Long Gawd Poems
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I was working for Jack Daymond, a farmer,
who farmed livestock, potatoes and vines.
I s’pose he had over two hundred cattle.
The spuds and the grapes grew in lines.
Oh gawd! Jack had me slaving ‘til sunset,
keeping his farm spick and span.
Jack kept his eyes on the produce,
while I was his cleaning up man.
And that meant me days were all busy,
spraying and killing off weeds,
grubbing out hundreds of tussocks,
before the darn thing set its seeds.
Sometimes old Jack was a good bloke,
he’d jump in with a fine helping hand,
and we’d spend our day in the paddock,
destroying the weeds on his land.
We were digging out plenty of thistles,
in the north paddock up near the creek,
and we worked like a couple of Trojans
clearing what should have taken a week.
Then a voice loudly filled up the air.
And it was quite menacing too.
A bloke in a suit was striding to us,
declaring his strong point of view.
“Mr. Daymond, I am here to warn you,
that I represent government’s need.
It appears that with government water,
that your quota you far did exceed.”
“I’m here to check your irrigation,
and make sure you’re not being unfair.”
Jack Daymond replied “Do what you must,
but don’t go in that paddock up there.”
The bloke in the suit became snaky,
standing over poor Jack with a leer,
“Don’t tell me where I can or can’t go,
See this card that I am holding here.”
“This card is a reminder to you,
I have authority over your land.
I am allowed to go wherever I wish,
have I made myself clear? Do you understand?'
Jack looked down at the card in his hand,
and knew there’s no sense to rebound,
so Jack nodded politely and joined me,
grubbing thistles from out of the ground.
It appeared that Jack had been beaten,
and in silence he’s taking it hard,
between thistles he gazed to the paddock,
at the bloke who had shown him the card.
But then a grin formed on his face,
we heard yelling like never before,
for the bloke in the suit he was sprinting,
and it’s something we cannot ignore.
Jack beat me on reaching the fence.
With the bloke in the suit in full flight,
and hot in pursuit was Jack’s Jersey bull,
with a look that was all sheer delight.
As the bloke in the suit got beside us,
with the bull behind him by a yard,
Old Jack cupped his hands and yelled out -
“Your card! Your card! Show him your card!”
remember when recent-psycho-in-the
brief-spotlight, Texas Gov. Ricky Perry,
smiled at the camera in the debate o’
repuglicans & couldn’t remember the
3rd branch of government that he told
the nation watching that he would eliminate
once he became president?
remember that this ******* had nothing to
say but “oops,” after admitting to wanting to
get rid of Education & Commerce---because
he couldn’t think of another valuable thing
to get rid of & Ron Paul sarcastically offered
up, “the EPA?”---
this same man also told the nation that he
had no regrets, that he “never struggled to
sleep at night” with the thought that any of the
over 200 more people executed in his
state (than the others in the US)
had been innocent---
after all, he is a proud representative of the
cowboy state that had to be forced by 2,000
federal troops to finally free their slaves in
1865 & one might not be surprised to find
him wearing a “don’t mess with Texas”
belt buckle, when he parts his suit coat.
a few nights ago, another man,
Mr. Marvin Wilson, age 54, whose IQ of
61 (9 points below Texas’ own cut off of 70
which determines one is mentally retarded) did
not even make a bit of difference to Mr. Perry &
the bloodthirsty behind him, was executed
without forensic proof or eyewitness accounts of
the murder of which he was convicted of in
1992---
Marvin was a grown man who sucked his thumb,
bearing many intellectual inabilities, from “telling
the difference between right and left” to “handling
money,”
still, disregarding Atkins v. Virginia (2002),
in which the Supreme Court posited that people
with mental disabilities rendering them incapable of
understanding their own actions, should not be
executed,
TEXAS DID IT ANYWAY.
one wonders if conclusive DNA evidence was
discovered years from now, exonerating him
from the crime of which he was convicted,
beyond the shadow of a doubt,
would Mr. Ricky & all the repugs still sleep
soundly?---
need we even take a vote?
7 are already dead in 2012 Texas, campers:
3 African-American men,
3 Hispanic men &
one white guy…
AND MORE ARE SCHEDULED
FOR THE REMAINING MONTHS OF
2012,
SO GET YOUR TICKETS NOW!!!
COME ON DOWN TO TEXAS,
BRING YER’ WIFE, BRING YER’
RUGRATS & PULL UP THE BACK OF
A TRUCK.
“gawd” bless this “democratic”
&
“civilized”
country of ours.
Oh yeah if you’re a fisherman,
and you’re rung up by a mate,
there’s always time to put down tools
with no need to contemplate,
‘cause fishing has that magic draw
to take you to your peak -
and evening is always best
to fish in the ‘Labi’ creek.
So ‘Stalky’ Bill knocks on my door
with his even thinner son -
by the time we reach the ‘Labi’ banks
the daylight’s nearly done.
And so the water’s looking black,
in the shallows and the holes,
where blackfish seek the bait we choose,
in their night time patrols.
Of course there is another bait
that goes with fishing too.
It comes in a flip top can.
(The bait’s a Carlton brew)
And if you drink too much of it
one’s actions become slow.
Thank God ‘Stalkys’ son don’t drink
or perhaps we’d never know
The rod was bouncing at its tip;
a sign to race the heart.
“We’ve got ourselves a ‘blackie”
Bill was slurring at the start.
He was yelling orders out to Paul
“For ‘chrissake’ use the net!”
As up and down the ‘blackie’ tore,
but he couldn’t land it yet.
Bill was straining as he lifted
his rod, then reeled the line.
The ‘blackie’ splashed and struggled
as Paul let the net incline.
“I’ve got him Dad!” He shouted;
then “Gawd!” I heard him speak.
This time the rod went with it
in the black hole of the creek.
“You useless flamin’ twit” Bill yelled.
Then he screamed out “Oh no!
Now me’ bloody rod’s gone in!
Right Son. Strip off and in you go”.
Paul’s protesting bought on anger.
(‘Twas from the beer Paul loathed)
Now he’s searching in the creek,
and he’s searching fully clothed.
“I’ve found it Dad” Paul passed the rod
back on the bank to ‘Stalky’ Bill,
who started winding in the line
before his high pitched shrill.
“He’s still there! He’s still hooked on.
This time don’t take a week”.
After thirty minutes in the dark -
lifted the ‘blackie’ from the creek.
“Strike me” I said “This blokes on fire,
he’s led youse everywhere”.
And even in the black of night,
I could see a covering of hair.
‘A covering of hair?’ I thought;
‘It ain’t the ‘blackie’ that we know’ -
After pulling out the damaged hook,
the platypus was free to go.
* death is a process of many stages, and dementia can be one of the ugliest … Dad taught me many lessons in life, and he fought to the last to retain what sensibilities he could. I miss you, RT. *
~
oh Dad, how I wished you realized how much
I longed throughout life to garner your touch
a spare arm to steady me some, here-or-there
or perhaps a rough tousle to mess up my hair
a shoulder-ride wouldn't’ve been such a stretch
an hour for fishing, or a quick game of catch
maybe taken by hand for a walk on the beach
a soft pat on the back, with a lesson to teach
a high-five to follow some baskets with you
or even a, (gawd forbid), warm hug-or-two
perchance, a kind touch to blot a stray tear
how I longed for just SOMEthing, year-after-year
and, now that you've lost your volition to live
my resentment is waning for what you can't give
thus I’ve made that decision to push it away
and I go to your bedside again, to just pray ...
your dementia can't realize it's me who’s nearby
so I settle my head on your chest ... and I cry
my tears wet your t-shirt but you’ll never know
while I weep and I whisper, "I can't let you go"
I know there's a reason, but it’s one I can’t find
why we have to lose you, as you lose your mind
thus devoted to family and God each good day
now you fight as your dignity slow-strips away
as you don't seem to notice that I'm even there
I tell you “I love you” while I rise from my chair
I straighten your pillow and you give me a sigh
(I've annoyed you again), my eyes are now dry
I drop your hand gently when my visit is done
to my shock you hold on, say "I love you my son"
I turn back around, kiss your forehead goodnight
"please, watch over him, Lord, he has fought …
the good fight."
~ 1st Place ~ in the "What Do Your Children, Parents Or Best Friend Mean To You" Poetry Contest, Jeff Kantor, Sponsor.
* death is a process of many stages, and dementia can be one of the ugliest … Dad taught me many lessons in life, and he fought to the last to retain what sensibilities he could. I miss you, RT. *
~
oh Dad, how I wished you realized how much
I longed throughout life to garner your touch
a spare arm to steady me some, here-or-there
or perhaps a rough tousle to mess up my hair
a shoulder-ride wouldn't’ve been such a stretch
an hour for fishing, or a quick game of catch
maybe taken by hand for a walk on the beach
a soft pat on the back, with a lesson to teach
a high-five to follow some baskets with you
or even a, (gawd forbid), warm hug-or-two
perchance, a kind touch to blot a stray tear
how I longed for just SOMEthing, year-after-year
and, now that you've lost your volition to live
my resentment is waning for what you can't give
thus I’ve made that decision to push it away
and I go to your bedside again, to just pray ...
your dementia can't realize it's me who’s nearby
so I settle my head on your chest ... and I cry
my tears wet your t-shirt but you’ll never know
while I weep and I whisper, "I can't let you go"
I know there's a reason, but it’s one I can’t find
why we have to lose you, as you lose your mind
thus devoted to family and God each good day
now you fight as your dignity slow-strips away
as you don't seem to notice that I'm even there
I tell you “I love you” while I rise from my chair
I straighten your pillow and you give me a sigh
(I've annoyed you again), my eyes are now dry
I drop your hand gently when my visit is done
to my shock you hold on, say "I love you my son"
I turn back around, kiss your forehead goodnight
"please, watch over him, Lord, he has fought …
the good fight."
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, May 7, 2024 (rewrite)
Who am I? I wonder,
All out victory,
or embarrassing blunder,
Bi polar maybe,
The right hand throws and fights,
The left hand mostly writes,
Bi-lateral with ADHD,
You judge that on a stereotype,
You don’t think you do?
Tell me something other than,
I’m a hyperactive stupid type?
As you can see I’m happy confronting,
turn hostile when alphas start fronting,
I’ll take physical pain over mental,
But the ADHD makes me respond quick, with wit,
I use it to prevent the hit for hit,
almost always works except for a few pricks,
fist to the face in those rare cases,
only hit em when they’re standing,
hitting when they’re out on the floor is for disgraces,
pull em up and knock em down once more
so they know where their place is.
I played football, rugby and cricket,
that’s foot to ball football not soccer, sucker,
but I played in goal so it was ball to hand,
the face or even ball to balls football,
and then a few minutes rolling around on the floor
screaming "oh my gawd, hoor",
I’ve got a sense of humour,
it’s better than other humans humour
in that it makes me laugh
and theirs only makes them laugh,
and yes I’m daft,
how else do you have a laugh?
I’m from Bath and I voted BREXIT,
(remainers are now heading for the exit),
or stay with prejudice, I’m not racist,
except to my own race who don’t get pissed,
if you think I am for voting leave you’re a bigot,
and now I am too what an idiot,
but truth be told,
why vote for a political system when no one can get their head around it?
I didn’t vote the EU in but I voted it out,
how did it get in if no one voted?,
corrupt no doubt.
This is all tongue in cheek,
how else would you speak?
and I’ll leave you with this, I know I’m silly,
but when girls see me they say to each other,
"have you seen his big willy".
* In my dad’s memory, and for all those who have dealt with the ravages of Lewy Body Dementia. *
~
oh Dad, how I wished you realized how much
I longed throughout life to garner your touch
a spare arm to steady me some here-or-there
or perhaps a rough tousle to mess up my hair
a shoulder-ride wouldn't’ve been such a stretch
an hour for fishing or a quick game of catch
maybe taken by hand for a walk on the beach
a soft pat on the back with a lesson to teach
a high-five to follow some baskets with you
or even a, (gawd forbid), warm hug-or-two
perchance, a kind touch to blot a stray tear
how I longed for just SOMEthing, year-after-year
and now that you've lost your volition to live
my resentment is waning for what you can't give
thus I’ve made that decision to push it away
and I go to your bedside again to just pray ...
your dementia can't realize it's me who’s nearby
so I settle my head on your chest ... and I cry
my tears wet your t-shirt but you’ll never know
while I weep and I whisper "I can't let you go"
I know there's a reason but it’s one I can’t find
why we have to lose you as you lose your mind
thus devoted to family and God each good day
now you fight as your dignity slow-strips away
as you don't seem to notice that I'm even there
I tell you “I love you” while I rise from my chair
I straighten your pillow and you give me a sigh
(I've annoyed you again), my eyes are now dry
I drop your hand gently when my visit is done
to my shock you hold on, say "I love you my son"
I turn back around, kiss your forehead goodnight
"please, watch over him Lord, he has fought …
the good fight."
(Photo of my dad and I from 1966)
He rode in to Santa Fe one summer day on a broken-down, sweaty nag.
All he owned was the clothes on his back and the Bible in his saddle bag.
He wore a suit of black, an old slouch hat, both so dusty and frayed.
He was an itinerant preacher man by the name of Jeremiah Slade.
Beneath his well-worn duds he wore a brace of pistols on his hips,
With the 'sinners' in towns he occasionally enjoyed a couple-a nips!
His District Superintendent took a very dim view of his associations,
Warnin' that it might lead him into very injudicious temptations!
He dismounted, hitched his hoss and brushed the dust from his suit,
And strolled to Clancy's Saloon, well-known as a house of ill-repute!
He sauntered up to the bar and pointed to a jug of whiskey on the shelf,
Sayin', "Bartend, hand me that bottle. I'll pour three-fingers fer myself!"
He leaned with his back to the bar surveyin' the riotous scene before him.
The debauchery he viewed indicated reapin' souls looked mighty grim,
But he drawed his guns and hammered the butts on the bar fer attention!
"By Gawd!" he thundered, "I intend to clean up this place is my intention!"
With that the dancin', brawlin' and gamblin' came to an abrupt cease!
"Now, I want y'all to find Jesus and give each other the kiss of peace!"
Forty-two souls searched and found Him that day in Clancy's Saloon!
He praised the Lord, sayin', "That's a purty good haul and it ain't even noon!"
The new saints were shoutin' "Hallelujah!" and he roared, "Now hold on there!
I remind y'all I don't preach fer nothin' and if'n y'all would care to share,
I'll pass the hat and as Jesus said, ''Tis better to give than to receive!"
He gave some to the bartend, sayin' "Set 'em up!" With that he took his leave!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
oh. dear. gawd.
another patently
meaningless
crush of stanzas, jam-packed with
adjectives and color words
straight from Roget's,
strung together in
strands of misuse and
improper context -
syntax-scraping adverbs and
prepositions dangled
at inhuman angles,
rushing in torrents to a
head-scratching conclusion that
leaves lips numb and dripping clear liquid,
fingers combing deep the
strands to tear out in horrid disbelief,
jaws left agape in
utter confusion and
hopelessness ...
it all settles like
brick-heavy clay in
the gut, that this vile destruction of
the English language and
its artistic forms -
this uneducated and
brutal bludgeoning of phraseology -
words replaced
willy-nilly by thesaurus-crazed maniacs,
(all for the sake of
impressing the masses
who don't know the difference),
is garnering dozens of
enthralled ignorance-is-bliss
comments, and placing
first in
contest-after-contest!!
how could any sane,
serious weaver of words
NOT want to blow
their freaking brains out?!?
the coronavirus pandemic
has been NOTHING
compared to the sickening
misuse of words
that flows on-and-on from public
poetry sites in crushing
waves of feigned
eloquence and verbal vivisection ...
could it be, perhaps,
that the circle writing ISN'T inane,
but rather a strangled striving
for the breadth of
non-linear orthography??
welcome to the
ultimate zero sum game -
the mangy monkey in the monkey
puzzle tree,
Schroedinger's kitty,
skinned and nailed to the barn house ...
fan-freaking-tastic ...
let's kill this clairvoyant clown,
quickly ... quietly ...
cuz ...
it. never. ends.
(lack of proper punctuation and capitalization very intentional)
Gawd! I awoke this morning wondering what I'm doing in this miserable place!
I thought the oath I took was to defend America's shores, not a foreign race!
The French made a mess and ran, now, America has to straighten things out.
It's a civil war and personally I don't give a damn what the politicians tout!
The president and his minions are making millions off my miserable back,
While I wade through these gawd-forsaken paddies dodging shells and flak!
Maybe I should've gone to Canada but I would have let my father down,
Who fought in another war and returned with honor to his hometown.
Colonels and generals sit on their butts in Saigon adding medals to their collection,
Enjoying air conditioning, steak, ice cream and the finest whiskey selection.
I dine on C-rations, get a shower once a month and a warm beer now and then.
I hear the screams of wounded buddies and weep at the agony of dying men.
I hear back home that peaceniks call us baby killers and spit on returning heroes!
If I ever get back home and that happens to me, I'll punch the SOBs in the nose!
Nams don't appreciate what we're doing and its a shame our people have to die,
While a lot of their young guys avoid the gore of war hoping it'll pass them by.
As I sit here in this filthy foxhole with water up to my knees, I fervently pray,
I can make it through my tour without a scratch and get home to a better day.
Will America ever learn from history and stay out of other people's wars,
And learn from the futility of war while the loss of our blood and treasure soars?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in Miranda Lambert's "World of War: Vietnam" Contest
Apr 2011