Long Neighborhood Poems
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The pursuit is not as much to attain
The full ripeness of self-confidence,
But to rather pass through it,
To observe its gears from the mind's
Eternal shore, its brass and bravado.
I saw three orange lights on New Years Eve
In the dark and smoky distance
Of my parent's neighborhood.
Then above the street three clouds converged,
one swallowing the other, the third
Swallowing both.
Does the mere fact that we are loved
By God give us all the certainty we will
Ever need? In our movements, thoughts,
And actions?
I shifted in my patio chair,
and suddenly noticed not three lights,
But four. These I stapled to my heart.
Like a late evening buzz
There he was
As I got in my car
And didn't get very far
As I hit the light
Another one was off to the right
I wanted that light to turn green
For this one looked a little mean
And at the store
There standing were four more
Barely letting me get by
As I plucked the coal from his eye
Slipping out the back door
Around the corner there was two more
I got in and hit the gas
And like seven more did I pass
They're taking over the whole neighborhood
These snowmen, they're up to no good
Then back at my parking lot
Who, but old Mr. Frosty does trot
He smiled with that silly little wink
Then yelled, "don't for one moment think
And don't even try getting slick
For I'm on to that old greenhouse trick
As off he and his gang went
But the message had been sent
These snowmen are here to stay
Hey Frosty, "wait till May"
When we were younger and we’d dream…Debrah and I would agree on what size and shape and color…our perfect house would be.
It would be a bungalow with room for our family…and more…the kitchen would be big and modern…there’d be bedrooms on the second floor.
There’d be a huge yard for our children…with a garden that would bloom in Spring…
A porch would stretch the entire length…with rocking chairs…and a swing.
Our first house was not a bungalow…but we felt it’s bones were strong…and we thought it’d be a great place to start…until our dream house came along.
It was a cozy little house with oak trees on the land…but it turns out saving up for our dream house was not as easy as we planned.
We realized quite early…as I’m sure many of you can relate…with children to feed and bills to pay…our dream house would have to wait.
Something was always breaking or there was something else we needed to buy…and so a year…and then another…and then another year went by.
Our children started growing…we were following an old familiar theme……and it seemed the dream house we first dreamed of…would forever remain a dream.
But we grew to love our house and neighborhood…it’s been our home…our haven…our retreat…our children grew up playing in this yard…riding their bikes along this street.
This house has seen us through all our dramas…every comedy…every tragedy…it’s where our children learned to laugh and love…it’s where we built our family.
Life is often unpredictable…for the more we live…the more it seems…happiness is just a matter…of rearranging dreams.
Because now we wouldn’t dream of living in any other house…
but this house…
the house we’ve grown into…
It turns out our dream house wasn’t the house we dreamed about…
It’s the house where our dreams came true.
ACH! Don't tell me you've never been to an Oktoberfest!
Folks, that's food, drink and entertainment at its best!
Men in lederhosen, frauleins in dirndls, all so full of cheer,
Enjoyin' tasty bratwursts and steins of Hofbrau Beer!
Jamaicans enjoy Red Stripe Beer with red beans and rice.
They like their pristine beaches and they are very nice,
But for simple pleasure and taste buds that you'll endear,
There ain't nothin' like washin' down a bratwurst with a beer!
Friends in Italy enjoy the view of Vesuvius sippin' a Poretti,
Fortified with plates of fettuccine alfredo and spaghetti.
But I can't visualize anything just a whole lot sweeter,
Than a simple bratwurst washed down with suds by the liter!
Scots socialize with their clan at the neighborhood pub,
Drinkin' pints of Innis and Gunn, eatin' haggis for their grub.
French sip Trois Monts dinin' on delicious escargot.
Japanese slurp their noodle soup with a brew called Sapporo.
Mexicans gulp Salitos Beer to quench the tamale's spicy tang.
Folks in Indonesia quaff Bintang Bir with their nasi goreng.
Of assorted foreign beers and their fancy fare I've had my fill;
I'm content to sip a Coors and broil bratwurts on my grille!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Well I went back in time and who did I see?
My old friend Bob Ross who was painting for me
His clouds were so happy and so were his trees
on that magical canvas he mastered with ease
'It's so good to see you Bob, where have you been?
Please come back and make the world smile again'
Slyly he grinned 'From this life I was torn
but there were still smiles before I was born'
He added 'You know that same gift is in you.
So you have to go back, for my time is through'
We hugged one another with no more to say
and slowly he backed up and faded away
I pressed on to visit another old friend
in his beautiful neighborhood just 'round the bend
'Hello Mr. Rogers, I've missed you so much!
You left us too quickly and then we lost touch'
'Would you please come back with me? We need you so bad
to sing and tell stories and make us feel glad'
Fred smiled and answered 'I've missed you all so.
But my time was over and I had to go'
'But you're very special and you must move on'
He turned and he waved and then he was gone
My last stop was back to my childhood home
where my mother and father both entered this poem
I wrapped my arms 'round them, we hugged and we kissed
I let them know just how much they have been missed
I begged them to come back with me and I said
'There's no need for either of you to be dead'
I fell to my knees, I screamed and I cried
Then they spoke these words which I carry inside
'We each have our own little time in the sun
and when the sun sets then our time here is done'
'Nothing can change this, you have to go on
and the old generation must pass the baton.
For we did our part and we hope for your best.
As you travel onward we go to our rest'
'You do have a light that is shining in you
and we put it there to help see you through.
But to shine your light backward cannot help the dead.
You must face it forward and move on ahead'
'Take the best that we gave you and pass it along
and YOU teach the world a happy new song'
And with that last sentence they vanished from view
Now they give their treasures through my heart to you
We must never pin all our joys on the dead
the graveyard has no place inside of one's head
So heed the wise counsel of yesterday's souls
making smiles and laughter your primary goals
2/25/19
I do not buy a Christmas tree
(I’m Jewish, after all)
Yet wonder every year as people
Trundle with their haul.
What makes them buy one weeks before
Or just on Christmas eve?
Is Norway spruce or Douglas fir
The best with which to leave?
Do ceiling heights determine
If they splurge on one real tall?
Will it decorate the living room,
The entryway or hall?
I know that boxed-up ornaments
Are meant to be reused.
Will new ones join the party, though?
(I’m just a bit confused.)
My neighborhood is filled with stands
Of evergreens in wait,
So questions bounce inside my brain
Each year around this date.
As the wind flagellates heavily,
I catch the scent of cigarette smoke,
a familiar plunge—
greased lightning before my nostrils,
whirling memories of laughter,
of twilight conversations,
in the heart of old Kazungula.
With a beer in hand,
the world softens,
a passive embrace
wrapped in the night’s gentle arms—
the aroma of hand-rolled cigarettes,
a neighborhood chorus,
whispers of stories,
smoke curling like dreams.
The sun softly petering out,
its golden fingers retreating,
the black sky latches on,
a cloak for the stars,
while I linger on the veranda,
fondling a bottle of antiquated Scottish wine—
complimentary, yes,
but aged like the tales it cradles.
You see, wine improves with age,
yet I find myself improving with each sip,
the world around me blurring,
softening the edges of reality.
And then, as if summoned,
the dewdrops fall,
a disbanded symphony,
hailing from the gods of this land,
I rush to the window,
open it wide,
and let my head spill out into the night.
Oh, it’s glorious!
This moment—
where the wind carries whispers,
the smoke swirls like memories,
and I am caught in the embrace
of a night that wraps around me,
every heartbeat a celebration
of existence,
of solitude shared
with the universe,
and the intoxicating sweetness of life.
Form:
I have not been in a bathroom with the door closed for nineteen years.
This is what being a grandma is all about.
If I closed the door, I would either pinch little fingers
or the baby punk’n carrier seat would not fit in there with me.
I have willingly given up the luxury of privacy, and here is the perk.
When I lose my mind for good I plan to stick up a mean-looking
Convenience store with bars on the windows.
Something in a seedy neighborhood, where the owner is apt to be packing.
One of three things will happen.
One. I will be shot dead by the clerk who does not know my gun is fake.
Two. Death by cop. I am sorry, but if it is to be, it is to be.
Three. I will be taken alive, and given a cell and a roommate for the rest of my life.
I can stop making house payments, and luckily, I already know privacy is no big deal.
Think of all the money my children will save by not having to pay for a nursing home too.
I have a friend that I met from across the World
We are about as different as two friends could be
And yet we are both of this World
We are both the same as two people could be.
Our Religons are totally different
Our ages aren't even close
And yet we have this really great friendship
Who knows why? Who really knows?
She is young and Beautiful
She hasn't yet walked through Motherhood's Door
I am the old and Seasoned One
I have seen it all before.
We both have a love of knowledge
We both love learning about Time and Space
We are both bucking all the conventions
About what 'IS' a 'Woman's Place!'
Of what is true friendship formed?
Of what is it born?
Does it come from Tiffany's?
Can it span across the seas?
Is it in the clothes that we both like to wear?
Is it in the way we both wear our hair?
Is it in the words that between the two of us are spoken?
Is it in the ideas that we have shared?
I think Friendship is born out of a mutual respect
I think it is a mutual admiration
It is recognizing someone for who they really are inside
And not from what country they live in
Or which neighborhood in which they reside.
It is sharing laughter and sharing tears
It is talking to each other about your greatest fears
It is getting to know one another
In spite of the differences in our lives and in our years.
And loving every minute of it.
I have found out during this past year
During this new friendship's time
That friendships can and do
Cross religious and generational lines.
Personalities are the important thing
They are the things that really shine
Nationalities are just and only words
And Religious views don't even matter.
*This poem is dedicated to my friend *Rock'n'Love* who checked in with me from
*Across the World* on New Year's Eve and made it more than *Fun!*
(January 1, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Yesterday I stopped by the corner newsstand.
“I know full well you can’t afford the Sunday paper, but
why are you in the street?” A voice in my head asked.
I should be in the subway for my morning satire of the
bureaucratic city. Destination frantic.
I like the street lamps in my neighborhood that keep on
until noon. That’s privilege trying to call your attention.
Everything I need is near my finger tip, across the window,
window shopping, a sign of my freedom.
I believe I will die believing one day I can
afford shopping there. It’s amazing how the hope never dies!
There’s real drama hidden in hope and expectation.
I work minimum wage at Amazon, less wretched than
the Amazon natives fleeing deforestation, still thrashing
like a chopped tree. The dead trees speak louder than me.
Old poets look at how I look at you. I think of you relentlessly.
You’re the birds high overhead and I’m the last lunatic in your
velvet city filled with official holidays. Freedom means a holiday
from your inner infernal city, beheading all your statues, making
personal peace.