Long Cherry Poems
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When I was younger, days moved softly,
an endless waltz of hours beneath the cherry blossoms
where I walked alone, convincing myself
that solitude was sweet, that love was for the others.
My footsteps in the fall, crisp and solitary,
echoed through halls of laughter I dared not enter.
So assured was I in my unworthiness,
a specter at the feast of hearts, unseen and unseeing.
Now, here, amid these whitewashed walls that hum
with whispers of who should care,
I sit in my assigned chair, watching pairs of old hands clasp,
wondering how love sounds when it calls your name.
They tell me stories of my past, lit by the flicker
of doubtful memories; they paint me loved and cherished.
I nod, wearing their fiction like a threadbare coat
in a winter that I’ve claimed too long as mine.
It’s easier to believe in this curated past,
where phantom kisses mark my cheek,
and phantoms of embraces wrap me in warmth
I never felt—each lie a balm to the soul I doubted.
Night falls heavy here, and in the quiet,
I hear the young man I once was, whispering
through the crackling static of years,
how he wished to be proved wrong, yet never dared to ask.
What ghosts will they say loved me,
when I am gone, my seat left cool and empty?
Will they speak of me as one beloved,
or will they know the truth—that I believed in neither them nor me?
Oh, to have lived differently, unafraid of my own heart,
to have walked into the noise and found my reflection
in eyes not my own, learning too late
that I was worthy, always worthy, of the love I denied myself.
We've dined in exclusive eateries as 'round this globe we did roam,
In London, Casablanca, Athens and the lovely city of Rome.
Devouring chateaubriand, nasi goreng, caviar and even eel,
But there's nothing more delectable than a good home-cooked meal!
I have a lovely spouse who is the most talented of cooks.
Our library shelves are sagging with culinary books.
I have no idea if she ever refers to them or not,
But there's always something savory simmering in the pot!
Liver and onions is one of my very favorite treats.
Abhored by my wife, she considers it the most formidable of feats,
As she holds her nose and bravely cooks up an aromatic batch,
Taking numerous breaks for her stifled breath to catch!
Mashed taters, peas, and a roast of pork is another choice repast.
Salivating as upon that delicious feast my hungry eyes are cast!
Another rare delicacy that makes my old taste buds tingle:
Chipped beef gravy on biscuits (known in the service as stuff on a shingle!)
Spaghetti, chicken and dumplings, beef and vegetable stew,
Spicy chili, cornbread and beans and gallons of iced tea too!
But nothing tops off a meal and makes these old eyes gleam,
Like a huge slab of cherry pie with scoops of vanilla ice cream!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
'Twas the night before Christmas'...
We all know how that goes,
A sleigh, some reindeer and cherry red nose.
The chubby guy with a bag full of loot,
Soot and ashes all over his suit.
Well this tale isn't about the poem or song,
It really happened and won't take long.
So, I'll get to the telling,
Of something quite compelling.
It happened one Christmas eve,
Something, so odd, you may not believe.
Santa fell asleep in my favorite chair,
The sight of that gave us a terrible scare.
There were millions of kids yet to go
And this fat guy might never show.
He needed a pick-me-up that's for sure.
A shot of adrenaline would just be the cure.
Not having that, we did what we could.
8 Red Bulls, plus coffee, would be just as good.
He quickly downed them, and got all hyped up,
Like a huge volcano about to erupt.
He hopped in his sleigh and started to fly,
Waved and yelled a hearty goodbye.
This delay could have been tragic,
But Christmas, we know, has special magic.
Kids soon had presents under their trees.
It's a good thing we didn't offer Santa Sleepy Time tea.
He ate one apple, then two pears,
Three plums and, likely, unawares,
Four strawberries, then what came next?
Five oranges, as per the text.
Not finished, there was chocolate cake,
An ice cream cone and, no mistake,
A pickle and Swiss cheese, a slice,
Another of salami – nice!
A lollipop, some cherry pie,
A sausage and a cupcake; why
Continue? For the story’s sake,
One snack to go ‘fore stomach ache.
And that would be, in Carle’s cool tellin’
One fat slice of watermelon.
What would follow would be brief –
Relief, from munching on a leaf.
Eric Carle, a kids’ lit thriller,
Wrote The Hungry Caterpillar
More than fifty years ago
And every reader in the know
Should feel forever in his debt
For showing us, the best way yet,
That life may take us for a spin
But beauty waits for us within.
O souls of the Island,
I have silently
heard through
tropical torrents
and surpassed
a million miles
of the milky seas,
away from
mint-marine
silhouettes of my
utopian wonderland,
as strawberry
ripples and
coconut-scented
musings called
upon my
flamboyant spirit,
to explore those
ebony-emeralds
of universe and
envelop my hope in
creamy pink shells.
I have soaked in
sepia impressions,
ebbing as
crepe currents
on splitting shores
and windsurfed
through the
hibiscus rays
of life by forbidding
heartache hymns
of yesteryears,
from lurking in
jewelled hours
of today
and built a
kryptonite kayak
to sail in the
turquoise times
of tomorrow.
For, now I know
that the
opalescent ocean
has chosen me,
to return the
riveting spirit
of sage-rufescent
rivulets back to
the 'Heart of
Humanity's Cosmos',
shaped in
soft serenades
of seraphim.
When the
whispers of a
mauve french-rose,
blooming within,
will uncurl their
farthest wish
in silken twinkles,
my eyes will always
remember these
watercolor heights
splashing crayon dusks
and revealing
silver moon truths,
for there's more
beyond the
neon networks
of syzygy pearl skies
and chestnut reefs,
yearning to be
cherished by the
blonde alchemy of love.
So, I abandon
those sooty
regrets that snorkel
with their fragile fins in
kohl-lily gulfs
and observe these
constellations
of intuitions, formed
by the star-kissed
manta rays and
sketch sagacious
saudades laced
with hope, as a
halo around the
lilac Pole Star.
In this mortal
seascape of
the seventh heaven,
every orphan
of darkness
shimmers as
the beacon
of lustrous
sugar-scintilla that
shapes this world,
in ivory-smitten
spheres of
magically
diaphanous helix,
waltzing in whispers
of wind and water.
Every lava-skinned,
feminine flame
of doleful daffodils
was once a glittered
cherry-red gardenia,
laced with
cardinal buds,
who nurtured
velvet seeds
in the womb of
celeste compassion
and edenic empathy.
And like myself,
every sea-maiden of
sequined lush ruminations,
crowned with
purple plumerias,
is a whimsical wayfinder,
wishing for ~
white bells of serenity
and blue-star petals of peace.
Lighting the candle she then raises the veil and reveals
to her inner self, the most candid reflection of she ;
Her innate behavior
turns her into an experienced Mantra Queen !
Wrapping her body with calm from within
she learns the exquisite science of a soft caress.
With subtle gentle intent she lands on a hillock
of freshened breath.
Inhaling exhaling with each acquired breath
the fibrous moments of her sedentary life turn into
a journey of healing and blessed quietude.
Each tellurian thought disperses into beauty rest,
Namu Myoho Renge Kyo "Glory to the Dharma of the Lotus Sutra"
One breath turns into another as she enters
Wakayama, "the treasure trove of untouched nature"
She closes her eyes and enters the Japanese garden of her dreams
the one that persists on appearing behind closed eyelids
long after the trespass of yesterday's travail.
Blowing out the candle, she sits in the dark
listening to a long mahogany silence.
There is a light at the window and it beckons her
so she follows the trail to the garden like a blind woman
being solely led by the scent of Sakura, on a warm gauzy night.
Her Yukata kimono flaps in the wind as she enters this seasonal March
Lost in a paradise of cherry blossoms,
in a Seijaku moment that begs to be treasured.
Here beyond reality,
she experiences devotedly through her Yata mirror,
all that is to be assimilated
with reverential catalyst mystique.
The End.
My colors shift with every hour of the day—
most often brown, sometimes blue.
When fatigue sets in, I may turn yellow;
in moments of joy, I blush in shades of red.
I believed autumn had come when the cherry tree shed its leaves
and the flowers faded, even the hardy petunias nearing their end.
but a little water and fertilizer brought forth new colors:
white, red, pink, blue—each bloom reflecting my colors of the day.
Colors are reflection of my mood,
In the starry nights with black moon showing some life,
The silvery rays, shining stars, and stardust glow,
Makes my mind dazzle in the silvery glow.
In the winter snowy season,
Overwhelmed by snow and icicles around,
Although white prevails everywhere, joy and fun for many of us,
I would like to feel like a snowman, enjoying evergreen ferns, and a red carrot nose.
When the first glimpse
of silver crescent
sprinkles citrine dust,
sparkling pink brooks
spring forth,
flowing through
emerald green forests.
Moss covered Pine
trees spread their branches,
reaching towards
the setting amber sun.
Cherry blossom clouds
coat the dusky horizon,
unfurling lilac lavender
hues amidst the
paper-cut skyline,
and the last beam
of light starts to
fade into nocturnal bliss.
The twilight nightingale
can be heard,
comforting us
in the distance.
Lulling us to a
restful slumber
under the star
blanketed stratosphere.
And something
about the way
warm marshmallow
threads entwine
with mulberry tints,
reminds me that
every ending
is a synonym
to new beginnings.
Yet, I tell the
caviar smeared sunsets
about our
secret collaborations,
questioning the glowing
gold of Swarovski
rings splattered across
the evening sky,
incensed with
the fragrance of jasmine
that lingers on
the summer breeze.
Will blushing
sangria streaks,
stretch their feathers,
paint my blazing
heart of hurt in
vermilion stars?
or is this love,
another passing
phase, like the waning
sighs of moonrise?
Her bare hands,
deeply wrinkled, touch the thorns
on the rose.
The petals-
color of the tiny pin-
prick of the blood
on her ring-
finger drop onto the cherry
bark surface.
The oval
ripened fronds are flour-soft;
they are bursting,
for the morning
of pines, birch and maples, that pose
as if sketched
in chalk tints.
She feels the flush of Spring
gardens; the lift
of a song-
sparrow as the buttercup
gold blessing
of the sun
softly touches the ruby-
mocha bricks
of her home,
in which she silently yearns-
like the hush
of falling
snow-to bloom in her twilight years-
sunburst plumes.
.
— — — — — —
The dragon’s kitchen, ancient spices full
I choose food, you teaching me.
Without notice, your touch slides down my back.
Delicate, barely a touch — more your fingers verse.
Which says — honey, I’m hungry for your lips.
In the calm of the day on the castle wall
The golden dragon landed
This image is your true nature.
*
Under the snowy mountains,
who takes and gives lives by a marvelous nature of her own.
Made of eternal oak wood and volcanic stone.
I was created for you — to your liking.
To be your water cradle.
My chest to be your headboard.
*
You were made for me.
From the gentle birch
and elegant cherry.
In a silver cradle surrounded by flowers.
And with the dragon’s heart to be my soul guardian.
*
Our nest in the stone chamber.
Drums of fire from underground.
Passion music carries our bodies.
I fly with a dragon because our bodies are one.
Everything is open and flowing naturally.
Thought, speech, touch, sigh, the cry of love.
*
In the timeless green of your eye
I lose myself; I feel your touch down my back again.
Barely a touch — it’s more a bite of passion.
I see a flower garden planted on the Island of Love.
All created out of our sighs.
When I leave this world
I’ll take just a picture of your touch.
— — # — —