Long Hankered Poems
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© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.
The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
(Where the streets are full of pity)
Last night! I met an old boxer
in an alley of cardboard;
he seemed glad to see me,
shouted me over for a fight!
I told him!
“Hey I’m not in your league”
“Young man.” He said. “That’s alright.”
“So! I suppose you’re going to leave me,
cos the forecast is for rain, you in
your fine mansion, mine, just a
bloody pain”
“It’s not corrugated you see
it just keeps letting in the damp.”
“But then again I guess,
that’s O.K, for a foolish old tramp.”
He told me!
“What’s the price of glory if one is
shackled to the past. Even my old
woman left me, took my purse in
pursuit of another man. To think
I really loved her, gave her all that I
could, the witch hankered for the
final count, then left me where I
stood!”
He rambled on discursively!
“Take me away from this
‘Cardboard City’ Wrap me up in
sentimental pity.
Help me roam within my native
‘Devon’ Chase illusive rainbows back
into heaven.”
“Its years of abusing whisky,
Its years of abusing gin,
Its years of perpetual hoar frosts
that hones this savage grin. For
here I lay beneath this lamp, I hope
you understand, with only a
watery moon for comfort and
above me, this single amp!”
“How do you think I feel, here?
In chains of formal sorrow,
replaying each vintage year
each round like no tomorrow!”
“Each morning still, I count the
homeless, watch the van collect
the corpse, I caress each nightly
affliction to ease each delusion
that warps.”
“So! Give an old man a second chance
to come out gamely fighting,
repay life’s referee, society
the uninviting.”
His bottle ran dry,
his words began to wound.
Here! In God’s own country
left high wide and marooned.
Yet like the mortal flame
he submits to the desolate night,
the municipal van empowered
to administer the ultimate rite.
No dawn able to invigorate
leaves this empty feeling in me
the morning dew edulcorates
while a soul in hell is set free!
© Harry J Horsman 1996
Last night I met an old boxer in an alley of cardboard; he seemed glad to see me,
shouted me over for a fight, I told him ‘Hey mate, I’m not in your league’
‘Young man.’ He said with glint of victory in his solid brown eyes. ‘That’s alright,
I suppose you’re going to leave cos the forecast is for rain, you in your fine mansion, mine here, just a bloody pain. But then I guess, that’s okay for a foolish old tramp.’
lonesome sadness blues
through the lips of the city…
the eyes are windows
He told me ‘What’s the price of glory if one is shackled to the past. Even my wife left me, took my purse in pursuit of another man. To think I really loved her, gave her all that I could, the witch hankered for the final count, then left me where I stood’ He rambles on discursively ‘One day I’ll roam within my native Devon, where I’ll chase those illusive dreams back into heaven. Its years of abusing whisky years of perpetual hoar frosts that hones this savage beast.’
this fight on its knees
many blind eyes a mismatch…
all have a story
‘How do you think I feel in these chains of formal sorrow, replaying each vintage year each round like no tomorrow, each morning still, I count the homeless, watch the van collect the corpse. Man, I need a second chance to come out gamely fighting, repay life’s referee, society the uninviting.’
incompatible
metabolism a stray…
unfriendly advice
His bottle runs dry, his words begin to wound. Here, In God’s own country left high wide and marooned. Yet like the mortal flame he submits to the desolate night, the municipal van empowered to administer the ultimate rite. No dawn able to invigorate leaves this empty feeling in me, only the morning dew edulcorates while a soul in hell is set free.
careful where you tread
mats to wipe one’s feet upon…
look down you may see
Entered sponsor Mark Toney's 2022 Marathon 19
poem converted from free verse to haibun 2022
3/11/2022
no diminution in tiredness arose
gnome hatter how off tin ma dis bows
Zoe let his bot tee succumb,
via mental application
of autogenic phrases
and/or counting crows
cuz upon awakening,
aye immediately wanted ta doze,
thus this artful dodger hankered to expose
extreme cockamamy idea incumbent,
where corporeal essence gets froze
zen, the scientific procedure named
emergency preservation
and resuscitation (EPR)
more familiarly known
as suspended animation
pursuant under the appellation cryogenics,
where living tissue no longer grows
old, a wishful yearning
approximating immortality i sup hose,
yet this copacetic drowsy
generic human struggled in vain
trying with utmost effort to stay awake
Swiss to hobnob among urbane
feeling helpless (fearing
he might be narcoleptic),
nonetheless aye didst train
intent concentration
(and/or feeble exertion mustered)
to swat away worrisome thought
this hypochondriac,
could be afflicted with mononucleosis
since lassitude less likely sprung
from overcast and rain
knee skies, which type weather
generally energies me
to conjure a quatrain
sometimes complex versus
written straight away plain
panacea hit upon finally
to ward off sleepiness,
whereby literary endeavor
boosted by a strong brew
namely fair trade
manufactured coffee chew
zing among socially conscious entities,
and hoping to do
some dollop of positivity
without fanfare I eschew
to fulfill personal hue
man conscientious anonymous impact
that some benefit will en sue.
Muse, you didn’t offer excuses to hold my hand
To walk and talk to the flagging courage
Weeping and seeping into the stamina gland
Where years of interaction on the educational stage
Yielded fields of unexpected benefits
I accrued from the investment you made in my person
Learning, teaching, editing the list of tweets
I dared and cared to ensnare in every lesson
My broken bones and swollen muscles
Endeavoured to flavor as you and I did communicate
On the chalk board in ninety minute corpuscles
Riding in our blood dared to dictate, not to desecrate
The warmth you exuded as you took over my teaching role
Spinning my brain, pinning down my despair, leaning your shoulder
To spell for me the scale I embraced to give up the droll
Approach and technique you taught me could move the boulder
That limited the view you held as to ways I could improve
My teaching craft if only I could rework my draft
Over and over again to delete passages that couldn’t move
My performance forward if a blessed benefits raft
Should finally open my eyes to the greatness your love
Appreciation, support and faith could blend and lend to the path
That led to the pinnacle your suave personality raised above
The mediocrity I walked worshipping the poetry path Sylvia Plath
Opened for my sojourn in search of the companionship
I didn’t know would metamorphose my struggles into accomplishments
Fed and led to a ship that grew into the friendship
For which I hankered to fly into achievements
You made possible
Cos you made me believe against belief
Sterling performances I once thought impossible
You would catalyze to grant limpid life to my academic relief.
I reckon to us city dudes an' ordinary blokes it seems somewhat strange,
But a cowpoke an' his horse become pards when ridin' the lonely range!
Pausin' fer a roll-yer-own under a ponderosa after a hot ride on the grange,
He might alight from the saddle, lean agin his hoss an' hold this exchange:
"Dan, ol' pard, me an' you has spent years ridin' them bobbed war fences.
I sure do like yer company, ol' pal, 'cause you ain't got no pretenses!
You ain't like them wimmen folk I knows - they is jes' a common scold!
You don't give me any sass an' you kindly do what yer told!"
"I reckon as long as I kin tolerate Cooky's grub an' you git yer oats to eat,
We kin abide the cantankerous boss, rattlesnakes an' the prickly heat.
We've rode togither in mud, dust, sleet an' rain an' the blowin' snow,
An' ye've been a good an' faithful cuss, I jes wanted ye to know!"
"I 'preciate yer toleratin' my git-tar strummin durin' night cattle guard,
When me an' you soothe them dogies when it's a-thunderin' real hard!
I don't know 'bout you, ol' Dan, but I have lotsa time to ponder,
Jes' a-gazin' at the wonder of them mountain ranges over yonder!"
"I ain't never gonna git rich cowboyin', an' ain't that the truth!
But, ol' pard, that's all I ever hankered to do ever since my youth!
Well, if'n yer ready to hit the trail agin I'll saddle up ol' friend.
We has got a heap of work to do before this day comes to an end!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
She had a gothic heart,
predictability and tamming tranquility were her counterparts,
she felt pain as gain,
peace was nettlesome and purposeless,
an abomination that careless civilization is undeserving of,
life is best consumed in confrontation,
within her magnificent mind God's value gravitated toward the power of volatility,
instability as instinct,
truth is permenance in transition,
Victoria believed that divinity as a mystery unsolved is more exhilerating
than explication or epiphany leading to the extinction
of curiosity's reign,
Victoria knew that law and politics are nothing more than an imposition
by the few heaved upon the many,a yoke of oppressive genius,
Victoria, a child of love betrayed,a woman of courage displayed
thought toughly & tenderly about the potential of mercy,
an enviable Empress,
compassion and kindness were complimentary components
to her dangerous disposition as hawkish talons
may be employed for feeding of fighting,
she developed into a clandestine warrior of natural necessity,
this world would either waste her
or she would wound the witnessed wickedness,
there was no harmony to be hankered for,life is a war of wills & wits,
espionage,diplomacy,truces,tributes and trounces always in the making,
Victoria loved God like a woman loves the anguish of pregnancy,
Victoria had a passion and a pity
for the Creator responsible for her awakening -
J.A.B.
Ruffled for starters, confusion on the rocks
a colloquy for beginners as scattered as blocks
the more you think, the more you think more
away from yourself you weaken your core
Nothing was taught, they calculated it all
thrown from a cliff: not expected to fall!
a sign or an indicator would have sufficed
I wish there was somebody by my side
Words were flowers, I played with petal
like a plant you hold inside a nubilous metal
confidence reflected with replete pride
I wish there was somebody by my side
Qualities were belittled, expectations on list
I shook hand; they used fist!
smile was applauded; silence when I cried
I wish there was somebody by my side
A life of pain brought happiness surprise
an amazing new world reflected me wise
moment of truth stayed shallow and wide
I wish there was somebody by my side
Words were choked, feeling subsided
nothing got touch what’s already resided
I hankered them to see what’s inside
I wish there was somebody by my side
They went small, elevate to the big
looking for reality in a bald man’s wig
I then growled for things I abide
In a hope to get somebody by my side
The energy I gained, I realized, I had
I kept smiling closest to sad,
for a joyful life wherever I reside
just a few hands I ask by my side
The System
It was a strange little town every house were five storey tall
and had the same colour, ochre. The houses were built close
together, giving narrow, dark streets and no room for parks or
green spots. The well to do naturally lived on the top floor and
got some light, but it got darker further down and on the first
floor and basement days were forever evening. The few shops
sold plastic flowers, cheese, red wine, macaroni and a dark sort
of bread that tasted of coal dust. Once this small town had been
happy place, with tiny houses and kitchen gardens, but a new
leader thought it too chaotic, it also disturbed him that there
were so many dogs barking that he had them and cat eradicated.
This was a sad town and its citizen had lost the ability to smile,
but this ended when a horse belonging to gypsy trotted through
the town and for the first time the people saw beauty and laughed,
they laughed so much suddenly feeling free, that when their leader
spoke they laughed at him too and later shot him very dead with
120 bullets. The town is empty save for some eccentric people on
the top floors who hankered for the old system. People have built
tiny homes just outside the town; they keep dogs, cats and horses.
CATHARSIS
As a child being deprived of Mom’s care and affection
so tough was to get relief from continuous suffering.
Tried to cleanse mind coiled in deep depression.
Wrote grievances on diary.
Tears cascaded in abundance.
Swam and sank in poem and song
long driven attempt to release emotive urge.
Sought for solace seeking shelter
to prevent hit and bite of stormy winter wind.
So many complications, complexities sprouted
in journey of life!
Self-belief being a great relief is a means of catharsis for me.
Struggling, fighting suppressing persisting pain.
To release emotive urge yearned for a genuine partner.
How to melt my tortuous tangled tension!
Hankered for a sturdy shoulder of a strong persona
to lean and weep.
08/12/20
Third place
'CATHARSIS Contest by Silent One.
'All Yours (May 3 ) contest by Brian Strand