Long Hit the hay Poems
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Elsie the cow was slower than molasses,
that's why they finally decided to put her out to pasture.
With Stormin' Norman around you'd tremble with fear,
because all around him was lightning and thunder in the atmosphere.
I try not to get into too much of a habit, of trying to figure out
what nuns wear at the abbot.
It doesn't matter to me if I get burned, especially since I'm ashes in an urn.
Debby couldn't figure out why people's smiles would suddenly flounder,
till one day her new nickname was Ms. Debby Downer.
My dog is generally nice; his bark being much worse than his bite.
After cleaning up the elephant poop, I finally admitted that my life was a zoo.
Two's company and three's a crowd, but not after a polygamists vows.
My stomach would almost always get into a knot, till I stopped being a contortionist.
One hand always washes the other, especially if you always bathe with your lover.
I almost always kill two birds with one stone, that is why they don't fly in pairs by my home.
A penny saved is a penny earned, that's why I always have Dollar Tree money to burn.
The early bird always catches the worm, I know because when I do I've seen them squirm.
Money doesn't grow on trees, if it did then there would be no more leaves.
I try not to wear my heart on my sleeve, especially if there's no tissues around and I have to sneeze.
Well I guess its that time once again to hit the hay as I keep reminding the bales not to misbehave.
I try not to cry over spilt almond milk, especially if its an off brand and not the expensive Silk.
I want to remodel my kitchen I think, everything that is but the kitchen sink.
They alway's claim that Elvis has left the building, then why do I always still see impersonators making a living.
I walk around with a big chip on my shoulder, which is great because I sometimes forget to eat now that I'm older.
And finally, I hope one day when I kick the bucket, that it'll travel far enough to go into the Guiness World Book of Records.
As the dark veil covered the sky,
I was left with no choice but to resign to fate.
The enemy was relentless in their pursuit—
My platoon scattered after the strike on Khartoum.
Only two bullets remain~
One to kill another,
The other for myself.
I was lucky to find an abandoned trench—
wide enough to let my eyes rest.
Too fatigued to resist sleep,
I hit the hay and slept like a log.
Then I heard voices nearby.
From that hole I laid in, I could see them clearly—
They were South Sudanese soldiers~
the enemy soldiers.
They chattered loudly, so I knew they shared
a fate not so different from mine...
Only that we were enemies—
oil and water don’t mix.
Thank God for the darkness and the trench,
I was hidden from their view.
At least four hours of night
would still conceal my identity—
or so I thought.
Then, about ten minutes later,
I saw a large black snake,
its scales gleaming even in that darkness,
crawling toward my hole—
from the opposite side of the enemy soldiers.
From the way it moved, I knew—
that hole was its home.
It was returning for a late-night nap.
I had no choice but to leap from the trench
and run toward the enemy soldiers.
I could feel the heavy clouds hanging over them
as they scattered in opposite directions.
I ran between their fear,
the sound of scales closing in behind me—
the snake sniffing at my heels.
I ran.
My lungs were like chains
tightening with each breath—
but still I ran,
my heels kicking the back of my head.
And I remembered:
I still had two bullets remaining—
One to kill another,
The other for myself.
My helmet burned like a furnace.
I jolted awake—still in the trench.
No snake.
No soldiers.
Just shadows.
The nightmare had ended,
but my chest still heaved
from that breathless, imaginary run.
I felt the gun still on my chest,
reached for the bullets—
they were still there.
And I remembered:
One is to kill another,
The other for myself.
It seemed to Hank it was jes' a couple of hours ago since he'd hit the hay.
Now the risin' sun jes' peekin' over the hills heralded another day.
His old hound dog, Spooks, tugged at his blanket a-wantin' to play,
And his faithful hoss, Ol' Dan, greeted him with a raucous neigh.
He pulled on his boots, Stetson hat and bandana, his usual attire,
And stirred last nights camp fire embers to bring alive the fire.
He ate his usual grub of beans, biscuits, coffee and bacon,
And suddenly realized that is was Sunday, if'n he warn't mistaken!
"Wahl" he mused, "I don't reckon the boss'll mind if'n I tarry here a spell.
I'd jes' like to chat with the Lord this mornin' and tell Him all is well."
Hank sat on a log sippin' his joe from a tin cup a-gazin' across the vale,
Thinkin', "I don't need no fancy church to worship. They's confinin' as a jail!"
"Lord, you know I ain't gittin' rich cowboyin' and that's fer damn sure!
Er, 'scuse me Lord fer cussin'. I'm tryin' to make my sinful tongue more pure."
"I don't need no earthly possessions when all about me is Yer great Creation.
These here mountains, rivers and cowboyin' that I love is my compensation."
"I'm a-thankin' Ye fer them eagles soarin' on the wind and fer Yer eternal love,
And fer the pristine Colorady sky, the moon and stars shinin' from high above."
"And finally Lord, when this old cowpoke comes to the end of the trail,
I'd be obliged if'n I could dwell in Yer Corral when I cross that mysterious veil."
"Thank Ye Lord fer lendin' me Yer ears and I promise to keep my cussin' at bay."
"Wahl boys, we'd better skedaddle and git to herdin' them steers to earn our pay."
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
NOT JUST ANOTHER WALK IN THE PARK
After biscuits for breakfast at Mama’s Boy…an Athens, Georgia landmark
we decided to walk off our calories with a stroll through Dudley Park.
Dudley Park is a beautiful place…not huge by any scale….
It’s traversed by the North Oconee River just off the Firefly Trail.
Of course the fireflies were sleeping…having long ago hit the hay
but we wanted to see what wonders their trail wold reveal to us that day.
Sure we missed the fireflies…who only light up in the dark
but from high up in the trees we were treated to a free concert in the park.
It was the dead of summer…but the morning felt like spring…
and as we were cooled by a morning breeze…all around us birds began to sing.
The bluebirds chirped…the cardinals whistled…again and again and again….
These were just the warm-up acts for the headliner…the Carolina wren.
We walked among the green grass, the elm trees and mushrooms….
While all around us, wherever we looked, flowers were in bloom.
Everywhere we turned…different flowers we would spot…
From yellow jessamine, black eyed Susans, to the fragrant Bergamot.
We happened upon a cluster of dayflowers…blessed to have seen them on our way
because, as their name suggests, they bloom only for one day.
The dayflower is just another indication of how life moves on so fast
reminding us to enjoy every moment before it fades into the past.
This is why every walk we take together…
feels a little different than the walk before…
Which means this wasn’t just another walk in a park for us…
No…
it was so much more.
A cowpokes life is a rough one and when he draws his monthly pay,
He mounts his hoss and gallops to town to visit the local cabaret.
He scrubs the manure from his boots and dons a decent pair of jeans,
Hopin' to find some tolerable grub instead of bacon, biscuits and beans!
He spends his days herdin' ornery longhorns and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Ridin' in nasty weather and eatin' dust 'til he nearly loses his senses!
Fer all of this he expects some decent grub at the end of ever' day,
But Cooky dispenses bacon, biscuits and beans the same as yesterday!
Chuck is served up on battered tin plates and tin cups fer slurpin' joe,
And if'n you don't like it, Cooky is mighty quick to tell ya where to go!
The fellers complain to the trail boss but it don't do a damn bit of good.
He tells 'em, "If'n you don't like it here, find yerself another livelihood!"
At the cabaret he's confounded by the chinaware and fancy silverware,
And instead of sittin' on the ground to eat, he sits on a rickety chair!
He consumes a colossal steak with sweet peas and smashed pertaters,
A couple of beers and a salad of onions, lettuce and fresh termaters.
He and his old cayuse slowly meander back to the ranch to hit the hay,
But he'll return to the cabaret next month when he collects his meager pay.
He savored his scrumptious meal of countless calories and proteins,
'Cause he knows that tomorrow he'll be eatin' bacon, biscuits and beans!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Isn't life funny?
You spend hours and hours writing and revising
re-revising and rewriting
and then starting almost from scratch again
making sure each line sounds right
each and every word fits,
does what it's supposed to do,
and then of course making sure there's enough
imagery, symbolism, metaphor, and all that there gobbledy-gook
Finally (!) you post your poem
and then you have to edit it three or even four more times
anyway, because you saw something else that didn't quite
work right when you viewed it again...and again...and again...
On the proverbial other hand
You decide that you can't go to sleep without doing one more
so you dash something off in 7 minutes or less
you don't even check it for typos, errors, or omissions
and you figure, "What the H," at least I published another
one before I hit the hay...btw, you sleep like a rock that night...
The next morn you wake up with the nagging feeling that your magnum opus
is mediocre poetry at best, humdrum stuff:
Hmmmmmm
As for your 7-minute rush job -- Ehhhh, Phoooey! Fugettaboutit!
You regret posting it, and vow never to act so rashly again
At work though you reverse course and suddenly can't wait to see how many comments your masterpiece got..
So, after work when you get a chance to check
you find no comments on your you-know-what
and a dozen or so on your hack job.
Form:
Hank had rode the range a-punchin' cattle fer nigh on fifty years,
Ridin' through Texas northers and brandin' cantankerous steers.
He'd herded ornery longhorns along the Chisolm Trail to Abilene.
He'd signed on with the Triple D Ranch when he was about seventeen.
Hank had broke many a wild bronc and a heap of times was throwed,
And ridin' the saddle all them years, his legs was grievously bowed!
He put his loyal hoss Old Dan out to pasture and decided to retire,
To take quill in hand, reminisce and toss off verse by a glowin' fire.
He wrote about pullin' cattle-guard on dark and stormy nights;
The grandeur of the starry skies and the spectacular Northern Lights;
Splendid risin's of the sun and its magnificent settin's at end of day,
And sleepin' 'neath the mellow moon when it was time to hit the hay.
Hank wrote of the meager pay and many suppers of beans and bacon,
And the same for breakfast with acrid-tastin' java when he'd awaken!
The evenin' campfires with his pards a-singin' 'long with the harmonica,
And, yes, he wrote of a long-lost love, his dance hall queen, Suemonica.
He wrote about long, hot and dusty days in the saddle a-mendin' fences,
Of buffalo, antelope, tumbleweed and the beauty of God's great expanses.
His last poem spoke of the epitaph he wanted etched upon his stone:
"I ain't one to moan, But, Lord I was hopin' this ride You'd postpone!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Hank was a hard workin' cowpoke who really earned his meager pay.
He rode his ass Old Red from early dawn 'til at night he hit the hay,
Fixin' fences, ropin' steers and brandin' dogies in the old corral,
But he had an odd addiction that gnawed on his pard's morale!
He was a happy yodler which is alright fer a wrangler I suppose,
But his irritatin' warblin' caused him to nearly come to blows!
At night in the bunkhouse he would even yodel in his sleep,
Addin' to the din of his pals who were known fer snorin' deep!
His yodelin' caused cattle to stampede and hosses to buck and neigh.
Caused chickens to cease layin' aigs and cantankerous mules to bray!
Porkers squealed in their sty and the hounds barked and howled,
His comrades raged and cussed and the cats all hissed and yowled!
Even rattlesnakes were flustered and slithered to hide in dens,
And bands of coyotes skulked to seek cover in the nearby fens.
Frenzied birds vacated their cozy nests and fled to distant climes,
And Cookie got upset since the guys couldn't hear his supper chimes!
The grizzled old ranch boss called Hank aside fer a serious session,
Sayin', "Son, you're creatin' havoc 'round hyar with yer damn obsession!
Take yer ass and yodler to swoon the gals at the Dry Gulch Saloon,
'Cause if'n you keep it up 'round hyar, you'll hit the road and soon!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Hi folks. The name's Ike.
'Member me from my other writes?
check 'em out if you'd like.
Me and the Missus, Jane here, jest wanted to say hey.
Jane, she ses I oughta tell you good folks how I pray.
She thought it might be a help to one a ya some day.
Now ya see most everybody prays the way they sees fit.
That's just fine 'ceptin' in the mornin'..well, see.. I fergit.
Way back, a friend name 'a Wally hepped me on that score a bit,
And since then, in the mornin', I aint hardly never fergit.
See at night I got no problem thankin' God with the Missus,
then it's bedtime and we gits in our hugs and kisses.
We tuck in her kitty cats and then we hit the hay.
As I said in the mornin' when I got up I'd fergit ta pray.
So at night when I drop my britches on the floor,
I kick my shoes up under the bed behind 'em,
so when I wakes up in the mornin' after a good snore,
well, I gotsta git down on my knees ta find 'em!
And whil'st I'm on my knees, I 'member somethin', Hoss,
Right 'bout then, I 'member that I ain't the Boss.
So then I ask Him ta help me do what He wants that day,
and 'cause He's Merciful and Good, He helps me that way.
...Z'at what you wanted me to say, my darlin' Missus?
Reckon so ..cause she.. gimme a couple 'a kisses.
Nite nite, darlin'...
and to you folks too!
God bless y'all..
Two streaks mark my week,
Claw at my lungs, skies look bleak,
Cast me down a viral inferno!
Fahrenheit 105 but without the yellow
Fever and dilemmas poison my bones
Echoes of madness within their hollows
I hit the hay early and the sun rays burn weak
My eyes sting with nakedness until it’s time to eat
Two days for two streaks, I shall sacrifice
Misery and slumber, and as if they don’t suffice,
Pending decisions tap their feet along the corridors
They tighten my chest more than a virus could afford
The two days pass but the two streaks remain
I say I feel normal but the rotting’s to stay
Behind locked doors, four walls caked with life,
They seem to get closer as each day passes by
My corridors still await some certainty,
Prayers could never agree or disagree,
Hemingway and Vandermeer, no matter how well read,
Fail to resolve, not even sitting well in my head
Even as the ticking rings in my ear,
Behind the hour hand, my patience disappears,
They say to chug it all down, wipe my tears,
There is phlegm even cough syrups couldn’t clear
Two streaks refuse to leave
They wish to behold a tragedy
One that begins with ambition,
And ends with a fallacy
So for a year so uncertain,
I brewed a cauldron of posies,
Raised a goblet to my fate,
And the plague my mind embodies