Long Leather Poems
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Standing at the tavern door,eyes dark and brooding
Neath his floppy hat, stared into the crowded room,
A Raven flew from his shoulder settling in rafters high,
He smiled a sardonic smile and ordered a mug of ale.
All turned to look at this dark eyed traveller tall,
His leather boots dusty ,cloak trimmed with mud,
And from his belt around his coat hung a dirk long
No one thought to say a word they tried to look small.
Around the smoke filled room his gaze did wander
Settled on a crowd of rowdy sea going lads noisly
Drinking ale and rum and telling bawdy tales,
Just back from foreign voyage across the seven seas.
Within their midst a vision sat with a smirk on ruby lips
Long hair framed her face like waves of swelling sea,
Like kelpie mane, ran that hair ,her eyes like deep sea green,
And at once his dark eyes shone beneath that floppy hat.
The night wore on, the air grew warm, the raven fluffed his wings
From somewhere a shot rang out lodging in rafters deep,
Laughter raucous and shrill cut across the misty room,
Silence fell heavy among the gathered crowd.
He slowly turned his head in the direction of the rowdy lads
Dark eyes flashed as stepped towards where they sat,
As one they rose and laughed in his face,swords drawn,
In his hand a wooden staff and they laughed no more.
Faces stunned into disbelief at what they had seen,
Around his feet six men lay still blood seeping from their wounds,
He turned on his heel and slowly went through the door,
The Raven cawed, spread his wings as he flew out the door.
Standing by his horse the sea going beauty waited patiently,
She smiled as he approached with a swagger and dark eyes flash
He tipped his floppy hat and beckoned with outstretched hand,
She went to him in full embrace held him like a band.
They travelled the land, the sea faring beauty and the dark eyed man,
Their tale told throughout the fair sun kissed land,
From village to village and taverns where seafaring folk met,
The legend grew of the Dark Eyed traveller and his mermaid bride.
Andrew Provan McIntyre © 2015.
Tall and narrow,
the houses stand,
wall against wall,
hunched together
on the edge of the
cobbled street,
as if armed against
the unknown.
Tiny balconies
Where laundry
Used hang on railings
To dry, now bursting
With potted plants
Walls bright yellows,
greens and blues,
stucco and stone
mortared together
hundreds of years ago
by stout men in
leather aprons
with the rudest of
implements,
they lean inward
over the street,
which once ran with mud,
the contents of
slop jars, and wash water.
Now teeming with tourists
who hobble on the cobbles,
peering into first floors,
converted into tiny shops
crammed with hats
and shirts and sandals,
soaps and wine and bracelets,
postcards and paintings,
candy and local delicasies.
Oldtown suddenly finds itself
squarely in the middle
off the twenty-first century.
ghost, river, shiver, gaze, tender, cold
Ghost River
Ghost river runs without a shrink.
Little known in polite circles.
With cupped hands, the shameless down drink.
Suspended place, not inked in journals.
A decisive shiver up spine.
Why’d a boat wait at foggy shore?
He’d smiled at me, as we’d cheered wine.
Trepidation ripe in my core.
His leather gaze; something so strong.
It’s cold in this romantic boat.
The oars sluice in mud; bid ‘so long.’
This life offers me an antidote.
Awful the scented rose petals,
so inky ebonic afloat.
Tender whispers amidst nettles
of thorns piercing my inner throat.
Before I thought to scream, the hosts
in revelry asked me to join.
“Get out of the boat…” (drown, they coax)
Madness! Their eyes’ covered with coins.
My eyes flutter open at once.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s him.
I’ve been warned; palpitations in flux.
Satan’s given a pseudonym.
I shake off my trepidation,
it’s only a dream; excited.
Suddenly - a celebration.
Down in the waters, invited.
No longer a dream, a nightmare.
I’d never awaken…no prayer.
ABIDING IN THE STAGE OF PEARLS
When first we met,
Red paper hearts,
Sailor-Clipped,
Arrows piquing interest.
He saw three O’s
In a bonnie row,
Ripe for the picking.
He chose Friday
And she chose a prince.
Aladdin, a rough diamond
Would shake the snowglobe.
I’m dizzy in my knees.
The earth spins, like
A roulette wheel, with
Many stops. We cruise.
The diamond ring
Sliced through my finger
Bloody red with hearts.
He’d kiss to make all better.
A carnival celebration —
Loop of forever-after,
Flourishing lei with
Fluorescent colors,
Also the kukui nut lei
Of royals — fit for a prince,
Shell necklace of Jamaica
And a dangling
Diamond embrace.
After years of infighting
About nothing at all,
Laid to rest,
In a plain wooden box.
Ashes tossed out to sea,
To live amidst its turgid
Seaweed, caught in
Its own cast net.
The years of pearls —
Lively chattering clams,
White teeth of pure
Ecstasy, floating
On calm seas.
Middles bulge, dyed hair —
The prince and princess
On leather thrones,
Fighting only of volume
And room temperature.
Embracing kids
And aging parents
All so tight,
With eight tentacled legs.
Wallpaper of snapshots,
Glued to starry eyes,
Wonder what was with
All the yells and cries.
The whirlpool sucks
All such memories dry,
Leaving a steady calm
For family to lean on —
Counting fingers and toes,
Each with diamonds
All their own.
5/24/2018
In cold dark room
with cracked leather chairs
where dust lies thick
on memories old
in school days then
I dreamed not
that your face
could I ever forget
our days were filled
with dreams of what
someday we would build
someday we would have
we were so young
we thought we knew
what the world was
what we would become
by day we did study
and by night we did dance
so bright was our laughter
so happy were we
your name I remember
your face fades away
as I turned through the pages
looking for you
our dreams never happened
our laughter faded away
in dreams I halve to remember
what we once thought would be
alone in the nighttime
in dim chilled air
I try to remember
what we thought once would be
I remember every punch and every kick.
Every strike with the leather belt every beating
With the stick.
I remember every bone that they made crack
The blood from the whip and the times my
Eyes were black.
I remember every time I had to tell lies
When people use to ask what happened to
Your eyes.
I remember every time in a room with a
Locked door
A dirty stained mattress no carpet on the floor
I remember ripped clothes broken shoes on
My feet.
Being locked away for days with only bread to eat.
I remember the beatings and trying not to cry
And silently praying that God would let me die.
I remember everything like it happened yesterday
I only remember the bad things
Because the good things fade away.
bomber jacket, dark glasses
blown out hair,
faded jeans that fit me slim,
brown leather belt and shoes,
a dangling cigarette between lips,
is how I would fancy look!
Reality is something else,
and what I look is more like this…
A T shirt straight out of wash,
never seen the underside of iron,
crumpled to show how the machine spins!
trousers broad fit that struggle to stay
at the waist, with a belt that fails to grip,
the colours of these never match,
and the shoes are ones that were
quick to reach, and the result is a
riot of disagreeable colours!
who cares!!! That is me!
When I walk, my wife walks with me
separated by a hundred feet,
with her impeccable attire that
compliments every fraction of her,
with lipsticks to match!!
Style of clothing do not make a man
but they seem to make a woman!
Reality of life is mismatch of things,
that we learn to love and to live with!
That is why we have been married years!!
our distances in clothes is bridged by
our deep understanding and love for
each other! And when this love really
gets to work- we often discard our clothing!!
I have in my possession an object I really prize.
It belonged to two guys whom I really idolize.
'Twas a necessary device when straight razors were the fad.
'Tis the leather razor strop used by my Grandpa and Dad.
Its precise genesis is really difficult to gauge,
But it's certainly well over a century old in age.
It shows the scars as they went to all the trouble,
To hone their razors to rid their mugs of stubble!
I can picture them as young swains shaving before the mirror,
With a steady hand trying not to nick an ear.
With a brush and soap to apply lather to their face,
Later to meet their sweeties decked out in ribbons and lace!
Now I never thought of a razor strop in relation to education,
But Mom found a novel use for it much to my mortification.
When I became rowdy and tended not to mind,
That cold, hard strop was generously applied to my behind!
I will pass the old strop along to a subsequent generation,
With vivid tales of Mom's expertise in its application!
This only to add to family knowledge and lore,
But to use on tender behinds never, never more!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
*Image of Eyeglasses & Book by Pixabay.
the armitage
a decent soul blest a grant of images, illustrates beginnings reflecting throughout, occasions from the first expended journey when the hourglass stretched... abandoned worn diaries fragmenting chapters riddled with episodes, loosely bordered in leather, amassing dust...twilight dreamingly drifts near midnight twinkling stars, drooping its points into dawn's golden sleigh and graces a constant star...alone neath natural light swapped for lonelier nocturnal light, and a smile on a face dons from smiles narrowly shared, yet gently eyes serve an absence, and untouched renewed breathes life,
a paired life courses
here and there prompts everywhere ~
on earth earning wings
2023 February 05
It Means A Lot To Me
~Regina McIntosh
*HMS.
Gladiator
Chosen from slaves
Trained to fight
He was placed in an arena
A sword and shield his only defense
He fought and killed
Spilling the blood of a hundred onto the sand
His final match he fought bravely
Defeated the emperor spared his life
Never fighting again he was bound
Tied between two pillars of stone
Naked, he showed the scars of a thousand beatings
He learned so long ago how to live in pain
Whips with steel tipped leather ripped his skin
A morning ritual for the rich
Sand was ground into open wounds
Flies ate their fill from his flesh
He always stood mute
He never showed the pain or any feelings
Alas he tied a horrific death
Beaten so badly that knew one knew who he was
He was born a slave
He fought as a warrior
He became a hero
He ended up as a martyr
Dying at the hand of a tyrant
He never once talked
He never told anyone
He died with the secrets of the arena
Once again he was a hero
Even in death
He was a gladiator