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
1st Place in Linda-Marie's "Finger Frenzy" Contest - June 2010
Categories:
petered, funnyold, old,
Form:
Rhyme
The Orangutang:
There once was a traditionalist,
Who in his ignorance had missed
The beauty of youth,
The ever-changing truth!
He's a typical fundamentalist!
The Traditionalist:
"I can't stand these kids and their slang!
They are just looking for a bang!
Their rhymes are funky,
But so are monkeys!"
- Did he just call me an orangutang?
"These darn kids and this gosh darn slam,
It may flow, but it's still a scam!
If it ain't metered,
Then it's petered!
Why waste your ink scribbling flimflam?"
Categories:
petered, confusion, funny, on writing
Form:
Limerick
I must be -- me
to be not, would be
contradictions more foul than those in D.C.
irrelevant, you chastise
make your feelings relate
to be a poet
but is not the message
created by my pen
poetically fulfilling for me?
if my precepts
offer no memorable revelation
for you
you may not understand
now
or ever
never having viewed the Alps
illustrated travel folders
generate no sighs
yet pen in hand
drawing in a deep breath of truth
feelings
your mind
camera candidly clicking
world exposed in free style
awaken
meter petered out with cursed verse
confined rhyme
precept message
a goal sought
sometimes conveyed
spare the structure; paint the picture
sharp strokes of emotion
live through the Creator
*For John Freeman’s “Your Free Verse Precept” Contest
Categories:
petered, on writing and words
Form:
Free verse
Abstract
A fresh beginning,
Like a new breath of air,
In Nature's nostalgic atmosphere!
New birth.
New beginnings.
New thoughts and ideas.
New dreams.
No matter how thinly stretched and petered out,
Or how old things made you become
Unfounded by the dumbfounded,
Begin anew!
It's like turning over a new leaf,
Declaring and deciding: "It's time
To bring out what's down inside.
Searching the self, the soul.
Energizing the spirit-energy,
Renewing the mind.
Refreshing the soul to connect
To positive inputs from sources like
Nature, people, environment.
Desiring a change from the "old".
Wanting a change from the mundane.
Casting out whatever impedes and cause to fall
Backwards instead of moving forwards.
Finding a new path along the journey.
Creeping, forcing and willing the self
Holistically towards a set goal; inch by inch.
Long steps in the past became
Noticed and were shortened
Or perhaps made not to move in
Any direction at all!
Like the "stump of Jesse"
Which grew into a large
And productive tree, Rise!
Become new and productive
Like the spring season.
If your "tree" became a "stump".
It hadn't really died!
Let it be planted by the "still waters"
With roots deep and winding around rocks
Below, like a"green olive tree";
That finds water for sustenance.
In this manner, have Faith in your Dreams
and Hopes.
Fly like an eagle to the farthest point,
Towards the dream that God has willed for you!
Categories:
petered, courage, dream, environment, faith,
Form:
Verse
the girl on the shore.
my father, he died today
wordless, tearless grief
for the petered life
tendrils of sorrow that curls around your heart, most inconveniently
and the lingering dusting of sadness
constant
what is the measure
what is the worth
of a man's failings and his best efforts?
my father, he has crossed over
the door has closed, finally and forever
while we who live live the incessant demands
on this journey, first of grief
and then of dawning normalcy
till joy returns and laughter comes alongside
a breath, a shadow
so mere and too fleeting
i am the who the girl stands on the shore.
and the waves beckon with their endless and eternal song.
Categories:
petered, death,
Form:
Free verse
*Image of Ready to Break by UCA.
Tale of the Halted
'Tis be a day of echo
and with it, the result
preys on the lips to no
end, the uncontrolled
tongues hast lain in
plain sight of held shame
and clumsy splits stewing
in a devil's brew.
Fire musters the envious
their claim and precious
bans a quick ambition
to an embellish sheen,
their feigned embrace
traces honey as blood
parts sapped mettle, a
fusion of scraps from
an enigmatic ex.
Now blesseth truths
burns their brittle fibrous
habitats, for they etch
their soul's in the ashes
and wallow in the vague
ambiguity of last night's
light show and be as much
the reason for claims
that themselves never
hast happened.
Natheless, they'd be none
the grander e'er seen, be
they runaway wanderers,
all unconscious, kinetics
empower their motions
as the fire that bred their
souls, hast petered out.
Yet, no need for flames,
as it has been called out,
'tis duel works in passing,
an uplift streak sparingly
made a dart for life to
unleash its hold and give
the halted birth a soul.
It rives steadily, yanks
at the skinned that
detains its pledge,
abrupts suddenly, and
sanctioned to live.
Enters the settler, an
embedded phase
replete annals done
sheaths an escape
with a glow so soft
though shields the
inevitable its moral
claim to be realized
and resist the deniers'
reclamation and their
rumored tales that
made their spark
ignite.
2019 September 17
Categories:
petered, fire,
Form:
Metrical Tale
There once was a blizzard named Stella
Too powerful for an umbrella
But she petered out
Losing all of her clout
Like a post-midnight-clothed Cinderella.
Her wind is still whipping around
But as for the snow on the ground
It’s in inches, not feet
Which must be bittersweet
For the ones who hoped she’d be renowned.
Categories:
petered, storm,
Form:
Limerick
You could say spring was in the air
When his ballpoint pen flew apart
Arthur took charge of it's repair
So that made it a work of art!
Declaring that, he felt compelled
To write something down with it
Frowning his brow, with said pen held
He channeled his humor and wit
When she looked over his shoulder
Every thought he had petered out
She seemed surprised when he told her
Peter problems is what it's about!
Categories:
petered, humor, life, relationship, writing,
Form:
Rhyme
And now let’s speak of Paparazzi
Who show us things that we should not see
They think they are so hotsy-totsy
Let Mama have the job
Yes, I’d prefer the Mamarazzi
I’m sure they’d show us how to not be
They’d surely take a better shot, see
As Papa’s such a slob
But now let’s move to Billygoats
Why can’t they be called Millygoats
They then would not be silly goats
Let’s give the girls a chance
And what of Lazysusan’s fate
Not fair, though now it’s much to late
I think that Lazypeter’s great
They’d have a fine romance
Unless he is all Petered out
As I am with this goofy bout
More gender benders left to scout
But now I’m tired, so Sue me
Categories:
petered, fun, funny, humor, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
I’m a man whose tired and worn
Empty and dead on my feet,
Petered out, played out, pooped and torn
Burn out, broke down and beat.
Drowsy, droopy, drooping drained
Dog tired, done in, done for,
Exasperated, enervated empty faint
Overtaxed, overworked and bored
Sick of, sleepy, spent and stale
Haggard, run down, all in
Consumed, collapsing, asleep, annoyed
Exhausted, bygone and barren
Ramshackle, rickety, run-down and frail
Bedraggled, broken-down and creaky
Threadbare, tottering, tired and used
Feeble, fragile and flimsy
Out of shape, out of gas, done in and feeble
Gone to seed, soft, incapacitated
Listless, washed out, weakened, on the ropes
Undermined, fatigued, prostrated.
Discontented, dissatisfied, tacky and dull
Jaded, glum and gloomy
Sick and tired, up to here, driveling, drab
Sated, down and weary
Befuddled, unsteady, wobbly and faint
Pallid, pale and lean
Stupefied, staggering, slaphappy, subdued
Oh damn I got to go pee.
Categories:
petered, satire, silly, words,
Form:
Free verse
After a lifetime
(pronounced like millennium),
where tenacity futilely braced
psyche deeply purpled,
hellishly, and lethally
traced resulting scars -
jackknifed, emasculated
cruelly chaste
sexuality expired, lapsed,
and petered out testosterone
begone to waste,
and how this abased
bereft of eroded optimism,
nee faith no more - erased,
solitary carbon based animal
coalesced into countless
foreborn generations
(glommed *****sapiens
salient survival skills)
mortified, putrefied, and
stagnated toxic brew
quaffing poisonous
score peon - composite gin,
barley distilled, exiled,
and fragmented
human encased
faculties doggedly
catapulted, with haste
squandered genetic inheritance
kamikaze potential
apathetically plundered, akin
how Hindenburg plummeted
like led zeppelin,
(scare way to craven)
his foghorn emitting distinctive
Semitic bulbous
shofar shaped schnozzle traced
analogous to decrepit son -
dialed helpline to late
promising lad once vaunted
lauded, and
deemed hereditarily, -
he busted great expectations
quintessentially, psycho
socially, and opportunistically
lineage noble storied
standing déclassé debased
forced to take stock at aging
non-thrilled man
in the mirror
haggard heavily creased
doughy paste poker face
(born that way)
blankly stare ring back, spaced
out, no longer boyish,
but gray bearly grizzled,
flecked, and etched stubble,
scraggly unkempt whiskers
discombobulated
straggly matted hair
limply drape stupefied noggin
utterly disc graced
countenance eye spy
crows feet laced
blotchy complexion re: placed
once smooth skin
donned dawning senescence
amplification trumped
"NON FAKE" crudely
aping scrim age lost
fight of his life.
Categories:
petered, absence, abuse, allusion, angst,
Form:
Blank verse
Saint Patrice day
In 1957 my ship docked in the town of Cork (Ireland)
If you think that is a long time ago, you are probably right
but in my head, it was yesterday.
Life was slower back then, cargo was lowered into
donkey carts, there were many mules waiting
we went to a pub, a stone a throwaway and drank Guinness
Never did I tell my mother, but I told her of the Irish girl
I was going to marry had red hair and green eyes
she had the aroma of an angel.
Leisureliness has ended ships leave as ships do
On the shore, she waved, we cried, and people smiled
they didn’t know; no one had loved so deeply as us.
Our letter writing petered out, so many adventures for young
minds I met a girl in Amsterdam, she had a bike.
My mother asked about the Irish girl. Her name was Catlin.
Categories:
petered, absence, blessing, fantasy,
Form:
Crown of Sonnets
I dubbed a first year my room mate
Upon arrival into our teacher training college
To baptize him. His pride in quick order I did decimate
Taking him at high celerity on a binge
Initiating him into traditional beer
In a nearby shanty compound
Where I got his head into God’s fear
Whereby upon returning the greenhorn couldn’t push anyone around
The special welcome made him the follower
I desired
Having diminished his self-concept and self-esteem lower
Than he aspired but higher than he perspired
I proceeded to indoctrinate him into elocution parlance
As best as I could
Ensuring he possessed a college etiquette lance
That would
Not upstage Special
Whom he soon began to emulate
With artificial
Manners to dissimulate
The nascent confidence he feared might offend me
If he grew overconfident
More than I could agree
If he became less diffident
But he played the good boy
Obedient like a lapdog
Happy to enjoy a bone for a new toy
Like a contented warthog
When my training petered out
Satisfaction smiled
In my bosom without any shadow of doubt that my clout
Tamed the greenhorn who wouldn’t succeed in getting me riled.
Categories:
petered, poems,
Form:
Free verse
Old Caleb Trotter had great plans for his town in Colorado.
For years he'd roamed the Rockies, finally finding his El Dorado!
He discovered glittering gold that would surely make him flush!
He founded Trotter's Gulch and soon there was a frenzied rush!
Cabins were built on plots that prospective miners selected.
Why, there was even a school and three churches were erected!
'Twas a bawdy place with the usual brawls and seedy saloons.
Soiled doves and gamblers invaded the town by platoons!
Time moved on and Caleb established a general store,
Figuring that the mining game wasn't for him anymore.
He made his fortune catering shovels, overalls and boots,
To hard-rock prospectors and other such galoots!
The population reached ten thousand and showed great potential.
It boasted a railroad station and other services essential.
It included three undertakers, five blacksmiths and ten preachers,
Four doctors, two newspapers and twelve well-respected teachers!
Alas, the pay dirt around Trotter's Gulch soon petered out.
The future of the town was left very much in doubt.
'Twas soon abandoned and another ghost town was born.
'Tis no longer on the map - it now lies desolate and forlorn!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Categories:
petered, cowboy-western
Form:
Rhyme