Long Hankered Poems
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FIGHT FOR FREEDOM
Journey of life under recurrent restriction.
Hindrances at random, freedom seldom,
traversing on constriction in chained channel,
running and tumbling in dark tunnel.
Always hankered for a glimpse of luminosity of freedom.
Fought for freedom since childhood,
attaining teen-age transcending maturity.
Imprisoned in social stigma,
dominated by domestic dogma
confined in destined adversity.
Competence, intelligence, diligence helped to acquire freedom.
In last phase captivated with inevitable physical limitations.
Losing confidence, spending gloomy days in indolence.
Not to cultivate new venture in free access.
Now, whether captured or free matters a little.
Freedom to nothing or to something is hard to discriminate.
Fight for freedom has turned purposeless.
04/05/19
'All Yours ( Jan 28 ) Contest by Brian Strand
there was a punctured potter
whose wills strained shuffled shudders
meagre muds moistened massive moans
dark traces drooled, gaunt glows
hoisted zeal hankered hampers:
eerie efforts pruned pulpy pesters
lanky labour leered, futility feigned lame
crushed contractions, callous confetti's crave
damp death drilled his plague
sumptuous suck, nosy nectar's crest
potter birthed a son,a generation then another son
whilst masticated malady mimicked, poring pawns
the keener he carved a shape,
soaring swifter contractors come for claims.
'20:05:21:17:26
Note: of punctured potter.
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.
© 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.
"Drunk as a skunk"
Flimsy after whimsy
Flunk and debunk
Or mastered getting "plastered"
"Tipsy as a gypsy"
Sunk like a monk
Miss nights out "on the p*ss"
We shan't blush...can't hush
Us as we gush about the rush
Bliss to kiss the alcoHOLE abyss
Have a crush on the plush
Flush flights of a proper "lush"
Grinned while you sinned
Smile..getting in a right mess
Room spinned ... plans binned
Betting the style's "blotto" lotto
Pinned motto bless the "legless"
Jolly golly gosh "sloshed"
What beats "3 sheets to the wind"
Need a slash..have to crash
After being out on the lash
"Smashed"..bish bash boshed
'Off your trolley" wally or dolly
Bedazzled frazzle on the razzle
Laughter after a dafter shindig swig
On the "sozzle"..off his head ..off to bed
Reason for that big red schnozzle
Let's be frank those who get "tanked"
Get thanked...no..blanked & spanked
Don't deride those who decide
To get plied with or "pie eyed" with pride
Have a tiff with those who chose skew whiff
No need upsetting or fretting
Over a drunkard with a tankard
Rum dumb herbert on the sherbert
Woozy boozy floozy doozy
Getting whistle whetting "wanker*d"
Abuser..winner or loser
The boon of the last saloon
All soon forgetting having hankered
For.. then regretting that final boozer
"Wasted"...sauce basted I stammered
Could've plucked for being "f**cked"
Decoded it besetting with maybe "loaded"
Why's he passed on the class "rat-arsed"
Not fussed..nonplussed he cussed
Sussed just with mates getting 'hammered"
So don’t muzzle the "guzzler"
Cripple the ripple of the "tippler"
Can’t match "down the hatch"
Or sip & sup..because "bottom’s up"
No frowning cake-hole sold on downing
Beer.. .neck oil by heck will spoil our laughing gear
Crowning the glory or gory story
Comedy gold told of being "arsehol*d"
Ickle fickle wee "pickled" trickle tickle
Temptation of a nifty sneaky shifty
Iffy & squiffy in a jiffy veneration
Don't be piddly about diddly while tiddly
They might from afar mutter
Wot a nutter...one too many jars
One too many bars ..not caring...I would utter
Have a flutter...I’m lying in the gutter
Rego & I flying while staring at the stars
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
Fight for freedom is a journey.
Journey of life under recurrent restriction.
Hindrances at random, freedom seldom,
traversing on constriction in chained channel,
running and tumbling in dark tunnel.
Always hankered for a glimpse of luminosity of freedom.
Twenty fourth July is federal holiday commemorating Declaration of United States
as Independent Nation approving separation under British Rule in 1776.
Purpose of Celebration is to be focussed
on pursuit of liberty a equality and unalienable fundamental human rights
always aiming to obey Universal Moral Values
Americans. observe the day with barbeques , parades and fireworks
Concept of full freedom lies in the fact to establish
Fundamental human rights to follow :
Social Improvement in priority.
Drive out out malice, violence, corruption
Person-wise, race- wise, Nation-wise
for perfect precise Civilization.
Never to overpower other country
Exchanges of ideas in every field
as Science, Technology and Industry
should run parallel to build Global Society .
Every child should get facility of free education!
No discrimination, but to show Global Integrity.
Health issues of populace to place
under responsibility of Government.
Each to be honoured as Global Citizen.
Unique relegion ' HUMANITY ' in HUMAN RACE
to glow in glory and grace.
LIKE A CHILD
Since childhood I am blowing balloons to release in air and picking pebbles
on stream strand and sandy sea shore, chattering chirping ceaseless like cheerful birds, seeking wisdom from tales, stories, fables.
In last phase I realised Life as game of cards. I have blown airy balloons of
dreamy desires. I had sown seeds of ambition in soil of illusive dream.I built castles sure to be perishables. Whichever I started I am convinced that End is inevitable. Child in me always hankered for toys of passion.
Pebbles I collected shined, sparkled, glistened to be gems of recognition dazzling my look and ultimately made me puzzled. Once successes or emotions seemed peerless. Life long achievements all memorable I cherished in core of my heart. Cycle of Life and Death will wipe off everything ruthless.
Like a child I have played in Past am playing at Present and will have to play in Future in this unknown zone of Cosmos.
like a child to run
purposeless in maize of life
seeking gems in stones.
07/16/22
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.
Deep in the heart of Ireland there runs
A dark belief the future rests on guns
In the midst of a riot in the city of Derry
That sinister undercurrent was in play
It was then that Lyra, just doing her job
Took snaps to record the rioting mob.
Here was a promising young reporter
Whom many a paper hankered after
Yet a single bullet from an illicit gun
Ended a career so bravely begun.
This innocent target felled by a single shot
Became the shadowy gunman's scabrous blot
For out of that Good Friday's grim testament
There has grown full community agreement
That terrorists must never again stalk the land
To dismantle the dialogue of peace long since planned.
Out of the ashes , we hope , of the martyrdom of Lyra McKee
Will Ireland from vile and callous terrorism be now set free.