Long Lade Poems
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Chapter and Verse
Borrowed words
Overdue loans
On faded words
Tears melting ink
Wisdom's die
Collection time
Bankrupt soul
With no words to share
Overdue books
Wine splashes the pages
Of my mind
Melancholy whispers to me
Here, here
The past sings me a song
Withered books
Our collective memories
Buried in the pages of history
Sad Chapters
I danced
I drank
Love and wine
Penelope Sosa
Stole heart and mind
Debts paid
Her beauty refined
Lonely betrayal
I dine on sad chapters
As wine still splashes the page
The last Verse
Mathematical potions
Equations that dream
A soft kiss lade upon my sleeping heart
Is it you? Is it you that lightens my soul?
Spread your wings for me
I shall smell the sweet scent
Of your poetic juices
As we lay entwined
Inside the last verse
"Steamboat is a-comin' 'round the bend!"
My! Oh my! The wonders it might portend,
As it stopped by sleepy towns along the Missisip',
Dodgin' stumps and wayward rafts on its monthly New Awlins trip!
Its arrival was heralded by the town drunk who had nothin' else to do,
And the denizens who didn't flock to the wharf were very, very few!
The steamboat 'General Custer' was indeed a spectacular sight,
With fancy-topped stacks and palatial pilot house painted red and white!
The pilot rang the big brass bell, then folks began a frenzied rush.
The first mate let fly some dirty words - 'twould make a teamster blush!
He had ten minutes to lade his cargo and didn't suffer fools gladly.
Passengers scrambled on and off the boat fightin' each other madly!
There was a colorful parade of characters disembarkin' from the boat:
There came a preacher man clutchin' his Bible wearin' a black frock coat;
A soiled dove slithered ashore much to the delight of the local swains;
Followed by a shifty-eyed gamblin' dude with intent to swell his gains!
Drays, carts, horses and men vied for space to unload their freight,
Fightin' and cussin' and the mate hollerin', "Hustle! Hustle! It's a-gittin' late!"
The pilot rang the big brass bell and the steamboat was on its way agin'.
Til next boat, the drunkard is on the skids agin' guzzlin' his jug o' gin!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Continued from Part 2
Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
inhale gray gusts of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a spade.
Green trees gone dark in palace parks (where kids once paused to play),
watch lifeless things on phantom swings (like statues made of clay)
guard marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.
And castle clocks, unwound, defrock with speechless spinning spokes,
unfurling blight of reigning Night by sweeping off her cloaks,
and flaunting dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.
The sun-bleached bones of those who'd flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who’d hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).
The wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams have ceased to terrify
though terrors wrought by conscience fraught now stalk and lurk nearby
within the shrouds of curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky.
And fog no longer seeps beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears in sheets of shallow gray.
The City’s still, like hollowed quill with ravished feathered vane,
baptized in floods of spattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.
No umbras hum with jagged tongues nor sing a silent psalm
nor lade pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.
EPILOGUE
Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play
while celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
End