Long Mows Poems
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I kept the stegosaurus hidden because I do not trust neighbors
They call if the cat jumps over the fence
Police have been here twice about me putting my garbage out
ten minutes early
I bought Steggie off a pirate who did not have much background information
I do not care; he is the best-behaved pet I have ever had
He mows the lawn, and he does not hop all over people like the baby goats did.
The neighbors were always calling about those two!
What do you have back there? My great aunt Louisa asked, peeking out the window.
I said, "fat dog".
All I need is a bunch of newspaper reporters tromping around.
When you live like a hoarder, it’s best to keep your stegosaurus a secret.
That way, he can come inside when the weather gets colder
And the health department will be none the wiser.
“What a pretty dog!” Aunt Louisa said, calming my fears.
The other man's grass always seems greener.
Seems the sun shines much brighter for him.
His house is much better, his clothes are much finer,
No wonder he struts and he grins.
He has a good job, he drives a fine car,
His wife is a raving beauty.
His children are smart, well mannered, behaved,
Even his dog is a cutie.
His life seems so pleasant, a river of pleasure.
He never has cause for concern.
My life however is a constant struggle.
All that I have was hard earned.
My house is a shack, my grass is just weeds,
My wife is a nagging shrew.
My children are stupid, ill mannered indubit,
My dog is a mongrel too.
I sit here and sulk and look over the fence,
And envy the likes of him.
His wife brings him a cooling drink,
As he mows and rakes and tends.
He's always so busy, he makes me dizzy.
Where does he get it all.
Whatever he touches turns to gold.
It's all at his beck and call.
He seems so happy with all that he has,
And works hard to keep it that way.
I would be too if I had his luck;
But I don't so what can I say.
I returned to the place of my birth a few months ago.
Visiting there always gives my languid soul a glow.
The house still looks good but the old barn is showing its age.
How long it will weather the storms is difficult to gauge!
Sad to say, its once sturdy beams and doors are sagging.
Its former brilliant red paint and white trim are also lagging.
Decades of tempests and searing sun have exacted their toll.
I recall so many fond memories as about the old barn I stroll!
The old barn was our playground on snowy and rainy days.
Dad placed a hoop on a beam for our rowdy basketball plays.
Scuffling in the mow, burying ourselves in sweet-smelling hay,
We kids spent many happy hours there, whiling the time away!
All was not play for this feckless Hoosier lad.
Honest toil was proffered and expected by my Dad.
At the tender age of ten I was milking Jersey cows;
At hay-making time I was the kid sweating in the mows!
Even though the old barn is aging its hand-hewn oaken beams,
Will bind it together a few more years weathering all extremes.
'Twould be admirable if some good soul would provide the pelf,
To paint and prop it up and restore it to its former self!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Very aware that there is a fair share of fellows
Fan flames burning elan maims with bellows
Whom dare to pose not care about their woes
Laid bare rhymes snared wild meadows mows
Us yearning for poetic melody of mellow cellos
Despair that their attitude is almost bellicose
Foes nightmare lair where I do come to blows
Heir to pair Keats & Byron but no they chose
Rhymeless charmless fayre that's just prose
Heard when occurred then poetry blurred
Pedantic herd frantic semantic antic deferred
Each cranny & nook has a canny hook if stirred
Spurred absurd word flair whirred seeds sows
Glows with those lingo bingo bows it bestows
Grows rare nerd rows 4 hip hop bros & hoes
Pros purred knows highs & lows all about flows
Stuffing buffing nothing blows anything goes
Non stop trip hip hop drop or flip to ship of grime
Prime chime every time it's an on a dime rhyme
Fops chop chop Pop's top crop lets rip does climb
No crime saga like an aga..mime or lager and lime
Sublime he crows every single poet’s holistic pastime
Artistic don let the lexicon just mingle the paradigm
This linguistic shingle gives you a lovely wee tingle
Sod twee odd bods going ballistic poems must rhyme!
Color me Douglas Fir Green;
I feel so feathery-branched.
My constitution is supreme;
My core competes with oaks.
I was built to last and stand tall;
I cannot say as well of cousin spruce.
Taken for granted;
the human species, mows me down;
I become boxes for habitation.
My strength is a human weakness;
Over time, I’ll disappear,
I must to shelter my nemesis.
The human species uses my kind;
we can’t defend against
their growling weapons.
Humans build deadly weapons,
They’ll eat right through my soul;
I am only a defenseless tree.
12-28-19
I am a tree Poetry Contest
Delilah Ventura
I'm surrounded
By those that believe
By those who conceive
That one's obsession and possession
Can lead to G-d's affection
I don't question their position
That noncompliance is perdition
To some heaven here on Earth
Stomached by some lord's thick girth
I prefer a tempered vision
One without devout or fission
Something tangible with proof
Compared to magic, faith, aloof
I understand the desperate need
To lean on something beyond their seed
Some large, hypnotic master
To help us all avoid disaster
But then some shooter's flagrant whim
Mows down everyone but Him
How does that compute the feeling
While the corpses finish bleeding
And yet when circumstances perish
By some indignant source that's garish
Leaving us wishing for the force
To lessen fate's corrupt remorse
We bring our hands together
Our forlorn limbs of ash and leather
It doesn't matter how consistent
When the prodigal yell's insistent
I need the fix, I need it now
I don't care who, I don't care how
This leads to redeemers blazing trails
To stores where G-d's love goes on sale
Because when shoves are frail pushes
Who really cares who saves our tushes.
(8/15/15)
WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN
At first, he, smells her sweet perfume, eyes curves,
long bashful lashes, smiling eyes, red lips.
He, falls so hard for her – unsteady nerves,
and moves to grasp the sun, the moon – he flips!
On knee - he bows, proposes on a whim.
He will find, life is hard – he screams, they clash.
Each storm, he tethers faults – the light grows dim,
but then he questions mind - has he been rash?
She’s so fun and he laughs at her smart joke,
adores the wrinkles on her face – they smile.
His heart beats strong, beneath his shattered cloak.
old man’d do all for her - his domicile.
He was drawn, at youth, to her beauty fair.
Autumn’s aged wisdom, breathes, of love’s affair.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN
Her muscled hero, working strong, and cute.
He lifts her high, with just one hand, in use.
With windswept hair, a toothy smile – to boot,
he makes her an offer she can’t refuse.
A ring of solid gold, at first they thrive.
Invasion of stiff habits - trying, rude!
Aglow his balding head, his hair deprive!
She opens eyes, asks self - why dost thou brood?
After all he is human, she proclaims.
He takes out trash, mows lawn, provides, is kind.
He’s always by my side, thus she reclaims.
He is the best! None better she will find.
And strength is found, in given years of life.
Blind eyes, love opens wide. She, smiles – his wife!
12/7/2016
Two English Sonnets Contest/Sponsor – Mark Massey
Jim starts the day with good intention
Jobs need doing that require his attention.
The garden needs a good sprucing up
His vegetation 'triffids' are running amok.
He mows the lawn, trims the hedges,
Creates those nice, neat lined edges.
Weeds the borders, deadheads the flowers,
Feeds the plants their nutritional powers.
The hard soil is dug, ready and prepped
To sow the seeds for home grown veg.
Must not forget to prune back the tree
A labour of love is what it can be.
Hours of work that seemed never ending
His body and limbs, stretching and bending.
Sun burnt skin, his head now aches
Back is killing him, so takes a break.
Joints and muscles moan and groan
Weeds now gone are finally dethroned.
Jim's bones applaud with clicks and cracks
His badge was the sting when a wasp attacked.
Admiring his garden that he has served
His body felt it carried every ache in the world.
The thing Jim will remember and quickly did learn
To wear factor fifty to avoid the sunburn.
29.08.24
In January, the kaboom of fireworks
Redefining glitter above us: What if
The sky was pink, should purple rain besmirch us
Yet, don a cheer for New Year.
In February, the appearance of bouquets, cordate chocolates
Many secret loves trespassing sticky notes
Lovely nothings hang mid-air.
In March, the hope of summer
springing like anxious fledglings pushed off their perch
Rain becomes wet again, and slinky vines climb, and the clandestine shed their lairs.
In April, the ascendancy of kites, compassionate Christ, innocent rose
enfeebling the Tempter's snare.
In May, the juggernaut of time: mother's five-foot smile
displays Amazing Grace's incarnate view.
In June, the wonder of rivers, warm dews, a Padre's hard hands, and ears
Perhaps, a hidden hero you never knew.
In July, the rhythm & blues of summer moods
fiestas, rowdy follicles flow from idling youth
siestas, catching dreams, catching dust-lust-rust
cane harvests, when fireflies flew.
In August, the brigades of picnickers, lemonade pitchers, watermelon
Days just go by you.
In September, the persistence of our memories
Time mows on.
Some things stay.
In October, the signs of leaves in the copse
and June plums plumping.
Newness shortly falls away.
In November, the reign of pumpkin and cinnamon
With stew dumplings wrapped in singed banana sleeves.
Giving thanks, table heads bowed, raised prayer palms
Discount deals. It's Black Friday!
In December, the thrill of his Christmas kiss
glows my nose a carrot-red
blowing winter back
... till May
BALLAD OF ZEFFERINO
Somewhere along the border
Between the U.S and Mexico.
A man makes a break
For what he thinks
Is a land of gold
He's left his home and his family
Up here just trying to make a life.
He doesn't speak the language
But understands the hate in your eyes
Gringos call him Wetback.
And they spite him just for being a man
He's no threat to them all has to spend.
Is time working with his hands
They holler at him get back
Across that border to Mexico
We don't want you here
We're not willing to share our land of gold.
He sweats blood working in your factories
His pride callused picking in the fields
And it's a country's shame to say he's to blame
He's the work force behind the scenes
You see him working in the restaurants
He mows your lawns and keeps your homes clean.
He's not on some corner with a sign
Begging for money to buy a meal
You go to churches
And pray for God to bless the USA
You call yourselves Christians
But you've forgotten what your Bibles say
We're all children of immigrants
That came here to make a new start
Now the song of the American Dream
beats to the rhythm of a Mexican heart
Somewhere along the border
Between the U.S. and Mexico.