Best Sidle Poems
Robins sing joyfully to the morning sun,
hidden behind the pale white summer flowers,
up in that old basswood tree out back
Splish splash splish
sounds of the sprinkler
water the now lush green grass
smells of freshly popped popcorn
fragrantly blow in the warm west wind
reminding me that today is the farmer's market.
I head on over and I'm instantly overwhelmed
by vibrant deep red vine-ripe tomatoes
an abundance of yellow and white bi-color corn
bright bushels of green sweet peepers,
(I'm definitely stuffing some tonight).
there are dark purple plums
Macintosh and Granny Smith apples
and my favorite,
delicious, mouth watering, succulent peaches.
That's when I see her
her long dark hazel hair
brushing her exposed smooth shoulder
standing right there
picking out that perfect peach
I sidle up and ask her how she knows
how she knows which one is ripe
she grabs my hand ( I nearly faint)
and shows me how to grip one
squeezing just right
not too soft
not to tight
flirting and exploring
laughing and enjoying
the first of many smiles
lasting throughout that night
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
The warmth no longer comes
it seems to only leave.
The furry ones, all
caught in hypnotic disbelief:
hardening ground's
taken root
where once
gardening grounds
(forsaken, mute)
were once and again
makin' fruit.
Each beast, shaking
like a leaf
(though, truth be told
I've only ever
seen 'em dance)
as if to compel
the sun to
sidle up
'n stay a bit.
The butterflies are all turned
to windblown, drying leaves.
The biting clouds of gnats
are now
the biting cold of early flakes.
All hatched and reared
(the secret thrush, the ungainly, splashtering loon,
the burly snakes)
as evening hurries home
to be home for the night.
It's so early, so late.
The fatted robin's gone
just as the field mice hid
from barn-now-lapcat.
This constellation of crows,
a raucous perch, tried
that hiding ploy: their clotted knotted
silhouetted faux-leaf blackening hide out
where the leaves’d lived but crows are not
meant to blot the low sun as they’d plotted...
And so it was as so its been since Oh, so ever since -
a bird of prey, answered their
plaintive caws with painted claws -
a fracturous startle from above
a crash! a cry! a scattering!
one down, one murder
still.
Nothing softens, nothing greens.
No flowering as Southern urges
force flocks into making V-lines.
Each nest left: all break routines.
Summer is souring, as frost emerges
and last-one-picked, the pines -
lefties left in left field;
icing soon, their needles their shield
and, the coach never intervenes...
The light more slow to show
more tugged and bent to slant.
The sunshafts seem to push
the cold ahead as snow by plows.
And for our part we too as well
well, we turn away, turn indoors.
We turn our dreams to
make-it-through this.
We turn our collars up,
and too, our eyes to floors.
We turn our (each seems to)
thoughts inside this shell
not towards Inner but
rather, of course, truly from-
far and away from the
Cold & Falling, closing crisp.
How unlike the Scholar's Cup!
Our husks indoors,
our thoughts follow
but burrow deeper still.
Don't blame the light
for not keeping company
so deep where hides
a fearful, frigid 'you.'
It's Autumn
all turns on
one point.
It's Autumn
Fall burns on.
It's Autumn
sun burns on
one point
(of light.)
I have never felled so alive
as now.
I am empty of empathy
come sympathise with me
Cue the violins,
or just fiddle
like a bad-tempered Roman
Offer me hope:
bring flamboyant symbols,
cheap gold pendants with wings
Maybe a big gaudy
unflappable albatross
nothing too flash,
mind you!
Take my hand,
lead me towards the edge
it’s time to fledge
Sidle me onward,
watch as I waver
Try not be over-critical
of the albatross
He’s become a hanger-on,
too far gone
and addicted to flattery
If I drag you down
or appear inhumane,
it’s all secondary
I’m merely feeling depressed
by a pouch in my brain
A séance sensed
it was next of kin,
X-rays revealed tiny pleats,
masses of tissue within folds of skin
An exorcist said it’s
my vestigial twin
Google diagnosed
(Visual agnosia)
taking shape from within
Oh! And the indifferent
chatbot I confided in,
has begun self-harming!
Your smile was one of innocence before you looked away.
Was that a bit of fear in your eyes as you looked away?
For a month you served me breakfast every morning,
but tawny eyes never meet mine again; they turn away.
Cinnamon blush painted your cheeks as if by artist's brush.
I saw your hands tremble before you quickly moved away.
What I would give to see you smile as you did the first time.
No price too dear, for it hurts my heart when you sidle away.
The sun shines when I see you. Is there something I could do
that would sway you to talk with me instead of stepping away?
I'm not one to offer a sweet cliche' that's used too often.
I'm afraid you'd just bow your head and keep walking away.
I don't know your name but I heard someone call you, Brooke.
If you would once more look at me, I couldn't be pried away.
I'll show respect for your demeanor by avoiding your eyes.
Forgive me if I make you feel uncomfortable. I will stay away.
thoughts
spiraling
like this snow
in the lash
of december's
bitter breath
downcast eyes
watching
the leaves
gathered
at your grave
laden in white
as they admit
defeat
i struggle
to breathe
in this air
as it kisses
back
with
death's lips
knocked
on my knees
oppressed
memories
waft
in the swells
of eyes
as i lay
a wreath
of emotions
by your side
i sidle
glancing back
as i leave
my only
christmas
spirit
behind
A gust of icy air blasts
the cold into my bones,
tugging at my knees with
hollow, aspirating groans,
making numb my cheeks,
whirling 'round my waist;
pulling at me thither-ward
down cobbled streets in haste.
Thick snowflakes lightly flurry
soft upon my lashes,
squinting hard, I blink away
the blinding, frozen ashes.
Presently, I chance upon
a steepled, stony schloss,
whence I knew myself beyond
the bounds of Hotzestrasse.
All around me, strangers rush
to unfamiliar places;
swiftly stepping, spinning past
with stern, impatient faces.
I sidle down a sleepy street,
apart the harried crowd,
into the quiet entrance
of a quaint café I bowed.
A corner cuckoo ticks away
the time with listless ease,
whiling away the morning;
an anxious spirit to appease.
Rich and steamy mochas
warm away the frosty chill
of this melancholy trav'ler
reflecting on the wintry still.
PROLOGUE
Umpteen billion years
Big Bang, supernova, gas
Brief eclipse of time
Gases swirling, fall
Sun and planets, water, goo
Brief eclipse of time
Another billion
life, amoeba, fishes swim
Brief eclipse of time
Movement, change and flux
slither, crawl, climb, walk and talk
Brief eclipse of time
Ra, Sol, Helios,
Mithra and the Mighty Eye
Brief eclipse of time
Life begins and ends
birth, joy, laugh, cry, death, and dust
Brief eclipse of time
Waves cleave seas, shores, skies
forever folding, pulsing
Brief eclipse of time
CHRONICLE
The Mighty Eye begins to slip and slowly sink,
(unfocused, stained, diffuse)
while frizzled waves imbibe her searing tears,
with salted languid lips.
The Mighty Eye, now weary, thin,
is gazing through the frozen cracks,
as sundry straying clouds,
bloated,
sidle feebly by
and wax their billowed tracks
upon the heated sky,
and cool the rush of rolling waves
beneath the blotted sky.
The waves
(impaled on time and space inside me),
gently tumbling aging pebbles
and lifeless shells across the shifting sands,
seem unaware
as they once again arise
to greet the Mighty Eye,
to close the Mighty Eye,
to snuff the Mighty Eye.
But then again,
perhaps the waves are well aware indeed,
yet simply unconcerned
and feel no need to care.
For, as the frazzled froth is rushing forward
madly towards the sandy shores beyond,
before retreating slowly,
then careening brashly forth ahead again,
eternally,
it matters little if the Mighty Eye will cast
her blazing glance from high above,
or else retire for the night,
kissed sweetly by the liquid lips
of distant faithless waves
in a brief eclipse of time.
Continued in Part 2
The Allegory of the Cage
I have not written much of late;
I toil in my hamster wheel.
While ev'ry sage of ev'ry age
Will gape with wonder at my cage,
And speak in voices small and still
About my stilted, careworn gait.
Yet when I do find time to write,
I'll leave my cage, in mind alone.
But if I'm sad and terror-clad,
You'll know how deeply I've gone mad,
When slashing sinew, skin and bone
To cleave a thought on pages white.
Now writ with expurgated bile,
My caustic words are dark and spare.
I've filled the pages with my rages
Over others' self-made cages.
As they trudge without a care
And bear it all with practiced smile.
For, I know what they don't see;
Our hamster wheels are hooked to naught.
With blinded sight, and faces tight,
They churn and burn their wheels with might,
And not a lone, insightful thought
Will loose their bonds and set them free.
I cry out loud, an anguished howl,
Still knowing I will join back in.
Yet all the tears from lengths of years
While fleeing from our deepest fears,
Can never heal a single sin,
Nor soothe away a single scowl.
So, in I go to man my post.
I coax my wheel back up to speed.
I'm better now. I know not how,
But sidle up beside my trough
And eat the slop I do not need,
Because I'm better off than most.
I have not written much but this,
My musings on a ghastly fate:
We turn our wheels and chase our heels
Forgetting how it truly feels
To live and die, to love and hate;
Our ignorance indeed is bliss.
© Copyright 2007 Shawn H. Hall - All Rights Reserved
I frown into the mirror.
What happened?
Yesterday, we were newlyweds.”
"Fifty years ago," he says.
“You lost half a century.”
There's my husband, slouching
in the recliner, thinning hair,
frayed collar, expanding stomach.
A slow smile spreads across my face.
I sidle over, plop into his lap,
and sling my arm around his neck.
"Remember Great Falls, fishing
in the Missouri River until sunset,
A & W root beer in frozen mugs?
“How about that May snowstorm
in Yellowstone, or camping in Canada,
our sleeping bags zipped together as one?
Or Holder Lake, Bird Woman Falls,
and fishing in a stream no wider
than this chair we’re sitting in?
“Remember our two parakeets,
perched above everything we owned
in that forty-nine Chevy coupe
on the trip home to Missouri?
Or the car, stop-dead in Roundup,
Montana, leaving us stranded
for three days, waiting for parts?
“”I remember that sexy redhead,”
he says. “What happened to her?”
“Not sure, but I think she ran off
with a pot-bellied old man.”
With notes shredding ears homicidal,
contestants squawk madly to sidle
despite what they lack
they keep flocking back
to die on American Idol.
Bird around the bay of white and swoops aloft the air
Descends upon the deck and lays a top a chair
Dear bird me thinks I leave my land to forage and to bare
And now my suit has got your fruits on shoulder and on hair
Tis luck shouts out a cabin crew success to you will come
Mean time I'll sidle down the lane the laundry mat I run
Dear mother cries a second gone. I cried from train to ship
One day return a penny more two sons upon a trip
Fair city crown from westland row beyond the port a bay
To sail to Forests hard and cold Fort William leads the way
The work is hard my fathers tale dont work with rocks and dams
Hibernia is a boldly spot a rugged place he bans
The uncle's bar a whisk'y jar serve porter strong and mean
Two bars my uncle holds right now upon the goebels green
A war you'll go his comments show now to work for one small bob
Dear uncle be more kindly now for I have a new a job
No longer work at wasted rates his mother would be shocked
My brother dear you stay well clear a slave who holds a mop
I love you mother and long to see you smile and praise your lot
900 miles return to you show Eirean what you got.
I suppose that nearly every town has its share of self-appointed snobs,
A few old crabs and the usual crowd of ordinary Bills, Jills and Bobs.
In our fair village there's a character whose name is "Squire" Squab,
Whose well-known eccentricities stand out among the seething mob!
No one seems to know how the title of "squire" he acquired.
Nor has anyone that I know of really ever inquired.
He certainly isn't a lawyer, justice of the peace or judge,
Though he assumes those self-appointed roles at the slightest nudge!
He always wears a derby hat, spats and a dovetail coat.
Kids harass him unmercifully trying to get his goat!
On his daily stroll downtown he'll sidle up to some hapless soul,
With a myriad of inane propositions that he wishes to extol!
Many times at town council meetings, that august body he'll disrupt,
To denounce their ancestry, telling them that they are most corrupt!
At Baptist prayer meetings he often disturbs their peace,
And must be cuffed and escorted to jail by the local police!
Although some folks consider the "Squire" a peculiar curiosity,
Others like to think that he exudes a distinguished virtuosity!
When all is said and done, he is simply a naive and harmless guy,
But he certainly animates our town, this we surely can't deny!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A day in June.
Tuesday.
Week’s worst day!
Twenty to five.
A wintry sun,
Low in the sky,
Casts long shadows,
Emits no warmth.
I’m in a dorp
With tired shops,
Bank and church,
GPO and a Court.
Tucked together
Along a street,
With bumpy tar
And dusty holes.
Now and then
A small bakkie
Clatters past
Carrying ‘boys’.
A thin veil
Of dust rises
And wafts
To where I sit.
On a bench,
On the stoep,
Of the old
‘Royal’ Hotel.
As I sit I see
No hustle or bustle;
Just a person or two
Moving listlessly by.
Across the road,
An Algemene Handelaar
Stocks and sells
Assorted goods.
On its stoep
Amongst other things,
An ancient plough
And three-legged pots.
An adult ‘boy’
Shuffles out,
Begins to take
The things inside.
Exiting the Bottle Store
Ou Cronje sways out
Sipping a half-jack
In a paper packet.
Church clock
Marks the ‘quarter to’
With a dull
Ding, … dong, …ding,
Enough already!
No waiting till five.
At other stores
Doors begin to close.
Doef-doef-doef !
A tractor bobs past
Pulling a trailer
Loaded with bags.
From Rita’s Fashions
The assistant emerges,
Pulls on knitted gloves,
And heads for home.
Three youngsters
From rugby practise
Sidle past with the
Scrunch of studded boots.
From the Kafee
Two clients emerge;
Half a loaf each
And bottles of Fanta.
Three farmers,
Wearing shorts,
Enter the bar
For brandy and coke.
A car trundles by.
Again there’s dust,
From unfixed holes
That pepper the tar.
Quiet returns.
Sun is lower.
Shadows longer.
In Enniedorp.
Now wisps of smoke,
From chimney tops,
Signal day’s end
And a wintry night.
flotsam, jetsam days
unafraid of ocean's sprays
crabs sidle sideways