My phone dinged a reminder,
The subject of this poem,
A simple message and it said:
“9:30 Flying home.”
See, I had planned to be away
Upon a river cruise.
My husband, though, had gotten sick
And so, for weeks, my views
Were of the buildings I can see
Within my neighborhood
Instead of little charming towns
As I had hoped I would.
We canceled all that we had booked –
The flights, the room, the tours
And waited ‘til at last, my husband
Ventured out of doors.
He’s better now, but never could have
Done the things we’d planned.
I’ve put it all behind me, but
My phone can’t understand.
My drinks enticing and sweet
On a chair in the middle of the street
My little floaters been dinged
Toiling waves the edges singed
The wood alive with roaring flame
Waters pulsing like a broiling brain
The cars flow downriver like syrup
I float on my raft with an empty cup
My chair can't sink among the heat
Since it's not the damn drivers seat
So I travel the world and surf
My cup will never touch any turf
Arms reach out from the ocean waves
They hold tight, the current fails
They want saltless delight im sure
I lift the parasol, sugar is the cure
I reach down and share the fluid
The current takes it, people included
It's no matter, I can surf without it
So I crouch on the boards and sit
Then lie and bask in the sun
And even the hands cant ruin the fun
They still reach and pin me
From below the board they see
Grab my cup and take it
I laugh and spit
I let them take it where it belongs
Bubbling under the wooden walls
And I still have the suns fire
It extinguishes the waters pyre
The lapping waves cant burn
My raft of wood will never turn
Everything is so warm and free
As long as my drink is lifting me
Works of fire and thunder
flower the surface of a dark river.
When the rockets
are dead-eyed and spent,
muffled calls remain -
a flap and gabble,
of the peevish and ruffled.
Night stumbles over the edge
of gunpowder clouds.
Ducks deliver themselves
to the dark-dinged sky.
Distant cannons sigh.
The phone dinged
as he passed,
lit up;
it was hers.
He didn’t mean to look.
“LOL, you are so mean.”
the message said.
Above which;
“NGL, he’s sooo vanilla.”
In response to;
“what’s he like in bed?”
He hoped it wasn’t
about him
and hoped it was.
A brand new doll, with braids and freckled face,
was tossed aside, left caged, with plastic bars.
She eyed the blue-eyed spat with no embrace.
Though box was dinged, she’d not receive sad scars.
Ann’s clean though tossed in attic space; it’s dark.
It’s not how she’d imagined play; she’s bored.
Alone and lost without a friend - trademark
and popularity, boxed in cardboard.
One day the sun blazes, a blinding hue.
Stirred doll doesn’t know how long she’s been around.
Ann’s brought downstairs, unwrapped..she’s awed…she’s new.
A hug of excitement, for she’s been found.
Her girl gives her a rocker and a bed.
The kindest soul with freckles, hair deep-red.
I rowed for what seemed like an hour;
the water gurgled oh so pleasantly.
I had the morning to myself:
no other boats as far as I could see.
Warmed up, I soon increased my stroke,
And pulled as I had never pulled before,
the legs on fire, heart thumping fast,
sweat ran in rivulets from every pore.
The timer dinged, so I got up,
flipped off the lights, and shut the basement door.
There was this Scots golfer Sir Percy Hoar
Who dinged a poor bloke nigh hole number four
This made the dude mighty sore
And after Percy he tore
Forsooth, Sir Percy failed to bellow FORE
I treat you with the utmost care.
I wear these white gloves to handle you.
As you were fragile,
easily dinged,
and breakable.
I didn't do it because
I was frightened,
I did it for you.
But now I see
the hairline cracks,
the chipped paint.
I let too much happen to you,
I wasn't looking at the
big picture.
While I thought I protected you,
I thought I was doing you a favor,
when in reality,
I did you a disservice.
But now, the gloves are off,
and I will hold onto you
as I should have,
from the start.
For you are too priceless
to treat otherwise.
Bells
with blues
play bent cup dinged;
discordant, dongs and dings.
Soft and raspy tones that mumble,
rings rung as fuzzy rumbles and grumbles,
rather than clear resonate rings.
Sad Bells
Blue
Broken wing, cracked heel, dinged fender
There's always something busted to fluster intention
An excuse pulled from quiver,
To send arrow in reverse.
To pull away, questioning,
Doubt defeating resolve,
Willpower bent to neigh and sway.
The good ship "Self" is always broken.
Faults and breaks litter the decks
Patches and quick fixes
Good enough for now
Keep "Self" sailing, broken, battered
But feeling fine and dandy,
Unfettered by paraphernalia's blah and blah
A spirit with wings resilient,
Cannot be tethered by contraption's flaws.
Even sore broken wings, patched and fixed
Are good enough for spirit to soar to fore
As done so well, OK or just swell, before.
Why yes, I dated Taylor Swift
And no, she didn't write a song on it
I'm not quite sure what that means
Unless it is she still likes me
That might be the explanation why
I catch her out of the corner of my eye
It makes perfect sense now I believe
That Taylor Swift is stalking me
When she found out that I like to rock
She went straight from Country into Pop
Any country bumpkin can plainly see
That Taylor still has eyes for me
When I'm out shopping at the Grocery store
And I catch her sneaking down isle 4
Taylor girl you can't fool me
Your not only here for the Pickled Beets
The other day my car dinged low on fuel
So I pulled in for Petro and to check the oil
You'll never guess who's pumping gas
Do you really even need to ask
And when it is I'm home alone
There's that ring of the late night call
With heavy breathing on the end of the phone
To the tune of Shake It Off
I'm a bit more worried than I am flattered
She seems these days Mad as a Hatter
Who after all this would not believe
That Taylor Swift is stalking me
Damn kangaroo stole my hat
As I was beating him, with a baseball bat,
Will it ever end? The thief never stops
He got up and kicked me in the chops.
I pulled on his ears
Brought him to tears,
He kicked me in the face
I felt a little disgraced.
I gave him an uppercut
Knocked him down, I did the strut,
When I wasn't looking
He stole my homemade cooking.
I grabbed the cast iron frying pan
But I must admit, it wasn't a good plan,
He dinged me over the head
With the baseball bat instead.
That damn kangaroo
Escaped from the zoo,
Snuck up right behind me
Doesn't he think he's all high and mighty.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
July.22/2005
Damn kangaroo. I'll be getting him back one of these days.
Day by day, passing that sign
piqued my interest. Curiosity
grew stronger . . . had to check it out.
I drove down Green House Road.
The gravel spread on asphalt dinged
a symphony underneath.
I drove slowly, looking . . .
searching for the green house.
I saw pines, cedars, elm trees
and firewood, ricked and tarped
beside a vacant lot.
Old cars were hidden behind
an eight foot picket fence.
Lettered signs read:
Private - KEEP OUT
DEAD END - No Outlet
I did not drive down the side road,
marked by 15 mailboxes.
Swing sets and metal awnings
adorned white houses.
But no green house.
There was a weekend duffer named Rolf
Who proclaimed he knew all about golf
Ball dinged a guy's head
Hapless guy saw red
Rolf should have yelled "FORE" when he teed off!
(23 March 2013)
There once was a weekend golfer named Rolf
Who thought he knew everything about golf
His wild ball dinged a guy's head
His cuss words best be unsaid
Rolf forgot to yell "FORE" when he teed off
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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