Long One armed Poems
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My freshman year is ending and I’m as busy as a one-armed juggler. Of course covid is back.
It reoccurs at the worst times, like a movie slasher long thought dead.
When we have something scheduled very early in the morning, we call it an “early-burn.”
This one early-burn morning I had a 7am meeting. Peter and I had met for breakfast because he’s back in my life and he’s ALWAYS up and out early.
It was snowing and we were hurrying, because somehow, I always cut things close. I think I tripped over my shoe-string on a patch of ice. I went down hard and I heard this loud ripping sound. I’d ripped my pants badly and my book bag spilled too. I’m scrambling around on the ground in an attempt to grab some loose papers the wind was scattering.
Peter says, “Wow, your panties are really thin.”
I jump up “I feel you don’t know where our boundaries are,” I laugh, “you’re so nasty - don’t just stand there grinning - HELP me!” I indicate two papers for him to chase. I looked to see how bad the rip was (BAD). Of course, my coat was short that day, so I untucked my blouse. “How does this look?” I asked Peter.
“That works,” he said, giving my fix his imprimatur.
The two of us managed to corral the papers. “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen,” Peter said.
I realized I’d ripped my pants leg and scraped my knee badly - it was bleeding profusely.
“God Damn It!” I went off.
This lady comes up - seemingly out of nowhere - this old white Christian lady who we’d never seen before. She was so out of place and random and she says, “I really don’t think you should be talking like that in public.” She wasn’t harsh.
At that moment, a gust of wind came up that made me lower my head, as though I couldn’t look the old woman in the eyes but I was just ignoring her anyway - having my own set of issues to deal with.
She had a point though. I’m cursing too much these days. I feel like If I admit it, maybe it’s ok but I am trying not to cuss anymore - well less maybe - at least in a negative way.
“I think you look fu-kin’ GREAT,” would still be acceptable.
I've almost forgotten it.
It got too big -
holes appeared,
entire towns fell through them.
The Forbidden City
is a convoluted red and gold ribbon
my mind cannot now untangle.
Images float off the ink
of curling maps.
Snapshots flutter
like flags in a desert sky.
I recall in parts and pieces:
middle-aged couple’s street dancing,
no revolutionary strutting,
just Quickstep, Foxtrot,
and Bossa Nova.
The young watching,
taking notes, as if
studying for an exam.
A small one-armed boy,
riding a peddle bike
weaving through traffic,
four black cormorants strapped to his back,
necks craning out of their wicker cage
like sight-seeing dogs.
A quick look at Mongolia
through a hole in the Wall.
China got loose,
it escaped the hotels,
the tour buses, the itinerary.
It went down a crowded alley,
draped with roast ducks
and paper lanterns.
If I were to follow it,
it might lead me
to a restaurant in London,
San Francisco, or Toronto,
or like today
come together again
in the face of a girl
who sells me a phone
at Radio Shack.
The killing of a poet
There are many sorts of poets those who
extoll the sitting regime tell of order it has brought
their words are recited they win prizes but few, today remembers their names
Federico Lorca was not one of them.
He wrote the truth of the brutal fascistic nature of the state and what
it had become.
He was a man they had to kill.
He tried to flee but on a side road he was stopped by assassins, at the time
he was in the company of a one-armed priest a communist
They had to dig their own grave.
Since Lorca was gay, they shot him in the rear “you like this sort of things
they laughed, these cruel people were killing art.
They also shot him in the groin: squealed like a pig they later said.
This was a Spain of old but the ghost of fascism is still among us we have
To be vigilant.
Well, my bosses up above me
are always pushing, trying to shove me
into doing twice the work for only half the pay
When 5 o’clock finally comes
and I think this long day is done
they tell me I have to work five more hours today
Because Joe Blow did not show
and I’m the only one who knows
how to push the green button to start this darn machine
While the sweat pours down my back
my bosses munch on their fifth snack
saying how we need to work together as a team
‘Stead of standing here wishing
should be on the creek bank fishing
and tonight I should be out painting this town red
I’m so tired I can hardly drive
and I feel more dead than alive
by eight o’clock I’ll be sleeping alone in my bed
When it comes time for a raise
you know you can be replaced they say
by a blind one-armed squirrel or a half dead baboon
So when I hit the lottery
they won’t see any sign of me
we’ll see if those pencil necks still sing that same tune
But it’s my job and I won’t shirk it
so I’ll get up and go to work it
and hope to retire when I am 90 if only I can
But that don’t stop me from wishing
that I was on the creek bank fishing
with an ice cold bottle of beer in each hand
‘Stead of standing here wishing
I should be on the creek bank fishing
and tonight I should be out painting this town red
I’m so tired I can hardly drive
I feel more dead than alive
by eight o’clock I’ll be sleeping alone in my bed
He pulled the trigger
But it was in the air
Then he shouted
Everyone lie down
It was armed robbers
On the highway, on our way to the airport.
Then another one also pulled
The trigger
They just killed an officer
Just to input fear on everyone
Then another gunshots
One armed robber down.
From afar we can hear
Sirens sounds
More officers coming
For backup
There are only two armed robbers left
They were three initially
The odds are now too much for them to handle
One ran away and the other keeps fighting
Until he died, what a hero
I wish people could stand for good just like this!
Well, you asked for it so here goes!
I'm five-feet, eight inches tall from scalp to toes.
Born October 1930 in Indiana - so there, I've revealed my age.
I'm blessed with great health even at this elder stage.
Happily married to my dear Vera for 62 wonderful years,
And we've met life's vicissitudes with laughter and some tears.
Two daughters Leanna and Leslie but, alas, lost Mark, our boy.
Through the years they've brought Vera and me so much joy!
I'm blessed with 6 grandchildren and 4 great grands.
(I hope to stick around for more as my family expands.)
Enlisted at age 17 in the Air Force in 1948 retiring in 1978.
Assigned to Morocco, Germany and Japan which was great!
I 'fought' the Korean War in Bermuda dodging sea shells.
Met Vera in Bermuda and in Texas we rang those wedding bells!
Retired as a Chief Master Sergeant, the top Air Force enlisted grade.
'Twas a challenging, exciting life and I'm sure glad that I stayed.
While in the Air Force I earned a degree in Justice Administration,
And upon Air Force retirement became a Colorado Bailiff for my vocation.
I like folks who keep their word, are punctual and I don't suffer jerks gladly!
Me and the Lord are working on this but I have very little patience, sadly.
I love God, family and nation and enjoy writing poetry and even though,
I've penned nearly 1200, alas, as a bard I've made very little dough!
I like steak and taters and a sip of Beringers White Zinfindel now and then,
And going to Cripple Creek to play the one-armed bandit when I can.
Sorry if I bored you but once I began writing the words just seemed to flow.
Now, you probably know more about me than you ever wanted to know!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Regina Riddle's "Bio Poem" Contest
While waiting
While I was waiting for the poem, I was going to write
to show up but I can`t find the right words
starting the process, I have amused myself by
writing two smaller things. I look at my nails
they are too long but clean mainly because I do
the washing up after lunch by hand or rather
two hands I have never heard of a one-armed dishwasher.
Thought of the German philosopher who said
that God was dead, I ask; How can something not
Born be dead? The great poem I was going to write
is in hiding looking at the screen didn`t help,
so it will have to wait and soon it will be morning.
The seeds of war are planted in the soil of greed.
Children of the poor are sent off to battle.
Children of the rich stow away in college.
The war machine is a stomping beast.
Teenagers coming home in body bags.
The parents suffering from chronic mind bleed...
The year prior, it was tuxedos, carnations, and dreams.
Villagers interrogated and raped.
Villages ransacked and set ablaze.
Nothing changed; the reds still reign.
The war ended only when enough profit was made.
Today, the villagers work the rice fields.
As they've done so for thousands of years.
They've no voting privilege but don't seem to care.
Despite atrocities, they seem gentle and genuinely happy.
Occasionally an ancient ordinance will go off.
Taking a limb, but they're still happy and smiling.
A one-armed cook caters to Western tourists.
Still happy, still smiling, still gentleness in the eyes.
They cast their nets into fishponds.
That were once bomb craters.
Does this count as war reparations?
Life moves along despite the specter of napalm.
Some have made skiffs from the metal skin of war.
Others have thrift shops selling war paraphernalia.
A small slice of capitalism in the middle of the jungle.
Maybe 48000 dead and half a million maimed wasn't all for naught.
Ugly death, pretty profit.
The full moon glistens on the fallen snow;
He still has a couple of miles left to go,
As he walks on home from the bus depot;
Of his visit there nobody yet knows.
His deployment in Iraq has come to an end;
The Purple Heart hangs on his chest;
Of his shortened tour he told no family or friends;
His left sleeve is pinned to his vest.
The Greyhound bus that dropped him off,
Passes him rolling down the road;
The shrapnel he carries in a chewing tobacco tin,
As he marches along in the dark and the cold.
The long driveway to the house he grew up in,
Has not been shoveled of the snow;
The lights are still on, as everyone within,
Prepares for a midnight mass to go.
They are startled by noises out on the porch,
And wonder at the knock on the door;
They all rush in to see who it is,
As he drops his duffel bag upon the floor.
A one-armed hug isn’t so bad,
On the Eve before a Christmas Day;
When received by a hero son
Who’s been missed ever since he went away.
They all went to church with tears in their eyes;
One family of thousands of more;
Overjoyed by a wonderful Christmas surprise -
A soldier coming home from the war.
Lucky was such a lucky dog.Who had such
a lucky owner.That one day, the two went
walking together in the park.Only to hear the
other dogs bark.The owner said! 'Lucky, today's
my lucky day'.So he went ahead, and bought
a lottery ticket.Over at the local supermarket.
Then he rubbed the lottery ticket, onto Lucky's
nose.Only heaven knows, how lucky Lucky's
nose could be.Because, before you knew it.
The owner of Lucky.Was as rich as can be.
The owner of Lucky.Was a walking money
tree.And Lucky! Was just a lucky dog strolling
along.Luck! Was on Lucky's side once again.
When the owner of Lucky.Went to the horse
racing track.The owner of Lucky, bet on Slippery
Shoes to win in the seventh.After the horse won.
The owner of Lucky had loads of fun.Again! Him
and the dog went strolling along.So the very next
day, the owner took his dog Lucky, to the big casino
in Las Vegas.Where he sat next to Lucky, and
played the one armed bandit slot machine.
Before you knew it.The owner of Lucky hit a very
large jackpot.The place went wild, and everybody
was happy.Everywhere the owner went, with Lucky
along.The owner would win.Only to hear his favorite
song.So the next time you buy a K-9.Name him
Lucky! The lucky dog..
Pet Story Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2003,2014..
ALL rights reserved.