Long Auctioneer Poems
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An unmarked auction house in the cellar
Fat cat millionaires outbid one another
A quiet pissing contest
To be the lowest of low-lifes.
A living corpse up for gropes...I mean grabs.
She’s a virgin, for now.
Chocolate curls over a red silk chemise
Cerulean eyes, swollen.
Fifteen years old with her head in the clouds,
Drug-induced of course.
She wasn’t willing.
The closing bell won’t change that.
What do we suppose the winning bid will be?
A suburban mother sobs and curses god
from a twin-sized bed
drowning in red silk sheets and tears
under a boy-band poster.
Another runaway, the Sherriff had shrugged.
Third one this week.
He was in a hurry.
Working two jobs so he could retire.
I work at an auction, said he.
But no one was listening.
The Senator shared a knowing wink
Jingling coins in his red silk pocket.
I'll start the bidding.
4/7/15
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...
Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.
Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.
Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.
Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).
Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.
A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.
That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.
Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.
The auction began and I could feel my pulse patter,
If I don't get this house, my heart it may shatter.
I got my ducks in a row, when I saw the sale poster,
It's been a ride to get here, a real rollercoaster.
You see, the house was my Mama's, but she got in a rut,
The bank foreclosed, on the mortgage contract.
They kicked her out, it was such a calamity.
She was ashamed and embarrassed, questioning her sanity.
The sale day is here, and there is a huge crowd.
I must be the winner, for crying out loud.
The bids were swift, and the sale price kept rising,
I kept raising my paddle, I'd lost track of the pricing.
My hopes began to plummet, but the auctioneer said Sold,
He called my number, my bid had been bold.
I yelled "I won!" and I caught my Mama's eye.
She would have her home back, I knew that she would cry.
Today was a day that I will never forget,
Mama got her house back, and I have no regret.
They fell in love and married when she was about the age of twenty.
He knew she liked to talk since she'd already bent his ears aplenty!
She could babble at twenty miles per hour with gusts up to forty!
His mother warned him, "Son, this woman will surely damage your corti!"
Even when in a romantic mood and with her he'd like to coddle,
She would rant and carry on with her incessant twaddle!
She'd prattle at forty miles per hour with cyclonic gusts of seventy-eight!
Only when she'd begin to snore would her unceasing blather abate!
They attended their college reunion and he was embarrassed to death!
She dominated each and every conversation and didn't take a breath!
She gabbled at thirty miles per hour with occasional gusts to fifty!
He hesitated to tell her so but as an auctioneer she'd be mighty nifty!
At her family reunions it sounded as if they were speaking in tongues,
Like the rabble at The Tower of Babel, bellowing at the top of their lungs!
Babbling on and on seemed to be an inherent family trait!
They'd chatter at fifty miles per hour with gusts exceeding ninety-eight!
When his spouse said the grace she'd chat with the Lord ad infinitum,
Asking Him to bless the food and all God's children beginning with Adam!
When she left for Beulah Land, on her stone he had this message etched:
"I could never get a word in any-wise and that ain't too farfetched!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
A little homework assignment - if you don't know what the word "corti' means,
look it up in your handy-dandy Funk 'n Wagnalls!
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...
Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.
Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.
Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.
Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).
Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.
A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.
That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.
Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.
When fate pulls at my haiku of heartstrings,
I curse the syllables of my poetic musings.
If I do not express my sorrows,
how will petals blossom in my garden?
Upon the midst of bewilderment,
lost without a bosom for a sanctuary.
Life can cause confusion;
seem somewhat an illusion;
when the mind only sees disillusion.
Upon the depths of despair;
placed upon the ledge of melancholy -
legs dangle, eyes stare into random space.
Absent thoughts have no demand,
yet the soul is insistent,
but, all that is seen is darkness;
charcoal horizons with no guiding stars,
with the moon obscured by dull smoke,
jaded eyes simply wonder why.
What has become of me?
I despise the voices controlling my head.
I'm afraid of the images they've created.
Who will save me from this ludicrous lucidity.
Can anyone prevent vicious vines from suffocating me?
Vertigo seduces the mind,
influencing it to leap - but it has no faith.
Below lies an endless void,
a collection of human delusions;
an abyss of crushed expectations.
Heaven's broken arrows rain down,
blood dripping with fragments of broken dreams.
A reminder of another false pledge -
the final episode of a heart's connection.
Flames of hell prepare to scorch me.
Sometimes growth is like a stream,
that has lost itself in an ocean.
No identity, misplaced and alienated,
so it dies a slow death.
A sigh can only become deceased,
when a heart does not beat.
So, why do so many die
when the water of existence is in your hands?
In the marketplace of life,
each merchant will give you a different price.
Some will try to sell you dreams,
others, goods on false pretences.
Be careful, not to give all your emotions
away to the first bidder;
life is an auction -
don't let the auctioneer play with your heart.
Sometimes love is an unpredictable enigma.
I'm tired of living around gambolling gambits,
who's games condemn a soul to suicide.
But, little do they know,
I am a master of self deprecating.
The greatest of all pretenders,
suffering from a poison mistake
that lives with me forever.
You Don't
_______________________________
You don't have to buy me flowers,
they always seem to die
You don't have to be a "Knight"
even though you really try.
You don't have to be someone else,
I love who you are
You don't have to give me everything
all I want is your heart.
You don't have to be a stranger,
when hurting truths are told
You don't have to be the auctioneer
to you my heart was sold.
You don't have to give up trying,
though we make some mistakes
You don't have to be a healer
if my heart never breaks.
You don't have to brave things alone,
I am here for you
You don't have to carry the world
that's for both of us to do.
6/17/14-Jessica Thompson
I'll grab my sword and keg of rum,
To sail the open sea.
I'll be a pirate and not succumb,
To those that challenge me.
I'll chase tall sails, test their measure,
As they travel far from home.
I'll raid their ship, steal their treasure.
Leave them on islands to roam.
I am a pirate, in search of gold.
I am a buccaneer.
I've captured many, some I've sold,
A cut to the auctioneer.
Belay my friend, no trust in me.
I'll cut you through and through.
I'll feed your body to the sea,
And burn your city too.
I am a pirate, I'll steal from you.
A pirate's life for me.
I sail these waters, into the blue.
I'll be a scourge to thee.
contest A Pirate's Life for Me
9/10/15
This coin depicting a head of man with laurel
is a rare treasure from the American History,
as an auctioneer I could sell it for a large
sum of money: its estimated price is over
two-thousand-dollars, it shows it was minted
in eighteen-ninety-four, come forward and bid!
I found it among pennies I saved for rainy days,
there must be at least four thousand of them;
my collection includes contemporary silver dollars,
many generations must pass to accumulate value...
any other collector would action them any day!
I jealously hold onto them to own a piece of History:
how they glitter in glass cases on my walls!
I may donate them to the American History
Museum in Manhattan and see them on display!
Many auctioneers would love to get hold of my silver coin,
their mind is set solely on greed, not thinking of its history
which can unravel fascinating details about of its minting process;
the unknown artisan was very skilled in itching date and image
on both sides to testify the greatness and wealth of this nation,
but Americans don't realize that they are very wealthy indeed!
When I thought of the drawing
Suddenly, I heard some painting
I crave the draft, draught de kooning
Still is graining, still is graining
Long I stood there establishing, painting
I took the blank sheet of paper
My mind was racing
Grandeur, thoughts and flashes behind my eyes
My mind guides my hand
I secure the paper
I crave the draft, draught de kooning
Still is graining, still is graining
Suddenly, I heard the auctioneer yelling..
I'll give you 2 thousand dollars for this drawing
Still is graining, still is graining
Long I stood there establishing, painting
I had dreamed of canvases staining
It was pertaining
The developing draw delineating
All my soul within me withdrawing
The designing draftsmanship designing
Remembering many draft, enticing paintings
An echo murmured back the word, 'painting!'
For I the artist drawing, is now a painting that was sold for money
4/20/19