Long Heretofore Poems
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He served as a catalyst
for my poetic mood
and experimental dimensions
in silent rendering,
with an itch for art forms
be it the appetite
the nectar of a poet
My endeavor to articulate excels
far beyond my perceived horizons
alas jump-starting my muses
heretofore dormant a bit,
stirring me to excavate
a font of ideas
and accelerate with eagerness
to burst forth
from mind onto page
unfurling with words
hidden beneath my tongue
that once alluded me,
I stitch the unsaid into form
before our intuitive tryst,
a better mentor I could not
have hoped for;
British, artist, wordsmith, & troubadour
of empirical and
nostalgic emphasis
With pleasure I dive deep
into linguistic lure,
definitions and display
composing in a harmonious dance
lyrics into wordplay
I breathe life into symbols
older than memory
If ever there was a lauded semantic
who rises like a sentient sign
in a moments demand
stark sensationalist,
quiet, yet quite quizzical
It’s Brian Strand
a doG meditation...
this is about what we call "pets"
about ownership..objectivity..
an anachronism now..?
the inner model of
consciousness-only
may provide a hint:
only consciousness Knows
not plants..not animals..not us..
that is a radical reversal
of our heretofore belief
that consciousness springs separately
from each compartment of life..
considering again:
only consciousness Knows
is aware..and is expressed in
every-thing..every-where..
this equality of Knowing
filters through our finiteness
our body and mind
and through our "pet" dog
and through the turtle at sea..
So.. we pause:
consciousness only..Knows
O’ I ponder, ponder, of yond rich skies
of that faint weary life that's passed me by
beyond the echos of shattered dreams
of a life, or lives that should have been;
tis’ a certainty that life evolves.
through the meandering brooks of long ago
of endless desires that flows from soul to soul
and swelled of virtue in brave and merry hearts
their resonating echos call and call;
tis’ a certainty that life evolves.
O' listen! listen! though faint but clear
whispers calling both far and near
as the radiant moon drift across the open seas
as mighty gales rustle and shiver in the rows;
tis’ a certainty that life evolves.
memories long forgotten heretofore
that seem to be nestled quietly there
yet swiftly drift to lands of ancient lore
And here and there a spark of radiant light;
tis’ a certainty that life evolves.
like ancient treasures buried deep
and rushing clouds beyond my reach
I strove for life with all my might
and set my mind, its final course;
tis’ a certainty that life evolves.
O’ I ponder, ponder, of yond rich skies
of that fain weary life that's passed me by
beyond the echos of shattered dreams
of a life, or lives that could have been;
tis’ a certainty that life evolves.
A long-standing landmark that I often visited as a tyke,
Was Bert's Country Store just a ways up Dalton Pike.
Dalton could be missed if your eyes you'd briefly close.
The population at that crossroads "town" was thirty or so, I suppose.
The inviting porch had some benches where loafers hung around.
To enter the store you stepped over Bert's snoozing hound.
Winter days you'd find the rabble huddled 'round the stove,
Where discussions of crops, good whiskey and women throve!
An old cowbell jingled upon opening the sagging screen door.
Once inside you trod upon a squeaky, bare, wooden floor.
'Twas a wonder that Bert could find anything 'midst all the clutter,
But in a trice he'd find anything for which you would utter!
Bert had no tolerance for frills or the latest fancy decor.
You'd risk tripping over barrels and rope coiled upon the floor.
The sagging shelves were stocked with canned goods and lanterns,
Wheels of cheese, muskrat traps and the latest sewing patterns.
He sometimes sold hot dogs and sodas under the counter,
As long as the county health officials he didn't encounter!
The Hoosier "town" of Dalton ain't listed on the maps as heretofore,
And, alas, Bert nor his old country store exist there anymore.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
It started with candy corn
on Hallows eve when I was ten,
as dad escorted us from house to house
on that windy night.
Sadistic pleasure was mine,
as I bit the tiny white tips
from each piece and threw the rest away,
while marching to the next house.
Such destructive pleasure changed the way I ate
from that night forward.
No longer did I eat with polite accord
or cater to normal desire.
Food was heretofore decimated by fork and knife,
cut to pieces and consumed
with vengeance by anger
and growing desire for more.
Formative years turned into teen angst
that only increased the distance
between myself and the world,
with uncontrolled craving and binge.
Everywhere I now look, I see food.
Food on magazine covers,
in commercials on TV,
even a food network
Supporting my lifestyle
of decadence
and gourmandian appreciation
of sauces and desserts.
I understand your envy,
acknowledge your disappointment
of failure, while I excel
and try not to flaunt my excitement.
Just because my weight exceeds
what my scale measures,
doesn't mean I have to modify
the way I live.
No. Life only goes around once,
and for me,
it's a paragon of pleasure,
at least four times each day.
But every year at Halloween,
I support the neighborhood
and give kids candy corn
minus the tiny white tips.
Basketball stands for war or battle.
That's why I think about the players'
personalities, in my foxhole or squad.
Danny and Ben are fast and smart. Dan
especially can pass making him master
and commander. To defeat them as we did
is past satisfying. Ben's five year old son
disdains to answer my question
Why are you you?
But I'm not here
to catalogue the men's personalities.
I like them. But each of us has moved on
many times, when _______ suddenly died
the games went on with hardly a mention
and his name has since been forgotten.
But even this, absolute mortality
of not just our bodies but our names
and souls is not what I came
to talk about. Yesterday, between games,
I asked Joe how Molly his daughter likes
the high school. He mounted an impassioned
defense of reading as the indispensable skill
when I suggested math, the scientific method
and history are essential too.
Also between games
Bob diffidently asked why my kids are bald.
I was moved by the care he took to satisfy
his curiosity, concerned the subject might be
difficult. He's a political science teacher so
I took the opportunity to ask What ails
the republic? Of course I answered myself
wanting mostly to hear myself talk about Iraq
and how empire is self-correcting. For once I was amusing
I thought, treating the subject with a light touch
heretofore lacking.
But none of this is what I came to say.
A new guy, long quick and strong, a
bulldozer under the boards with a good
outside shot if needed got into a dispute
with the other Bob who likes to tell people
what to do sometimes, about an offensive
foul Bob called which we almost never do.
The new guy said If you can't take it don't
play under the boards which is what I say
when I'm pissed and don't give a .
Bob said You've been pushing and shoving me
all day. I said He doesn't want to be
pushed and shoved which got a wry
smile out of Danny as I put the ball in play.
As fiery beacons
Blaze
And cut through the
Night;
As restless sleep
Doth so tax and
Trouble me;
And I hang upon
A promise:
That my love
For thou
I did most fervently
Swear unto thee!
As icy comets roar
And sail against
The galactic tides,
Their streaming tails
Lingering upon a
Solar wind,
I will grasp
This one last chance...
To bare my soul
And chasten myself
From all my sins.
Then immortal wings
Will downwards sweep
From heavenly ramparts
Where divine Angels
Do so keep...
To gently raise me
To my feet,
And, softly brushing
The dust
From mine eyes,
Lift me high
To be seated down
Before the wise.
Whenceforth,
Hence so empowered,
Whilst slumbering
Fantasies
Once more take flight -
Unremitting and
Without respite:
When, passing through
Heavens doors...
To search you out
Across the sands of
Timeless shores.
Thus, finally, after
Stumbling
Across starry Aeons
Of an almost infinite age,
Throughout these
Many anguished trials
Of forlorn,
And seemingly,
Endlessly
Despairing days,
To overwhelmingly
Rediscover your
Presence:
Beholding your perfect
Form -
Suddenly and inextricably
Revealed
Before my wonder-struck
Gaze!
After enduring what feels
Like the damnation and
Curse of eternities
Countless years,
Now, heretofore:
How I shall cherish
And much adore...
This one true heart
Forever more.
Vanquishing Fear
by
Odin Roark
Her unwritten diary
Read of descriptions
glittering private
Her hourglass of
diamonds
Where forever truly
destined forever
Her beauty made
artists shy
Their palettes’
ablaze with
unfettered colors
Her trail of
fragrance brought
flowers about face
Her presence in
crowds like a warm
tropical breeze
Suitors rifled their
pockets of tricks
Bent on conquest of
the untamable
For beneath her
silk-like curls
Dwelled the
inexplicable
The enigmatic
defense
Protecting the lost
Never to be found
Lips not yet ready
to part
So grew the nymphet
of patience
Often confining
herself to shoreline
treasures
Where shamans
fathoms deep
Shared sonnets of
passion
From sea shells to
auricle passage
Personal imaginings
to echoing without
end
And then…
A man did appear
Heretofore merely
another serial lover
Leaving traceable
imprints
Evidence for
confirming
He did exist
Her first glance
fostered nightmares
Burning fear of
losing that
Which she knew not
of
So virginal her
experience
Yet rarities do
happen
Pen and paper gave
birth
To offspring of word
and symbol
The poetry of two
reflected many
Where shamans and
sea shells
Imprints and
nightmares
Poetry’s family tree
of shared resonances
Became transcendence
together
ENTHUSIASM
out
of reluctance
some merriment
heretofore
esteemed
notionally
incognito
in a
lovely
renaissance
remained
a rarity
a fantasy
of the
appetite
of curiosos
impertinent
in pursuit
of the picturesque
to conceive
the vivid
in the
archaic
characterised
by
pillars
of the
intricate
patterns in
vivid imaginations
venturing into
the intrepid
visual art
for
a connoisseur
made
practicable
likened to
self-portrait
to celebrate
a common
inheritance
& frequent
the obscure
& the blurry
monochrome
reduced
to black
& white
on
a
series
of murals
Word Lyric For Music #3
“Finding Repast at the Front Door”
Melissa and her sister are on the floor,
Dancing in circles without shoes, as before,
Dancing like tomorra’ might not shine,
Sipping white whales and bottles of red wine,
They were seeking a brace of yes men, heretofore,
Now they’re finding repast at the front door.
Older dudes with cigarettes dangling,
Said no with wives in tow;
Melissa and her sister stopped angling,
And found the limbo stick set down low,
They begged Tired Ed not to lower it anymore,
Now they’re finding repast at the front door.
Late night promises made with a glass of rum,
Melissa’s sister dancing to a delirious drum;
She’s beckoning the boys to get down low,
And with wives in tow, as before,
The old dudes and Tired Ed got down on the floor,
But Melissa and her sister, heretofore,
Were finding repast at the front door.