Long Invariably Poems
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Those born unto a family large will know whereof I speak.
When you sat at table, to get your fill there was a technique!
During Pa's interminable grace, bellies would begin to growl,
Anticipating the meat and taters or noodles with the fowl.
There was a paucity of babble as the cutlery began to clatter.
(I always had my eye on that chicken leg reposing on the platter!)
But I usually had a choice of the lowly gizzard or the liver,
Or maybe the rooster's scrawny neck, that ghastly bony sliver!
On the Hoosier farm there were bushels of Russet pertaters,
And from Ma's bountiful garden, juicy beefsteak termaters,
But you must be very deft when such was set upon the table.
When the grub was passed, you snatched whatever you were able!
Being one of the littlest kids in the tribe was my bane!
That invariably placed me nigh the end of the food chain.
Little was said 'cept and occasional, "Please pass the salt."
As elbows flew during that aggressive culinary assault!
When company came, tradition was that women and kids ate last,
While we young'uns agonized, the men enjoyed their repast!
I mumbled 'neath my breath (and it wasn't always "praise" the Lord!),
As I impatiently awaited my vittles from Ma's sumptuous board!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Seek fortune teller asap (haint no fable)
Best nondescript literate jinxed
humble dug good feller ya e'er seen
amenable, a non biased opinion -
of course I mean mine mein
yours truly gets no lucky strike breaks
particularly never ending
surprising automotive repairs,
thus in sore need of green
i.e. legal tender concerning Hyundai Sonata
two thousand and nine
admirable craftsmanship e'en
though urgent message freon
me and the missus, we
lack adequate funds
until early December
tooth house zen nineteen
when soonest social
security disability payment reason
without rhyme arose cause faulty gene
neurological schizoid personality disorder
honest to dog - affliction since...
in utero growing as little bean
not shy to pull out all stops,
and comb clean
albeit sharing genetic personal flaws
affecting psychological skein
imposing lifetime emotional hardship
invariably causing financial frostbite,
ye might not readily glean
faux Shakespeare's Banquo
(now my bank woe)
to give checking account gangrene,
whereby amputation left absolute zero
cents and sensibility,
but accursed Halloween
nightmare every four times fifteen
orbitz round the nearest star,
no matter applying ample sunscreen
me got smarts attested as seen
evident crafting poems keen
with sophistication, yet oft times lean
if - said phrase Sheryl Sandberg popularized
nsync, she dismisses Facebook cyclopean
tentacles squeeze out private data
muckraking monstrous machine
minting dime a dozen billionaires
anointing Silicon Valley
realm housing queen
and self anointed king Mark Zuckerberg
twenty first century Midas,
no need to hex spleen
his unabashed heartfelt virtue, he doth preen
ah... pipe dream to rub figurative shoulders
never in bajillion years,
and no chance empyrean
afterlife will eradicate hellish scene.
In my own microcosm of the world,
myriad blessings are daily unfurled.
To claim them, I don’t need my car, just my feet.
My frequent walks don’t end with my little street.
Invariably friendly neighbors I meet.
If I need a doctor, a clinic is there,
right by the drugstore. When my fridge is bare,
I walk to the quick stop for lunch, milk, and bread
or down to the café with close friends instead.
There’s so much to see before daylight has fled.
I pass by three churches, including my own;
an ice cream shop (I may drop in for a cone);
the library (I love a mystery book);
the charming boutique (Can I pass and not look?);
the park (right beside it, a train and a brook).
I walk by the school—how the memories flow!—
then the coffee shop, where they have strong joe to go,
a shop where the ladies all do hair and nails,
the houses of some whose friendship never fails,
the “junk” store with really nice things during sales.
With ability to take my walks, I am BLESSED.
They relieve and relax me when I’m feeling stressed.
I love the wide range of sounds, sights, and styles
experienced while walking not even two miles!
My heart’s always warmed by the waves and big smiles.
May 21, 2022
The old rocker reposed by the hearth longer than I can remember.
'Twas Grandma's favorite chair, she cherished it as a family member!
From it she dispensed abounding love, wisdom and wit,
Rhythmically rocking, never minding the squeaks it would emit!
What a special privilege it was to recline at her feet,
Enthralled by tales of her past, of which her repertoire was replete!
As she grew older, tho' her gnarled fingers were not as nimble,
She'd still relax in the rocker with needle, thread and thimble!
In the eventide, she'd read her Bible, glasses perched upon her nose,
Then afterwards with Tabby in her lap, take her usual doze.
Later, the family would gather around her and the chair,
To reminisce, sing, then kneel for evening prayer.
The cat invariably got his tail crushed as Grandma rocked the chair,
Creating a fit of yowling, hissing and an inscrutable glare!
But the wily old dog learned from the first day of his birth,
To give Grandma and her rocker a very cautious berth!
Tho' Grandma and her rocking chair are no longer around,
Precious memories of her holding sway in that old rocker abound.
I suspect that on the other side of that far and mysterious veil,
She presides in a rocker, as saints gather to hear her regale!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Rat-a-tat-tat, hear the gunshots repeat,
children are shooting children in their school.
And yet, gun control bills end in defeat;
corporate America is no fool.
Money matters more than lives; it's a fact;
politicians fear the gun lobby's might.
And do nothing; when school kids are attacked,
except to acknowledge that it isn't right.
No show of tears can quell a mother's pain;
nor condolences or thoughts and prayers.
For words can't bring her child to life again,
and the message she hears; is no one cares.
All those who say guns don't kill, people do,
invariably know that is not true.
I laid me body stomach down atop a grassy knoll...
here at Highland Manor Apartments
earlier today Juneteenth 2022,
(a pitch perfect spring day)
with serious intent to read
seat of the pants suspense thriller
The New Comprehensive
A-Z Crossword Dictionary.
Invariably, yours truly
quickly experienced drowsiness,
succumbed to deep sleep
and dreamt being linkedin
with livingsocially off the grid
among ecological, liberal, social minded
people progressive in act, deed, and thought
versus participating in consumerist paradigm.
As a conscious conscientious counterpart
the missus shops with a conscience
and yours truly considers her price savvy
when she purchases groceries
at ALDI, Giant, LIDL, or other supermarket.
Impossible mission to adopt modus operandi,
whereby wife would entertain notion to husband
energy garnering fruits and vegetables
courtesy sweat equity
since we lack basic homesteading skills,
nor consider either of us
adequately financially solvent
to contact compatible intentional community
since requisite criteria
require a healthy monetary stash of money.
Unlikely substantial windfall will appear out of the blue,
nor grandiose wish to draw winning lottery ticket,
thus sobering truth to burnish marketable skills
finds me seek assistance
courtesy office of vocational rehabilitation in general
and counselor Donna Marchese in particular,
which most likely entails
securing training to learn Microsoft Office Applications.
More precisely, some familiarity exists
regarding understanding computer software
since admission of foolhardiness
now averred how countless golden opportunities
slipped thru these ofttimes sweaty fingers.
Though never successfully completed,
received funding back in the day from:
CETA, O(ffice) of V(ocational) R(ehabilitation)
twice before whereby
the former and/or latter program
allocated unspecified dollars
(poor Ray McNeil, the first OVR counselor,
whose tiresome love's labour's lost for naught)
in an effort to acquire gainful employment,
which in all honesty sabotaged
cause of that bugaboo severe social anxiety
more specifically diagnosed
as schizoid personality disorder;
no shame to admit mental health crisis.
Featured Poem On Poetry Soup W/O 12/10/2018
I'm just a person
not a tree to be climbed,
Or trampoline to jump on
when so inclined.
A Frisbee I'm not,
to be tossed in the wind,
Or a carrier pigeon
so me, please don't send.
I'm no welcome mat
to be laid at one's door,
To wipe and be walked on
like some rug on the floor;
I'm not a balloon
to hold anothers hot air,
Nor am I a wagon
to be pulled here and there.
Count me not as a scapegoat
when things go askew,
Endeavoring to tickle my ears
as you invariably do.
I seek no man's pity
and God made me no fool,
Allowing myself to be used
makes me that person's tool.
Unlike the planted oak
The hardiest of trees,
I must be free to go,
like wind, when I please.
I wasn't placed here
to compete in life's race,
I'm just a person who requires
Solitude and "Space";
Encapsulation Versus Elaboration...
Therefore, I opted to
reduce heavy sedation
within unsuspecting reader rabbit
summarization superseded elaboration,
less reason spurring salacious secretion
i.e. a-z expletive epithet, et cetera laced
verbalization crucifixion subsequently,
neither nameless nincompoop (me)
crossing verboten drive,
nor this ditto anonymous
poetic purveyor to burden heavy
onlookers with elegiac colluding bugaboo
even daunting grizzly Adams,
endeavoring exclusively exercising
"E" valuation in futile attempt
to express mild exuberance
entailing English language.
Essentially erudition wrought
elucubration, ecstatic emotion,
enunciation, enumeration, eradication
narrowly avoiding writer's block
concomitent ebullition, emasculation
exacerbation, exasperation,
stepped up escalation elevation
malignant hypertension, encrustation
elementary (my dear Watson)
extemporaneous embarkation
severely affected non exlax induced
emergency enema evacuation,
but not even for the grace of dog
unstoppable elimination, ejection...
exhausting excavation
water closet expedition
elucidation, elation, edification,
vis a vis emancipation,
despite literary emaciation malnutrition
near extinction yours truly,
nonetheless... faint eruption
eureka ejaculation elongation
emanation awoke new edition
regarding neigh saying kid on the block
elicitation, elocution, energization,
eroticization, estimation, excitation
activated skeletal echolocation
eye opening entrepreneurial effectuation
analogous TVA electrification,
hence enervation equalization
relieved self cannibalization
thankfully discouraging envenomization
invariably in conclusion,
no exaggeration pronouncing
exemption verdict against
my extirpation sore disappointment!
I count on angels. They speak to me.
Not in voices, but telepathically.
They do not leave me alone until I do certain things.
I know it is an angel due to their persistent tenacity.
Call Toni. I think “later”, but then I hear “call Toni now.”
It is not a voice, it is an insistence, and it does not let up.
Invariably, there is a reason.
One time I heard an angel give me directions.
She wanted me to take a library book back. The library was closed.
I had sat down for the first time in six hours. My children were bathed.
I did not want to. The voice did not let up.
I asked my husband to take the library book back.
He refused, saying it was already after hours. We would pay the fine.
The voice kept yelling at me. Louder and louder.
I drove to the library, furious with my husband.
When I arrived it looked like there was a rumble.
Terrified, I went to a back entrance, jumped out, put the book in the slot.
Ran to my car, and tried to escape before I was killed.
The mob surrounded my car.
The mob was fourteen teenagers. They were screaming and crying.
I rolled my window down and asked what was happening.
They told me they were from out-of-town. They had been to the mall.
They were supposed to meet at the busses at nine o’clock.
It was 9:07 p.m. They had no idea how to get back to the mall.
The angel knew what she was doing.
She had to find a woman with a big car.
She had to find a woman who was petite, not scary.
She had to find a woman who would break down to badgering.
I was driving the largest station wagon ever created.
I hit the “unlock” button and said “jump in.”
I turned that car and we raced to the mall.
As I came up to six busses with some really worried adults
We were screaming and laughing. I was honking. The girls were yelling.
Some had their arms out the windows.
They were so grateful, I have not forgotten it.
The angel knew not to send my husband.
He is looks like a linebacker and is six foot four.
I have never forgotten how this angel sent me
in March of 1980 to save fourteen girls from Mt. Ayre Iowa.
Lord! Why is it some folks consider it their solemn obligation,
To render unto me the details of their every operation?
No matter whence I go, I go with the expectation,
That about someone's operation I'll suffer an explanation!
Ah! To relax at the club for some stimulating conversation.
To enjoy an exquisite cigar and imbibe in a little libation!
But, invariably some feller launches an interminable dissertation,
Giving a blow-by-blow description of his latest operation!
I always ask for a window seat when making a plane reservation,
For a little solitude, for some musing and quiet meditation.
Usually, the little old lady next to me begins a long narration,
Describing more than I care to know about her delicate operation!
I enjoy walking and marveling at the beauty of God's Creation,
And along the way to sit awhile for some quiet contemplation.
Univited, some old geezer sits and begins a detailed oration,
Babbling on and on about his recent hernia operation!
Thought provoking tete-a-tetes fill me with exhilaration,
And I gain from such encounters insightful information.
But dad-gum it! Consarn it! And holy thunderation!
Please spare me the details of your every operation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)