Long Blow by blow Poems
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Management asked if I could evaluate one of the employees, and as that happens to be within my noted abilities and well within the scope of the hotel's agenda,
I concurred with the specific understanding that arrangements for the immediate assessment will be determined by me congruous to management specifications.
Derek's a year older and by the way, all union workers but me, including Jane, are older than me, including Jane by two years.
I advised Derek to play the gender card by taking control of the copy machine and be consciously aware of that nasty ink bottle's habit of coloring unwary hands, thus allowing the woman at the front desk to maintain their prim-n-proper selves.
At the end of that exchange that day, I concluded by asking him if his hockey team won.
He said he didn't watch the game. Derek, for the past few minutes, while I dealt with this dew-hickey, I told you of the game's highlights in blow-by-blow sorts.
That would have garnered a choice, even if your team was neither certainly one would have a Canuck like you.
I didn't watch the game either, I just read an article that highlighted the game, and fresh in my mind reasoned my call to you to go to the back office and wait for me by the copier.
Your will is what will now, let me be free ...
'Tis be darker times than before, more childless,
This is crazy! Topsy turvey they'd be,
matters of convenience act the mindless,
It is the right of every woman, or,
Is it the right of every woman, so,
Some folks fighting for life inside the core,
others say the fight is more blow-by-blow.
The written trek crossed Egypt and the world,
Rome, Greece, Mesopotamia, and more,
rice patties and bamboo trails that were pearled,
procedures taught too numerous the score.
Be crib death, world plagues, poor, starving, and this,
quest be, will we exist ... 'Tis hit or miss.
~~ Bestill ... lil' maybe!
Lord! Why is it some folks consider it their solemn obligation,
To render unto me the details of their every operation?
No matter whence I go, I go with the expectation,
That about someone's operation I'll suffer an explanation!
Ah! To relax at the club for some stimulating conversation.
To enjoy an exquisite cigar and imbibe in a little libation!
But, invariably some feller launches an interminable dissertation,
Giving a blow-by-blow description of his latest operation!
I always ask for a window seat when making a plane reservation,
For a little solitude, for some musing and quiet meditation.
Usually, the little old lady next to me begins a long narration,
Describing more than I care to know about her delicate operation!
I enjoy walking and marveling at the beauty of God's Creation,
And along the way to sit awhile for some quiet contemplation.
Univited, some old geezer sits and begins a detailed oration,
Babbling on and on about his recent hernia operation!
Thought provoking tete-a-tetes fill me with exhilaration,
And I gain from such encounters insightful information.
But dad-gum it! Consarn it! And holy thunderation!
Please spare me the details of your every operation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Appalling.. hard not to diss the taking the piss
No not talking about the corking bliss of Travis
Bazball calling card just a scarred hubris abyss
Head’s rabid ripsnorter slaughter so rapid
Livid our boys stupid not vivid instead vapid
Fan fury wishing they will stop fishing
Hack jury dishing out flak still swishing
Go toe to toe with our oldest coldest foe
Blow by blow new low ego the worst woe
Wickets in a row..have a go free flow they all crow
Forget every aficionado all about Bazball bravado
Can hear them say no other way to play we know
Can’t teach reach each puppet that Mac did bestow
Beseech after another breach it’s the Muppet show
Boycott & Vaughan did warn along with many ex baggie greens
After the laughter at rafter of dafter scenes…still chill your beans
Really.. Stokes bespoke blokes choked were smoked...“Has Beens”!
I knew there would be a time
The day the Angels marched
To the River Styx they headed
There's evil to be torched
Lucifer and his lurid
To our surface they have risen
As they corrupt, plunder and kill
Our survivors to their hell like prisons
To eradicate this evil
The depths they need to go
Combat instead of mediation
To match them blow by blow
They meet at the gates of Hades
On mass with shields and swords
In evils, dreaded hellish eyes
The might, as the angels hoard
Lightening flashes zag
The cue for them to attack
In delta formation they swoop
Heroism, there will be no lack of that
Weapons blessed by higher
Cut down the lowest dregs of all
Winged saviour's all of them
In the end will stand so tall
This planet will remember
The day the Angels marched
When evil was finally defeated
Beaten, earthed and torched
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-4.php
I hang a left, my clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside, narrows taper to booths.
The talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of tenderness.
I overhear the history
of generations of icons. False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
vicariously share the bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.
The food arrives with a woman.
Dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over my senses
like a caress.
She knows I’ve been listening,
the waitress smiles, continues unabashed
a colloquy with my eyes,
recites by rote
her 'tip-me-big' love spell.
I’m followed by two eyes that gaze out from
the picture on the parlor wall. Those eyes!
If they were real, I think I would feel numb
to know from nowhere I had seen arise
a monster from the dirt that was the grave
of my great-grandfather; his photograph
conveys he was a Scrooge that barely gave
a care for family or for his staff.
Infamous was he; arrogant as well
(as we’ve been told by Grandma). She would know!
His eldest, she will swear he’s gone to hell.
Her reasons she recites to us blow-by-blow.
The picture won’t come down, for in his will,
that was his requirement. He rules her still!
It was the best dream of our race,
and lived a 1000 years.
Roads to guide-or strangle?
Power to dispel man's fears...
Trade, sophistication,
faith, and word of law.
Thus was the world meant to be,
safe beneath your paw.
With steady hand you wrecked each foe,
brick by brick,
and blow by blow,
until, at last, you stood alone,
with your foot upon the throne-
Your great strength was your great foil,
for when the time of trial and toil
at last came to its bitter end,
your son's ambitions made you spend
your lifeblood's vigor for the right,
to laze in power in the light.
The gold they sought was weak and soft,
not like the iron once held aloft!
You failed slowly o'er the years,
your power falling like your tears,
until the land was wet with blood,
and our dreams returned to mud.
22 February 2018
I don not know how to feel
My broken heart will never heal
It is bruised, broken and shattered
From the awful way you battered
It to pieces blow by blow
I wish you could only know
How you cut me painfully
You dug my heart out so deeply
With a sharp sarcastic tongue
Each new word you told me stung
How could you do this to me
I was being so friendly
Each day helping all I could
My heart trying to be good
All my friendship pouring out
Talking every day about
Any problems or troubles
Always be there on the double
When you called, no hesitation
Bringing so much inspiration
To a life that needed it
Till one day I felt like sh--
You just threw me to the curb
Acting weird and so absurd
Putting up a wall, you blocked
Me out-- I was stunned and shocked
At the way you looked and acted
Saying our friendship was retracted
To no longer come around
You stomped my heart in the ground
What made you do a reverse
I was there through the worst
Times-- pulling you through each one
Now your yelling we are done
I really do not want to go
When you hit me with a blow
Of anger, violence and hate
Your eyes are saying it's too late
Go away-- do not return
Your sad red eyes start to burn
With tears your starting to cry
Slamming the door on me -- WHY ????
What would cause you to end
The loyalness of a true friend
Hang a left, clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside,
narrows taper to booths.
The place is slow-time empty.
The staff talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of regrets.
From the lips of waitresses
the clipped history
of shaky affairs
and dead-loss dudes.
False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
a bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.
Food arrives with a woman,
dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over glancing eyes
as a low-cut caress.
She knows I’ve been listening,
yet continues unabashed
a colloquy with my senses.
reciting by rote a silent
'tip-me-big' love spell.