Long Rattlesnakes Poems
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Grandma’s ghost has taken up
knitting rattlesnakes in the drapes.
They hiss when someone lies.
Now, my mother only speaks
in noodle metaphors.
I ask her how she is, and she replies,
al dente, then goes back
to stirring the aquarium water
she'll later take a bath in.
My sister gives birth
to a daughter who levitates
during thunderstorms.
She answers to the name Unclaimed Bag.
In other words, we all gather once a year
to shed what’s left of politeness,
to laminate new rules:
No bleeding at the table.
Far less mirrors in the fruit salad.
All grudges must be gift-wrapped,
left at the door with the shoes,
with the husbands.
And when it’s over,
we nod like diplomats,
swap our favorite spells,
(that is to say recipes), pretend
we don't notice the fresh claw marks
on the floor.
It ends when we remember
our names again, who we are.
Then we leave—
each of us, in a different skin.
From the Painted Desert, head west
Past sagebrush, brittle bush, desert scrub
And The Petrified Forest at rest
To the Rocky Mountains above
Go past the Continental Divide
Below Douglas firs and pinyon pines
Head down the sunset side
Where the Colorado River cuts and winds
Many generations ago
Native Americans were inhabiting squatters
There were herds of buffalo
Along with now extinct muskrats and river otters
Beaver, cut cottonwoods and willows
Leopard frogs slept on limestone pillows
Mule deer and bighorn sheep
Climbed up and down walls so steep
Follow me down the foot trail
Like indigenous butterflies with swallowtails
In to the Valley of the Sun
Where Hopi civilization begun
Tassel eared squirrels frolic about
Bald eagles fly over and scout
Stream orchids, honey mesquite and arrow weeds
For pocket mice and other rodent species
Gray fox, weasels, bobcats
Spotted skunks, ring tails, and bats
Call this canyon their home
Where bark scorpions and rattlesnakes roam
While gila monsters and red spotted toads
Search for midges, flies and black widows
It took this river millions of years
To make this home for all who are here
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
another day in the woods. on Strawberry ridge
looking out over undulating green hills to
the next great wall of mountains. the last
morning clouds left from last night's storm
hanging in the valley mistily. the sun eventually
burns them away.
the respect between old Paul Karlsen and I continues
to exist. even though he's a Mormon and I'm a fallen
New Yorker. the work is comparatively easy, lifting
hundred pound bags, so you can just imagine what
we do other days. in fact, it's fun, especially for
young Bates. we get all white (and our lungs dusty).
on the way to and from the work site I read
in Silent Spring, the chapter against herbicides, gathering
inspiration for the upcoming controversy. in the end
perhaps I'll be fired for refusing to lay down Tordon
beads. realizing this, as I drive with Bates,
I see the dark green conifers and begin to miss them.
Rocks and rattlesnakes, bluebells
and mountain daisies, grasses and cactuses, mahogany
bush, lodgepole pine and quaking aspen, lush forest
and dry sun-tortured mountainside, wind and seed
carried by wind, ants, streams, hummingbird
and hawk, deer, badger, ground squirrel, wolverine.
Hank had cowboyed and rodeoed fer nigh on forty years,
Ridin' in sleet, rain and snow a-herdin' cantankerous steers.
His hide was tough as leather and his legs was slightly bowed,
But brandin' dogies and fixin' fences was all he ever knowed!
His gut was made of iron from a diet of taters, beans and bacon.
Many times he was throwed from his hoss but his will remained unshaken.
He'd been bit by rattlesnakes and scarred from many barroom brawls,
And kicked by many a skittish bronc while muckin' out their stalls!
When tryin' to halt stampedes, Hank was often gravely gored,
And was hoarse from yellin' and cussin' at that riotous horde.
When shoein' hosses they often left an imprint on his chest,
Where flyin' hoofs landed leavin' him angry and depressed!
He didn't git rich and couldn't hoard money fer a rainy day;
Not much chance of accumulatin' such on a cowpokes meager pay.
His bed was usually 'neath the stars with his saddle fer a pillow,
Sharin' space with his old dog Spike and an occasional armadillo!
One day he up and told the boss, "I've had my fill of a cowboy's life.
I'm a-quittin' as of now. My old bones is weary from all this strife.
I'm saddle sore and tired of bunkhouse livin' and all yer stingin' slurs.
You kin take this job and shove it 'cause I'm a-hangin' up my spurs!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Let me tell you a story of Nature
and my early morning walks in the
desert. The fragrance of cactus blossoms
and the starkness of its beauty beckon.
Or, is it the silence, like no other, interrupted
only by the hum of bees and tiny species
who materialize when you draw a handful
of sand to your eyes, viewing them as equals.
This is the playground of coyotes and jackrabbits,
sure to practice social distancing, at least the jacks!
Where desert rats dig shelters far beneath the earth,
safe and cool--and even squirrels abide.
It is shared by rattlesnakes seeking shade under tall
mesquites, causing travelers to choose where their
next step goes. In the near distance are the
mountains, given birth by volcanos in centuries past.
In early evening, the mountains don cloaks of violet
as the glorious sunset turns desert plants ablaze in
reds and golds--nature's gift to us. Turning indigo,
the mountains stand like sentries in the night.
Soon, thunder clouds gather and rain begins its journey
to the thirsty mouths of plants and soil. Animals scurry for
shelter, to appear when midget lakes take form and they can
bathe and frolic. The scent of desert rain is a rare perfume.
The desert isn't meant for those who need forests and lakes,
or city dwellers lost among tall buildings, basking in its noise.
No, they would not survive the loneliness, where one's thoughts
are steadfast companions, and music the songs of coyotes.
Early morning, when enjoying the walk, I sometimes surprise a
fox, or find a nest of hummingbirds, so tiny, mouths open waiting
for breakfast. I see nature in its truest light, unfiltered by the
haze of progress. How lucky I am to call the desert my friend.
NATURE THEME
April 15, 2022
for Form N - Narrative New Poetry Contest
by Constance La France
A Second
Anacondas crush to pieces
Bisons sport long shaggy hair
Cheetahs are the fastest species
Dolphins leap into the air
Elephants have large incisors
Fennec foxes, ears like Spock
Great white sharks unnerve the divers
Hyenas are laughing stock
Indris is a type of monkey
Jaguars are fast and strong
Kangaroos are tall and clunky
Llamas' necks are rather long
Mandrills have red-bottomed features
Newts can grow an extra limb
Ostriches are speedy creatures
Polar bears just love to swim
Quetzels are ablaze with colour
Rattlesnakes subdue their prey
Sloths show life could not be duller
Tawny owls sleep through the day
Uakaris have red faces
Vultures scavenge on the go
Wild boar live in diverse places
X-ray tetra brightly glow
Yaks lock horns when in a fight
Zebras' coats are black and white
Now you'll know just who is who
When you visit London zoo.
22.02.20
Abecedarian Contest Poetry Contest - sponsor Caren Krutsinger
Abc Contest Poetry Contest - sponsored by Allright Poet
“Lynching”
Black man floating in space
Knotted rope about his face
Crosses burning
White sheets chanting
Black man squirming
Blue knee choking
Buildings burning
Dark nights looming
A noose from a tree
A boot and a knee
A black man dead
No one lead
Gutters vomiting
Jesus faltering
Canisters of tears
Scattering fears
Memories from the past
Recall the last
Nothing changed
Our nation estranged
Horrible brutality
Watching reality
A hang man’s stage
Millions enraged
Dusty roads
A hang man’s noose
Burning streets
A black man pleading
So much the same
It just insane
Equal justice
No longer trusted
Civil unrest
A nation stressed
Yet we care
When tempers flare
Doing it right
With all our might
We all must listen
As rattlesnakes hissen
It begins in the mind
You learn to be kind
We are all blood inside
Where love resides
It is not right
That I am white
And am not black
But my soul is cracked
I FEEL YOUR PAIN....
As George was slain
I watched it all
His terrible fall
Again and Again
Again and Again
A henchman calling
A nation bleeding
Again and Again
Again and Again
Crosses burning
Mindsets never learning
It was a lynching
Lon 6/1/2020
I reckon to us city dudes an' ordinary blokes it seems somewhat strange,
But a cowpoke an' his horse become pards when ridin' the lonely range!
Pausin' fer a roll-yer-own under a ponderosa after a hot ride on the grange,
He might alight from the saddle, lean agin his hoss an' hold this exchange:
"Dan, ol' pard, me an' you has spent years ridin' them bobbed war fences.
I sure do like yer company, ol' pal, 'cause you ain't got no pretenses!
You ain't like them wimmen folk I knows - they is jes' a common scold!
You don't give me any sass an' you kindly do what yer told!"
"I reckon as long as I kin tolerate Cooky's grub an' you git yer oats to eat,
We kin abide the cantankerous boss, rattlesnakes an' the prickly heat.
We've rode togither in mud, dust, sleet an' rain an' the blowin' snow,
An' ye've been a good an' faithful cuss, I jes wanted ye to know!"
"I 'preciate yer toleratin' my git-tar strummin durin' night cattle guard,
When me an' you soothe them dogies when it's a-thunderin' real hard!
I don't know 'bout you, ol' Dan, but I have lotsa time to ponder,
Jes' a-gazin' at the wonder of them mountain ranges over yonder!"
"I ain't never gonna git rich cowboyin', an' ain't that the truth!
But, ol' pard, that's all I ever hankered to do ever since my youth!
Well, if'n yer ready to hit the trail agin I'll saddle up ol' friend.
We has got a heap of work to do before this day comes to an end!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
There is this thought,
in Leagues of Voters,
continually arising
from East to West
and South to North
and Left to Right,
That we need to make win/win nice
with our mammalian cousins
on land and sea
or only mean old reptiles
and hungry predative birds and insects
will remain
to design Earth's future cultures
and regenerations.
Others feel this prejudice
for wombs over eggs
and nuts
and seeds
is merely ignorant elitism,
as if humanimals
are not capable of reacting
like rattlesnakes
and scorpions
wherever and whenever our environmental climate
fails to comfort
and entertain us.
Womb supremacists
and egg empiricists
and seed originalists
all agree,
regardless of ZeroZone resourceful structure,
win/win cooperative economies
are healthier than win/lose ego-empowering constitutions,
whether capital declared
or politically implied
by organizing skills fostering more wars and competition
more than love and cooperative education.
This reminds me of a Japanese saying,
There is luck in the last portion.
Whether good luck or bad,
well-wombed or bad-seeded,
this saying leaves to us
to predict and actively hope for
or against.
My house blew clear to Texas the cowboy said.
His spittle hit a saddle, and my face turned red.
He was crude for sure, but his stories were great.
I waited to hear more, and it was worth the wait.
He had stories about tornadoes and rattlesnakes too.
Shared some horrific details about hangings before he was through.
Why do you listen to that old coot? My mama said.
She does not know the beauty of an old crazy man’s head.
He can entertain the best of us with stories of far away.
Much farther than most of us will ever travel if Ma has her say.
“Past Abilene that old house began to fall apart, he said with a grin.
I love his stories, his mannerisms, his invented words, and his fantastical vim.