Best Short Fuse Poems
there’s always a man
who walks into the room
like he owns the ceiling
and the dust in the corners
and the breath in your lungs.
he talks about strength
the way a drunk talks about love—
loud,
with broken glass in his mouth.
the country splits itself open
arguing at kitchen tables,
in parking lots,
in the thin blue glow of televisions
that never sleep.
flags flap like nervous birds.
everybody’s got a war now—
a war on neighbors,
a war on strangers,
a war on ghosts they swear are real.
overseas
bombs bloom like bad flowers
in deserts that have seen too many empires
come and go
like bad bar tabs.
the men in suits smile,
shake hands polished with sanitizer and ambition.
they speak of security,
of destiny,
of greatness measured in contracts
and applause.
meanwhile,
back home,
rent is late,
tempers are shorter than cigarettes,
and the truth limps down the alley
with a busted lip.
power attracts its own kind—
loyal faces in expensive jackets,
men who nod too quickly,
who laugh a beat too loud
and some women.
the room fills with yes
yes
yes
until it sounds like a swarm.
and somewhere
a waitress wipes down a counter
and says,
“they’re all the same.”
maybe she’s wrong.
maybe she’s right.
history has a long memory
and a short fuse.
in the end
no one conquers everything.
the wars abroad fade into footnotes,
the wars at home scar the children,
and the man who wanted it all
learns that the ceiling
never belonged to him.
it was just
borrowed
like the rest of it.
Let the final countdown begin
Proxy war in Afghanistan
Saudi Arabia vs. Iran
India vs Pakistan
Sunni vs Shia
The 38th divide of Korea
China taking over the sea
As the US debt is skyrocketing
Militaries expand
Droughts and famine in farmlands
Christian exodus from the middle east
Refugees from the lack of peace
Annexations by Russia
No one screams in hysteria
Pocket nukes are ok to use
Mankind has a short fuse
One, two, three, four, five
What to do to stay alive
To simplify, put your head between your legs
And kiss your *** goodbye
God, please hold our hand
The world is sinking in quicksand
Angry, greedy statesmen
Sounding the drum of the horsemen
Artificial intelligence
Climate change and mass surveillance
With two minutes left to midnight
Listen for the sound
Drop the beat, hit the ground
Dynamite as bright as daylight
Signaling for help with a flashlight
Playing the rave, igniting the night
The blasting wave, in the grave, later love
Smitten with the fireworks above
The nuclear deterrent is gone
Nothing but an oxymoron
The plight of mankind fight
Cockroaches become the spotlight
As they write what happened at midnight
February 7, 2018 - Updated 5/14/2019
For Emile Pinet
Contest The doomsday clock 2 minutes to midnight
Compare the evidence of a real divide
so far apart are truly God and man
the comparisons are really traumatic
consider all that covers this great span
God is far greater than created man
always eternal knows everything
fully perfect with no hint of sin
fully spiritual with great blessings to bring
God is never irritable, edgy, fatigued, or depressed
nor is stressed, moody, or never at all blue
His anger never ever had a short fuse
this God's word reveals what is true
Our God is above all possibility
of being touchy, cranky, or temperamental
instead is infinitely energetic, so unbounded
but also like Jesus was meek and gentle
This God is by far the greatest
He far exceeds all that's human
being eternal has always been here
so ask God to do what He can!
Hold your fire
Let your sharp tongue retire
When to the fore sneaks your ire
Increasing carelessness danger
Thinking in your mind you’re an indomitable ranger
Although in your own skin you turn into a total stranger
Body somehow cut off from your mind
With a baggage of axes to grind
When moderation and restraint remind you to find
Better avenues conflicts to handle
As your roving hand to a pristine place strays to fondle
In the way you assuage your sorrow bundle
Hoping to progress, succeeding in failure
As your successes grow increasingly fewer
Cos your ire and short fuse couldn’t find a cure
To the uncertainty and unpredictability you nurture
In times of stress. To the fore comes a procrastination culture
You extrapolate into your unreachable future
Where no spouse tolerates you
Cos normal life you have no clue
Neither can you fasten happiness with gregarious glue
Much as you dare to dream
You’d crossed over with flying colours a fast moving stream
When in fear of the unknown you did scream
And to your rescue came a dame
Svelte, graceful who declined to you give both her name and game
Fearing your bad reputation would sully her with both blame and shame.
Everywhere we see the signs,
Unstable, Fragile, Caution,
So why don't people have such signs,
So folks can take precautions.
Some folks have a real short fuse,
That's sometimes unsuspected,
And when we step on tender toes,
The reaction's unexpected.
Other folks can play and tease,
And make jokes all day long,
But if you do the same to them,
You'll find that you thought wrong.
With this in mind I leave you with,
Some wise and sage advice,
When dealing with most folks my friend,
Some can be un-nice;
'Cause some folks can have a temper,
Be unthinking, unfair often,
So no matter what your dealings,
Please proceed with caution.
The world's changing so fast
that my forever dreams no longer last.
Time swiftly slipped away:
for only yesterday
I felt life was all play,
while all those moments now lie in the past.
My hair is mostly gone;
old age advances with each breaking dawn.
I can no longer run,
and I've no time for fun;
friends have dwindled to none;
I've learned that I am no king, I'm a pawn.
Cell phones befuddle me,
I find their complex screens too small to see.
And they connect online;
while most would say that's fine,
I can't even use mine.
And what's an alternate reality?
I am yesterday's news,
just a cranky old man with a short fuse.
And I'm telling the truth,
for it doesn't take a sleuth
to see I've spent my youth;
and it's left me with a case of the blues.
Jane was renown for her very short fuse
'Specially when she was sozzled with booze
She relished a barroom brawl
And took on any and all
With whomever she had divergent views
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 in John Freeman's "Slapstick Limerick" Contest - March 2011
A magic elixir for the heart,
belly laughs are like Nature's high-five.
For once the titters and snickers start,
laughter keeps dreams and wishes alive.
A contagious, outrageous feeling,
laughter begins with grunts and hisses.
Yet specializes in self-healing,
like a bouquet of hugs and kisses.
It's a panacea for the blues,
as the chortles and chuckles snort out.
And a must: for folks with a short fuse,
laughs release tensions with every bout.
Tickling your funny bone sets the mood,
but once you start, it's stopping that's hard.
For giggles aren't easily subdued,
and laughter oft catches you off guard.
My grandfather
Worked hard all his life
And died
When I was
Away.
I remember him
Sitting in the dark
By the kitchen stove
On cold winter nights
Rubbing his calloused hands
Over and over again
Not saying a word
To anyone
Listening to the voices on the outside
Whistling in the winter wind.
Once I walked
In by mistake
Breaking the silence
I asked what he was thinking about
Nothing he said
The his voice changed
Listen to me son
Everyone has a lesson
To learn in life
You’re young now
But later on
You’ll need to know
When to grab life
In your own two hands
And shake it
Until you get
What you want.
The sudden anger
In his voice
Startled me like a
Short fuse in the night
And I ran from him.
Grandfather didn’t work during winter
It was too cold he said
The need
To work more
To buy more
Never suited him.
What he needed was nearby
A pair of old work boots
A jacket carelessly slung
Over a chair
A pair of cotton twill pants from better days
And a bottle of brandy.
For him, winter was
Meeting old friends
After Sunday Church
Congregating in the park
In small groups
Standing their ground
Against all outsiders
On days when the snows receded
And winter’s end seemed close.
Some rested on canes
Others stood tall
Survivors of another winter
Arguing politics
Talking about this and that
And how well their grown up children were doing.
Life can go on without us
They seemed to say
To the empty park
And the gray skies
We will meet again one day
But for now
We’ll stay here until the sun goes down
And winter returns.
I’m not a redneck, but in Georgia I attract them like flies.
They all have the best pickup truck that money can buy.
With heavy southern accents, they lay their line on thick.
Calling me honey and sweetie, which is refreshing to this city chick.
I don’t need a lot of money from the guy I choose,
I only ask for love and respect, and no short fuse.
I’m looking for someone to make my passion ignite when we kiss,
So these redneck guys in Georgia, I will not dismiss.
I know what you want to order for dinner, Welsh Rarebit.
But if you order it again, I swear that I'll have a fit.
You sleep in the buff and the Welsh Rarebit makes you walk in your sleep.
As you walk through the neighborhood butt naked, the men always peep.
When you last ate Welsh Rarebit, you got your gun in your sleep and blew off two of my toes.
I cried like a baby as I called 911 because the Emergency Room was where I had to go.
I have a short fuse and if I blow my top in public, you won't like it.
But that's exactly what is going to happen if you order Welsh Rarebit!
(This is a fictional poem)
Everywhere we see the signs,
Unstable, Fragile, Caution;
So why don't people have such signs,
So folks know to take precautions.
For some folks have a real short fuse,
That's sometimes unsuspected,
And when we step on tender toes,
The reactions unexpected.
Other folks can play and tease,
And make jokes all day long,
But if you do the same to them,
You'll find that you were wrong.
With this in mind I leave you with,
Some wise and sage advice.
When dealing with most folks my friend,
Some can be un-nice.
'Cause some folks have a temper,
And unthinking oft unfair;
So no matter what your dealings,
Caution - Handle With Care.
Fundamentalists have misinterpreted the wise men,
Magnified them and blown up their faith in god,
Claim that the magi had an epiphany, heard from above,
In searching for, analysing and interpreting the nexus odd.
So what’s the real story of the wise men,
Because it’s they who had societal eyes,
They were listened to and very much respected,
By the many, the productive and the whys.
There was something going on, a wave, a tide,
To initiate socialisms feeling, equalising bride,
Which let the poor and the working citizen,
Be treated medically as they did not ever sin.
A rebel was born not through experience, but by birth,
To parents out with the marriage contract,
Whose bond was love with natural affection,
And who reared the child on such an astute fact.
The wise men understood Jesus beginnings,
Accepted their power to enable his work and carvings,
And balanced his parents sexual immorality,
By giving reputation, a promise for him to be god on high.
The magi, as Zoroastrians, believed in free will,
That actions are completely yours, not gods,
Not prompted, divine, suggested or derived,
But yours to enjoy or for you to suffer from your frauds.
So as wise men they advocated themselves,
As the finders of the messiah of the jews,
As his pronouncers and original validators,
As the hinters of his apparent short fuse.
I was always taught, right through childhood,
That god told the wise men where to go,
What stance to take about this needy child,
And how to interpret his parents certain know.
Zoroastrianism is the total explanation,
Of the people’s toleration of Jesus Christ,
And I posit that societal interpreters have secured,
Much sociology, which was by them allured.
The States are a total mess
and crumbling under the stress.
Trump has nuclear access,
yet he attacks the free press.
Turning his back on progress,
he touts the value of coal.
And crumbling under the stress,
the President sold his soul.
When Trump chose heroes to mock,
the country slipped into shock.
Now democrats vote to block,
and congress is in gridlock.
Republicans are all talk
and can't pass a healthcare bill.
The country slipped into shock
this; wasn't the people's will.
Alternative truths confuse,
reality's now fake news.
And many quite simply choose
to ignore facts that accuse.
Now, a man with a short fuse;
commands the military.
When reality's fake news,
it can be very scary.
(Rhyme)
11/10/2017
lllllllll:::::::::::lllllllllll
if i were an invisible hood
a flight to Washington is my mood
i'd sneak into Bill Gates
snatch his billion crates
and snoop on secrets hushed by rich brood
how he snores, bathes, and blows his short fuse
a fly i’ll be primed for TIME’s scoop news
my bank book will swell
interviews I’ll tell
if Bill’s guards won’t sniff my stinking booze
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
(( for Michael Falotico's " A Fly on the Wall" Contest))