Long Pencil in Poems
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They grabbed me again tonight
With paper and pencil in hand
Being forced to sit down and write
At the latest poems demand
With both my hands chained in rhyme
Needing desperately to break free
As they slap me in and out of line
Tied to this chair of poetry
As the door to my mind creeps open
I let out the slightest of whimpers
I'm hoping against hope this ain't all she wrote
And it's not the poem with the pliers and snippers
I'm not sure I can write anymore
But their technique always brings
the poetic screams out of me
They know how to take me right to the edge
But no further into insanity
Of course I spill my guts under the pressure
Telling them all it is that I know
As they hand me the paper and pencil
And once again the rhymes start to flow
Azteca
As a young girl growing up in Los Angeles City
My mother took me everywhere with her
Our favorite Mexican restaurant had great hospitality
Casa De Nina, I enjoyed the music and she, their famous platter;
Guajolotas o tortas de tamal
Desayuno, plato de huevos rancheros
Champurado and pan dulce de Pasqual
The owner made us feel special, served us our usual
There were, Chicano art hanging
Some of the most authentic were of Azteca
Roots in the primeval instincts enchanting
The details of nature surrounding, alla prima,
A painting of an epitomal Aztec noble prince
A beautiful princess in his arms, bien fe`rma
The traditional cuadro stayed on my mind ever since
There it was, in all places, the painting was everywhere
La Marketa, the textile district, La Golondrina
Pintura’s de Indios Mexicano’s all about the town square
Olvera Street, even in the Mission at the Marina
As soon as I got home, I cleared away the furniture,
from up against the wall
In one hand the print on the calendar
a charcoal pencil in the other I began to sketch it all
A mural has to be painted in close relationship
to the scale, style, and mood of the interior,
With regard to such siting, to eye levels, a very good tip
Considerations as light sources, make realism art superior
I hid the paint from my mother and dad
Unnoticeable as of yet, I drew very lightly
I worked fast with what mediums I had
Brush strokes here and there, ever slightly
Until a finished project, my very first mural
I took her scarf and covered her eyes,
lead her down the hall and pushed the door
I whispered into her ear, s-u-r-p-r-i-s-e
Happy Mother’s Day, I prepared her a little more
With her fingers splayed over eyes and lips
My mother processed, motionless, in awe
Focusing on the corner at the paint drips
she said, I always knew that you could draw
An inspiring experience for the most part
Exhaling—she saw that I was passionate of my Chicana art
Giant pony-like puppy does not take no for an answer
A grizzly is less aggressive; he intentionally steps on my toes
If he gets any bigger, he will outweigh a giant boar
If I try to write, he runs off with my pencil in his mouth
Do I dare paint?
Painting is out. He has devoured many brushes.
He loves the attention and demands more of it.
Some times he runs full weight at me
Jumping on my recliner and tipping me.
A giant puppy who is usually wet.
We are unsure where all this water is coming from.
He has stolen our hearts, commandeering our home.
Changing our lives in enormously funny ways.
We can not fathom life without him.
They grabbed me again tonight
With paper and pencil in hand
Being forced to sit down and write
At the latest poems demand
With both my hands chained in rhyme
Needing desperately to break free
As they slap me in and out of line
Tied to this chair of poetry
As the door to my mind creeps open
I let out the slightest of whimpers
I'm hoping against hope this ain't all she wrote
And it's not the poem with the pliers and snippers
I'm not sure I can write anymore
But his technique always brings the poetic screams out of me
He knows how to take me right to the edge
But no further into insanity
Of course I spill my guts under the pressure
Telling them all it is that I know
As they hand me the paper and pencil
And once again the rhymes start to flow
The hoopla of the Holiday Season has now come and gone.
Cash in the bank to pay for that spree is nigh overdrawn!
Just when I thought I was free from financial strain,
A packet arrived from the IRS hinting that it's tax time again!
I'll bet the feller who wrote the instructions is still grinning,
As we common folk try to figure it out with our brains a-spinning!
My learned wife is smarter than I but she couldn't help me any.
The consarned thing may as well have been written in Afghanistani!
Although the intracacies of the system I don't quite understand,
With my trusty calculator, records and sharpened pencil in hand,
I attack the puzzling task hoping that I can prevail,
Preparing it to their satisfaction, thereby avoiding jail!
Double checking my figures and searching for deductions,
I can find no legal way to come up with any further reductions.
I stare in dismay at the 'taxable income' on line twenty-seven!
Alas, again this year there'll be no manna from heaven!
With astute pencil-whipping, withheld taxes still come up short.
I may have to mortgage the house to send funds with my report!
Another tax year has ended and again they've bled my dry.
As Abe Lincoln said, "It hurts too much to laugh and I'm too old to cry!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
It seems strange now that I did not see
as I joined the dots one, two, and three.
Even through numbers four, five and six,
there was nothing I saw, nada, nix.
The pencil in hand soon did combine
a line between seven, eight, and nine;
then ten, eleven, twelve and thirteen
(past my age) and still, nothing was seen.
I skipped quickly from there to nineteen
yelled; I think it's a giant sardine.
Dad said no, son, you need to do more.
Slowly the line went past twenty-four,
so far, way past, now to forty-four.
The pencil went blunt, my fingers sore.
A big round circle to fifty-eight
I thought I saw it and said wait, wait!
No need to wait 'till hundred and ten
I saw what was there, a big fat hen!
I kept going past hundred and nine,
finished, coloured; it was mighty fine.
Dot to Dot Poetry Contest; placed 2nd
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
Date written: 17th November 2022
Why do i sprawl out on my bed
comatose and almost dead
hoping for a miracle
that God is in my lead
my head
They inject a pencil in my vein
thinking i'm still insane
hoping for a miracle
that God is in my pain
my name
My covers wrap around my flesh
cocoon and desk
hoping for a miracle
that God is in this test
this mess
i sink into my head
i mean my bed
i mean my lead
hoping for a miracle
hoping God’s not dead
There is a moon stuck inside the stoplight
A still unblinking gaze controlling blood tides
Circulatory system like New York City in the seventies
The thrashing of my tire fire heart led
To the tribute of an overzealous blood tithe
With the buzzing of the latch relay circuit
Night and day, the cosmic light switch clicks
Itself into place, there is no dusk or dawn
We are burdened to tread in the interchange
We are a gathering of werewolves, in need
Of a blood moon, craving catharsis and hope
There is no time to pencil in a reverie
A daily scene, like a living nightmare
Turning us into cybernetic lycanthropes
It’s been many many years since my grandpa passed away….
years since his sweet smile and sage advice reached me…
but whenever I pick up a pencil
I remember one lesson he tried to teach me…
Grandpa was old-school…he’d say,
“You should always carry a pencil wherever you may go…
because a pencil will help remind you of four things you need to know.”
Grandpa loved learning…loved wisdom…and on this subject he would harp…
He’d say, “You need to keep learning every day
because your mind, like this pencil, works best when it is sharp.”
He’d point to the eraser saying,
“Everybody makes mistakes…when you do…stand up tall and meet them….
learn from each mistake…and try not to repeat them.”
With the pencil in his hand and his fingers around it lovingly curled….
He’d say, “Always do your best to leave a kind and gentle mark upon the world.”
Then holding the pencil up he’d say,
“When you view others always take into account….
Just like this pencil…whatever the outside looks like…it’s what’s inside that counts.”
And though he’s been gone for many years whenever I think about him I can see
the impact he made upon my life….the mark he left on me.
I like how he was always trying to teach me…
keeping me as he liked to say…’up to speed’.
and how when I want to think about him…
a pencil is all I need.
I saw a poet looking gray and down,
So, I asked him, what was the matter?
He whined he wasn’t being read, there
was little, if any chatter.
A poet writes, yes, but should not expect
a big brass band.
He was flustered with me, I could see,
and broke the pencil in his hand.
Keep a list of those who comment,
be sure you do reciprocate at their
poetry gate!
I don’t know if he heard me, his skin
became quite ashen.
He told me of sad experiences where
other poets took great joy in nasty
character bashin’!
A tear rolled down his hot cheeks and
I said “welcome to the world.”
Write on, like a warrior, your head high,
And your poetry flag,forever unfurled.
For God sees each poem you create.
After all, twas He who gave you the
gift to write at all,mate!
He knows quite well of your pain.
What’s more He sees your great
progress and gains!
3/9/2023