Long Enfeebled Poems
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Aging baby boomer
no longer fit as a fiddle
accumulating extra adipose tissue
around the middle
ain't no impossible mission
whence thumbs I twiddle
to shed unwanted
weight methinks exorcise to unriddle.
Call to action necessitates
yours truly to acclimatize,
calling fitness trainer
whereby honed toned physique
(tubby synonymous with Adonis – ha)
benefits begetting courtesy to aerobicize,
nsync dumbbells compliment exercise,
whereby brutal daily grueling
regimen will also comprise
boot camp rigorous discipline
strength to pilot (minus paunches)
shouldering, managing, hoisting crucifix sunrise
to sundown will non verbally advertize,
verily intolerant to chastise,
hence no bully best better mess
mine mean mien guise
will enjoyably capitalize
zing might equals right to authorize
self defense without need to apologize.
Back in the day, I
presented pitiful sight
self worth equated on
par with botanical blight
buffeted along boulevard
of broken dreams
depressed body language
bespoke head to foot
encompassing enfeebled edifice complex
scrawny measly gumby,
hokey pokey height
how I presented such sorry spectacle
courtesy excellent twenty/twenty hindsight
analogous to an emotional black hole,
never exhibiting courage to fight,
rather yours truly immediately took flight
and/or stood dumbfoundedly
in imitation of deaf mute wishing to alight
bajillion miles away, versus
active stance to fight
preferring the incognito
guise pitch dark vested gentry
donning luxury invisible
accouterment shade o' midnight
proffered, though natural camouflage
infrared crosshairs nonetheless did sight,
when scaredy cat sacrificial scapegoat
experienced his sealed fate, a heavy smite
upon me noggin scrambled outlook
seeing stars courtesy topflight -
(bare in) strong arms hoodlums
brandishing razor sharp dagger
type like fangs able, eager,
(think) bloodthirsty 10,000
homicidal maniacs
ready and willing to bite
simultaneously trumpeting
hate speech to excite
curious madding crowd
glomming to render airtight
any possible safe escape,
yours truly turned white
as a sheet.
The sadness of getting lonely, weary and old
is none other than the anguishing thought,
we can't avoid feeling or mentioning at all cost;
daily unrest triggers the awful death word!
Will all frighten when that time comes?
Shutting windows to shelter ourselves
from an imaginable cold worsens existence;
it's not winter yet, gather common sense!
A menace is horror to whomever perceives it
as an imminent demise, a sudden sorrow that
persists and torments feeble souls intensely shivering;
insidious voices transform all moods and well-being!
Whoever detests old age will have his own pain
to bear when he comes face to face with reality;
and the one who uses his young body to entertain,
escapes it from it a while, then encounters fatality!
Declining years show their signs on faces,
unbearable is the isolation from a society
that abuses and scolds the enfeebled minds,
all they ask for is understanding, not mercy!
Are they able to withstand the fury of the rainstorm,
the fret of desolation amid screams and crashing noises?
And despite their strengthless, fear and deviating tones,
nothing delights them more than the soothing calm!
They have lived a life with very noble ideals,
no affection they withheld from their peers;
and having completed their devoted human task,
they'll go serenely as they came into life to be brisk!
It's so clear too us that who chooses to live in dreadful darkness
decides to disregard what's sacred indulging in wrongful pleasures;
and for the ones who strongly believe in a gratifying, divine purpose,
they pave the way not with gold but with something very grandiose!
The greyness or whiteness of hair shows actual age,
it's not complaining about wrinkles, moods and looks:
it's the absence of compassion, kindness and closeness,
take away these three from them and they'll feel rage!
Waking up, I'm shaken by an awful thought:
it's not a sunny February morning,
but heartwarming wishes on Facebook
alleviate the anxiety of a gloomy feeling
to enliven the mood and be immensely grateful
to God and do what is worth living for, but
is the state of being old that word so painful?
Should aging looks be an embarrassment...
comparing me to a frail Captain Hook
who sailed in rough seas without fright!
People I run into stare at me strangely and guess
my approximate age by the fine line and wrinkles,
but they don't see how young and virile I am inside;
if perfection and handsomeness are the advantages
of the younger men to pursue women and attract,
what are the disadvantages of the older ones?
Is the perception of an enfeebled body a horror to hide,
or an accomplished milestone to make an impact?
Dwindling are the final nights,
the ebony skies on which you etch
your stark ethereal aura each year,
your superlunary circle of shine.
Mantic god’s eye, you watch us,
enigmatic as we inventory our yesterdays.
as we ponder new beginnings,
as we behold your lustrous crown.
Naked wreath of pallid gleam,
cleansing the lingering indelible ink
we all carry from our enfeebled judgments,
from our institutional callousness.
We never comprehend you.
We only see our plots and perils in you,
Still, in your stable presence,
your dispassionate appearance,
your silver shimmer to which
we ascribe our madness,
odd though it may seem,
we find a new year’s hope.
In times when seconds and hours are pearls of sand,
And each of us, travelers under the same sky, tread cautiously,
We have all known the shadow of loss, the cold of death lays enfeebled,
And the muse of silence raises the question that now eternally watches.
We were not given the choice of how we bend from this book,
Which, unwritten, life fails to etch its end.
We stand then before the choice between lightning and the beating interval,
To the extent that this truth catches us under its rounded sun.
Is it better to die abruptly, like a candle simply snuffed out?
The moment that passes suddenly, it goes and you're no more, vanished.
In deafening solitude maybe, among emptied rooms and unseen breeze,
Without goodbye, or time to make peace with the world, the silent step.
Or maybe, with a horizon half a year away your term is drawn,
Your soul dwindles, the days awkwardly slow the ticking of the clock.
The burden becomes palpable, in a march of unceasing pain,
Uncertain dawns scatter, wondering - is today the rest?
And the moments lose their secret fight on the faces of those close to you,
But your lips are a shelter for the words that want to be spoken.
And you get your goodbye, though you can't escape from silence and peace,
You tie, untie knots and bid farewell to the world, with the bur of the soul on the cross.
And the paradox of death, which places the torch burning on the guard of life,
Affects much more fiercely those who continue their thread in reality,
Than on those who weave their dreaming in the land of shadows dreaming,
The departed are all mute, without questions, in eternity.
It was once the pride of a prairie farmer not too many years ago.
Now, long abandoned it stands forlorn on a wind-blown plateau.
Its rusting blades slowly turn at the whim of every passing breeze.
It has weathered the storms of summer and the bitter winter's freeze!
It leans a bit askew and a couple of blades are missing from the shaft,
And it squeals a lot as it laboriously turns with each passing draught.
The rusty weather vane dangles lifelessly having served its vital role.
No life-sustaining water doth it draw for this once busy watering hole!
A couple of stately cedar trees grow nearby as if standing guard,
Over the old windmill's enfeebled frame so twisted and so marred.
The water tank that once over-flowed with cool waters from the well,
Now lies in a corroding heap where not a living thing doth dwell!
A once sturdy barn leans in upon itself nearby in a terrible shambles,
Nearly hidden by ancient oaks and creeping blackberry brambles.
What was once a prosperous farm, alas, is now torn asunder.
Who once dwelt in that archaic homestead, I am left to wonder!
The once beckoning oasis sated the thirst of a multitude of creatures.
A well-worn path is seen leading there - 'tis one of its lasting features.
The verdant prairies for many years with working windmills were replete.
Graceful windmills that graced the landscape are, alas, nearly obsolete!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
A daylight daze
has been removed to a dark city
in a DC Comic.
Nations have swallowed their tongues,
have become a caped parody
of an undeclared independence.
The good are caught in the search lights,
the bullet heads and bare-faced bad
run the globe, turn the coats,
unify the unwilling sheep into lambs
until liberty itself is the aberration.
The enemy is a suit stuffed
with daemonic dandruff
reserved to snow job the helpless.
There is a new world order now
for the meek, weak and bolder.
Globalist's glob onto the taste of power.
Our super heroes are pot-bellied
and cancelled.
RoboCop is now a peace poet;
he gently rants
in a soundproof basement,
writes sonnets to forget
the already forgotten.
Tears and beers freefall
behind crumbling walls,
we must add too tight tights to the list
of all our ripping sorrows,
shake enfeebled fists
as menacing shadows gather
and we
ever willing to cast
accusing looks upon each other.
Empyrean drops,
Monument of July,
The pluvial chapter of life...
O July of enfeebled yolk,
Dispenser of splendour of sempervirence,
God has watered your tongue.
Therefore, pour, July, pour
The essence of life,
The grit of living
Unto the bosom of the
Seventh month and other
Months of parturition.
Let us conceive in July,
To bear in good season,
Sons of courage...
Wearing festal garments
And adorning our heads with sepia cloths,
This shall reinforce hope.
In front of the monument of July,
(A slouching image of sleepy rain)
Right on its wet feet,
Shall we bless the earth abundantly.
O July,
Bearer of thirty-one offspring,
Male and female, dew and fog,
So full of grains of years,
Frenzied and dancing your rites
Together with the age of insistent youth!
Middle age is when neither youth nor old age
Finds you worthy...
They sing:
The perception of the pristine green
Aroma of July
Is often the first of the rites
Of the seventh month.
TENDENCIES
too perfect
flawless
virtuousness
in thrall
to the moribund
superlative
to reinvigorate
the enfeebled
concept of genius
this exemplar
of grace and harmony
conceived
& inspired
since antiquity.
a tapestry
of shimmering threads
a satisfying
breathing space
thought-through
immaculate
finished
intimate
& sublime
subtle &
restrained
tender
as an embrace
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
The arid forest's grounds
are paved with dry and riddish leaves
that the whimsical wind loves
to take off the shivering sages!
Whoever hears the cries of the ravens
is a soul that sympathizes their agony;
they have sought consolation,but found pity...
in that heart ardently singing praises!
The swirling November's raindrops
land on the thirsty and light foilage...
without the strenght in their rage;
Nature ashamed to flaunt her diamonds
that nourished and embellished her tree-tops:
Nature retrieved to her dormant state!
A gloomy day for the angry shrikes that seem ample...
waging war with the presumptuous thrush
that throws glances by flapping his long wings;
an unexpected lightning strikes the growing maple,
pulling it from its roots,making those shrikes dash...
birds have better instincts that human beings!
I witness the wrath of the squall...
bringing down a centenary oak,
which is flung across before a hard fall;
I,enfeebled but not frightened,make my oath
underneath a sorrowful forest...
as dark as a secret put to rest!