Long On the sly Poems
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Faint hint of autumn I descry,
as cloud fleet slowly floats away
across end-summer’s ashen sky,
beguiled birds bathe in the blue bay.
As the meadow gets shade of fawn,
faint hint of autumn I descry,
pale gold spills from palette of dawn,
as fall’s footfall looms on the sly.
In sun-burnt trees leaves wait to fly,
adorning blazing colors new,
faint hint of autumn I descry
on grass with topaz crown of dew.
Stars will soon shine in crystal night,
as cool air ripples pass me by,
I’m suffused with sense of delight,
faint hint of autumn I descry.
_______________
August 17, 2022
Syllable count : 8 per line (HMS)
Rhyme checked with RhymeZone.com
Contest : Hint Of Autumn
Sponsored by : Regina McIntosh
My friend sam is a crazy one
Deadlier than a loaded gun
An adrenaline junkie total wild
Never once will sam be mild
When were out im on edge
Coz sam is dull as a sledge
A man that catches sams eye
Will get a smack on the sly
Stealing cars racing for fun
Without a care for anyone
Drugs inhaled with every breath
Ready to die a crazy death
Never knowing sams next step
Dread to think of victims depths
A pretty girl crosses our path
Sam will grab her and laugh
Squeeze with wandering hands
Get a row off the doorman
No respect for any poor soul
Sam upsets humanity whole
Skip through life with no worries
As she never has her own money
I doff my fedora to the feller who invented pertater chips!
That genius developed the ideal thingy in which to immerse our dips!
How could we survive sans our weekly fix of Dominoes pizza pie,
Or a half-dozen Dunkin Donuts consumed on the sly?
Ain't nothin' as finger lickin' good as Kentucky Fried, original of course,
Or a Wendy's triple bacon 'burger when you're as famished as a horse!
Ah! The myriad of Mexican fixin's offered by the local Taco Bell!
Chimichangas, burritos, tacos, tostadas and enchiladas as well!
Japanese and Chinese establishments offer mysterious and fancy fare.
Try sushi, octopus, crawfish or deep fried squid if you dare!
If you crave ice cream, cookies or a hunk of cake or such cuisine,
Hie yourself on down the street to the nearest Dairy Queen!
For the hotdog aficionado there are weenie varieties galore;
Foot longs, chilidogs, smothered in sauerkraut and so many more!
Want some scrumptious and satisfying grub that'll fill your belly?
Get a ham on rye, thick salami or a Rueben at the neighborhood deli!
At Dad's BBQ you can order any kind of barbeque with greasy fries.
To top off the pancakes at The Village Inn you can buy chocolate pies!
Doctors and nutritionists would cringe at such a diet of course.
Fiddle faddle! I'll keep on eatin' that stuff with absolutely no remorese!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
As the flotilla of climbing clouds calmly drifts in the sky
The beguiled birds bathe in the glimmer of the blue bay
While autumn departs with crystal ambiance on the sly.
The transparent edge of halcyon horizon bids good bye
Splits the spreading sunbeam in spectrum of hued ray
As the flotilla of climbing clouds calmly drifts in the sky.
The sparkling shades of color spill from its bucket of dye
As the bowed down slender blades of fawn grass sway
While autumn departs with crystal ambiance on the sly.
The meadow sprawls for the crown of topaz dew to lie
On its cranium as the touch of chilled wind turns it gray
As the flotilla of climbing clouds calmly drifts in the sky.
Along the cinnabar pathway of the garden getting dry
The rustling golden leaves from the sepia trees stray
While autumn departs with crystal ambiance on the sly.
In the glow of crimson sunset one feels the spirit rise high
Having received from God the gift of another golden day
As the flotilla of climbing clouds calmly drifts in the sky
While autumn departs with crystal ambiance on the sly.
The flotilla of the climbing clouds slowly slides away
across the smoky screen shifting from the twilight sky.
The beguiled birds bathe in the dome of the blushing bay,
in the flushing gleam of ambiance to their nest they fly,
as the fall arrives with crystalline splendor on the sly.
The transparent threshold of the halcyon horizon
splits the spreading sunbeam in the spectrum of hued spray,
sparkling shades spilling from its palette paint the dawn.
Bowed down slender blades of garnet grass sway
on the lap of maroon meadow in rippling air drifting away.
The pasture wears the ornate diadem of diamond dew,
flickering with the finesse of dulcet dawn’s chromatic glow.
Lining the sun-burnt cinnabar garden path paved anew,
dry trunks of defoliated trees stand on the soil fallow,
the gilded leaves rustle with the steps of hot days departing slow.
As the setting sun sets fire at the fringe of the serene sky,
making surreal celestial collage of vermillion ember bright,
under its crimson radiance my saturated spirit soars high,
as it perceives the mellow day drown in color cove out of sight,
the painting of Monet suffuses me with the aura of delight.
I spread layers of laughter in a long baking pan,
with a rhythm that twists the smoky scent I can scan.
Five lines per slice, I assemble carefully quick,
make this dish pulsate and glint like a limerick.
First sheet, a town and a person, famed or unfamed,
second, an odd trait that need not be tamed.
The rhyme goes A-A, then loosens its tight grip,
repeats at the last layer with a tag line flip.
Short lines on top, longer anapest pasta below,
the meter stumbles slightly, then steals the show.
B-B ricotta and spinach creep in the middle on the sly
with simmering mozzarella that doesn’t overflow dry.
I season the dish with nonsense spice, lively and loud,
a crispy curl at the base makes the last layer proud.
With light ragu sauce I garnish the humorous trait,
just with the perfect comical timing I bake it great.
The final ingredient is hilarity with melodramatic bend,
with a twist at the end to be served with fun to a friend.
Topped off with a punch line parmesan. that is hot,
I cook the best meal, limerick lasagna, in poetry pot.
My time would be made of happy hours
If you give me a prism of diffracting glass
I’d split the sun in shards of VIBGYOR colors
Make the sunrise clouds paint your face.
Give me mirror in a multi-facetted case
I’d see you from all the angles of my space
Your smile would enhance the innate grace
To keep it encased forever in me, I’d try.
Give me a clear lens that would magnify
Window of your mind for a lone butterfly
To enter with my colored heart on the sly
You’d then get painted in all my love’s hue.
Give me a crystal lens that would focus you
On my unclosed eyes, so I’d get to view
In my dream your face all the time anew
Etched to last in memory, a canvas bare.
Give me your ear for once, you’d hear
My heart beating in joy when you’re near
If you let my enthralled bird fly in your air
My time would be made of happy hours.
December 5, 2017.
A “mention” in the Master’s ante-room.
Another February had arrived,
with dirty snow and heavy, slate-grey skies.
(One couldn’t help observing, on the sly,
the Master’s knees were blanket-draped
beneath his desk.) No wigs or gowns on show.
A minor hearing in a puny case.
They call it “inter partes” when both sides
turn up. Some point-at-issue had loomed large,
and we were here to tussle over it.
This room, so Ruskinesque, with frescoes
high on every wall, so hard to heat,
was one great chilly barn. The speaker’s breath
plumed out before him. “And my learned friend … “
Our leader’s voice, so sensible in its drone,
so sweetly reasonable, continued on,
so redolent of wintry afternoons,
like hissing logs a-burning in the grate.
Those practised highs and lows, mellifluous,
his easy-listening tone, so bland, so blithe,
relying on the case of this-or-that,
distinguishing the precedent of such,
“I think it was Lord Blinkwell who opined …”
Two hundred years ago – a little less –
the young Charles Dickens wasted days in here
(the chances are, here in this very room,
observing dreary sleet run down the windows),
mired in this solemn nonsense. Might it be,
he swore an oath – if ever he escaped,
he’d never take life seriously again?
If so, this ponderous symphony in grey,
as glum as Shostokovich etched in stone,
has cranked out clowns. There may be more to come.
If I were a tree, I would be an oak. A laughing oak with dazzling shiny hair.
My leaves would twinkle and spin and prance happily in the summer.
I would watch over the squirrels with their chattering ways, and smile.
Loving the way they flip upside down and backwards to steal bird seed.
Robins, cardinals, wrens and meadow larks would alight on me.
Claws so gentle, I would barely feel them, but I would know they were there.
I'd not have to be the largest, but it would be nice to be one of the tallest.
Lovely to be one of the top three in a forest of oaks, surrounding a meadow.
In autumn I would let my leaves turn the happiest reds, oranges and yellows.
Always competitive, I would want them to turn before the other trees’ leaves.
I'd hold on to them the longest though, so leaf watchers could gaze in awe.
Cars would travel far into the country to see my beauty, and take photos.
In the winter I would be a tall foreboding soldier. Black brown against nature.
The ants, beetles, gnats and spiders would be hidden deep into my knothole.
I would shelter them from the elements and stand my ground, a guardian.
I would not make a big deal out of it, but I would be like a savior.
Along comes spring, my happiest time. I would sing a melody so sweet,
It would shame the birds. They would stop tweeting, to listen in awe.
It would outshine rainbows and buttercups. I would do this silently, on the sly.
When people wake for the day, I would be silent. Meeting their small expectations.
It I were a Tree
Written 2-3-2021
Contest Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Our house is abuzz
With Me, Bella and Jess
And Mummy is all delight
“Dad’s coming home tonight! “
The Cake has been made
The table has been laid
Candles are alight
Dad will be home tonight!
Mum’s wearing polka dots
Dress, Dad had bought
She looks pretty, so bright!
Dad will be home tonight.
Jess was only two
When dad had to go
He still remembers him, right?
Can’t wait for Dad tonight!
Bella’s dream is a soprano
And so deft with the piano
She will make it a musical nite
When daddy’s home tonight!!
But me? I am a bit too shy
So I did this song on the sly
Plan to place it under his desk-light
Hope Dad will read it tonight!
Dad may have stories from afar
Of his travels and the war
Tales of nobility and military might
At the dinner table tonight.
Just imagine him at the door
Big smile, Open arms for us four
His loving grasp will be tight
When he comes home tonight.
There is a knock on the door!
We all cheer and roar!!
Mum is there on a flight,
Jess lisps, “is it already tonight?”
Four soldiers stand at our gates,
They must be his work mates,
Mum’s voice is soft in fright
“Is he coming home tonight?”
Voices drown as the men depart
Mum is back, her hand on heart
Slowly her legs yield to her weight
“Daddy won’t be coming home tonight!”