Best Spect Poems
"My dear Hannah: We're camped nigh a town called Gettysburg tonight.
I take pen in hand to write to you, my love, by the flickerin' candlelight.
From afar I hear the beat of Rebel drums preparin' fer battle on the 'morrow.
Oh, my darlin' Hannah! I ain't never knowed such loneliness and sorrow!"
"How I long to be with you and the children 'round our family hearth.
Ya'all mean the world to me, more than anything else on God's earth!
I recall so many times biddin' a sad farewell at our humble cabin door,
And marchin' off with my home brigade as we faced the cruel war!"
"I'm a-thankin' ye fer the chicken and apple pie you sent last week.
I shared it with my friends - it brightened our day which elsewise was so bleak.
This evenin' I read from my tattered Bible the Twenty-third Psalm.
We shared it many times at our family altar - it gives me such great calm!"
"I 'spect to be comin' home to help bring in the crops later on this fall,
And sit 'round the board to enjoy a bountiful Thanksgivin' with ya'all!
So fatten up old Tom Turkey, make some dressin' and sweet pertaters,
A couple of yer famous punkin pies and serve some fresh termaters!"
"I reckon I'd better close this letter 'cause its a-gittin' purty late.
Pray fer me, Hannah! I'll leave ever'thing in God's hands as to my fate!
Hug and kiss the children fer me tonight as you tuck them in their bed.
I'll see you soon, dear one. 'Til then, I remain your lovin' husband, Jed."
Alas, the Scythe of Death reaped Jed's soul upon that ghastly field of strife.
The hopes expressed in his poignant letter would ne'er be shared with his wife..
It was found in his tunic pocket as he was lowered in his hallowed grave,
As his comrades honored him for his service and the life he freely gave.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Categories:
spect, sad, war,
Form:
Rhyme
Arggh me hearties! We're takin' a long-awaited vacation!
Th' enchantin' isles uv th' Caribbean is ar final destination!
Hoist th' Jolly Roger an' them billowin' sails an' let's git 'er underway!
Th' Spanish Main is ripe fer pillagin' so let's git thar without delay!
Ye signed on fer this here little cruise knowin' I runs a very tight ship.
Ye do yer jobs, don't complain an' don't ye dare give me any lip!
Ye'll git three squars a day an' yer daily tot uv rum as well.
An' I 'spect ye ta stick wit' me tho' we may ketch almighty hell!
Now if'n we happen ta meet a sloop er two upon th' boundin' main,
Ah'll 'spect ye ta wield yer swords an' cause th' scoundrels pain!
Jes' keep in mind that ye'll share in th' booty that we acquire,
An' I promise ye a proper burial at sea if'n ye should expire!
Arggh me maties! Ah'm anxious ta run me fingers thro' them pieces uv eight!
An' git me paws on them thar island beauties! Aye! I kin hardly wait!
Ye! Up thar in th' crow's nest! Keep a sharp lookout fer any ships at sea!
An' ye fellers on th' deck aim them cannons true when ye hear "far!" frum me!
Ah don't reckon that we'll be received as welcome guests in any port,
An' them wily natives will 'ave thar guns aimed at us frum ever' fort!
But if'n ye keep yer swords honed an' yer blunder busses' powder dry,
We'll carry off thar wimmin an' swag as we wave ta them goodbye!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 9 in Paula Swanson's "A Tale o' Pillagin'" Contest - July 2010
Categories:
spect, funnyme, me,
Form:
Rhyme
"Der aint nothin wrong with dat,"
said Haile Brown.
Mrs. Quincy's twin Vietnamese spotted ponies
had been shot
both dead
for trespassing on L. Ron Clark's property.
"They scared my sheep.
Chased em all over the place.
Aint gonna put up with none of that,"
said L. Ron Clark.
"Reckon she shoulda penned em up.
Cant spect no one to tol-rate that sorta nonsense,"
said Haile Brown.
Mrs. Quincy had a different view.
"I put up plenty of times
with them rotten sheep of his
grazing in my pasture.
You don't see me shooting them down."
Haile Brown worked as a ranch hand
for L. Ron Clark.
"So naturally his views would be tainted,"
said Mrs. Quincy.
"Views don't make no difference here,"
said L. Ron Clark.
"The facts is all layed out clear.
Them donkeys was trespassing.
Causing a ruckus among my flock.
I had just cause to shoot them."
Growing red in the face,
about ready to raise a donnybrook,
Mrs. Quincy replied:
"Shame on you! L. Ron Clark!
An experienced rancher of your sort
could have easier than not lassoed them ponies
and take them off
than load that gun
and aim and kill
them innocent creatures of God."
"I reckon Ma'am,
Mr. Clark done what he feel nec-sary,"
said Haile Brown.
"I reckon Mr. Brown!
that Mr. Clark! hasn't the character to do what's right,"
said Mrs. Quincy.
"And you're just an ignorant fool
who wouldn't know right from wrong
if it fell on your big toe."
Haile Brown sunk down
into his collar
ashamed to be put down
in such a way
by such a woman.
L. Ron Clark's mouth
fell open,
ready to respond...
but the sound of the gavel
put an end to it.
The Judge said,
"I've heard enough
from all of you.
I'll leave to my chamber
and come back with a decicion.
Until then,
try and be civil."
Categories:
spect, social
Form:
Narrative
I heard about your contest and thought I might get in on it.
I don't usually gossip but I was waiting on somebody looking for a little fun Oh, it's about a man-a beautiful talker. He started whispering sweet things to me not long after we met and like a dad-burned fool I believed his trash talking.
Can he cook, you ask? He can cook up the best damned pot of malarkey stew you ever want to taste. But pretty soon I got tired of eating his stew- too hard to swallow. I wanted him to start eating crow, but that man has no idea of how selfish and vain he is!
I won't say 'trust me' because you warned me about that! Oh man could he talk - mostly about himself. I heard tell women are the gossipers, but this man told me things I can't repeat to no one, no sireee. He'd go crying and carrying on like you'd think I shot him in the foot or something. Grown man like that making a spect... specta....oh hell, making a fool out of himself over next to nothing, suspicious that folks are always gossiping about him. I'd say he has a guilty conscience but I don't think he HAS a conscience.
I saw in your contest you mentioned King Wong Song. Well I got no idea who that might be, but this feller I'm telling you about thinks he's a king-least he goes around acting like one. I won't be ruled by no fool. I cut him off but he handed me the scissors.
He's a pretender all right, but didn't take long for me to figure that out. No ma'am. His pretty words can fool other women, heck, men too for all I know, but he ain't fooling me-not me. You asked for the name of the pretty talker. He's my ex, Peter the Pretty Talker. Someday I hope somebody does some pretty talking to him. What's that saying? "Just dessert" When he gets his just dessert it will be what he deserves.
You can call me a gossip because I just told you all about Peter, but every word is the truth, and the truth isn't gossip. It comes out sooner or later.
6/18/16
Categories:
spect, character,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
(A "Hallmark" of Spring)
Tucked into her twig-knitted nest
a small sparrow sits preening her breast
Shallow though her tiny head rises
above it's rim to watch for any surprises
No eggs yet as spring draws near
though soon I 'spect some may appear
Tiny ones in turquoise blue 'n brown
nestled safely among branches around
It must be a sparrow's truest delight
in keeping her brood safely out o' sight
tucked away 'tween a cradle of twigs
of horsehairs 'n feathers 'n willow sprigs
I'll measure my joy in spring's arrival
by this young sparrow's enduring survival
And I'll languish in nature's beauties
with the watching of her motherly duties
For soon will arrive tiny young squeaks
squirming for worms with frail young beaks
Fledgling little feathers from nest inside
will blossom in spring once winter's denied
But should I lament winter's leaving
or the last fallen snow leaves me grieving
I'll feed my sorrow from the marrow
of this little nesting and pregnant sparrow
(March 18 2016)
Categories:
spect, bird, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
When one sees the penguins stand
in ice born storm at minus forty
why don't they move to a better land.
They stand together and don't complain
then they walk to the sea again.
What do they do just standing there?
looking up at snowflakes fall
do they wonder and compare
the snow flakes size and weight'n all
perhaps they ask how many in a bunch,
Mostly I spect they think of lunch.
Why do they nest on hard cold ice
far, so far, from the water's side
with no food and no bed thats nice.
Do they stand about with pride
And think of food and dream and wish
about their sea so full of fish.
Do they wonder about their children
with a parents welling love,
what do they hope for their baby.
And do they tell their fluffy young ones
about the stories their father told them
as they stood on their grandads feet.
Do some dream of slick fast swim
arrow sleek through high light waters
of sweeping curve and fish fast turn
as they stand on ice hard water.
How do the baby penguins feel
when first they see the ice cold water,
are they eager but full of fear
is it then a heaven for them
to feel the wonder of achievement
of the dance, a water ballet.
What is it to be a penguin
to be a wobbly bumbling comic
who waddles wobbly with no grace
But soon is born to the water.......
and graceful dances in the wonderous sea.
Categories:
spect, animal, bird, snow,
Form:
Free verse
https://www.strategypage.com/htmw/htsf/20160301.aspx
Beneath the rubble of the Ocean
Where Panoply Swirls Decadent
Memories of Jupiter
Before the Flood-Omega
and, retro-spect, the turn of Archimedes
Poseidon in A Rage
Prophecies the Doom of the Titans
The Rush of the Nightengales
In the Dark of Obsidian Night
In the Cool of the Shrouded Dawn
Whom Fell to Earth
Without Hearkening the Runes of the Sibyl
Or Gilding the Armor of the Hoplite
"They Came Only to Procure the Heat of Day"
Poseidon proclaimed to his Daughter Ocean
Or Complained,
Perhaps
In Damnable Rhyme
With the Flow and Beat of Her Tides
Steadily Plummeting Above
"Yes, And I Love Him For It."
>Venus^< Demurred Coquettishly
"His Day is the Urge That I Hear,
---In the Night."
Quietly, she returned to her Lonely Merman
Categories:
spect, animal, anti bullying, boat,
Form:
Acrostic
I rode my horse to town and back today
And passed a house so old, so bleak, so bare
The age a hundred years or more they say-
And found by chance a ghost who lived just there
I said, "Hello, you look distraught, my friend.
"A ghost like you I've never seen before."
He said,"I haunt this shack without an end,
"And still no one has walked inside that door."
"My horse just fell and broke my neck right here.
"I've done my best to haunt this place, you see."
I said,"Old man,it's time to spread some fear!
"Climb up behind, we'll find your place to be."
"Climb up behind, you don't weigh much, I 'spect."
"I won't", said he,"Last time I broke my neck."
10/22/16
For contest English Sonnet
Categories:
spect, humor,
Form:
Sonnet
One of my year-long sophomore subjects will be physics. At first, physics seems to be a menagerie of big, boring universal ideas and immutable laws rendered practically unimportant by their scale.
Peter, ok, let’s call him my boyfriend - just as a place-holder - is working on his “Doctorate in Applied Physics,” degree. “Will you help me with my physics homework?” I asked, hopefully.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” he assures me, wiggling his eyebrows suspiciously.
Peter got to visit the Hadron Collider, in Geneva, this summer. When I FaceTimed him he was as animated as a girl at drama camp. He was all, “proton collisions, Higgs bosons, top quarks and massive particles, bla, bla, bla..”
“That’s ok, I said, “If you’d rather not talk about it, I understand.”
Seriously though, I get it. Physics teaches critical thinking and problem solving. Fluid dynamics and pressure-volume-resistance relationships apply to the circulatory system. Pressure-volume curves can apply to lung function, heat transfer is applicable to frostbite, hypothermia and fevers - nuclear physics applies to nuclear medicine (SPECT, PET scans and radiation therapy and lasers) - yatta, yatta yatta.
But why ME, oh, lord?
Categories:
spect, crush, education, growth, school,
Form:
Free verse
I can't handle pretenders.
Something someone is not.
No 'spect for a paper gangster.
Living a fake life until caught.
A lawyer watching Son's of Anarchy.
Blue jeans with vest, will be looking phat.
Uber delivers him to a Harley shop,
wearing golf pants and Fedora hat.
He plops down the gold card,
for the latest Heritage classic.
Then next door for "biker" duds,
leather chaps and leather jacket.
The look, not yet complete.
Fake tail and studded earrings.
Must have a wallet on a chain,
tall black boots, stylin', and profiling.
He thinks he is now a biker.
No one will ever know.
The look is now complete.
Time to hop on that bad bike and blow.
He admires himself in the mirror.
His real look put on the shelf.
Needs some place to ride,
to show off his new big bad self.
A chick magnet and envy of men.
The first stop, Buster & Dave's.
Once a windscreen is added,
to shield the wind a real biker craves.
He's never ridden a bike,
on a winding highway at night.
Never felt rain hitting your face,
like small bullets blocking your sight.
Never set points with a matchbook.
Never kickstarted, or jockey shifted.
He thinks you just press and go,
A fake hombre who thinks he's gifted.
He is the King of the Road.
A big bad biker dude.
All his courtroom adversaries,
know they're over and screwed.
Bad biker barely misses the bumper.
After the car in front stops hard.
Breaks into a sweat gets the shakes,
Has a small mishap, now forever scarred.
He pushed the bike to a Stop and Go.
Never known such anguish and fear.
Already done with the biker life,
never even got out of third gear.
Can't handle the pretenders.
Something someone is not.
No 'spect for a paper gangster.
Get back in your Range Rover, big shot.
R. S. Morris
Categories:
spect, image, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
I rode by an old homestead’s ruins
Saw a ghost standin’ there
I said, “Well, howdy, oldtimer,
You be goin’ somewhere?”
He didn’t look friendly, but then,
That’s the first ghost I’d met.
Then he pointed at the rubble
And both his cheeks got wet
He spoke in a raspy voice
Like nothin’ worked real well.
Talked of hard times and good times, too,
And tales that he could tell.
He got throwed from a wild mustang –
Broke his neck in ’50.
His widow wed a trav’lin man –
Nothin’ if not shifty.
So he spent thirty years near ‘bouts
Hauntin’ his own home.
Been so busy spreadin’ ghostly
Ain’t had much time to roam.
I asked him why he’s standin’ ‘round
When all his folks was gone –
He said he didn’t rightly know,
He just kept hangin’ on.
I said, “Well, podnah, climb on up –
You don’t weigh much I ‘spect.”
He said, “No sir, don’t think I’ll ride –
Last time I broke my neck.”
So if you see a ghost ‘round here,
One lookin’ kinda gaunt,
Be nice to that wore out cowboy –
He’s lost his place to haunt
Categories:
spect, conflict,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
As we sit in the car
my sister, mother, father, and me
steam rises off our rain-sodden clothes
and the air fills with the smell
of damp coats and wet sheep.
I 'spect;
I'll never smell sheep
wet or dry.
Or see one; other than as we pass by;
from the window of our shiny red car.
"They look just like clouds," I say
"Silly boy, clouds on the ground?" Dad replies
They could have dropped there, I think to myself.
As we sit in the car
my sister, mother, father, and me
I make tracks on wet glass
and watch as small dewdrops race
down steamy damp windows.
I 'spect;
I'll never, ever, ever
play in the sand I can see
from the window, so close.
"The rain looks just fine to me;
I can build us a moat," I say
"you'll catch your death," mum replies.
Whatever that means, I think to myself.
As we sit in the car
my sister, mother, father, and me
I've run out of animals beginning with D
vegetables beginning with Q
and minerals that start with U.
I 'spect;
I'll never reflect at my funny self
in the hall of weird mirrors again;
just in this stupid old window.
"I'm ever so hungry;
can I have something to eat?" I say.
"What do you say?" My sister replies.
I do not say, but please, I think to myself.
As we sit in the car
my sister, mother, father, and me
wind-driven rain against the windscreen,
the car filling with smoke
from my mother's cigarettes.
I 'spect;
I'll never see my friends ever again
just be in this car for always and ever
staring out of this window.
"Who'll feed our dog
when they find us all dead?" I say.
"What?" My sister, mum, and dad reply.
You'll be sorry; when they find us, I think to myself.
Categories:
spect, boy, car, family, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
C-reative
O-pus
R-ightfully
A-pplies
A-nnual
T-opic's
E-ssential
N-ote
C-onveying
I-deal
A-spect
Topic: Birthday of Cora B. Atencia (February 26)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Categories:
spect, birthday,
Form:
Acrostic
C-larity
H-as
R-adiance
I-n
S-ublime
T-ime
I-solating
N-ight
E-vening
J-inx
A-s
Y-our
T-rue
I-lluminate
N-ewness
E-xpresses
P-leasant
A-spect
L-etting
M-orn
O-pen
N-iceness
E-re
S-un
Topic: Birthday of Christine Jaytine A. Palmones (July 30)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Categories:
spect, birthday,
Form:
Acrostic
J-ust
A-llow
Y-ourself
T-o
E-rase
N-egative
A-spect
Topic: Birthday of Jay Tena (May 16)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Categories:
spect, birthday,
Form:
Acrostic