Long Pecks Poems
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Dear Ma and Pa: I'm now a proud United States Marine!
I've found it purty easy to slip into their tough routine.
Some of them city fellers think things is really rough,
But growin' up on the farm has really made me tough!
Why, they even let us sleep-in 'til almost five o'clock,
Then, sergeants rant and rave to awaken us hapless flock!
You make your bunk and shine your shoes, if time will allow,
And then march to the dinin' mess for some hearty chow!
On the firin' range I've got three medals for aimin' true,
And though I'm only a hundred pounds and am but five foot two,
I can out-run and out-jump anyone on the obstacle course,
And flip them macho guys to the ground with but little force!
Pa, this shore beats sloppin' hogs and shuckin' corn,
And gazin' at mules' rumps a-plowin' at the break of morn,
Or milkin' cows, tendin' goats or hoein' rows of taters,
Or sweatin' under the Hoosier sun pickin' pecks of maters!
There's even an indoor outhouse and all the hot water you crave.
This shore does make it handy when the fellers need to shave!
Shucks, I'm a-thinkin' about makin' a career as a Marine.
That's all for now, as ever, your lovin' daughter, Darlene.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Do come, my love, for I insist!
Within the darkest crevices of time, we fight, we cry, I die
As vision gives us knowledge, we descend farther into the grime
Curiouser and curiouser, we fall in dark crevices of time
Molded by imagination’s ink, the tentacles stretch outward
Singed from top to bottom, see the glorious coals sparkle
Yes, even before their completion into diamonds never comparable,
It is the very time in between the transformation that enchants the very soul
For in this time, I see the very worst of you,
How it shines without shame, aching to be tempered,
Crushing to prevail over its creators,
The tentacles squirming in hollow defense,
Ink spreading in the dark blue waters of deepest sorrow and agony
How your beak ever pecks upon its prey,
Dashingly exquisite, its sharpness—petulant in its purpose
And I say to you, as you destroy—come, for I shall not back away
When the weapons you hold fall upon my budding flesh
Growing despite the damages you have made
Come, my love, come!
See how my wounds have me, exalt me, trust me…
Into a reality I deeply fall, forcing you upon your knees
For how I know, through your destructing ways,
That together I will always make us be
Come, my love, for I die,
Heavy in the ecstasy of grief,
See how the fairy trees dance upon woes and lift hearts like plucked flowers
How demons with tempting eyes move as squealing moths crawl toward our fires
Wishing the burn of the coals, yet never touching such change
How the light floods through and through, to every dark corner and fissure
Licking the bonding surfaces with perfumed oils crackling
The black tentacles scatter outwards, forming a wall around the growing blaze
My eyes close—from those very eyes you came
Descending to ascend, my love you crave
Trusting the time I have tamed in last feat,
You rise into the everlasting restoration of our name
Inside an old library of things uncountable
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets.
‘things’
nothing can be
excluded
yes the air is musty, thickly clothed,
muffled and club fingered,
incidentals are listed
on the cuff of the half-remembered.
Mind dust wafts from one place to another.
Orts of loss, tittle, and trifles. A library
in pieces.
A fine looking woman approaches
she has an armful of books.
Maybe she works here
or maybe she works only
in this moment.
Behind her
things begin to fall off shelves.
“Don’t worry.”
She is Scottish and actually says
“dinna fash yersel.”
An old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of every-thing
pecks and probes.
She places more books
on the reading table.
The thought of a ‘reading table’
amuses.
Outside the library the world is simplifying.
A fresh sky begins to write
in a language only spoken of
in empty rooms.
It’s a braw uncluttered daylight
that greets awakening eyes.
**A Bird in the Hand**
From my childhood, I cherish the sweet memory of holding a sparrow in my hands. Its heart raced wildly, igniting my curiosity. Gazing into its small, beady eyes, I couldn't help but smile as it chirped and whined, pleading for freedom.
Yet, in its desperation, it bit down on my thumb, yearning to escape and explore the world. The realization struck me hard.
“Yay! You better let that bird go before it pecks your nose,” warned Nana.
That day marked a turning point; I gently released the little bird, whispering, “Up, up, and away, dear friend. I truly apologize.”
In that moment, I learned the importance of compassion and letting go.
Stars are at their peak
Giving each other pecks on the cheek
Telling friends watching in fantasy land what they speak
How wonderful it is
Being in television movie making biz
Having a Bah calling like Lady Liz
Miles down below
Workers nobody know
Are painting the background
Taking pictures around
Capturing the scenic mountainous sound
Goal showing characters in the town
When the friendly blonde knight
Not looking for a fight
Came upon the exciting artistic sight
Nothing was going in was the problematic plight
And things were not all right
Was everything through?
For those from Vancouver
Using a special lens
Moving photography Fed Ex picked up for send
Overnight received in morning by Director Ben
Our faithful knight had five nettings
Throughout the postcard settings
Only issue
Everyone needed a tissue
Since the trampolines did not save ‘Coyote’ the family jewel
Protected the community was priority and rule
Filmmakers thought this visual was not cool
Thinking avalanches are
Exciting talk at the bar
And enchanting as a dip in the melting snow pools
They were acting like unprepared fools
High above
Stars still in love
Not worried about the potential danger
Relaxing back east was the summer time ranger
Hanging out nothing to do
Waiting for their theatrical cue
Sitting, loitering, reading the updated script
Being freeloaders on the studio paid vacation trip
While hiking in the wooded brush
Finding a husband after a quick crush
Mrs. Knight felt the deadly threat
Horrific visions she could not forget
Not a good idea to tempt with a dare
Or there could be a serious scare
Wintry rumbles
And loose frozen tumbles
Creating all sorts of trouble
Spied a red robin, hopping on the grassy mead
Tilting its head this side and that, looking for feed
Knew her young ones were waiting eager to grab in
Hopping on the grassy mead, spied a red robin
I have found its nest on a tree by the brook side
When in flight, it's a beauty in bright colours dyed
Flying around, it searches for food without rest
On a tree by the brook side, I have found its nest
From branch to branch the bird hops, singing songs merry
With its beak, it pecks at clusters of red cherry
To check enemies, from its nest, sometimes it peeps
Singing songs merry, from branch to branch the bird hops
Sitting on an oak, every day it sweetly sings
From places far and near, its cadence loudly rings
Its musings drive away all thoughts gloomy and dark
Every day it sweetly sings, sitting on an oak
Hearing its sweet strains, my vexations go to roost
The lovely bird’s presence makes me feel richly blest.
In music’s magic spell, it drowns valleys and planes
My vexations go to roost, hearing its sweet strains
October.5.2022
Swap Quatrain Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Emile Pinet
The sun drenchs and heat soaks the air.
It throbbs with fumes.
The drivers of the three wheeled, canvas covered
taxi’s curse, beep, and press
their way between motor cycles
with garishly clad riders.
Males in western-style helmets
drive women, dressed in peacock-colored saris,
down the main boulevards between
the Mercedes of diplomats and
the Range rovers of the wealthy Western usurpers.
Upon the cracked concrete edged sidewalks
lined in a herringbone pattern of bricks walk bird venders,
whose baskets of finches, parrots, and macaws tweet wildly.
The baskets upon their shoulders swing.
The noxious fumes of the traffic apparently insufficient
to quell the beating of their small hearts.
Shop keepers hawk fly covered, freshly butchered chickens
from dirty white porcelain surfaces;
as tomorrows dinner pecks seeds through
the floors of their wire cages.
Through and amongst the plethora of colors and noise
military and police in mundane blue with rifles mounted
on the rear of their vehicles pass by.
Ordinary citizens hack up spittle from raw throats and congested lungs
while horns blare continuously;
blending with the barks of hundreds of stray dogs.
The nervous man
Slight awkward stance
Waiting for a train
Talking to the rain
Is he mad?
Is he sad?
A broken heart?
How many times has his life been torn apart?
He doesn’t fit in
Fashion and style were never his thing
His glasses, dark brimmed sixties style
A cardigan under the coat
His fathers before his no doubt!
The nervous man
Avoiding eye contact with his fellow man
Looking at the floor
Concrete’s concrete for ever more!
A kestrel for some reason lands
Walks up to the nervous man
He doesn’t know what to do
Does the raptor just wants some food?
It stands in front of him
Starts pecking at his ankle and shin?
He tries to shoo it away
But this falcon means to stay
It flies around his face
It tries to peck his face
His glasses fall and crack
He tries to run away and crushes them under foot
He bumps into a man and that makes him run closer to the track
He slips and lands on the line
People try but there is no time!
The kestrel watches and leans over to make sure?
It turns and sees me looking at it for sure!
It then flys up to my seat and sits looking hard at me
Then it flies and hovers in front of me
I stand and take a step back to see
Then it frantically pecks hard at the plastic screen
It then flies up and sits on a pole
Dumbfounded I look at the damage done
I see beyond the holes in the plastic cover to what is underneath
A lost notice for a pretty girl
I look closer at the story next to her face
I can’t believe and through the commotion on the platform look up to see the kestrel on its perch
He’s gone and I turn back to see
The young girl missing and I re-read the story in front of me
She was fifteen and had a unique hobby indeed!
For she was a falconer and her Kestrel was called ‘Mercy’
In each other’s arms entwined so firmly
That the moon froze and the stars sailed down on the clouds silently
Our fiery passions spilled and sizzled, cold and wet sands sheets
The waters of the seas engulfed them slurping calmly with waves repeat .
She pressed my bare back to the pricking sand
Amidst sultry kisses, black sky disappeared &all seemed bright and grand
Churned waters oozed froth of spent waves
our bodies moulded differently but gyrating together like rowing slaves.
Spurting unbridled passions on to the wet sand floor
to find ourselves like two pearls grinding and our bodies set aflame and all sore
Supple pecks of her lips
and the vacuumed gyrating sounds of our hips
Lost without a trace our names
but does it really matter to us in these honeyed moments all the same
Her feelings all crystalline
Her, I could sense and feel in me.
Her supple skins on my gladiator chest
Her frantic arms clasp my back, clawing for a grip and panting for some rest.
These froth filled feelings and emotions sweep past so fast,
To me these moments seem into me forever last.
These moments, my thoughts they treasure,
Of swooning, poached emotions and pleasure……
28NOVEMBER 2013
Inside an old library of things uncountable;
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets.
The air is musty, thickly clothed,
muffled and club fingered.
Incidentals are listed
on the cuff of the half-remembered.
Mind dust wafts from one place to another;
a library in pieces.
A young librarian approaches,
behind her, books are falling off shelves
like rotting fruit.
“Dinna fash yersel,” she says,
an old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of things pecks and probes.
Outside, volumes are opening.
I perceive a book in every object,
thousands of pages contained in every mote and atom.
The sky begins to write, both an old and new testament,
it is editing every word into the vast simplicity of
I Am.