Long Hunkered down Poems
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...He reformed the routing patriots,
formed a line atop a rise, Perrine’s Hill,
brought in General Knox and the artillery,
commanding the mass through sheer force of will.
He needed to buy time for the main force
to march on and join up in the battle,
the British kept coming, soon to attack,
convinced they still had the patriots rattled.
Before in battle the Redcoats just had
to flash their bayonets in the bright sun,
that was enough to scare Continentals
and assure them the battle was won.
But they were no longer facing such men,
the Americans had learned Europe’s game,
they did not flee at the sight of steel,
gave hard volleys once the foe was in range.
Britain’s field commander, General Cornwallis,
made several attacks to break up the line,
only to run into fire and rage,
with his Redcoats turned back every time.
They he tried to turn Washington’s left flank,
the boldest maneuver of the fight yet,
but the main force had come, and pushed forwards,
striking hard under young Lafayette.
Seeing there would be no quick victory
the British withdrew there forces back,
both armies in defensive positions,
the fight would become a long slugging match.
Soldiers hunkered down as across the fields
artillery thundered and cut loose,
both sides trying to break up the other,
their foe’s ranks they sought hard to reduce.
The heat was such that many of the men,
suffered and even died from heat stroke!
One man passed out and his wife manned his gun,
fighting on alongside all the blokes.
Then Washington sent Nathaniel Green
with artillery up towards Comb’s Hill,
a high position on the British left,
from which the guns could enfilade and kill.
The British saw their hopeless position,
and quickly began an ordered retreat,
marching north towards Clinton’s main force,
having blown their opportunity.
Washington saw his enemy leaving,
and sent Mad Anthony Wayne forward,
to harangue the British as they marched off,
cutting down men despite their good order.
And through the battle ended as a draw,
for the nation it was victory,
they’d kept the field in an open battle,
and matched the Redcoats in soldiery.
This changed the calculus of the whole war,
all knew battles would be more costly now,
England would no longer campaign in the north,
hoping for easier prey down south…
Elegant in burnt orange afterglow,
sparkling starlight opens the show.
Neighbors and strangers appear all aroun’,
porch lights and car lights enlighten the town.
They arrive afoot and atop handlebars.
Tots wave from strollers like famed movie stars.
Mothers bellowing orders to stay in sight,
transgressors will rue being naughty tonight.
Flickering lights and untied laces
nudge fidgety feet through their paces.
Masquerade masks make eager accomplices’
too impish eyes and mischievous faces.
Scowling Jack-O-Lanterns carved in creepy effigies
prove impotent charms to appease candied fantasies.
Festooned arches adorned in orange and black,
ornate ornaments to win the neighborhood plaque.
Into the gauntlet of terror they swarm;
dressed to play in pillaging uniform.
Tree and flower tremble and quiver;
Bumped and trampled in their fervor.
Werewolves wailing through grimacing grins
herald a night of howling hymns.
Ghostly spirits from the bowels of earth,
hang from gallows, grinning in ghoulish mirth.
Silken chains embracing all who stray,
beckons the widow to her frightened prey.
Garnished by cackling cries of certain demise,
steaming cauldrons poach their pitiful prize.
Spades of woe shadow souls who rashly ignore,
ominous omens attached to windows and doors.
Like tocks from a clock they continue to arrive,
will the morrow find anyone left still alive?
Hostiles charitably looting town,
sacks of booty slowing them down.
Toting bags of looted plunder,
looming hordes scatter asunder.
Pass me by, to my neighbor grace his stage,
assuage with him your gluttonous rage.
Rapacious hands swaying in ritual dance,
exuberance untethered in blitzing advance.
Eyeing my castle the rioting rabble rush in,
guarded only by growlin’ dog an’ smilin’ pumpkin.
Upon my stoop they brazenly climb,
my breath on hold, I hear the chime.
My time I fear is near at hand,
my blood or treasure they demand.
Hunkered down and hidden from sight,
no mercy presented for my plight.
With sweaty palms and pounding heart,
please Lord I pray, make them depart.
For a shot of strong “Spirits” I silently scream,
‘cause I forgot the candy on this Halloween!
I drove down the boulevard as I did a thousand other times
Passing by the aged blue-gray house - the bachelor's pad across the street
Hunkered down like storm clouds in a mist of yesterday's legacy
And there he stood....the soulful captive, haunting his past
Black pants with hips flung to the side and held low by his own design
His stance altered the walkway like a steel girder posted upright
His boundless laugh seized the spotlight then scattered like wind chimes
Embracing a sweeter, livelier time before he slipped away
I pulled over to the side of the road to let my illusion wander
Sitting crippled in my car - his entranced prisoner
Pulling in the stardust memories of heading down the artists highway
Driving in his cherry red rock-n-roll car his guitar in the back seat
Where his expression, his music lived in vivid hues of youth
Startling the stage with words of rebellion
Becoming the cause of all the commotion
He challenged his crusade with the heat of revolution
His list was his own, his sequence bore his own evolution
Disobedience for the sake of itself scrolled on his flirting brow
Teasing each consequence with the audacity of sunflowers in the snow
Life was struck as a downer and he a loner
Whose heart yearned for the lyrics to sanctify his "hell on earth" anthems
A hungry wolf in a pack of sheep, growling at his own shadow
Licking the wounds of his notched dissatisfaction
Unable to disguise his truth to fit into his abstract woolly landscape
Always coiled up to the max of his amplified intensity
With his super jet speed brooding melodies
His cool blue eyes, his ocean vastness, his sky all reflected things in motion
All headed down the Pacific Highway in a finned Batman 60's Buick
Colliding with the universe
And memorializing his words of hard and lonely places
Pounding and throbbing with the sounds of his guitar
I drifted back
Losing this poltergeist of the past, this shadowy myth
This specter of a defiant paradox of love and hate.....
As the melody faded I embarked back to my journey
Riding down the boulevard - He in the seat next to me
January 17, 2020
Strand no 650 any theme any form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
It was pretty late in September
and I was over the Billings way
I was riding fence for Freddie White
on the west end of the Rockin Bar J
Well night time can fall pretty early
come along bout that time of the year
I started me up a little fire
and was cleaning up some of my gear
That's when I heard a "Whoo-up in camp"
softly floating over the pine trees
At first I thought it was ole Freddie
come a ridin' out to shoot the breeze
"Come on in" I yelled right back to him
my hand sittin firmly on my gun
When in rides this old bearded cowboy
looked to be bout a hundred and one
Well he said his name to be Johnson
so with that I passed him my name too
Asked him if he'd like to sit a spell
maybe share a little of my stew
For I had gauged him up to be a
decent and right honest man you see
‘Cause he seemed to hold himself just right
and by the soft way he spoke to me
So after we tossed down our bedrolls
and we had hunkered down near the flames
That's when Johnson pulled his red eye flask
we started toasting old cowboy names
Those names like Billy Brooks, Bose Ikard
Goodnight, Conrad Kohrs and Otto Franc
Olly Loving, John Chisum and with each name
we tipped the flask and drank
As all the old cowboys tend to do
we reminisced ‘bout the olden days
And all the things we used to do
while living the good cowpuncher’s ways
How these here youngsters nowadays ain't
got no clue ‘bout how things used to be
When a man could go from here to there
live and ride the range completely free
Johnson had seen just fifteen summers
when he started his first cattle drive
Sixty more winters have passed him by
he said his luck had kept him alive
For him riding herd out on the range
is the only life he's ever knowed
He said he would never trade that way
for no diamonds, jewels or gold
Well just about dawn the next morning
after we shook hands and parted ways
I knew that I too would never leave
behind me, these good old cowboy days
So when you find my bones out on the range
with my gun and saddle by my side
Just know I was still living the cowboy ways
when I took my final ride
Time bracketed between
December first nineteen fifty nine and
December first two thousand twenty three
represents sixty six orbitz
one prized Earthling
named Amélie Beth Harris-McGeehan
completed round the sun.
About half her life linkedin
with spousal enrichment,
(while hunkered down livingsocial
in Woodbury, New Jersey),
hence the hyphenated married name.
Though said endearing eldest sister
approximately thirteen plus months my senior,
ofttimes during mein kampf,
she displayed maternal (motherly) mien.
Back during mine boyhood
dark shadows along the edge of night
(emanating from outer limits
of the twilight zone)
spooked me to flinch
as did appearance
of the boogeyman induce affright
only exacerbated my delicate mental health
punctuated psyche of mine
with disequilibrium psycho-social blight
above named sibling a protector I cite
twilled me in the valley
of love and delight,
an emotional refuge rescued sought
deliverance from anguish
loving succor proffered
peace upon mine body, mind, and soul,
she did immediately expedite
warming cockles of me heart
analogous to affecting, creating,
forging, jumpstarting, offering, and ushering
ideal paradise island temperature
if measured by degrees balmy fahrenheit
pointing, revealing, shining,
and training a guiding-light
unafraid to defend diminutive
docile, inordinately meek brother,
when threatened courtesy bullies
that significantly towered over mine
below average stature height
a measly little skinny, yet zany
(when within comfort of home) lad
naively oblivious to our mother,
when her first born daughter dynamic,
especially smoldering contention
kindled figurative tinder, which squabble
escalated in intensity
sparking vehement feud to ignite
loosing volatile verbal exchange
triggering The Emergency Alert System
to issue warning
lest clear and present danger
(at 324 Level Road)
recorded in history books
licking, overshadowing, rivaling,
and undermining revolution
kickstarted and hashtagged as Jacobite.
Continued from Part 1
The trees, they hang in time and space around me –
trees, which in time before had swayed,
so gently tugged by ocean breezes,
trees, which in time before were lightly lit
with emerald tinted leaves,
trees, which in time before had reached to space above
with twisted tangled fingers,
grasping fingers,
fingers drenched with golden tears
shed by the Mighty Eye.
The trees, they hang in space and time,
benumbed and frozen motionless around me
chilled with rooted premonitions of the void,
their branches clutching darkness
and their leaves foreboding doom.
The muted winds begin to whisper tales
of many frightened things,
which, with mournful apprehension
have hunkered down behind the haze
and ceased their joyful play.
And all the while dank shadows gaily dance
a dismal dance,
for their time is soon to come.
The fitful shore lies suddenly still.
Unfeeling stones and hollow shells,
are paused a little,
stalled,
and dropped haphazardly,
midst their mindless random journey,
now abandoned by the sea,
for fickle waves have slipped away
to greet a falling prey.
And as the Mighty Eye droops lower,
laminated molten lips
are pursed and pucker higher,
sucking in the sky.
Within a trice the Mighty Eye
submits and squints, distended red,
perhaps tormented by fantastic thoughts
of imminent demise,
or else of being lashed beneath a lid
of distant faithless waves.
And as her dying flash dissolves,
two lurid lips arise,
three lusty lips -
a thousand parted limpid lips
which asudden,
though with little haste,
consume the Mighty Eye.
EPILOGUE
The trees are now but lurking shades
amongst the murky shadows.
Relentless fog slips slowly by -
her floating tongues drip silence
as they slink like snakes in stealth nearby.
The lacerated faithless lips have once again returned
to kiss the vacant vapid shores
in a brief eclipse of time.
END
Form:
Across the sea in a far off land,
Hunkered down in a bombed out farmhouse, a soldier makes his final stand.
Seriously wounded, but no fear does he show,
As the enemy approaches, he’s locked and loaded and ready to go.
As darkness nears this may be his only break,
With night vision goggles on he is willing to give back as much as he must take.
If his ammo holds out he may have a chance,
In hopes that his squad can reach him in their forward advance.
As pain from his wounds are taking their toll.
A vision of getting home to his wife and young son is now his primary goal.
He wipes away sweat even though the weather is cold,
With no thought of quit he waits for whatever to unfold.
Rat-a-tat-tat, the machine guns make their report,
As he holds his fire, at the present, the ball is in his court.
They don’t know for sure he’s there as they try to draw his fire,
As he huddles close to the ground in his own blood and mire.
All at once they are upon him as he raises to shoot,
But the enemy falls before he does and it takes a moment for this to compute.
Then he spots his comrades as they make there way to him,
He said you guys are a sight for sore eyes, he said my chances were getting pretty slim.
They get him to a med-o-vac and back to base,
As they work feverishly to save his life, he loses an arm in this ongoing race.
Weak and weary, they ship him back to the states,
To convalesce, and thank God that his arm, the price he paid for our freedom was to be his
only fate.
He thanked the Lord for sparing him one arm to hold his wife and little son,
He thanked the Lord that he got to come home and his battle was done.
He thanked the Lord for a country that embraced him in his darkest hour,
And to the Lord he gave all Glory and Thanks for His Almighty Power.
Out on the range and hunkered down
Been out here for a week
The morning cold the range is brown
Mist rising from the creek
A deep roaring sound behind me
I spin around in fear
What I see does astound me
How is a spaceship sitting here
Door open and inviting
I feel the need to take a look
I find it quite exciting
It has got me on the hook
Standing in the open door
He is beckoning to me
More regal one I never saw
Or ever will I see
A pinch to check if dreaming
I did not feel a thing
But the river is still steaming
It has got me on a string
Walk over and go through the door
It is like another world
Pearl white walls a golden floor
And curtains all unfurled
A cowboy sitting on a chair
At last I feel at home
But looking least like anything
Out on the range I roam
His Stetson more a halo
On his back there could be wings
My body turns to jello
As I realise some things
Relax and sit there just be calm
We need to check you out
We will be quick and do no harm
Of that there is no doubt
Alien to you may be
We are from another place
Out there in the stars you see
From deep outer space
We will make a small quick test
Now don't be so aghast
Then compare it with the rest
We have taken in the past
To see the changes that you've made
In progress or recession
For years now has been retrograde
That has been our impression
So cowboy up as cowboys do
We will soon be on our way
You will be as we found you
With no inkling of today
Mist dispersing with the sun
I sit there feeling strange
Out here where the cattle run
The wide and open range
Get to my feet and saddle up
I have much work to do
Why do I feel so shaken up
I don't have a single clue
Credit Frimufilms / Freepik for partial image
Carelessly you threw away each wise act of preservation for sake of being loved
Today I wonder about yesterday. Why life took you to the brink, as you hunkered down that living rage. Losing yourself in selfless acts of heroism everyday you never counted the cost, and when life got overwhelming, you disappeared inside a world of fantasy. A place where you could not be found. An angry fist lay dormant, while you gave yourself away like a good wife, mother, woman, child. Yet that frozen smile on your youthful face never reached your amber eyes. You gave it all for free, never asking anything back. Full of empathy you lend your hands to hospitals, nursing homes and mental centers. You read to the sick, rocked the cripple and closed the eyes of the dying.
Then came the day when you faced the girl in the mirror and realized you were broken. Feeling discarded, unappreciated, lost and hollowed, you realized how abused and used you felt. Filled to the rim with unexpressed anger you went through the motions of life with efficiency but you were so unreachable.
During therapy you opened up and slowly began to understand that life was about self care as well as helping others. You finally found the courage to face your demons. Eventually you spoke your truth and forgave your abusers. Moving on, to a place of self worth. Once you realized you mattered, you found your true self and became the woman you are today.
As you separated the wheat from the chaff, you figured out what was important and what was not. Today I want you to know dear self that I am so proud of you and the aging woman that you have become.
Thank you, Dear Self
Without you, I would never have been able to heal myself.
Chicago Land- In the Belly of the Beast
Chicago Land, in the belly of the beast, shots are fired, bodies crumble up; welcome to the land of the dead and the soon departed. Automatic bursts of transparent light, flashes in the dark; waking, shaking, hunkered down in the night behind the barricades, windows shut tight.
Bullets fly, bodies are vaporized into a sprayed mist, splattered on a nameless street corner. Crimson shades of glowing red explode outwards, spent shells litter the ground, sounds swish in pockets of air to the echo of fleeing footsteps.
Broadcast news is repeated across a spectrum of wave lengths into a cityscape of blinding colors trapped together and apart. People move in a steady stream flush against glittering lights in manmade canyons of buildings, giant erector sets of steel and concrete.
Shadows crunch down on streets of engineered chaos, enflamed by the steady beat of flash cars rumbling past empty tenements, sounding like a tidal wave ripping ashore, waking everything in its path. Emotions bleed through open wounds that never close, covering streets in a blanket with the dead and dying.
Light transfers the black creatures of night emerging from their submerged dungeons to challenge the dark, raised shields, body armor pierced red with hollow points as armies storm the ramparts and bodies sag, flung backwards, blinded by unknown enemies and the slightest slight.
Chicago Land, in the belly of the beast; a world of close in combat, and the soon to be dead don’t know tomorrow is still another day away.
Let the prayers begin for them.