Long Holsters Poems
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To a rhythm my feet were moving.
Left, right, T.A.N.G.O.
Moving at a pace full of life and spirit.
A willing partner I had.
Twirl, pause, five steps always ahead.
Stamp and up he holsters me.
He was best with the twist.
My hips would gyrate.
Moving at the steady pace of his grasp.
Completely igniting my body fiercely.
I could not help but change my pace.
To a beat from Santana
I enacted to a tarantella dance.
Feeling his strong hands;
Hold, feel, touch and inflict.
Aphrodisiac some would say.
Perfect partner I thought.
1, T.W.O.S.T.E.P. we go
1, 2 he leads me.
I follow like a loyal dog, the irony.
I loved dancing.
I loved dancing with him.
Cha-cha he changed the pace.
Cha-cha I felt my heart beat.
His hands slithering.
His body away from me it went.
Coming back again for a sultry dance of shag.
The dream partner I needed.
Zouk he dances again.
Paso-doble he serenaded.
My heartbeat getting stronger.
My feet moving willingly.
Moving closer.
His hands grabbed me softly closer.
Waltzing he teased the tip of my nose.
Moving slowly down to my lips.
Allemande our arms where.
He whispered in a tricotee tone.
Au revoir my sweet.
I’m sorry to be such a bag.
But our dance has come to an end.
Cakewalk he strode away.
A partner he was to me.
But never was I to him.
Fox trot I complimented myself.
A fool I felt as I broke in a hora dance alone.
My perfect partner was gone.
I guess those who understand dance moves will understand this, but Im pretty sure its understandable ;-)
© Herzel Poshiwa
two cell phones ran into each other on some street
friends I think world has changed though
and stood side by side known yet unknown
an awkward greeting then sliding into silence
like an old western gunfight suddenly
a duet of ring tones that has taken music hostage
they reached for their souls lost in a maze
to see who had the quickest draw
and to their relief a touching moment
quickly typing with insane joy
their thoughts playing the keys like a piano
in the end they acknowledged each other with a nod
with a good-bye slipped it back into their holsters
patting it like a baby's bottom waiting for the burp
they walked for a moment but like a pack of cigarettes
they reached for their cell phones lighting and inhaling
staring at the screen to see if their popularity was still intact
as they were staring downwards the cell phone they were tweeting
walked by without a peep just a nod
Smoke signals rise from Sitting Duck cavern
In town the Pitt gang are trashing the tavern
John Wayne strolled in and he ain’t here to dance
They say that he walked like he just sh*t his pants
Don’t be a doubtin, that Marshall ain’t messin
A man ain’t alone when he’s got Smith n Wesson
An outlaw’s revolver, a volley of lead
A slug on the rebound leaves Rick O’Shey dead
Wayne chewed his cheroot and a grin split his lips
Hands above holsters gainst each of his hips
‘Sonny Pritt, I’m here to banish your ilk
So get off your horse and drink your milk’
Pritt said I won’t stand here in fear of my life
For a man with an Indian brave for a wife
You stand there and tell me you’re Marshall John Wayne
You wanna think whose side your on... just sayin
Wayne said don’t you try it, don’t one of you frown
One out of place twitch, and I’ll cut you all down
Pritt said I think we should take this outside
So shoot me or follow, I’ll let you decide
He ducked the swing doors and stepped out of the tavern
And read the smoke signals from Sitting Duck cavern
I think what it says is, ‘Hey you, in the town
Many men try to bring my white man down
He’s braver than one of Geronimo’s sons
But tell him come home... He’s forgotten his guns.’
21 January 2021 (abridged for contest’s line limit)
Contest: Cowboy
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
You couldn't rattle Tex
Ice water in his veins
No one ever saw him wince
let alone complain
Kept to himself, he did
Felt life was meant to be hard
Carried his lasso and holsters proud
Tackled fool rustlers, no holds barred
The range was his home, an honest calling
One where he gave his cattle free rein
'Til sundown was nigh, when he'd change his tune
Call in his options, by the light of the moon
Came a day when his ten-gallon hat
No longer was seen on the range, working at
The craft that he loved, more than life itself
Tex had roped his last steer, put his reins on the shelf
When I was very young
All I really wanted
To be was an Indian.
My mother always read to me -
Stories of fairies and elves,
Of princesses and ogres, witches,
And brownies who did good deeds.
Poems, “Wynken, Blynken and Nod”,
“The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat”,
And “The Sugar Plum Tree”.
Books, Alice in Wonderland,
The Little Colonel stories, and
The Five Little Peppers.
(I wonder if my grandchildren
Have ever heard of any of the
Old-fashioned stories and poems
Which were all magic to me.)
But, most of all, I loved
Longfellow’s poem Hiawatha.
“By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining deep sea water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis…”
I hear my mother almost singing
Those magical words from
“The Childhood of Hiawatha”.
I could see Hiawatha growing up
And learning Indian ways in
The woodlands of his youth.
I wanted to live in the woods,
To learn to talk with animals
And know their secrets.
I wanted to wear moccasins
And build a birch bark canoe!
One Christmas my brother got
A cowboy suit and hat and holsters,
But I, wonder of wonders,
Got a “real” Indian dress
With designs of tiny beads,
A fringe on the skirt,
And a headband with feathers!
I told my friends I was part Indian,
That my great grandmother
Was a real live Indian!
When it got back to my mother
She just said, “What stories you tell!”
Although I outgrew the dress,
The dream stayed with me
Throughout my childhood -
Sort of wishful thinking.
I always wanted to
Be close to nature.
Much of my childhood
I spent by myself, somewhat
Of a loner, climbing trees,
Making hideouts in the woods,
Walking in streams
To “cover my tracks”.
That “Indian child” I was
Still lives on in the
Recesses of my memory.
Maybe that’s why now, “grown up”,
I love walking in the woods
Or foraging by the ocean,
Why Stalking the Wild Asparagus
Is one of my favorite books,
Why I love picking wild blueberries
And grapes and making jam, or
Digging for clams and mussels.
Why I HAD to experiment with cooking
Slipper shells and making
Seaweed pudding and “Sumac-ade”.
Of course, I realize,
As well as anyone, that
The life of an Indian was not
As idyllic as I had once believed,
But, even now, after
All these years have passed,
It appears that
My “inner Indian”
Is alive and well and
Living on Martha’s Vineyard!
I am not sure how I accidentally stumbled upon the world of Steampunk,
But it is a combination of lace, leather, and metals, and a little bit funk.
It magically and freely fits people, cats, and dogs with machinery and gears.
Encourages unusual leather gloves, and holsters with no sense of fear.
There is a lot of beautiful dark brown copper piping included, and lots of mystique.
Inspired by the 1900’s, it is a whole new world, completely unique.
There are billowy white sleeves and leather adornments on both men and women
And leather belts with hooks, buckles, and gears, imagination freely given.
Whoever thought it up had imagination, a sense of fun, and talent galore.
Large round funk glasses with colored lenses look normal on top hats, which I so adore.
If you do not learn about anything else, on a dreary, cold or uninteresting day,
Look up steampunk styles, and steampunk conventions, it may make you want to join them and play.
She had bought into the dream captivated by the idea of wealth
Given herself no mercy, strapped on those pantyhose like holsters.
Envious of the women she saw on lunch hour who had on light dresses
Manifesting in no way toward her soul self, enslaved in an office
Became a babbling computer, spewing out figures, numbers, math.
Hope and optimism gone, her true essence she had begun to deny.
She became a ghost of her former self, her inner journey now dead.
She had ventured away from goodness, her muse’s strength broken.
The chains were real though self-imposed. She lost sight of God.
Jesus slid into an abyss, unclaimed for years. She manifested nothing new.
Her nine to five became six to six, then six to seven. She was a babbling robot.
Until her best friend died, and she realized she had not seen her for twenty-three months.
All changed after that; she broke the corporate chains,
began to dance down streets.
Threw away her suits, claiming light floral dresses,
wore a sun hat, and comfortable shoes.
Gave her high heels to charity,
and began to reinvent the turnpike of her essence.
Wrote poetry, took ballet, manifested a life
that brought Jesus back, and began to live.
Where are your holsters?
I don’t have any.
Where do you keep your guns?
I don’t have any.
What is wrong with you?
Lots of things.
He gives me a smirk.
Seconds later….
Do you have knives?
This is asked hopefully.
Sure.
Where are they?
I stare at this four-year-old I agreed to watch for a few hours.
Why do you want to know?
I want to be able to defend myself.
From who?
The bad guys?
What bad guys?
The BAD GUYS that are everywhere.
Let’s swing, Want to?
No. I want my tablet.
Why?
So I can kill bad guys.
I hid the tablet after a bit, so he was forced to swing and slide.
He professed to hate it, as he went down the slide giggling like a hyena.
At the 5:00 whistle
When the sunset in late November
Is less light and more molten
Like a blast-furnace window
Glowing above the highway home
Goo spilling from its sparkling ladle
Bent
At the off-ramp’s arthritic elbow
The city smolders
Under
The backs and braces of its groaning bridges
Like a half smoked cigarette
Crushed under the heel of a boot
An entire city is snuffed out.
The Man, my father, comes to this setting sun
As a welder
Flipping down his black mask
For his last day at work
With stars still tracing cross his eyes
And his factory-floor poems loose in his head
Like nuts and bolts rattling in his toolbox.
His visiting grandchildren
Sent from the Coasts for Thanksgiving
Clung like empty holsters to his massive thighs
May someday think Grandpa, what did you do with your life?
He wants to kill them
Kill them all
Lick his pink slip like a Christmas card envelope
And hang himself
With a drill
Still
Plugged into his whining hand
But on his last day home
With smokestacks steaming like gray volcanoes
The sunset remains wondrous to him
The Makar the Creator
He envisions a flower molded from bronze
Bloomed and shaped from his callused hands.
As I ride across the high desert plains
an open, arid scenery whisks by.
The sun is heating up rippled windows
on the railroad train, as it jostles riders
to jiggle, jerk and sway
to the click, clack of wooden tracks
towards Tucumcari, New Mexico
Gateway To The West.
Sounds of the Old Wild West
stir up the imagination
like the great train robbery
of Black Jack Ketchum in 1897
near Tucumcari, where he and his bandits
secretly hid their stash of gold
long before the train whistle
blew near the station.
Clickity clack, or could that be horses’ hooves
galloping alongside the old train tracks?
As desert dust kicks up, I envision ghosts of riders
wild west cowboys catching up
with guns out of holsters
shouting, “Stop the train! Get the gold!”
“Next stop, Tucumcari!”calls the conductor
I am shaken out of my daydream and look around.
Humble buildings huddle within the arroyos
people proud of their Southwestern heritage
for here in the desert you’ll not find a heartier folk
than those who live within this great land
of grit and sizzling sun.