Best Racks Poems
I attended a large gathering and took some time
to observe the great assortment of shoes stacked on the racks
I saw new shoes, pricey shoes, and shoes not worth a dime
and shoes that seemed to have crossed many paths and tracks.
I saw dainty sandals and flighty high heeled ones too
I saw sporty sneakers and rough and tough trainers
I saw both the laced and the leathery buckled shoe
Then I saw the humble yet hardy pair of slippers.
I saw pointy shoes, furry shoes and flatties as well
I saw flowery ones and those studded with trinket gems
Some stacked neatly in pairs, others thrown about pell mell
Some recently repaired, some coming off at the hems.
I saw long boots, rubber boots and
there were glittery Indian styled stilettoes
I spotted fragile glass sandals and metallic brass sandals
and soft comfy ones for comfort of feet 'n' toes.
And while I was thus lost and engrossed
in watching the great assortment of footwear
The old caretaker, to me, a cheap pair tossed
saying, ' here's an extra pair if you've lost your shoes.
She was too busy and distracted to be in my shoes of muse
So I'd to slip out thinking of some quick excuse
She didn't even notice I wasn't actually barefoot
So I had to take them elsewhere, both my muse and my boot!
Ah, and long ago when once we could afford only a 'shoestring' budget
I once hadn't enough bucks to replace a worn out pair of shoes
I was sad for not having even a good goody two shoes
Then God showed me a wayfarer's shoeless pair of barefeet
and then one hapless one with no feet at all!
So I could imagine life being in their missing shoes.
(Footnote*
Wonderin where I saw so many shoes off peoples feet? Well, in our religious gatherings say for prayers in the mosque hall or even the religious lecture hall, we've to enter barefooted and sit down crosslegged. So that's where you come across all kinds of shoes on racks provided in the cubicle.
Actually in the Disney movie, 'THE PRINCE OF EGYPT', i marked that even Moses took off his shoes before talking to God.)
$hawty Got $wag
Shawty got swag,
Shawty mad dope.
Face all cheesin’,
She real turned up.
Goin’ to da club,
She steppin' wit her peeps,
Lookin’ so ratchet,
She’s straight up hoochie.
No racks in her pocket,
No stacks in her wallet,
But she all into bubbly
Slurpin’ and burpin’.
Lookin for a big baller,
Who’ll give her wat she wants,
Wildin’ on the dance floor,
Tweakin’ an’ freakin’,
Shawty actin' so cra cra!
She just like da rest a dem,
But Shawty real fly,
Sure likes a lotta ice,
Bling bling, and Benjamins.
Shawty creepin’ to hook up
Coz she needs a boo wit finesse,
Who’ll give her Yves St. Laurent,
5-star hotels, and 5-star restaurants.
Shawty off the chain,
Shawty off the hook,
She got game and she’s aight!
Shawty da bomb - fuh real!!!
08-18-2014
Contest: Ebonics – Let’s Do Some Slang
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Placement: 1st
Some Terms and Definitions:
shawty – a young attractive female; dope – cool, nice, awesome; swag – style;
turn up – excited; mad – really a lot; peeps – friends, close pals; baller – a
thug that made it in the big time; racks/stacks– lots of money; aight – alright;
wildin’– to go crazy, acting out of control; cra cra – crazy; tweakin’/freakin’ –
dancing provocatively and moving around out of control; cheesin’ – smiling;
finesse – man who has swag and can spend a huge amount of money; ratchet
– ghetto diva; creepin’ – sneaking about; bubbly – champagne; bling bling –
expensive flashy jewelry; Benjamins – hundred dollar bills; boo – one’s lover;
da bomb – the best of the best; game – skills; ice – expensive flashy jewelry
usually diamonds or jewelry with diamonds; off the chain/off the hook –
excellent, fantastic, awesome; fly – cool, in style; hook up – getting together
with someone romantically; hoochie – a female who dresses trashy; straight up
– absolutely, really.
Your dad, a Dachshund once stuck in Chihuahua.
The best of both in you, with that expectant
Confusing carpets for the lawn enigma.
I know….the raining….getting wet….you can’t.
As coldness chills the room, a sheet for you.
The perfect tucking of in, but you moved!
I ponder, just how crazy is my Boo?
The sheet’s thread count too low to be approved?
Your dance in circles, spinning on the floor.
Rewards and treasures known upon the racks.
Induced by meals and that one pantry door.
In such a fury, choking on the snacks.
I know what God’s book says, I’ve searched it whole.
But still, I hope you have a little soul.
11.14.14
I was reminiscin' the other day about times that were more sublime,
And got to thinkin' about those old stores called Kresge's Five and Dime.
I recall browsin' through Kresge's Stores as a lad with Mom and Dad.
There ain't no more Kresge's Stores as far as I know and that is very sad.
There was a Kresge's in every sleepy town along Main Street.
Sittin' on a stool at the lunch counter was always a special treat.
Munchin' on a hotdog and tater chips and then a slab of cherry pie,
Or maybe a sundae concocted by the soda jerk would lighten up my eye!
Notions galore were displayed on tables, bins, racks and shelves.
Friendly clerks stood by to help but folks generally helped themselves.
The cashier put yer money in a tube that sailed off into space,
And in a trice returned yer change from some mysterious place!
I recall the squeaky wooden floors and visitin' the store at Christmas time,
When Santa Claus doled out bags of candy to kids at each Five and Dime.
Alas, those neighborhood stores have been replaced by huge national chains,
And only pleasant memories of Kresge's Five and Dime Stores remains.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
(a Salute to Howard Moss)
Although it is not yet warm,
we have shoved to the backs of closets
snow-boots, gloves, and woolen scarves,
locked tire chains and ice scrapers
into trunks of automobiles as if
tomorrow the first bloom appears.
Oh, stiff wind blow, hold back snow,
whose flakes unwelcome gust
while hearts claim lilac scent.
Oh, pale moon, come, lend your light.
Oh, songbird, drop your sweet notes here,
while old men's hats sail past
and girls push down their skirts—
with both hands—as purses cling
on hunched shoulders and hair-strands
blow against cheeks.
What is this howling wind
and who brought this mournful song,
this wild, feathered up-surging
as if tomorrow the world upturns.
We've shoved our gloves,
our boots and scarves behind
the racks in backs of closets,
locked away the sacks of salt,
and scoured the ground for signs
of hyacinth buds or crocus flush,
while old mens' hats sail past
and girls hold down their skirts
as purses sway and hair-strands
whip against their cheeks?
And though it is not yet warm,
there is the mystery of spring.
We are all gathered on the platform
Jumping up and down with glee
We can see the smoke of the puffing train
Coming nearer to take us to the sea
We are off on a Whitsun treat
Forty children or more
Many adults to look after us
Experience told them what was the score
They heaved on wicker baskets of goodies
And crates of lemonade
We were off to Barry Island for a Picnic
Just a half hours ride away
The seats were rather hard and had
mesh racks above to store luggage for folk
Opened up the windows with a leather strap
Stuck out heads to a face full of smuts and smoke
The choc choo sound was so exhilarating
Excitement grew with every mile
Wanted to be that train driver with his whistle
To pull that chain that made the sound, bringing smiles.
Had a wonderful time on the sands
Paddled our feet in the sea
Gathered around to eat our food
Washed down for the adults with gallons of tea
Forty tired and happy children
Clambered aboad that train for home
The clicketty clack of the wheels
the sway of the carriage, sending them to sleep and dream
We were soon at our home station
So sleepy yet didn't want the day to end
Tired and dirty, had a lovely day in the sun
Starting the day aboard a steam train that puffed around the bend.
Penned January 20 2015
"Only a good guy with a gun can stop a bad guy with a gun."
So says the gun lobby—the bad guy with a gun!
School, shop, and street wax wet with blood,
But the hum of the gun works drowns out their cry.
Their tears, still, run deep in our ears
Sweeping away old lies about guns
That gun shop bums so glibly put forth.
By caskets in a ditch, they make their pitch
To conjure gun sales out of every shooting.
"Strap a mop to a gun butt to blot the blood," they'll say
Knowing that in our fright they can fly us like a kite
And lead us by a string to gun shops and the like.
Soon, though, we see not more sales alone
But in their red wake more hells too.
By right we arm but by love disarm.
Now is the nation called to love:
By gun control we challenge not your rights
But your heart to sacrifice that love entails.
So give me not a reading of the law
But tales of love's deeds in hearts and homes—
How racks have shed arms like autumn leaves
And turned the land from red to gold.
Hush
Hush now my lover
Come rest your head upon my shoulder
Let my arms league bring you closer
Quiet now my love
Or your tears will shred to my ruination
All the courage that I have
Let this soft caress to yours encompass
And do not hold upon the burning cup
It is so, how my lips are scorched
Come my love, disentangle your heart from this apart
Rest your weary self here
Lest this choke in my throat blister so
When I speak your name
It is for I; all the lovers under this sun
I see them of smiles and arm in arm
Rip my foot soles to desolation
I have no path to follow
Do not take on so, my lover
For if it must be, I will covet the lost
Of funeral marches
As for you, so I, for me, am not
In these seconds resplendent
In these minutes redundant
I to, hold upon the burning cup
To reek some revenge on your loneliness
I call God a fool !
And stand in defiant
Belligerent; should such love be squandered and sent to hell
I would stand, still
And call your name to the closing heavens
Tortured with some mercies over spill
And stab my accusation to the hearts of angels
Hush my lover, I beg
Your sobbing racks into every ounce of strength I have
And with gritted teeth inside my eyes
I can but cling to hope
And slowly die
With this forlorn and empty life
Please my love, should I fall amidst the briars
And my heart dig upon the shovels of graveyards
Spit rumored on tomb stones
And call all those other lovers liars
Come now, my bride, rest here
Follow me to these palatial dreams
Let us forget lifetime living
Let us forge inside an anvils breathing all that we desire
Hold fast to me my lover
Submit, rest, resplendent for our bravery
To look beyond hope and see beyond dreams
To the place where we were meant to be
Hush now my lover
Come rest your head upon my shoulder
Let my arms league bring you closer
FREE MY HEART
An extreme sadness engulfs my heart...
like an ebony cage... of frozen tears,
Within, my heart beats in obscurity,
emotions trapped in a turmoil create a stagnant storm,
pain racks the whole body,
as I keep up the masquerade of smiles... and false promises.
I am tired...
tired of this constant drumming ache.
Aloof from everyone, I live a life of death
each day, anguish and pangs of sorrow hypnotize me...
The suture on my broken heart is torn, beyond repair.
Not even the veneer of your love or kindness can bind it now.
Crimson crystal drops drip, as I labour to liberate my heart
from this opaque world... where no one sees me.
Today, in Christ, I am free...
free from the storm within...
free from the world without...
free to fly...
free to write...
free forever.
My heart has found its freedom... au revoir.
30th May, 2017
About thanksgiving a bunch of turkeys get together,
Have a meeting about sales for the holidays.
About fall they send out that letter.
Well those business folks got to cuss and discuss,
And figure how to gear it,
To make us customers
Feel that holiday spirit!
Here’s the minutes of the meeting,
We’ll skip the high fives greeting.
“All through the mall we’ll have ho- ho- ing Santys
From the computer games to the racks of panties.
Adult book stores will send out Yule tide flyers,
To attract all the spirit filled ***** buyers.
Don’t forget to put some plastic wreaths
Round those expensive briefs,
And the music; what about the music?!
Let’s start the secular Christmas songs,
In time for the black Friday throngs.
Make sure the songs don’t mention God or Jesus,
We don’t want to offend and have people leave us,
Remember Christmas is all about the money,
So let’s spread the ads on thick like honey!
Hide all the advertised sales on goods for this time of year..
And put the top dollar toys and items by the cashier..
So if you business people got more ideas, let’s push them through!
What’s that? Oh yeah…ah…merry Christmas to you too.
MEETING ADJOURNED !”
“(hey Bill, ..about that bikini clad Santa dancing on the new hutch,
I think maybe her pine needle bra is a bit much…..?
What you think?….)”
Inspired by Carolyn D. (too long for the contest, but had fun with it!)
All the people I've known
Are holding hands with the empty promises they made
So they are not alone
When day breaks
And everyone keeps getting in the way
Saying this and this
Doing nothing nothing
Feeling better with the apathy
Someone never held me
And glued me back together
Unless I kept their secrets
Unless I gave them cash
So many friends I've had
Couldn't tell you
A thing about me
Or what I need
We were sounding boards and fool's
We ran the train tracks and begged at the mall
We talked and we got high
We failed to be anything legit
People and their whole lives
Are letting truth slip away
Putting integrity on clearance racks
And faking character with all the right words
But I stand against the wall
I see you and I know what you are
You cannot hurt me with your soul hustle
With your transparent bag of tricks
My perception is true
And my intentions are unfaltering
Even when I shake
Even if I cry
My words are thoughtful
My actions are reliable
Even when I'm lonely
Even if I hurt
A Fighter Like A Broken Heart
With pain that racks his body
defeat is on his mind.
Blood drips from his nose and lip
his left eye beaten blind.
He falls just like a timber
on a cold and stormy night.
A fighter like a broken heart
in a never ending fight.
He thinks about a simpler time
his father and his mother.
Blows keep falling just like rain
one round after another.
Then suddenly it's over
the battle's reached its end.
The fighter like a broken heart
can now take time to mend.
But life is like an ocean
with the secrets it contains.
And rivers for so long now dry
its memory remains.
Every dream that's found worth dreaming
worth all we must go through.
And every fight worth fighting
to see that dream come true.
Through the sorrow of defeat
and the ring of victories laughter.
A fighter like a broken heart
is stronger not long after.
So be strong and of good courage
as you rise up from a fall.
He who has the most to gain
is he who risks it all.
Edwin C Hofert
10/9/17
More houses
More boundless
More guns
More funds
More drugs
More plugs
More liquor
More, get the picture?
More logic
More and more profit
More of that
More A.S.A.P.
More gas
More cash
More in my glass
More before I pass
More wax
More racks
More in my cup
More of that stuff
More tabs
More dabs
More jars
More cars
More bars
More decks of cards
More yards
More of living large
More of taking charge
More paths being carved
More firearms
More tools
More jewels
More shoes
More booze
More clothes
More homes
More love
More of all of the above
I was first picked up
In a cast-off shop in Liverpool;
Surrounded by racks of seasoned shirts
Bearing names of old soldiers.
“Draper” draped on an immature frame
In a collage of brown and green,
Overlapping and enveloping
Any semblance of a past self.
Baby-faced and militant,
The paradoxical camo in an urban warzone.
Slogans painted from shoulder to shoulder
In pungent, nuclear-white bathroom paint.
The smell is burned to memory,
Singeing nose hairs with chemical vigour,
Of dance-generated sweat, upturned pints,
A lover’s aftershave, the sting of cigarette smoke.
Washed once, maybe twice,
But anxious eyes watched the spin cycle,
Fearing specks of dislodged paint
Covering my muddy canvas.
Now “Draper” drapes a matured frame,
The only scent that lingers is
The petrichor of Northern summer
Tie-dyed deep into my fibres.
I bare a name that isn’t mine,
Memories of a life I did not live,
Scars from battles I never saw,
And honours that aren’t mine to claim.
These are the ones that write themselves,
That write themselves in racks as black as ink
On pages whiter than the white of sterile pain;
Down boulevards of shadows, shallow lanes
And corridors and alleyways that hold the rain;
Across the universe of astral skies and solar plains
And continents of fields and fields of grain
Into the stories they have yet to tell, they write themselves –
They write themselves in meanings meant to be,
In earnest measures borne from sea to sea they're aching to be free;
Through eyes and hearts and souls that manifest their destiny
They reach and grow and live and breathe
For us to feel for us to see
The promise that they hold, the music that they sing,
And we are humbled by the song and by the wisdom that they bring
—-
And these, these are the hands that wield the pen that gives them life,
Whose fingers plunk the keys that spell the words
That write the stories on the canvas they are meant to tell –
And it is well, for they have learned from forests and from forest spells,
From hollow trees and barren wells and empty shells;
From midnight flights and midnight morns
They dare to be set free, as surely as do we,
Though we are shredded, we are torn
And the stories we have yet to bear are yet unborn
—-
These are the words that tell the lives that write themselves alive,
That rises to their image, rises high
As paintings painted with the colors of the wind will paint the sky –
And the stories they construct about themselves are ever borne
In formulas pre-scripted and pre-formed,
Created as a dancer forms the dance it wants to see itself perform –
And they are mighty, mighty as the redwood on its own
For now they have been written
For now they have been born –