Long Grueling Poems
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I wrote a great book, part memoir, part novel
Shopped it around, I ain’t too proud to grovel
Got kicked upstairs to a big publishing head
He invited me in, and here's what was said:
This screed you call Crack House of the 13 Gables
Is one long rant mixed with recycled fables
It wanders aimlessly, but never resolves
Characters pop out of nowhere, then simply dissolve
But the symbolism, sir, allow me to explain
The Victorian parlor represents pathos and pain
In the attic are mothballed broken dreams and betrayals
It's gonna shift your paradigm right off its rails
It’s a thousand-page odyssey into the surreal
The hedge maze is where all 14 sub-plots congeal
Enough! The only reason I called you in, punk
Is to meet the lunatic who scribbled this junk
So I slunk away, not a little dejected
Ain’t much fun being literarily rejected
Trudged back to my grueling, stale coffee grind
Working 15-hour days, going out of my mind
Then one day I met an old pal for some beers
Hadn't seen him in quite a few years
I told him about my rejection slip wrangle
He said buck up, you just need the right angle
I like reading novels, now don’t get me wrong
But writin' 'em, man, that just takes too damn long
And what a huge risk, 16 years you devoted
For no payday at all, just your ego imploded
There's no need to pen the next Moby Dick
Try something short, now that is the trick!
So, I thanked my friend for his most sage advice
And took it to heart without thinkin' thrice
And now I am back as a voice for the ages
Except I'm makin' my mark in far fewer pages
I write sound bites and maxims and pithy remarks
T-shirt slogans and jokes, I just do on a lark
I bang out poems and lyrics at the drop of a hat
Dash off 17 syllables in ten seconds flat
Haikus by the bunch
Cook up a batch before lunch
Put that in your pipe
____________________________
For Humor Contest
Sponsored by: Carol Eastman
Most salient benefit
anorexia nervosa wrought
excerpt, qua gut tease
burg address er...
four decades and seven years ago
plus countless hours, days, weeks...
elapsed with nary morsel
passing between two lips
starving lovely bones
dedicated grueling proposition
suicide knows no equal,
where puny pubescent (me)
engaged with self
consuming civil war
testing whether that
psychologically afflicted lad
willingly conceived during
heated passionate lovemaking
'tween young married couple
copulated, created and begat
one scrawny son
flailing his spindly limbs
arm n ham heard skinny legs
still generates risible outbursts
analogous to firearms bursting
nearly met his demise
wit dem dim eyes of his,
though nursed courtesy mother
licensed practical medical practitioner
livingsocial severely undermined,
even presenting disunion
at this moment
peudo soldier of misfortune,
though quasi silver lining
stitched into corporeal being
nsync with coaxing
increased devotion to curry
lame literary accomplishments
until gratefully dead.
No meal taken until task
witnesses completed writing assignment
usually poetically kindled
flummery accomplished
hungry artist hyper aware
literary creativity bubbles forth
accentuated, buttressed pronounced
attempt crafting epistle,
endeavor to write heightened,
when sustenance withheld
body electric induces nattering nabob,
(yours truly) thwarts appetite
digestion process consumes energy
buzzfeeding grumbling beast
within mine belly
predictably, immediately, automatically
satiatiation consummated
to appease nagging wife
induces without fail mine glorious
eyes blink shut tight.
His hands were wrinkled and scarred from a life of grueling toil,
From years spent working in a factory and tilling the loamy soil.
They were firm but gentle hands that disciplined me as a boy;
Hands that could fix anything, especially a broken toy.
Daddy's hands were always there to help neighbors in despair.
His gnarled hands were folded when chatting with God in prayer.
With devout hands he studied the Bible for his daily meditation,
And they held his Bible in Sunday School teaching religious education.
When from the path I strayed, his hands steered my direction.
With gentle hands he held mine when giving needed correction.
When life seemed to overwhelm me and I became discouraged,
His hands lay upon my shoulders to ensure that I was encouraged.
Affectionate hands held Mother's hands as they advanced in age,
To assure her of his love and all her anxieties to assuage.
He considered his grandchildren God's own precious treasure,
And cuddled them in his hands with a love beyond all measure.
His hands embraced four sons whom he loaned to serve the nation.
Respectful hands honored his nation's flag with great dedication.
During life's quest, with time-worn hands, so much he sacrificed,
But was rewarded when he reached out to touch the face of Christ!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
My Dad Was Just a Lad
Part 2
He was on a brand new ship,
The USS Horace Bass,
The KEEL was laid in ‘44
APD would be her class.
With a crew of over 200 strong,
But for most, their first time out.
In the weeks and months ahead,
They’d learn what “WAR” is all about.
Headed out for the great Pacific,
Okinawa, at Hagushi anchorage.
371 Enemy planes shot down,
As our Fleet would vent her rage.
Then came those grueling days,
They called this duty, “picket line”.
The enemy must cross this space,
But heavy shelling is what they’d find.
There were occasional escort trips,
To Guam and then Saipan.
It broke the tension of daily fire,
Which was fine with every man.
Returning from such an escort trip,
A submarine blip came on sonar.
8 depth charges would be dropped,
Watch for oil slicks, on open water.
History was made April 25,
Bass had sunk a mid-size sub.
The only APD to, “git’er done”.
36 enemy, “sank” inside that tub.
It was the night of July 3 0,
Things were seeming very still.
When they heard the cough & sputter,
Of a crippled plane, out for the kill.
It caught them really by surprise,
Flying in darkness, fast and low.
Headed straight now toward the Bass,
Wanting to take its fatal blow.
The very last moment before impact,
That killer plane went o’er the side.
An aerial wire had caught his wheel,
Missing our ship, that “kamikaze” died.
One American killed, 3 badly injured,
More injured slight, but still could fight.
The Bass puts into Buckner Bay,
Ship & injured were soon made right.
They would be among the first,
Task Force 31 would find their way.
To take position way up front,
To occupy 'their' Tokyo Bay.
August 27, at 0810, Captain Flynn,
It’s official: Nagato admits defeat.
The last lone fighting battleship,
Of their Great Nipponese fleet.
Well now I pause to catch my breath,
Our young man will soon be home.
As thousands more hit U.S. soil,
So many of them, will feel “alone.”
Families were there, that’s true,
And friends, now by the score.
But they had not seen the suffering,
The deaths, and so much more.
* * * * *
Written by oldbuck to record for his
growing family, The story of his father,
and the brave fighting crew of the
* * * USS Horace A. Bass * * *
The spent sun sank on the transit,
took away the colors of the chameleon sky.
The masked face of clever craft on display
enticed me to walk entranced
on the dark garden pathway.
The creepy night sipped the fluid dreams,
I didn’t hear the footfall of evil.
The devious intent prowled to devour sanity
as the facade dissolved in the dark hour.
The desolate domain of fright feral
encased within the gloomy ground
under the dismal sky haunted me
as the sinister sly creature of sin,
ingesting the essence prime,
consumed my soul.
The tortuous path up the arduous mountain
of the tormented life I’d acquired,
I then scaled at the beckon of destiny,
as the solemn summit awaited me.
I followed the crumbling trail of agony
through the surging storm of strife.
I crossed with unstinted devotion
the designed gateway God installed for me,
I placed steadfast trust on His benevolence
and on His prescribed gift of liberation,
faith showed me the righteous path
in the dark night of sordid squalls.
The raging ocean of turbulent life
heaved untamed waves in grueling tempest,
I sailed unquestioning at His call
and found the final ecstatic anchorage.
I got guided by His omnipresent beacon
with unwavering dedication.
In the dark alley of mortal suffering,
filled with the mist of profound despair,
I lighted the candle of hope,
retrieved the anguished soul from the abyss,
illumined by God’s generous grace,
got suffused with the radiance of divine bliss.
I was married a year in June of 1952,
when my husband, Doug, was drafted
into the Korean “not-a-war” that,
of course, really was a war in disguise.
After basic training Doug was sent to
Fort Knox in Louisville, Kentucky, for tank
training (for which he had NO aptitude)
that was supposed to be three months.
I was 23 but had never learned to drive, so
I took a crash course and got my license in July
because I had to drive to work. By then I
had decided to go be with Doug as long as I could.
I had bought a 1940 Pontiac ($200) with
98,000 miles on it, in which I planned to drive from
New Haven to Troy, NY, to pick up a stranger.
(Did I say everyone thought I was demented?)
I was scared to death but couldn’t have admitted it.
Off I went to Louisville with my 3-month-old license
and someone I didn’t know, who didn’t drive.
packed like the Oakies in The Grapes of Wrath
Three days – no Thruway then, only Rte. 20.
Labor Day weekend traffic – HOT – no air-
conditioning. Cold grape juice signs all AM, dry cornfields
all afternoon. Through Buffalo, NY, Friday at rush hour.
At last, blessed bed and breakfast in Erie, PA.
SOO tired, hands I thought were permanently
cramped from gripping the steering wheel.
Another grueling day and a half to go.
Cheered ourselves that we would have
a comfortable room and hot showers on the base.
No dice. A converted barracks, creaky cots,
We were so tired we just laughed hysterically.
For two months I drove to work at a bank and
Back and forth the Dixie “Die-way” to Fort Knox.
Rented a room, and, when he got his orders, sold the
car for $100 and bought a plane ticket home!
Bleak night, last hours, under fire in the mud, enemy comes
Grenades blast, riffles fire, blinding ends, relentless rain
Freezing men in trenches hide behind dulled blades
Bayonets forget the future and the past
Uniformed souls for glory charge ahead
Then the long haul in covered soil starts
Grueling battles take them one and all
Wrinkled fingers wet, pull the trigger
Foxhole converts keep Jesus close
Crawling in the dirt to die
Climbing over bodies in the dark
Voices buried, a cry is heard, fatality
Killed men don’t pray
They lay down in the mud
Become the mud when fallen dead
Seen through brief flashes
Gun fire silhouetted
A kaleidoscopic light
View of death down in the trenches
Down in the ugly mess they made
Day to remember those who served
Vietnam, Korea, Middle East
Our gratitude is well deserved
By all who live and those deceased
Remember tours, hiding fear
Vile ambushes in plain sight
Them backs recall the tons of gear
Extraction with the heli flight
The ruthless sun and blowing sand
All in day's work where work is war
Reproaching looks in foreign land
And guarded sleep on earthen floor
Live chats while missing kids and wife
Oh, silly troubles way back home
A soldier, living grueling life
While facing combat stress syndrome
It stays with you, forever more
Long after battles go away
Our guys and girls, they are postwar
Salute our Vets on their day
November 11, 2025
The daunting mountain in the undulating terrain of life,
needs to be climbed as the summit alluringly calls,
follow the undefined trail in the surging storm of strife.
Cross with devotion the designed gateways God installs,
and in His prescribed ordain repose your steadfast trust,
faith will show the path in the dark night of dreary squall.
The turbulent ocean of tempestuous life in grueling gust,
needs to be sailed serene, and the last anchorage found,
get guided by His omnipresent beacon with dedication just.
The dark alleys of suffering suffused with silence profound,
need to be lighted, and broken heart recovered from abyss,
in the radiance of divine essence God’s grace will abound.
Floating on prayer hymn the journey isn’t construed amiss,
it takes life through the stillness of soul to the bay of bliss.
September 12, 2021
Contest : "J" Contest, Old Or New
Sponsor : Constance La France
on path to autonomy, she matured of late,
exhibiting autism during childhood
compliments of intervention, mastered
vanquished every trace to acclimate
self reliance no matter said spate
of developmental delay,
cramped, crimped, and
crumpled cognitive literate
chores abilities, yet
supportive services did alleviate
ordinary setback, now indiscretions,
liaisons, and transgressions, I implicate,
some half dozen years
gone by, this husband
flaunted philandering, but woefully great
lee mistaken, yours truly did underestimate,
how sacrilegious cupidity, depravity, infidelity...
induced the missus never to exonerate
mine suddenly kismet forced belate
reflex, thus I futilely berate
then indecorous behavior
more so impacted eldest daughter,
first born offspring subsequently
angrily bore secret travails adulterate
ting spoiling her high school years,
viz compounded by egregious desire
for das dada to satiate
squelched sexual hunger
marriage without intercourse did frustrate
synonymous, when I hapt tubby celibate
bachelor, hence “FAKE”
Casanova did forever alienate
whose affect my
(hypothetical) untimely death
might be borne with
greater aplomb to accommodate
absence of this papa,
a generally conscientious fellow,
mental health askew since birth predicate
always hated grueling fiendish existence!