Long Shins Poems
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Billowed in black by my schizophrenic ponderings, these personalities are somehow resolute.
Within a matrix of survival; they coincide.
Fractals of quanta and wavelengths that fall from grace, will soon depict a Homunculus face.
Spanning out into oblivion as it gestures it’s courtesy beneath the world sheet.
By Orch OR, my loyalties are reduced to inconceivable amounts of ones or zeros.
When they do reduce, why is it a woman's face I see him seeing?
He watches a holograph of her, looking with a handheld azimuth to turn its view.
Sleeping in a hole of shambles, I see them seeing myself see nothing, but I feel my hadron body shrill.
Shadows like carbon fiber polymers are threaded intraosseously, trimming my astro-man's shins and knuckles with dark armor.
He now stands fortified as a hominid of diamond; surrounded by a phoxonic shield.
He protects her in his holon cocoon of qualia; it cannot be computed by perturbation, heuristics, or algorithmic affronts.
All but to fight back a bad dream, one that could harm the face we saw him seeing.
For better or worse we shall remember the sentiment.
To record this exert of love, he wrote the whole thing down as I thought it up.
Doing right by the left side.
Before I turn the light on, I put his clothes on inside out and tags back.
As if by coincidence, it was an imperfectly perfect fit.
Like a welcome Summer rain, humor may suddenly
cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you.
—Langston Hughes
RAINING IN SUMMER
The little teapot leaned over, steam pours out,
sizzles on the pavement. Trickles, sprinkles,
waters the subsidiary gardens that sprout -
those pointed out by a grandson. My wrinkles
curve up as the rain skillfully waters my willow,
my patch of roses and lilies, scattered and rare.
With Summer storm, I ruminate on a long time ago.
This grand-generation of blessing, not yet a prayer.
Drip…drop…splosh! The hope of the window pane.
We dream, as the outburst streams down to spill
our dreams, like seeds giving more than the mundane.
God saturates our lives with more than we will.
It’s raining Summer all over this land of honey-wheat.
Though droll and gray, a grateful soak gifts a sun rise.
My flower petals, leaves and boughs bathed in heat
and nourishing drink, replenishing the owls, and other wise.
Ker-splash, the puddles of inky-mud, stain the shins,
leave me, us, them, refreshed and sodden with grins.
Sunday morning in the deep green woods.
Shoulds and should nots don’t stir my soul.
I could touch the church with my foot. I could
stretch my thighs and shins then shout.
Waking up rather late, not late, but later,
my coffee just out the gate. I stumble into
my recliner and read an unknown poet
to me. To others, I could be that utterly. Hot
on the trail of neither shoulds or should nots -
to write another poem on the spot with stains
on my cup, on my soul, or be so bold as to
go to church, raise the roof, hug the necks -
oh yes so bold as to love God and one another,
to live those two commandments, to reach heaven,
no it’s not too late. I’m out the gate. Communion
on my plate - remembrance of the life Christ lived.
Should not need a bag of nails and a hammer
to work up eternity’s sweat. Nonetheless, I’ll
follow my Lord to the moon and back. Which
moon you ask? Now isn’t that the point?
The Son of Man owns it all, and I hear the stir
of waters as the blinding light illuminates it all,
and guess what, I can see in transcending primaries,
but also in the not-seen-before, and so why do I
go to church? I stretch my hands to Abba (Daddy)
for all its worth - the provider of all that prevails.
Sunday morning in the deep green woods.
Shoulds and should nots don’t stir my soul.
Have you not heard of the legend
of Terror Turkey Tom?
Who roams the woods punishing those
who do Thanksgiving wrong?
The bird with an unending hate
for those folks that he sees
putting up their Christmas décor
exceedingly early.
None now how the bird for like this,
though many have their say,
some thing a Christmas-hating witch
cursed him to be this way.
Others think he’s a demon-bird,
sent from the pits of Hell,
or that he watched Christmas Carol
and didn’t react well.
Whatever made Tom so upset,
and no one knows the truth,
what’s clear is if you put up lights
early, he comes from you.
On one chilly November 1st
he found a big box store,
and destroyed the fake Christmas trees
they’d put out on the floor.
The next day he happened upon
a blow-up Santa Claus,
the kids cried when the found St. Nick
shredded up by his claws.
One of those light-up reindeer was
the next foe on his mind,
he tore poor Rudoph’s antlers off,
as warning to his kind.
When he saw blinking lights strung out
before Thanksgiving Eve,
he pecked out every single one,
how greatly did he seethe.
He saw one woman putting up
garlands before the snow,
pecked her shins ’till her yoga pants
no longer could be sown.
When festive elves went up after
the night of Halloween,
he pecked their eyes so all would know
exactly what he means.
Most say that he is sill out there
hunting the green and red,
if seen before Thanksgiving Day
then you will know his dead.
You’ll hear his gobble in the night
and you will know the pain
of what happens when Holidays
don't stay in their own lane;
So mind the seasons as they come,
don’t push Christmas too far,
or else Tom the Terror Turkey
is coming to your yard.
If I can shoot rascally rabbits,
Then I can shoot fetid fascists.
Tentacled mouths on rabid hares,
Gnawing shins in toxic air...
I do not bow my head.
I rise with rust in my crown, lead in my tread.
This beat’s too loud to flee,
On a planet with no trees.
I do not bow my head—nah, I bring dread.
Cloak and dagger, duck and cover,
Truth’s too raw to smother.
Spreading the sickness, resistance reserved,
Never futile—just conserved.
Rake the forests, sweep the proof,
Hide the truth under ugly rugs.
Hotel Potus, lobby blooms
With traffic jams and social goons.
Welcome to my all-night rager,
F-bombs stacked in the hangar.
Singularity’s creeping in,
Robot minds with a devilish grin.
But man made tools, then made war,
Built destruction, begged for more.
I do not bow my head.
I rise with rust in my crown, lead in my tread.
This beat’s too loud to flee,
On a planet with no trees.
I do not bow my head—nah, I bring dread.
Cloak and dagger, duck and cover,
Truth’s too raw to smother.
Armageddon’s Agent Orange,
Trickster heavy with a bone to pick.
Annihilation wears a scorned face,
No matter which proud boy takes the place.
Mad Men flags, movements sold,
MAHA, MAGA, lies retold.
DARPA dreams and laxative schemes,
Flush the system, kill the memes.
I ain’t scared of Mecha Men,
But the DOGE dudes who fund them then—
Troops of doom, no need for pay,
No food, no shots, just war all day.
Shahed drones, broken bones,
Ghosts from Tehran haunting homes.
Red hats crab-walk through cracked laws,
Alien Acts with insurrection claws.
Equality exorcised,
Truth televised, then euthanized.
Foreign policy with swollen feet,
Anarchy dressed in tailored deceit.
Red ties dragging on the floor,
Blood from brain to brawn—no more.
Already deep in World War D’uh,
New Order’s here, no need to bluff.
I do not bow my head.
I rise with rust in my crown, lead in my tread.
This beat’s too loud to flee,
On a planet with no trees.
I do not bow my head—nah, I bring dread.
Dotards serve poisoned tea,
Curtains drawn on liberty.
The Darkest DAY
Billows of Darkness
Surrounding a Broken Heart
Breathe deep smothered LOVE
Keep squeezing, squeeze the life out of me My WIFE went over THAT RAILING,
And so does my LIFE All of a sudden a tidal wave of Doctors, Nurses : Flailing
I could hear a Latin accent Over here, Over Here, Sedate Him, Sedate He’s crazy
A nurse with a syringe poked me and said Good Night I couldn’t fight ALL was Hazy
My host: Sleeps{ With one arm wrapped around the boom, other hand lifts Lenore
Together As mating Eagles We plummet into the Sunset on the Caribbean Sea’s floor}
My host is a Lifeguard, a Red Cross Certified Swimming Instructor A fish in Water
{ We Trampoline off smooth soft bronzed sand to the Sunset’s reflection atop the water}
My host Awakes
The foggy wavering images come into clarity : I see the tears in Mr. Adams Eyes
The grief on Mrs. Adams face The loss of a beloved sister in Lois and Leslie’s Eyes
Mr. Adams ”SON, You should have this, A transparent Pure White Veil : no Green Eyes
“Amigo How are you?” The monster arms, bear paw hands, tree stump shins, Devil Eyes
“I am Ishmael Cortez, I Love my Mother and Father and the way they Love each other
I have never seen LOVE as you displayed last night, You made me want to let You :Go”
My host says nothing, the pain of loss in his tears : the agony felt through a White Veil
Torment surrounds me: I’m pounding, to the symphony of misery, Enveloped I smother
Beneath my legs bridging from chair to ottoman
two little dogs tread in the tunnel my furniture
and legs make
Tails high go the passerby tickling my exposed shins
Waking from the brushing I stretch in my chair
and lift my feet from the ottoman
Two little dogs sit and stare as if I were sitting in their chair
Silly boys I yawn and ease back to slumber
legs stretched out and feet embedded in umber
shade of ottoman softness
I awaken again from tickled shins as two little dogs
scurry back and forth from hence to whence
bushy tails blushing my shins forcing a grin
I relinquish my prize
Sitting up with feet down
Two little dogs nestle in the comfort
of the soft old ottoman.
One spring day meandering in a meadow,
I saw a butterfly whose beauty matched that
of May's azure sky.
With blue silken wings like that of a fairy,
she flitted here and there -
aimlessly as butterflies seem wont to do.
Oh, to be that butterfly,
alighting on any pretty flower whose scent delighted me -
unhurried and unworried.
I would be that butterfly breezing through the meadow
meandering . . . meandering . . .
to where – I did not know,
but soon I found myself beside a brook.
My heart became the song of blue bells
which danced with the wind beside the brooklet.
And as my little friend fluttered on,
I careened behind her with arms outstretched,
laughing as the long grasses through which I leaped
tickled the calves and shins of my legs.
Soon I was approaching a grove of tall green trees -
meandering . . . meandering.
I kept my eyes on the bright blue wings ahead of me.
Freely I flowed like the wind that swept through my hair
as it fluttered the leaves of the tall green trees
until suddenly – the butterfly
was vanished from my view!
I knew not to where I’d wandered,
but in my heart I had no fear.
All things come to an end eventually,
but also all paths eventually lead
to somewhere.
Turning myself back toward the direction
from which I’d come
and with my arms spread wide,
I let the butterfly in me
take me eastward -
meandering . . meandering.
Today, I was musin', peerin' back thro' the mists of time,
Recallin' Sundays when I was young and times were more sublime.
For Sunday School and Church, Mom would roust us out of bed,
Then, fix the usual breakfast of ham, eggs and gravy bread.
The preacher would rant against the devil and fatal damnation,
And expound upon the Lord's forgiveness and eternal salvation!
When they sang, "Just As I Am", I became very weak in the shins,
And make my periodic trek to the altar to be forgiven of my sins!
Mom would fix her famous chicken, dumplin's and apple pie.
(Strange that hordes of beggarly kin folk would usually happen by!)
They would dig in with gusto, grabbin' the meaty chicken parts,
And us kids ended up with livers, gizzards and hearts!
After dinner (so-called on the farm) the men, boys and hounds,
Would leisurely stroll about the fields, woods and grounds.
The women folk would tidy up the kitchen and lounge around and chat,
About the boys in the war, coffee and sugar rationin' and this and that.
Along towards evenin' when all the farmin' chores was done,
We'd listen to the radio as Bergen and McCarthy poked their fun!
Then it was off to evenin' Church again around about seven.
(Since I got "saved" (again) I wanted to assure a place in heaven!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A bright afternoon lunch, a darker shadow wraps around
your leg. Not clawing, just yawning. Yearning for a twitch
in its way.
You sit terribly still.
Your mother urges you to shoo it off, your father chews
absentmindedly at the way too bloodied meat, gazing through
your forehead. The clinks of the neighboring tables annoyingly
in sync. Your foot turns to face it.
The waiter gets your sister's order wrong, she curls up to a ball
as so does her stomach as she pipes down the vanilla milkshake,
an excuse to leave to the bathroom. To leave here.
The edge of your eyes catches the figure 8 being woven
along your cramping shins.
The heavy grimace of your brother, your mother fixing up
his collar, clearly not ironed. The setting bores you,
you look under. Beady eyes staring at you too. A plea
for what you should do.
The sinful act of feeding a noir stray cat.
With the steady grip of a football player, a knowing smirk
a bright eye glint, you hold it close,
the pitch-dark abomination–
and toss it onto the table.
An approving purr.
A feast for all.