Long Accoutrements Poems
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In debonair, burnt-orange, fur cloak
You trot your preened tail in front of the men folk
Nose pointed skyward prowling for a free dinner after dark
Your prickly ears snare every sensual bark
Squinty eyes reflect the sleekest of movements
With soft, silky prance; you parade your flossy accoutrements
Until spotting a virile, unsuspecting suitor
Your animalistic hunger will your wary maven tame and tutor
Forthwith, wrapping your seductive paws around every seamless border
Your fawning tongue feasts on every truant part in short order
Then dragging the drained prey back to your temporal den
Smacking your satiated lips you howl and grin
I am in all a moderate man, a noted country gentleman'
with all the accoutrements, a house, a farm and gout.
My politics are not extreme, I'm reasonably devout.
I have my peccadillos but they barely warrant mention.
To hide my light beneath a bushel I've never felt an urge.
In one particular virtue I feel a measure of pride.
Judge after I have put my case if I'm not justified.
Temperance is my virtue. I draw back from the verge.
Excess I shun as ‘twere the pox. Revels I'll have none,
for eating much and drinking much are folly's requisite.
At the vicarage and the manor I am noted for my wit.
No local scandals I invite. London's there for fun.
Here on my farm, my little world, there reigns a blissful peace.
Bumpkins and commoners alike still hail me as the Squire.
Come end of day, I'll sip my port, roast chestnuts by the fire.
Was that the braying of an ass or the cackle of my geese?
When Walpole steered the ship of state how happily we plied!
No foreign broils or riotous mobs then then sapped the nation's wealth.
Complacent Whigs and good King George sustained our common heath,
but now dark clouds have gathered and adverse is the tide.
I thank my Maker day by day for being richly blessed,
yet feel no little pang and twinge when I think upon the poor.
Much more could be done for them, of that I am quite sure.
To help me get to sleep at night a jug of stout is best.
In days done by I did aspire to turn men's hearts to good.
So great the world and I so small, unequal to the task.
Should risking all have aught effect? respectfully I ask
and thereby serve the greater world ? I don't see how it could.
Saturday is native to weddings and ceremonies
Of anxieties – patterned in coarse sputum of rain.
My friend Bonsy and his wife filled the calendar
With the uselessness of time, levelled against waste
As indicated by the clocks of dew-coated pavements
Of our yawning city.
Next to this was the arrangement of formalities which
Came with the attainment of stress. They haggled
Between themselves, the celebrants. Oh well, they haggled
For the benefits of the church from which the organ must
Sound, to welcome them – aisle-bound – among a congregation
That suits itself with the accoutrements of churchdom.
And the wedding proceeded amid the glare of the gentle
Sun, into whose ears the dulcet voice of the red organ
Poured. A postman once said to me, ‘If all posts bore
Wedding invitations, who would attend and who wouldn’t? ’
To which I turned my arms up, helplessly indicating my
Thoughtlessness to such questions.
And the church bell pealed.
It grew with the muscle of Doppler Effect when frayed nerves
Become inured to boiling cold like the one we all were witnesses
To, that blustery, unendowed Saturday, when Bonsy married June.
And the minister pronounced every word of conjugation with
Care, peering into the eyes of the couple and the rest of us sinners
Who listened with the attentiveness of cats on matters relating the
Rape of pious mice.
The organ rose and fell in one voice swoop, massaging the pride
In one sinner after another on this ceremony of whimsical gales,
Now sweeping the face of the town; this union of bone and flesh
Draped in dark suits and flowing matter of whiteness, white and
Whitish whiteness of white.
‘I DO’.
The church winked.
‘I DO’.
The holy house hummed.
The organ belched.
Outside, Saturday wore on like before... oh, no, not like before,
When it would have lain prostrate to its own fouled weather of
Extreme bride bliss and dancing confetti.
My friend’s wedding went on on the blustery breath of July rain.
Dark and fussy, the clouds, jealous of July, frowned their faces.
Rain spat gently. No thunder spoke.
Lightning came only through the lone eyes of cameras.
BOUNDARIES
an
unworld
explicitly
rendered
incorporting
misshapen
pictures
in a
gradual gloom
stubbornly
numb
& constricted
a
statuesque.
impression.
affluent
in
appearance
of
practiced
postures
of
still life
accoutrements
with
plentiful
attributes
universal
&
poignant
throughout
a
glimpse.
a
proof
transplanted
pirouetting
breathes
trabquillity
the
ultimate
contraint
a
sensory
manfestestation
of
creativity
&generosity
in
a
rightful vision
encapsultes
to
resassemble
depicting
the
sanctified
in
continuing
expectations
Amnesia
... or impaired memory?
Jezebel stood firm before my eyes!
Behold Her Imperial Ruthlessness!
And her bosom, harbouring bile,
Was bleached like lightning.
Arachnid fingernails mock the efforts
Of talons from revelling vultures.
Eyes pierced my brows with lasciviousness
So atrocious like the willpower of romantic gales.
And I saw her bathing in full nakedness
Upon rocks of blood,
Naked with the accoutrements of raw power.
And she bathed with inebriation.
Power is like alcohol which intoxicates only
Those who have tasted it.
A panting rill rustled like vagrant, charred leaves
Around her cold, naked feet.
Jezebel.
Whiter than horrid death!
Night,
And she sequesters.
Sublime, the existence,
Merging with night, with
Mirrored glances atop arid waters.
Her flesh reeked of baked blood;
Subcutaneous imprints live on her.
Jezebel,
Mother of termagants,
Rector of covens,
Ancillary to Devil’s cantonment
Hater of suffragans,
Hasten upon these hills
Before the break of dawn...
It’s dawn.
Day of Jezebel’s atonement
And blood cluttered upon solemn boulders
And upon harmless pebbles,
Upon sapphire and onyx,
And upon flaming gold and eerie silver.
Mad moments of pulsations!
Tremors and heat of hanging day,
Eruptions on Pompeii’s rage,
Adrenalin aerated beyond
Flirting clouds dancing with the greed of
Sorrow.
Jogging on the roadside,
With my friends at my side.
He moves every inch with us...
I almost forget we were four.
Seeing him as one; we discuss
Along the line to the very core
Before I knew he was a stranger,
He has turned out a humble words exchanger.
"What's your name?"
He asked diligently.
"What's your aim?"
I replied bluntly.
I know you feel dismayed.
Notwithstanding, I am for peace.
So; be unafraid,
Set aside your earpiece
And give ears to me,
My words with a straight face.
Pasting all the copied pleasant words
Into my ears like songs of birds
Pleasing to the heart every dawn of the day,
Hardly could I get away from his voice culture
Painting itself raw on the blank vacant space of my mind
Loom up with the best attar of roses.
Allover me again and again till my withered flowers grow kind.
Considering him a different vulture
Not to feed on carrion and fly away
Coming up roses with bared teeth for another tease...
But I sensed he would love it a game
Or see me behind the times--
Telling him I will think well of it
So that he won't see it as endgame.
Though, the well-intentioned untruth, I've a heart-stirring permit
Of one's own free will beyond wildest dreams
And set a match to my pun
As we smile and stun
Through the narrow hole of my ears,
His running thought beautifies the flowering moment.
Through the shady words in cool paints,
Filling the widened path to hold my breath.
Where sunny days hid afar in our accoutrements,
The hot weather foaming to worm the family birth...
If we won't only do it for fun and disappear
Between the thin lines of complaints.
Someone I never think of,
Is now the reason I uncontrollably laugh.
For the silent moment easily pictures,
His unrelenting acts decently packaged which bathe me
Romantically thinking of our future,
Praying and working to make it be
The richly blessed one absorbed in friendship.
Down the line against all hardships.
Yet, for all these
I never let go of laughter
Whenever I remember
The awesome pictures of all the tease
You planted into my head
And the zeal of beads around my waist well thread.
In which I film
You as the humble stranger
Who purposefully endanger
Peace of love into my dream
With every gust of wind, secret taboo,
secreting a web a cocooned prison
of liquid knowing, flowing,
emulsifying impossibly old and new.
In the beyond of the known, stair-stepped,
desert bone flashed into
your consciousness a confident cajoling.
To stew, on the broth of you.
A teasing shot across your bough
of lost resistance and preservation
your eyes rolling white to the out of blue.
Sailing magnetic across it's salivate maw
and unflinching gaze
You are its pupil satellite Positron of drug,
positioned, strung shift of phase shift
of new vistas of truth and beauty unsealed,
inlayed in the naked language of the Angels, stage.
You are, quickened.
Quickened-Quicksilver, tuning, dimensionality,
Principality.
Hidden depths of self,
trigger emotion and thoughts
of infinity divided by three.
A black hole of obscene curiosity
swallows your mind.
Consciousness crests
in trans-mission inflated verbose
relay of Celeste divine? Freet?
You are a place of shipwrecks and mires,
Vagabound desires.
Who dares to sail beyond the horizon of the known retreat.
You come to an isle
of Precious golds and silvers
in frequency bands of holo-hold.
Land of spellcraft, music, heresy, thrones.
Centrigual placement of palaced
internment, camp of strange instruments,
beautiful adorned accoutrements, and contrived designs.
Rune of keys you can feel, the need.
To play them, a feeling, freed.
You shape the music into an arch entity
that offers you it's drink.
You become a dizzy swirl, unable to think to speak...
Of
Silk robes of every delicate fabrication of sin.
Jewels undone, in mythos biolocationed- transmogrifliquesatisfactions.
Yet the symbology remains constant
in it's sustain of visual topology.
Guiding you through the choppy waters
on ethereal landing
in land of the cloud of uncertainty, in hymnal,
refrain, refrain from it's hypnotic beat.
Hold on tight, Jane, Jason of the
foams and eddys and strangered things.
The exhilerating peril, in para parable.
Epic Tome, seasoning tomb of forner deed, denial plausibility causible.
Be ye not
thirsted for the salts of her drink.
For these are the Seven Seas.
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent,
nothing's gonna happen.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
When he was born, for a while,
he was placed in a plastic box;
thereafter as an adult
he moved into many a rented and boxy room.
As he matured, he filled his available space
with the accoutrements
of a hastily gathered together life.
He mostly wanted and pined to be -
a cowboy,
a buckeroo on a far roaming horse
for hunting the far flung.
As he gazed from his boxed in mind
upon the blue yonder
he would sing lonesome songs
knowing only the God
of faraway places would hear him
and not tell.
He knew that if were ever to escape
his own boxed-in existence
he could never
go back then to his four cornered homes,
in the cramped and crowded towns,
for that would surely
hurt his wide-open heart.
Ironically, and not so incidentally,
he had long made a living making
boxes in such places.
Perhaps this alone can be said of him:
That his limited life grew larger
as he filled every box with his hopes,
visions and dreams.
His day began with "Reveille" blaring from within the bowels of the ship.
Sergeants yelled, "Up and at 'em lads! We're takin' a little trip!"
He wearily arose from his bunk to don the accoutrements of war.
He'd survived Guadalcanal, now he faced Iwo Jima's fearsome shore.
They fed him steak and eggs - rookies joked that it may be their final meal.
But the battle-weary Marine was very grim - to him it seemed so surreal.
The chaplain gathered them around and offered a fervent prayer,
Pleading for God's protection and committing them to His care.
The grizzled old "Gunny" yelled, "First platoon over the side!"
"Down those lovely cargo nets, boys! Semper Fi!" he cried!
Bobbing Higgins boats waited below to take him to that perilous strand.
The engines roared as the boat wallowed and rolled t'ward that ebon sand!
He hunkered down with the others, his helmet beating upon his nose.
Others used their helmets to receive bits of breakfast as the boat sank and rose!
Adding to the din of battle so familiar to his ears were shells flying overhead.
As his boat with its precious cargo neared the beach it was hit by zinging lead!
The boat struck a coral reef so they had to wade in water up to their hips.
He struggled with his heavy pack and rifle with a prayer upon his lips.
Brave men fell under withering fire that day as they tried to force a breach.
Brave men forever lost their innocence that day on that hallowed beach!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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