Long Nostalgiaold Poems
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I browsed thro' an old Sears-Roebuck Catalogue the other day.
The necessaries shown in its pages would be antiquities today.
It illustrated harness, horse shoes, things to tend horse's withers,
And displayed everything from anvils to fifty-one string zithers!
Ma could mail-order the latest in stylish apparel to wear:
Bloomers, corsets and petticoats with dainty, fashionable flair!
Things were more prudently displayed in those delicate Victorian days,
So ladies ankles were discreetly covered to spare the ogler's gaze!
Pa had available to him the latest and greatest in carpentry tools,
Cultivators that could be drawn by his two cantankerous mules,
Blacksmithing gadgets, manure spreaders, fishing rods and reels,
Cream separators, horse collars, axe handles and buggy wheels!
For just a little over three dollars and seventy-five cents,
Junior could be clad with jacket and matching knee-length pants.
Kids could drool over teddy bears which then were all the rage,
And marvel at the magic land of toys on each titillating page!
'Twas enlightening to view things as they were in those good old days.
I suppose back than all those things were the current craze.
Items costing pennies then, now repose on shelves in the antique store.
But, my oh my, over the decades, how the cost of them did soar!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
O'er the years we've done and seen so much stuff,
And since I'm the family's self-appointed history buff,
I've collected things in many a tattered old scrap book,
Hoping future generations might enjoy taking a nostalgic look!
There are programs and photos signed by many an eminent bloke,
Recalling pleasant events and memories that such things evoke.
Even a yellowing copy of my old school grades report;
My less than stellar accomplishments will surely induce some sport!
Birthday, anniversary and valentine cards by the dozens,
From my spouse, children and legions of long-forgotten cousins.
Also, there are certificates and other awards the kids have won,
Honored for their fortitude and the hard work they had done!
Pages and pages almost too numerous to mention,
Contain memorabilia from many a boring convention.
Included are newspaper accounts of many a family episode,
Births, deaths, weddings and for a myriad of accolades bestowed!
There are reminders of trips thro' many foreign lands,
But the most precious are the things made by my kids' tiny hands;
Simple valentine and birthday cards for Mom and Dad,
Proudly presented with glowing faces and all the love they had!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I have a Bentwood Rocker
It's the most cherished thing I own
It is made from the willow branches
of an ancient tree at my grandparent's home.
It embraces me on my back porch
both in the morning and at night
when a pair of cardinals come to visit me
at both the first and last day's light.
I rock in a gentle rhythm
sip my coffee and watch the clouds
and think to myself life's worth living
As I just sit and rock without a sound.
Sometimes I hum a favorite tune
and sometimes I just rock silently alone
somehow this chair seems to center me
It motion washes away life's rough edged stones.
As I sway and think of days gone gone by
of my brothers and sisters and me
climbing up among the branches
of my grandparents big old willow tree.
We used to swing on all the branches
Like the Jungle Book's Tarzans and Janes
Laughing and swingly wildly, never quiet nor mundane
Yelling out profusely, howling out all the Jungle Book slang.
We used to weave together the branches
into leafy wreaths without any thorns
improvised crowns of the greenest splendor
Just as Julius Caesar would have worn.
Sometimes we added in flowers
Daisies and dandelions were always in season
Sometimes we just sat in that old tree
Just happy to be there, for no given reason.
And so decades and decades of years have gone by
My Grandparents have long since passed on
But I think of them often as I rock in my chair
Cherished memories to always remember.
And now the winter has settled in
My cherished rocker sits covered in snow
Waiting for the days of the songbirds return
Waiting for warm days instead of the cold.
It sits silently waiting for Springs blossoms to arrive
for a day when I can rock without being froze
for an evening when relaxing in my comfortable rocker
will signal the end of one of my beloved warmer days.
Copyright Christine A Kysely December 14, 2010
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
Sauntering through an antique store the other day,
I chanced upon some old straight razors on display.
One struck my fancy and upon it my eyes were cast.
I couldn't help but pause and muse about its past.
A sheath of ivory encased its blade - 'twas a beauty I beheld!
I wondered by whose steady hand it had once been held.
It could've been wielded by a hobo or tycoon, I suppose,
As he deftly trimmed the mustache sprouting 'neath his nose!
Perhaps it was used by the town barber in old Cripple Creek,
To scrape the stubble from a feisty old prospector's cheek!
Or maybe Colonel Carrington used it on his perilous journey,
Leading his troops westward to foredoomed Fort Phil Kearny.
Perchance it was brandished by the impetuous Colonel Custer,
For his morning shave ere meeting his final muster!
Buffalo Bill may have used it to trim the goatee on his chin,
Carefully grooming it, so as not to nick his leathery skin!
Could it have purged the fuzz from the mug of Billy the Kid,
Before Pat Garrett cornered him and lowered on him the lid?
Whatever its storied past it now lies there in all its splendor,
For folks to admire and about its antiquity to conjecture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
A long-standing landmark that I often visited as a tyke,
Was Bert's Country Store just a ways up Dalton Pike.
Dalton could be missed if your eyes you'd briefly close.
The population at that crossroads "town" was thirty or so, I suppose.
The inviting porch had some benches where loafers hung around.
To enter the store you stepped over Bert's snoozing hound.
Winter days you'd find the rabble huddled 'round the stove,
Where discussions of crops, good whiskey and women throve!
An old cowbell jingled upon opening the sagging screen door.
Once inside you trod upon a squeaky, bare, wooden floor.
'Twas a wonder that Bert could find anything 'midst all the clutter,
But in a trice he'd find anything for which you would utter!
Bert had no tolerance for frills or the latest fancy decor.
You'd risk tripping over barrels and rope coiled upon the floor.
The sagging shelves were stocked with canned goods and lanterns,
Wheels of cheese, muskrat traps and the latest sewing patterns.
He sometimes sold hot dogs and sodas under the counter,
As long as the county health officials he didn't encounter!
The Hoosier "town" of Dalton ain't listed on the maps as heretofore,
And, alas, Bert nor his old country store exist there anymore.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Who will come with me?
To pick the wild flowers for mother today
To chase butterflies and dance in the Sun's rays
Who will come with me?
To climb the old Elm tree and rob the Robin's nest
To swing from her branches than in her shade rest
Who will come with me?
To lie upon the clover on top of the hill
To watch the fluffy clouds against the blue still
Who will come with me?
To throw the sticks and play fetch with the ole hound dog
To the dirt road and chase the horn frogs
Who will come with me?
To the old swimming hole
To swim in waters so fresh and cold
Who will come with me?
To watch the Scissortail fly as he catches flies
To watch the honey bees return to their hive
Who will come with me?
To watch the setting Sun bow to us
To sit on the porch swing in the evening dusk
Who will come with me?
To dream dreams in slumber land
To awake and do it all again
Who will come with me?
To enjoy this gift of summer
To be a child of sweet, sweet summer
What I’d give to wake in the morning and hear those church bells ring
To turn on my old black and white and hear Gene Autry sing
Turn back the time to simpler days with Roy and Dale too
Wait for the Late Show and watch the antics of Bud and Lou
All the girls thought Kookie Byrnes was really hip
Driving a convertible on Seventy Seven Sunset Strip
Kryptonite was the only thing that could make Superman falter
Ramar’s friend Charlie talked to a parrot named Walter
I watched Kitty and Chester on Gunsmoke and listened to Ricky sing
There was Circus Boy, My Friend Flicka and don’t forget Sky King
There was Jeff and Lassie, Davy Crockett and the Wild Frontier
I’d watch Robin Hood and Marian in the days of Queen Guinevere
Remember The Thin Man, The Whistler and The Shadow Knows
Alfred Hitchcock and Inner Sanctum were two of my favorite shows
I remember Milton Berle, Red Skelton, Perry Como would croon
What’s my Line, Beat the Clock and Name That Tune
The Life of Riley, Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best
Palladin, Sugarfoot, and Cheyenne in the Old West
Boxing from Madison Square Garden on Friday Night
I saw it all on my old black and white.
"Why is it that everyone seems younger to me these days?", I muse.
'Tis enough to give a feller a serious bout of the blues!
Wasn't that long ago that everyone looked so old to me.
My! How times have changed! I wonder how that can be?
When I was a young lad struggling to get through school,
Schoolmarms looked so old and dour (as a general rule).
Nowadays, they seem so young, chic and so engaging!
(Alas, could this be because it is me who's aging?)
The other day I saw my doctor for my annual screen.
To my alarm he looked to be about the age of seventeen!
His credentials I viewed, so I guess he knew what he was doing.
(Is my jaundiced view due to all these years I'm accruing?)
I recall white-maned preachers I knew as a wayward youth.
My preacher is so young he should be in Sunday School, forsooth!
But I admit that he stirs my lethargic soul with masterful skill.
(Lord! Forgive my acerbic views - is it because I'm over the hill?)
Even the admirals, generals and presidents look so young today.
I reckon there ain't no use in fretting about it anyway.
'Tis some consolation that they'll all lose their youth so dear.
(Oh! How I yearn for the carefree, feckless days of yesteryear!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
I saw a buggy at the antique store today, its beauty unsurpassed!
I couldn't help but sit and muse awhile about its esoteric past.
It was shiny black with roll-up curtains to fend the stormy weather.
Its lone seat was hand-tooled in the finest of cowhide leather!
I pictured it being pulled by a svelte, fine-blooded horse,
Clad in silver embossed harness, the finest to be had of course!
Seated inside was a young swain with a beauty at his side,
Awaiting the right moment to ask her to be his bride!
Or maybe an old country doctor used it to visit the lame and sick,
Or to deliver a babe, tho' the roads were blocked by snow and slick!
Could a veterinarian have owned it, visiting far-flung farms,
Attending to the maladies of animals, easing farmer's alarms?
Perhaps a revered old pastor once used it to visit his fold,
To nurture languid souls and bring solace to the old.
Then there was the usual huckster prowling from town to town,
Selling snake oil and other elixirs, he of nefarious renown!
Who knows, it could have been used by such as Carrie Nation,
Wielding her axe, creating havoc while preaching God's salvation!
Whatever its past it now reposes in regal grandeur,
For folks to admire and about its past to conjecture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Lying in my Grandmother's old brass bed
I watch the blades of her ceiling fan slowing turning
Around and around and around again...
From the heat of this steamy July
There is no end to my yearning.
The old vintage rosebuds on this wallpaper
Speak of its long gone days now no longer new
The paper's soft faded colors
Cast a feminine pinkish haze that mix into a golden hue
On my tan rural arms and long toned legs.
Somewhere in this old farmhouse
A fly is trapped... I can hear its incessant buzzing
Making its last ditch effort
For any type of escape
I had done that same thing so long ago.
But now I am back here in this familiar room
Lying on one of my Grandmother's quilts
Pieced with love of more than hundreds of pieces squared
Each stitch handcrafted perfection,
An ancestral prize to be loved and cherished.
Softened by the decades of delicate washings
I can smell the breezes from its last airing
I can feel my Grandmother's loving embrace
In this quilt that was so intricately made
With so much love and caring.
Each piece of the hundreds of fabrics
Each of the thousands of tiny knots
That were cut by hand and tied
Were executed with the surgical precision
Of a lifelong Quilter's eye.
Love radiates from this heirloom blanket
Created by my Grandmother's gorgeous vision.
Each block and stitch
That were placed by hand
A kaleidoscope of patterns was her mission.
It will be my lifelong reminder
Of a life that was well lived
Of my Grandmother's love and caring
A wonderful remembrance of her talents and gifts
That I too, can share someday.
And so back in her room I find myself
Lying on my Grandmother's quilt
Watching the fan blades go around and around
Reflecting on my Grandmother's past
Wondering if she ever thought about me
What it would have been like
To have left this strong old farmhouse
To have left these safe ancestral lands
For the biggest of the big cities...
And then to have decided to come back.
(January 27, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved