Which one is your child? I ask
I turn and see the Minnie Mouse Hat
And the professor glasses
A red polka dotted bow cinches this baby's identity
I do not need to see anything else
Categories:
cinches, baby,
Form: Light Verse
Birthdays come
but never go...
the age remains
as candles less glow;
the cake retains
a waist will show...
(hopefully, there is equal
love to know) –
Though a life can be measured
by girth in inches; as a horse often measured
by hands and cinches –
and by trophies, above the mantel –
with a champion saddle, having a silver signed
cantle –
But the sum of man's darkness, Heaven's
record of all, will determine if a generation
to rise or fall
whether angels near us scatter or rally
for our God keeps, a righteous tally....
Categories:
cinches, age, birthday, horse, humanity,
Form: Free verse
Wishes for horses,
beggars to ride
Hope cinches tightly
—dreams that won’t die
(Cowboy Poetry Festival- Elko Nevada: 1992)
Categories:
cinches, poetry,
Form: Rhyme
Told we were safer to stay a home...
The rising water in evening gloam,
Told us how wrong we were to believe...
Picked up our pets and prepared to leave.
The sadness that comes from leaving homes
Adjusters called, and insurance loans...
Devastated fam'lies in great grief...
Praying heartily for God's relief
Rely on hope and faith to revive,
With faith we pray will keep us alive.
The rain keeps falling in large inches
Our fate inescapably cinches
That we must all faithfully abide,
And know that our Lord will be our guide
Through this great storm that is Texas size,
That God will indeed help us surmise,
Almighty is watching over us
As politicians deign to discuss
The shelters for us will be decreed,
By the severity of our need.
America please pray for us all.
We are placing our lives in God's call.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Categories:
cinches, faith, people, places, rain,
Form: Couplet
Wishes for horses,
beggars to ride
Hope cinches tightly,
—dreams that won’t die
(Cowboy Poetry Festival-Elko Nevada: 1992)
Categories:
cinches, dream,
Form: Rhyme
Hands sliding into
Pine bark hair;
Fingers drawing attention to
Points of avid interest,
Each feature unique
Yet, utterly ordinary,
Cinches my attention
Binding me to you.
Fascination is
Your magician's spell,
And I’m the entranced,
Mesmerized
By all that is you.
Categories:
cinches, for him, love, romantic,
Form: Romanticism
"If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired." -- Anton Chekhov
Chekhov declared that it's clearly imperative
That a gun given billing must duly be fired.
The bullet obligingly cinches the narrative,
Sating the thirst that the gun first inspired.
Yet the world is awash in objects inutile,
Which clog our disorderly narrative streams.
So why should a playwright adhere to so futile
A diktat pertaining to props in a scene?
Myself for example, habitually arming
The darkness that swaddles me, inkily deep,
My mind so occulted its doubly alarming
To grasp the black Kimber, now sprung from its keep.
The prop having found its way on to the stage,
My untethered demons start chorally keening,
Quite certain they know what the gun must presage:
That this is the moment that holds all the meaning.
Categories:
cinches, depression,
Form: Verse
Age is a snake that takes up residence,
just a small little snake, on your shoulders,
on the day you are born. Your radiance,
your energy and strength match your blunders,
and the viper is kept at bay for a while.
Oh, it marks the mistakes, the broken leg,
mindless anger, and it grows, and with wile,
cinches up like a belt, lets lose a peg,
when it has to, when mind and body are sure
and clean and honest and uncompromising.
It waits, for those times when you are unsure
of your course, and grows, when shortcuts you are taking,
old wounds and ills ignored, when you don't correct
the harm you've done, it waits to fatally constrict.
Categories:
cinches, allegory
Form: Sonnet
Oh, the springs run to the rivers
And the redbuds paint the banks,
As the dogwoods burst to bloomin’
And the cowboys all give thanks.
They’ll be dustin’ off their saddles,
Checkin’ cinches and their string,
When that range all starts to greenin’
And they know that it’s new spring.
That black coffee now tastes better,
Boiled out on the open flames
As they round up their remudas
And give horses their new names.
Their boots are all clean and shiny
And the tack is soaped and fixed—
They even done their spring bathin’
In the pond and in the cricks.
Them cowboys and cows are anxious
For what a season will bring,
As they gather and head on out
In God’s glory of new spring.
Categories:
cinches, cowboy-western, life, nature, seasons,
Form: Cowboy Poetry
You’re nineteen years old and fancy
That you’re fast as that Wild Bill—
You ride and shoot and go crazy—
Drink rye whiskey to your fill.
You bet that you’ll live forever
And never see a sick day,
Till some sense is knocked in your head
That soon won’t go far away.
That buddy you said you’d kill for
Lays dead because he was shot—
And there was nothing you could do,
But hold on to what you got.
So you grow wrinkled and wiser
And think what you need is gold—
To buy your dreams and your lovers
As days and years make you old.
But the gold comes and then it’s gone
And only your kin stand by—
As you watch them die one by one
And all you can do is cry.
So you tighten up your cinches
And delight in God’s sad plot—
Then savor those you love the more
And hold on to what you got.
Categories:
cinches, cowboy-western, death, nostalgia, sad,
Form: Cowboy Poetry