Best Tooled Poems
A well-appointed cowpoke, of whom there are still a few,
Wanted to be properly clad for his first job interview.
So, to impress his potential and somewhat cynical boss,
He has a silver-studded saddle throwed across his hoss!
He's wearin' a ten-gallon hat, a Stetson if you please,
And a bandana 'round his neck to catch the dusty breeze.
The dude has a roll-yer-own a-danglin' from his lips,
And a shiny pair of forty-fours a-hangin' from his hips!
He's wearin' a hand-tooled leather belt of the finest grade,
And a "cowboy" shirt and a vest cut from top-grade suede!
A woolly pair of chaps covers his bow-legged knees,
And protects his Calvin Kleins that fit so tight they squeeze!
His gleamin' pair of Tony Lama boots with pointy toes,
Completes what he considers proper cowboyin' clothes.
The silver spurs on his boots glint in the noonday sun;
Ah, he's the ideal picture of a range-ridin' son-of-a-gun!
The boss, arms folded, feet spread, sportin' a knowin' grin,
Didn't seem to be impressed, much to the greenhorn's chagrin.
Sizin' him up from head to toe, he said, "You look fit and able",
Handed him a fork and shovel and sent him to the stable!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved
In the box with overpowered silence
Dripping with sweaty tension
Wanting glory…fearing three
Those eyes precise measured quarry
Javelin of Ash loaded at the ready
Stilly prepared…ironed gripping
White pale streak of the assailing foe
Red seamed threads spinning unseen
Coursing in…aimed true
A crack that exhales the collective breathe
Eruption within the faceless crowd
Cacophony…movement’s flurry
Charging towards the much sought prize
Just for the chance to be victorious
Guarded…standing strong
Diving headlong toward canvas safety
Outstretched beyond human limit
Colliding wreck…jarring hard
Percussive thump of stitched tooled leather
A thumb shot skyward yelling failure
The cheering…mixed jeering
Screaming sighs…and whistled respect
God I love baseball…
What's the espresso this evening, Rubicam?
My random access memory will light upon it
As I riffle the files of my brain.
Pulling out something fresh,
I burst out with words to cover the enigma.
Bones
Bones are the fare--
Stewed bones with marrow deep inside.
Cracking the bones of the chicken leg,
I find essence,
Everlasting purity so well stored and tucked away,
Like a savings account or DNA.
The vapor of mud rises fleet and narrow.
This is the conduit of the inner sanctum,
The railroad across Canada in the snow.
Red vertigo covers the wheels as they turn,
Rolling asunder like a sky.
We eat and gorge on the beauty of it--
The holy thing--
Sent all holy and shiny new.
We split the marrow with a scalpel,
All sharply tooled and honed.
The operation is a success at last--
Liberation is at hand surely.
The vice has fallen away,
And the orange center is revealed.
My word-center is on autopilot;
I am still, silent, patient.
Then the marrow grows overabundant,
Needing quick hands to capture the thief,
Lest escape be granted.
The expository hose is drawn up.
The bare leg is covered and modesty satisfied.
There is no canker in this truth,
Being pure to the core,
Pure as blood-marrow.
The stigma is gone out of it.
Holy is the anthem and the chorus
Sings a greeting to the little people
Who stand waiting in line.
They watch for some illumination
Of the dark letters written on their souls
Bandits would not deride them
in such an instance.
Horses in a fever will trample words,
But words re-form; they cannot die.
You who bear the mystery,
Who cannot die,
You have palpated my heart
And signified a vast reference point,
Pleading to me with a sad song.
My turbulence is all inside me,
A stormy affair,
Always sorting and reeling back with shock
As the ivy vine climbs the ancient wall.
If you had no device,
Would you not read more books?
The man dignified in the third person
Will ask the questions here, mind you.
Return to me again loon of the wide lake,
Loon hiding in the reeds.
Show me your face before you fly,
And sound your voice in the evening.
He was a lonesome cowboy, with boots of fine-tooled hide,
His quarter horse a stallion, his trusty faithful ride,
Each evening when the sunset and the doggies settled down,
He made a pot of coffee and laid his poor head down
He'd think about the morning, the cattle drive so hard, and
How the dust and devil’s heat, would steal his dried up heart,
And if you saw him coming, you’d know him from the start,
He’d be the lonesome cowboy, laid on coffin’s cart
(in John Deere green)
The décor paid tribute to an American icon,
a way of life that built this land.
Did the owner's ancestors farm nearby,
his memories the reason for the John Deere green?
Green everywhere: tablecloths, wooden posts
trim strips on walls, wind-chimes and hanging plants;
not garish or overpowering, but subtle, and pleasing to the eye.
Ceiling beams were lined with strings of Christmas lights,
every bulb in John Deere green.
One old children's hand-tooled saddle—with sheepskin lining
and a cinch made from woven rope—sat astride a dividing rail.
A small shaped mirror near the door, wore a horse-collar frame.
John Deere tractors adorned an entire wall,
displayed on shelves, in framed photos and metal ads,
reflected in large mirrors—evenly
spaced— on the opposite wall.
Locals ate, took no notice. I was enthralled, and ordered
biscuits and gravy, my mind full of memories
of life on the farm, in John Deere green.
Like rain cloud stragglers that co-exist
Darker shaded sky, vastly does persist
Sunset begins and yellow sets the stage
In front, we’re windmills of a fallen age
Moving gently through a slight calming breeze
Around it goes pumping water with ease
Multiple blades dark from a sunset blaze
Un-hindered by any slight weathered glaze
Just like the windmills of my aging mind
I search a memory but seldom find
The missing link, the power surge elect
It’s my thoughts of which I can’t circumspect
In its time, this aquatic synergy
Was tooled, but now, I’m out of energy
Contest: Grab your Partner
Sponsor: POETESS DARKLY
1/30/2014
Einstein’s brain was more complicated than any Swiss army knife.
A pathologist took it from his cranium creating its’ ignominious afterlife.
He confined it in a formalin filled Tupperware tub that stunk
then tooled around America with it in his Buick Skylark trunk.
True story; check out the synopsis of the book (I’ve read it) called “Driving Mr. Albert” by Michael Paterniti on Amazon.com.
Tooled up, the army chaplain
Is wielding the words of God
Straight in for the kill
With ‘The work of His will’
And ‘He came not with peace but the rod’
The sixth commandment is tricky
A most inconvenient law
For the turn of a cheek
On the battle field bleak
Is far from conducive to war
So, pity the army chaplain
And the conflict that rages within
As the ranks of the dead
Tramp a march through his head
And he murders his conscience with gin
by Gail
I like El Paso...the heat, the dust, the heat,
I like the cars and the hats the cops wear,
cowboys in a rusty B movie,
but most of all I like the people, the
janitors and doctors and newsreaders,
who don't care if they're American,
Mexican or both...
and the bars are cool, so cool... some
smell of menthol and others like a clean
latrine,
but that's OK..it's alright and I don't judge,
and the girls are single and friendly and they
like you 'cos your'e tall and white, with dollars
and tooled brown boots
but most of all I like the warm wind that blows
in sweet guitar music and shimmering light
from across the big bridge, tussleing the hair
of the janitors and doctors and newsreaders,
who don't know if they're American, Mexican, or both.
“Never trust your life behind a cheap gun”
- Annie Oakley
Annie, has a heavy heart.
But also a light heart
one that shines in the sun.
and regardless light or dark,
Annie’s bright heart will spark
and spin out a round, whistling like a song being sung.
With only moments notice,
before most prepare to know it
She showcases its essence in one single sentence.
But a statement to render us speechless
Pierced as a whole.
All of us she reaches.
Standing there alone
with her gun.
She splits a playing card at 90 yards
without care.
Plugs a nickle in the middle
flipping through the air,
and with a single shot, puts out a candle flame
without disturbing wax a drop.
The hammer and trigger are stock,
and cherry is the handle.
Handmade, crafted, shaped
like herself, to perform in dust and rain.
Tooled as a saddle and Gold washed in a barrel.
But Annie's gun is a mystery.
And what's more
when she points her heart towards anything
or chooses to use it for our amusement
Her targets are always attained.
Somehow by her grit, grip and will,
we're left in awe, and even a little afraid
of Annie's heart of iron and steel.
Afraid of the way, she owns the stage.
Holds and keeps her gaze on the straight away,
as we ourselves stare down the sight
she'll let fly the first of bullets loaded that day
With five more, soon on the way
“Never trust your life behind a cheap gun”
she'd say.
And each round fired off
takes us back to a younger age.
The image of the dying past, laying to final rest,
The old west
and the way things used to be.
To see those cards split at the neck of the king.
Lit cigarettes gently whisked away
from the lips of her husband, sitting
blindfolded, or asleep
She alone stands with Sitting Bull,
A dying breed.
For us watching those bottles break
Our hearts too, shatter as much as they
having never seen such a scene
as we've seen today
they scatter
with the ashes in the breeze.
Without him I struggled, just to breathe
The scent of his skin, my addiction
I couldn't bear the pain if he had to leave
I couldn't resist the friction
There were days, I considered taking my life
Just to ease the pain
Atop my nightstand, I kept a knife
My nightgown wore a stain
He had no idea of the turmoil I was in
He said "we're just having fun"
He took my heart out for a spin
What would happen when he was done
We would laugh and mock her together
How stupid could I be
He had my heart in a tether
And next, he would do this to me
I must admit, I had him fooled
He believed me to be a player
My personality, I had tooled
I never wanted to betray her
When I sliced my skin to release the pain
I did it for her AND I
His love had me sick and insane
My soul, brittle and dry
Perhaps it was him that deserved to bleed
Why should I suffer alone
All of this pain was derived from his greed
I GROUND HIM UP, TOOTH AND BONE
My new best friend has become my lover
She assisted in the crime
If questioned of me, I know she'll cover
She too has been doused in his slime
DILIGENCE, DELIBERATION AND A DISREGARD FOR DESTINY, DELIVERANCE AND DEATH
And so I ask you none too shy
As bespeaks naught a beauty who begot goodbye
Yet thinks not to ponder my query
Since relinquishment and loss have left me leery
You need not answer a needy man
Nor feed him facts of fear called forth from the circumference of a circuitous circumstance
Yet and still this is a second of singularity and serendipitous by chance
My chance
A portrait portended by the perfection and portrayal of perpetuity
etched in a sketch skilled by a letch
for the worth of one woeful woman who went from a once winsome wonder to a wretch
Woe to you, a wench
A source of grievance tooled intolerantly by ingratiating and gratuitous remarks
While sparks spew to speciously and poignantly persuade a fire unto death
As your breath begets buds of pompous purity
With an aromatically inspired insistence to persist with the inconsistency of concern
plus the refusal of a reclusive and secluded flame to burn
and a conflicted consort confirmed and affirmed by an affliction to spurn
a disease deadly to delight and due deliverance
urged by due diligence
after due and diligent deliberation
While you foster fascination in a cradle of the future
a future never meant to be
a future minus a man such as me
So now I’ve phrased a fact inside a query
With eyes of blue un-Blessed and overbearingly be bleary
Still silence doth pervade a symphony unsung
As your quietude quickens the death of dreams to which I once clung
© 2012…copyright PHREEPOETREE ...~free cee!~
a solivagant by nature
the need for acceptance grew
hot tears pooled
a phenomenal resilience
affording solace to others
impressive psyche tooled
esperance is the driving force
behind your enigmatic smile
in hiding betrayal you’re well schooled
tooled lives
cyber slaves
lemmings
The problem of nation is that it's situation is the solution to the nation,
The competition of the economy is under develop
The graved compression is the comprehension decent to the inflation,
The police have power to liberation but corruption tooled over them,
The government have limitations but have no innovation,
The people declared socialisation but there is no imitation,
So want can the public do that's my question?,
The poem is entitled question