Long Rakish Poems
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This may seem a vacuous subject upon which to muse,
But ain't it amazin' the myriad of hats from which to choose?
Browsin' through the haberdashery or millinery shop in town,
You're bound to find the perfect lid to place upon your crown!
There is everything from snoods to keep the ladies' hair in place,
To fanciful bonnets trimmed with flowers, ribbons and lace.
Even pert veiled chapeaus appropriate for crumpets and tea,
For society dames as they balance cup and saucer on the knee!
For the sportin' bloke there's a selection of deerstalker caps,
And a vast array of domed derbys for the more debonair chaps.
Available for the dapper gentleman is quite a plethora,
Of the ever-popular, colorful and rakish felt fedora!
A cowpoke can select a ten-gallon Stetson to match his boots,
Makin' a fashion statement among his feller galoots.
For summer, the discriminatin' gent can opt for a Panama,
Or choose a flat-topped skimmer or boater made of straw!
Berets are obtainable for guys wishin' a military mien,
And a jaunty Alpine hat is available called a tyrolean.
But classy hats aside, no matter whether lass or lad,
Seems that wearing a baseball cap (backwards) is the latest fad!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Filling my lungs with my first breath
starts the cycle of birth and death.
And startled by life's rakish sounds,
my beating heart rapidly pounds.
A cool breeze evokes such pleasure
it's impossible to measure.
And yet, my gaze goes unbroken;
my astonishment unspoken.
Feelings and sensations abound
within the world that I've just found.
And upon opening my eyes,
anxiety fuels my cries.
Hushed by the sweetest sound I know,
my tears slow to a trickling flow.
For I'd heard that voice in the womb,
chiding me as I kicked for room.
The voice of my mother, to me,
is a source of comfort, you see.
So, I close my droopy lids tight,
yawn, and chase sleep into the night.
Written: November 20, 2025,
*****************
We began as all combustions do—
a spark in the petiole of dusk,
Your voice is a mellifluous matchstick
against the grate of my solitude.
The air, thick with sky mist and serendipity,
tasted of carotene and sapidity,
and I, a rakish viceroy of yearning,
proclaimed our sanctity sacrosanct.
You wore your laughter as a radiant tiara,
and I, with slipshod hubris,
called it eternal.
We built a hearth from threadbare promises,
fed it with panegyrics and panacea,
raked the embers with doggedness
and called the smoke a symbiosis.
Even the nimbus above us
seemed to burn unabated.
But fire is a jinxed harbinger—
Its gospel is catharsis,
It's an altar, a hecatomb of touch.
Desire writhed into demand,
and the sanctity we once revered
became a palimpsest of blame.
You began to prowl the periphery,
a lynx in the cloudscape,
while I spasmodically clung
to the quixotic catchphrases
we once whispered sacred sacraments,
The luster dulled.
The wisteria wilted.
Our love, once amaranthine,
became a dismal quagmire
of somber glances and saccharine lies.
Even our silences had a sartorial weight—
tailored to wound.
Watch you disappear,
a nimbus ensnared within a beacon of light;
without your idolum, soul drifts in stillness
I endured it with profound dimness.
Humiliation woven into each witness.
Now, I sift through ash—
seeking a trace of what we once were:
a shard of sanctity,
the verve of vehemence.
But everything that hovers is the strange,
A haunting feeling of our split,
a deep, empty chasm carved out
in the codex carved in my rib cage.
And yet—
in this ruin,
this catharsis,
I find the quintessential truth:
that love, akin to fire,
is not meant to last—
only to metamorphose.
In a world where dreams are rakish and quixotic,
Where quiddity seems extravagantly chaotic,
A chivalrous soul dares to be different.
With a heart that beats fervently, so magnificent.
Romantic notions dance in their minds.
A visionary quintessence they find,
Chimerical dreams they hold dear,
Preposterous, dreadful tracks they fear.
Age is just a number, they say.
Irrelevant in the pellucid pursuit of their way,
Happiness is the sense that one matters,
And their dreams are the ladder.
In a world where opia destruction prevails,
Where chaos and despair often trail,
Quixotic evidence emerges, bold and bright.
Roguish scope for rebuilding shines a light.
Dare to alter the world, they proclaim.
With sapidity gnawing such a flame,
It may seem quixotic, and some may sneer.
But their seraphic vision is so clear.
For in their hearts, they sojourn the key.
In a world where dreams roam free,
Where impossibilities become realities
And it's in this world, they find their vitality.
There is no scarcity of opportunity.
To earn a living doing what they love, with glee,
Chasing in kuebiko without compromise.
For in their dreams, their spirit lies.
It erratically seems as if curbing entropy,
Is our quixotic goal in the cosmos, you foresee,
But in the midst of chaos, they stand tall.
With a determination that never stalls.
In a world where dreams are quixotic,
They refuse to be virtuosically robotic.
They believe in the anecdoche dreams.
And nothing, awry reality, dims their gleams.
They agnize that each sonder is just a number.
And that happiness is a monachopsis to remember.
They embrace the chivalrous and the romantic.
With an onism spirit that's truly ecstatic.
Word Bank:
Rakish: Smart; jaunty; dashing
Quixotic: Idealistic
Quiddity: Core-Subconscience
Chivalrous: Sublime, virtuous
Pellucid: Translucently clear
Opia: Dope, Addiction
Sapidity: Zest, Sapor
Kuebiko: State of exhaustion
Entropy: A situation of panic or disorder
Anecdoche: Amusing Tale
Sonder: Empathy, Compassion
Monachopsis: Confused
Onism: Delineate the awareness of how little of the world we will experience
Birth and death: resigned divinity
walk hand in hand with all
taking up the risk again and again
rising with a flush and rush to meet the rakish desire for
...existence ...self awareness...experience...touch feel
and flow
drawing from the list of longings and lingerings from last life
boldly taking back it’s due
from injury... death and war
such that they too must bow
and shed their blackened shells
to bloom again
against the ash
in vibrant colors ...........ever splashed
to be born ...as if on wing of dove divine
in the first breath and joyful laugh of every new born child
Written: November 05, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
****************************
He ruled with a rakish grin ... a slack scythe in his sanguine fist—
A pharaoh of spurious gloat ... redolent of lard and treacle,
His laws ratified in rapture ... festooned the sacred with spit.
A seraglio of skeuomorphs ... hailed his wondrous fashion sense—
The riparian fields sank ... in soaked squalor and dysania,
He wore a nimbus of stink ... a stygian sherpa to dire fate.
In his sesquipedalian bragging ... the soul of land grew slack—
Each boast is a blur, each law ... a grieving gasp of suction,
Even the seraphic ibis flinched ... its wings dimmed by his shadow.
With tales of Siamese stars and stew ... he won over the jury—
Though the slack-jawed and gaunt group ... gnawed on serendipity bones,
There was no spark ... just the sizzle of sand in a dying sun.
Now his tomb lies amid a cold dune ... decked with dysenteric myths—
A janiform relic of zeitgeist and treason ... stripped of all zest,
The sovereign ruin ... no ripple, no ravel, no rove of resile.
Johnny Rocko was born to be a salesman.
His words are breezy.
He has a devil-may-care attitude.
His ways are playful and jaunty.
He is the pied piper of Chicago.
Other young men rush to buy his wares.
They love his schemes, his ideals and his ideas.
He wines and dines them, and they have a great time.
Some of them have been cut off from their inheritance.
They stick around anyway; he is the sun. They bask next to him.
Johnny Rocko is debonair and delightfully dashing.
He is a rakish playboy-like salesman.
It does not matter what he is selling, people want to buy.
He always has beautiful women rubbing his back.
Most of them are like him, attractive and unrestrained.
Areola of rose,
blushing,
blossoming,
promising
The thorny-stem whistles
thirsty
posthaste
vainglorious
The crabapple-peach
spurns the rakish stem
pretends to twirl
capriciously unloyal
The un-civil war
an unbecoming ghost
Tara's salvation
the groom gone with the wind
The impassioned rose
scarlet and needy
a Southern conquistador
hopeless and heartless
Vows to seek her groom
relentlessly
frankly for honor
scheming in the morrow
4/10/2019
Bronwyn the Barbaric was a buxom lass
the envy of all her peers
She spoke with unrivaled swashbuckling sass
her pirate-ess fashion was fierce
She could charm off the arms of the most hardened men
how they'd swoon at the sight of her swagger
She ruled over cutthroats with a dangerous grin
her hand ever over her dagger
But her smile was so lovely, her style was so vogue
that she had little need for such violence
With a wave of her hand, she could tame ruthless rogues
with a look she could cause utter silence
So, peacefully she plundered (with minions to pillage
and devotedly obey her commands)
Until a shop window caught her eye in the village
and she made a bad purchase, unplanned
There she acquired the most dashing high-heel boots
custom made (according to her wishes)
But the pain that they caused was something acute
and it made the 'old girl' act quite vicious
She kidnapped the cobbler and tortured him so
she was in quite a terrible temper
She dealt him such cruel and merciless blows
the crew could hardly handle his whimpers
She became a tyrannical, treacherous wench
terrorizing from Tahiti to Tangier
Leaving in her wake only ruins and stench
with a reckless and wicked sneer
And 'though her crew were not a cowardly lot
they dared not get on her bad side
The last scalawag was both stabbed and shot
before she tossed him into the tide
But one rakish mate had an interesting offer
her vanity couldn't refuse-
If he could, just once, get those stylish boots off her
a better set he could produce
So eyeing him, slowly, she peeled the boots off
and immediately felt such relief
Gone was her bitterness, her angry scoff
gone was the source of her grief
Seeing their pirate queen herself again
the crew gathered 'round and they cheered
Those bloody boots were thrown overboard
and their mate was quite revered
Now a barefoot buccaneer, she still
struts across the deck
And if they don't bend to her will
she'll see they're put in check!
Cryin' seems such a useless thing to do
yet, all I do is sit and cry for you now.
I see you in each sunrise and it's so true
your black heart has cut me to the marrow.
I begged you not to leave me and that's wrong
a rakish smile was all you left me with then.
But, here I sit and write out this damn love song
tryin' to melt your hardened heart with a pen.
I cry for you each night as the sun sets
no car headlights come to fill my darkened room
all i have is memories and deep regrets
I'll surely take them with me to the tomb.
Black and blue you've left me and it's true
you never cared as much as I did, hear me.
losing you was best for me, long over do
the crying's done, it's over I so decree.