Long Escorted Poems
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Mr. Clyde Schlunk traveled from his home in Worm Holes, Alabama,
To represent his company at a convention in Hammond, Indiana.
He was to soak up tidbits of data concerning the disposal of nuclear waste.
To fortify himself for the weekend he scurried to the hotel bar with haste!
Clyde had suffered insomnia for years and was prone to drifting off to sleep.
He was in dire straits and tried to control it with medicine that wasn't cheap.
There was a seminar though, concerning a UFO that held his rapt attention:
'Twas reported it landed in a lunar crater - 'twas the hi-lite of the convention!
Rosie and her polka band played a gig in the hotel bar each and every night.
He forsook the "wine and dine" catered by the kitchen preferring Miller Lite!
He and a rowdy crowd of vacuum salesmen partied 'til they closed the bar.
Clyde felt no pain reeling to his room - by that time he was gone by far!
One evening after a gargantuan toot with friends, he'd had too many snorts,
And locked himself out of his room clad only in his spandex boxer shorts!
The security folks escorted him back to his room and made of it no big issue.
(To sweeten his sour breath he toted a handy supply of Listerine soaked tissue!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Fifth Place in Catie Lindsey's "Wacky Weekend Challenge" Contest - June 2010
The Enipeus Valley
Listen as the lesser gods utter.
Beneath the veil of Nyx, entities.
Are dark spirits. Surrounded by
Erebus, the underworld just below,
Flames flicker.
Meanwhile, these hunters in the snow;
In trails of chaos, plead for Prometheus
protection, these demigods traffic where
Shadows call from Thanatos, who harvests
The souls of the dead, kept tormented souls
begged to be released.
Their eyes were in a glow.
Because of Epimetheus's foolish mistake.
And now the black Enipeas river below rages.
Yet dawn will rise again in Aether.
From the son of Erebus, the dark underworld.
Where the hunters were led.
Before being escorted into the ethereal
atmosphere into Hemera daylight to reach
The forest of Mount Olympus.
The leaves were changing as I walked my way,
All different colors they were today.
I felt a calm presence I’ve felt before.
A feeling of peace I couldn’t ignore.
Colorful leaves fell from the tall oak trees,
The flowers were alive with buzzing bees.
The life in nature seemed a part of me.
The creation from God for all to see.
I saw the Creator, through creation.
A woven spectacle of interrelation.
Colors blended without hesitation,
Brought a feeling of exhilaration.
Every year they fall before the first freeze,
Soon they will be escorted by the breeze.
Slowly loosening their grip from the trees,
I must dance and twirl with the swirling leaves.
Leopold was the most comfortable tom cat in the world of soul,
So relaxed, that others often begged him to know,
What can we do to be as cool and awesome as you?
They came to watch him slumber in his leopard shoe.
It was a stiletto with a curvy curve to die for.
Leopold lazed right down, and soon was in full snore.
One small kitten asked a question and was quickly escorted out.
Her mother was prissy about it, leaving with a tiny pout.
The rest of the observers watched, in awe, at this relaxed cat.
He was as confident as Top Dog, Garfield, and Baby King Louie Fat.
Slumbering away, as the gawkers watched him from this dismal alley.
We should move him to a safer space one said. She was removed from the galley.
Leopold opened one eye and told them lessons he would give.
For he knew how to relax, slumber, nap, be sloth like and live.
Some paid him up front, others went on a payment plan.
Your first step is to find a leopard shoe he said. He truly was the man!
~Lucia~
She is looking at me wide lovely eyes
Am asking for a favor as i recall
Our sweet sour innocent relationship
That has endured the last few years
I still recall that fateful night we met
She was going home after a days work
Twas late in the night and by chance
We met as i was keeping vigil
I escorted her home there started
Our sweet sour relationship
I told her a lie on our fist meeting
She was elated to help me on the second
She became too attached subsequently
Lovely Lucia didn't like to be dependent
She started pulling away me allowing it
She is looking at me with those lovely eyes
I do still feel them emotions after so long
Am gonna miss her in the next few months
For i so love our bitter sour relationship
Which has survived the test of time
(a dedication to Lucia)
Once upon a stranger,
a girl — a well-intentioned woman —
walked with an open soul,
her eyes silvered with withheld sighs.
Behind that quiet gaze,
a seraphic smile concealed its sorrow,
gleaming through daydreams,
as folk songs whispered of her tender defiance.
Once upon a moment,
I heard soft whispers fade —
inside a bus on a starry August night.
She rose to glimpse the world once more,
hope glimmering heavy in her eyes,
half in joy, half in fear.
Once upon what it seemed,
the empty streets turned mirrors —
cold storefronts, dim alleys.
By night she stumbled through silence,
by day she wore her wounds as armor,
wandering through the city’s dense forest
of unaccompanied paths.
An unchained soul, yet caged
by society’s ugly parodies —
cells built from shame and duty.
She pondered the dreams reality killed
as she passed through shanty streets,
escorted by echoes of laughter now gone.
Once again her hope returned:
to fill the void with beauty,
to rise above the dimmed faces of her class.
Her dreams, still burning,
to rekindle the lonely, to build what she was denied —
a quiet joy that glowed against despair.
Once upon a loop of forever after,
lamentations deepened.
Between forced vows and a fractured home,
she lived a life too succinct —
raped, abused, unseen.
Darkness grew familiar,
a slow descent into thoughts unspoken.
And her world took its turn —
the light grew distant,
and she folded into herself,
too late for prayers or wishing wells.
Once upon a stolen dream.
Once upon a neglected childhood.
Once upon a trembling womanhood.
Once upon time, and time again.
A bowed head,
seeking shelter from the tempest —
and as she lies on her five-foot mat,
deep in sleep where dreams unfold,
the queen rises once again,
seraphic and free
in her ultimate paradise.
Ebony skies a backdrop for salty,
sweet staccato ecstasy
a tune of elation.
Ivory limbs play out crescendos
upon seabed gems, crystalline towers,
aquamarine dreams and tortoise shell agates;
pink anemone and corals
wave-dance amid swaying
amber Carolina sands.
Octopii link arms
in a mesmerizing reel,
as scorpion tails tip-tap out rhythm
on on the cannon of a skeletal ship.
Stroboscopic eels keep the beat;
using their bodies to form lyrics.
Upon his chariot-throne of Lapis-Lazuli and Gold,
escorted by dolphins, rides the king
and festivities have begun.
It’s all good at
Neptune’s annual Briny Ball;
come dive down for some fun!
One who seats in a soft turning
Sofa lessened with the pride
of hopping and relaxed foams.
Turning the leaves of booklets,
Caressing the depth of hidden
figures.
He takes up the crying object,
Filled it tears on the seductive
pages of the leaflet.
Then after the leaflet is soaked.
He's gone with '7.5 billion naira'.
And.....
One who's been famished.
Striving to meet the standards
of the toads. Lurking under the
shelter of penury,given as a
token to abject poverty.
Being drowned in ocean of
indecision. He measures the path
of the market to get his worm
pleased by claiming what's not
out to be claimed.
Then he was caught: Anxious tyre,
Mensurated petrol,Elating matches
dazes and escorted him to the realm.
Who is supposed to die?
The former or the latter?
Who is the thief?
17:01:09:18:30
Written: March 8, 2012
Updated: August 15, 2012
Note: Sequel to An Evening at the Home
3:00 a.m. - There was a full moon, and all was well.
Restless, uneasy snoring in various pitches was the only music of the night.
Starched white uniforms did not dare wrinkle as the nurses moved from room to room.
Only the softest of tip-toeing was allowed.
Shoes did not dare make a sound against the cold floor.
Breath was held as long as it took to not disrupt the unexpected calmness.
No one knew that Joe and Wanda had "run off to Las Vegas" to get married.
Joe and Wanda knew that they had to "run off to Las Vegas" to get married.
They "ran" as far as the solarium.
Asleep, they each snored together restlessly.
5:00 a.m., Joe and Wanda received the sad news that they were not married.
5:05 a.m., they received the sad news that they were not in Las Vegas.
5:10 a.m. they were escorted back to their separate rooms.
5:15 a.m., they each snored separately.
7:00 a.m., they each woke up not remembering their own names.
8:00 a.m., Joe remembered his own name.
10:00 a.m., Wanda remembered hers.
10:30 a.m., Joe remembered Wanda's name.
Never again - Wanda remembered Joe's name.
Gail's note: To protect the privacy of those who have lived before us, the names have been fictionalized, and the events semi-fictionalized.
Part of the Portrait Poetry Collection
A Sensitive Man
He was the finely spun, hushed type
his character often folded up;
inside pocket rather than on display.
He felt different but followed the rules:
school, college and then work.
Politeness escorted him courteously;
his kindness was always considerate.
In early years, his words seemed slight and shy,
he felt the playground of life swamp him
so he shrank, creating a gulf of distance,
away from noise and the carnival of people.
He was aware of the room’s ticking clock,
the pavement through the soles of his feet,
the quality of the fabric next to his skin,
the need for companionship of calm and quiet.
He valued his imagination when looking at life,
learning to read situations and people.
He was called shy, or sensitive, when young
but others, more astute, thought him gifted;
he just thought of himself as …different.
Some sought to bully, causing internal distress
but he rarely backed down, until after the event,
whereupon he suffered scrutinising self-analysis.
As he aged, ‘sensitivity’ was something he polished,
not a weakness, no, in fact… a valuable strength.
He no longer felt flawed, however he did feel pity
for others living a life on the surface of existence,
never in tune with the depths of the arts
or indeed the nature of nature.
He shrugged away shyness, removed remoteness
and learned how to breathe
until finally he had a respect for himself,
an understanding of others… and that gulf diminished.
He now smiles as he thinks back through the years
at the metamorphosis he has undergone;
a young boy into how he now sees himself
……….an assertive, inquisitive butterfly! Ian Souter