Best Tin Poems
On pensive planes of wraith-like existence,
Are stoic shadows feigning affection;
Crimson lips of withering consistence,
Have lost their craze for craving confection.
Tear-filling prisms tilling a rueing sphere,
Pathos prowling, pity's wild and roaming;
Reminisce wind-blown is tumbleweed drear,
Bathos like bramble bur clings in gloaming.
Tin foil hearts' echo sad droning down-beat,
Rose petal ballet two rust figurines;
Today's gray sleet does douse yesteryears' heat,
Apathy's ennui directing the scenes...
Love once aflare in fanfare marigold,
Lies now a wizened weed, dried and stone cold.
Susan Ashley
November 2, 2017
When Dorothy and Tin Man were dating
She didn’t prepare for the mating
Til’ she heard a bang
And shouted out, “Dang,
Something inside there’s inflating”
Since Dorothy’s one chick he lusted
Poor Tin said he was disgusted
Coz there was no oil can
Nearby them at hand
To free up his zipper now rusted
As Tin was kissing Dorothy’s lips
He sadly knew he had to come to grips
‘Til she yelled, “My man
I’ll open your can
Coz in my purse I brought some tin snips!”
My work is identity
The axe in my hand
No blisters to bother me
As for years I just stand
The weeds and the flowers
Call me back down to earth
The brown rust confuses
Destroys my self-worth
The tears and the rain
Have frozen me here
It could be forever
At least that is my fear
But then I hear singing
And love with a twirl
There's something of beauty
This dog and this girl
She stops to acknowledge
Where my work is so stale
I am rescued completely
My Dorothy Gale
We converse, no lips moving
I creak and I groan
She talks of a journey
To get herself home
I determine to help her
As she's helping me
We walk and we talk
It feels good to be free
It's strange but I know that
She strives for the best
I feel something beating
Once again in my chest
Not sure where we're going
When this journey will end
But I feel like I love her
This newly found friend
The mighty 3rd to the north did steam,
Chasing a ghost not to be seen
Guard the landing your task assigned,
Quiet the day is to be benign
At dawn the Imperial fleet does appear,
Surprise complete, ranging fire splashes near
Outnumbered and out gunned, duty is clear,
Close the range you must in spite of your fear
Laying smoke, a jagged course you take,
An account of yourselves you will make
Steel your heart and make sure your eye,
For each salvo keeps you alive
Toe-to-toe the battle, you exchange mighty blows,
Triumph impossible, yet into the fray you all go
In perfect rhythm, the mad dance goes on,
As smoke filled gunhouse loads powder and shot
Decks strewn with the dead and dying,
Teams repair to keep the ensign flying
Struck and struck again, yet to point blank you steam,
Hard to port, you cross the “T”
“All guns to fire at the turn, torpedoes away!”
The enemy scatters in disarray
Too late, mortal blows you take
To the deep, no more your enemy to rake
One final salute their captain does render,
For you fought to the death and did not surrender
On this all men do still agree,
These were the finest two hours of Taffy 3
*****************************************
On October 25th, 1944, 3 destroyers and 4 destroyer escorts of Task Force
Taffy 3 engaged a combined force of Imperial Japanese Navy battleships and
cruisers in a 2 hour running gun battle to protect the escort carriers and troop
transports taking part in the Leyte Gulf landings in the Philippines. Two of the
three destroyers and one of the escorts were sunk while sinking three
Japanese heavy cruisers and damaged three more. Due to the fierceness of
the attack, the Japanese fleet retired from the area thinking they had been
attacked by a much larger force. At the outset of the battle, the commanding
officers of these 7 ships, without orders, individually decided to attack and
headed at flank speed to the fight all knowing they would most likely not
survive the day. Almost 1600 did not. In a final act of respect, the commander
of one Japanese cruiser saluted the crew of an American ship that had just
sunk as his ship passed them floating in the water.
Through Tin Hearts,
shallow pleadings
wander unwillingly with time,
in concert with
a melancholy spectre
of Love's past.
Surely, it must not
be too late
to borrow these moments
nor to clear
the hollowness
that echoes from
the smithery of despair.
Empty of it's consortion ,
Hope desires respite.
Loneliness,
on the other hand,
always has
an eager
companion.
07/15/2020
His workshop looked neat.
Unlike many others who prefer dusty feat
His tools are arranged in order.
Within a tool-line with a border
He took one at a time.
And placed back in a manner sublime.
Many novices around him he had
To learn from him, they were glad...
He took apart
his soldier of tin
to see for himself
what lay within
expecting honour, strength
valour and pride
he eagerly toiled
to get inside
with soldier now
cleaved in two
he saw what he thought
could not be true
half of his warrior
now cupped in each hand
he gazed at an emptiness
he could not understand.
His tin cup held out
the coins jingle in
~ Yet again Faith wins
In the land of tin men, a little tin soldier he was made
Now painted red and blue in a wooden box he was laid
Was then given to a child, he was happy as could be
Thinking of all the other toys that he would get to see
Every night in the little boy's bed, next to him he lay
Guarding him against all evil until the next light of day
Everywhere the little boy went, the tin soldier went too
The little boy proud of his soldier’s uniform of red and blue
He always sat at the end of the table whilst his master ate
Telling all the other little boys the tin soldier was his mate
They all gathered around to see his uniform of red and blue
But they all laughed and said “mines a better one than you”
So it was to be that the fight began, in the sandpit it grew
All the little tin men fighting the soldier dressed in red and blue
Then the fight was over, and the little tin soldier he had lost
He had paid a heavy price, with his arm, and leg the cost
The little boy of his tin soldier, he was so ashamed
The battle was lost, and the tin soldier was to blame
The little boy left him there, and went inside to cry
The little tin soldier only wished that he could die
Many weeks passed the tin soldier in the sandpit he was laid
The bright colours of his uniform had now began to fade
The tin soldier wasn’t happy, for he had put up such a fight
When he saw a shadow coming towards him, in the night
It was the little boy, who had come looking for his mate
The little tin soldier forgetting what could have been his fate
The little boy then hugged his tin soldier with all of his might
How could he not love the little tin soldier who had put up such a fight
In the land of tin men, a little tin soldier he was made
Now painted red and blue in a wooden box he was laid . . .
Three day's journey from Coachella to Paradise,
felt like adding beauty to my day, and you did.
Pretty painted toes peek from muslin wool socks,
all your nametag revealed: Hello, my name is...
Once looked at me wondering am I the one.
Let me spare you some disappointment, I'm a coward.
Hey, not squeamish at the sight of a little blood,
tho' scared I'll be unable to save you again cactus flower.
Sense a phantom pain from a missing limb,
still afraid I'm borin' you to death.
Laptop key tied to you in gentle refrain,
just another heart left out
by an absent-minded tin smith.
Your illusions wistfully missed my cactus flower..
without true love, what a waste our finest hour.
'Til then let nametag be proof that we exist,
a paper illusion called 'Hello, my name is....'
One Lone Tin Soldier
From a darkened deathly dungeon room to a lighter part of day
Thirstily and hungrily all seemed to reach their long endless crusade,
And thus meandered with his child-master and ventured away
Still so full of honor and bound behind he had firmly stayed.
For he was known as One Tin Soldier, hidden in my attic and found
One lonely lone survivor who and which had happened so, so long ago,
Perhaps he was a held prisoner, all enclosed and initially and bound,
Held with the unknown barrier, then freed at last-thus be as though.
Onto another page and dilemma, he was left in a cold darkened cell
Which was locked behind a well hidden, vaulted cement doors,
To never be able to talk or even hear stories to read and tell,
Forever he is now home, lost and forgotten from the wasted wars.
One lonely lone survivor who and which happened so, so long ago
Perhaps he was held prisoner, all enclosed and initially and bound,
Held within the unknown barrier, then freed at last thus it maybe as though
For he was known as The One Lone Tin Soldier, which happened so very long ago.
Written: Nov. 10, 2015
Of all the minin' camps in old Colorady, the town of Tin Cup was truly,
With all its gamblin' halls, brothels and sleazy saloons the most unruly!
'Tis said that Jim Taylor dipped his tin cup in the 'crick' to take a sip,
And found gold in the bottom of his cup even before liftin' it to his lip!
The rush was on and in 1880 the rowdy town of Virginia City sprung up!
In 1882, assorted drunks and ne'er-do-wells insisted on namin' it Tin Cup!
Stakes were claimed, shovels flew and ore was packed out to railheads.
Men who worked in 'ore houses' were the butt of jokes by facetious heads!
By 1881 there were 6000 denizens and over twenty saloons in the town.
Gamblers met at Frenchy's Place and they controlled ever'thing aroun'!
Marshals were told, "see, hear and do nothin' or yer first arrest will be yer last!"
One quit, two were fired, three were shot, one went insane leavin' the town aghast!
For those who died gloriously or otherwise from flamin' guns and billowin' smoke,
Boot Hill Cemetery was established south of town to plant many a hapless bloke!
Raucous prospectors spent their 'dust' on booze and 'soiled doves' in their cribs.
Others got uproariously drunk and awoke with busted heads and shattered ribs!
In its heyday, Tin Cup produced millions of dollars in choice Rocky Mountain gold.
The last mine, the Gold Cup, closed in 1917 spellin' disaster and the town did fold.
Alas, today 'tis a ghost town with curious tourists and sagebrush driftin' about.
The ripplin' streams teem, not with gold nuggets, but with fightin' rainbow trout!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I am a tin man;
corrosion ravaged, tin man.
Staring placidly o’er countless hills
marred by desolation rills;
unfeeling, here I fade.
Black oil hemorrhages
and I fade.
Tic-tock heart song
Tic…tic…tic...
tock.
Set aside the oil can,
oil cannot save a man
so consumed by jealousy.
What yet is there left of me?
On my lips a frozen grin
hides the rage I feel within.
As a comfort you caress
but I am strong, so I suppress
the feeling…no more feeling.
As I fade.
In this final dusk
under sunset skies of rust
through the smothering of depression
I can’t numb this last obsession:
How did you so long disguise
all the truth behind your eyes?
Why, for years on end
as we danced, did you pretend
that this perfect masquerade
would never fade?
Oily tears, on metal cheeks,
I can’t seal up all the leaks.
My blood drains out onto the ground,
I stare and grin at the haunting sound
of dripping oil as it fills
countless desolation rills;
and unfeeling,
here I fade.
Black oil hemorrhages,
and I fade.
Tic…please tock do not reply;
just let me die.
08/20/15
My Gramma as I called her, probably seemed no different than most,
But to me she was the very best, sorry - I really have to boast.
She had grey hair, was fairly stout and always wore a dress,
A waft of lavender to this day, makes me smile, I must confess.
She was a proud woman who stood only 5 feet 3 inches tall,
Her lap was my favourite place to be, when I was very small.
Gramma died after having only 19 birthdays, she was 80 years old,
Her birthday was on leap year and 1900 never had one, so I’m told.
I was so lucky my Gramma lived in our small Ontario town,
I spent lots of time with her, sleeping on her bed of down.
When it was time for me to nap, she’d rock me in her chair,
Quietly humming in my ear and rubbing my long brown hair.
For fun I’d use her old iron, pressing all her dusting rags,
Never told me it would not get hot, it was on its last legs,
She’d thank me for my help and compliment me on my skill,
Then we’d move on to watering plants sitting on the windowsill.
She used to make beautiful pottery and she’d let me mold the clay,
Oh, my favourite times with Gramma, were when we’d sit and play
She had this magnificent button tin, which may sound boring to some,
But we’d sit and study each button dreaming where each one came from.
Some were from fancy dresses while others had adorned shoes,
I would listen so contently, my concentration I would never lose.
She’d talk of far away places, telling me how others had to live,
And why compassion was important, she said I had so much to give.
No other person in my life has influenced me as much as she did,
She taught how to be kind and good, beginning when I was a kid.
Although I really should not say this, but I just cannot tell a lie,
She spoiled me with love so great, I was the apple of her eye.
For Memories of Grandma Contest
Sponsor Carol Brown
*Placed First*
Written July 29, 2011
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
I felt my finger nails digging into his back
What an intensified sexual moment
I never knew that tears could roll
Down the cheeks of a robust man
he wept! he sigh! he came
Again, and again and again
was it a sportsmanship or
an injury cat on a Hot Tin Roof?