Long Shins Poems
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I took the high road home, though it wasn't easy
neglected, abandoned, and used, I felt I deserved better
so I moved away from that dirty apartment full of rats and dirty men,
and cleaned up my act by working in a respectable Motel as a maid
I did the same kind of work but at least I got paid
and I didn't go home with a black eye and bruised shins
Tired of making up excuses for myself, I had to do something
so when I saw him enter the motel with Barbie girl, smelling of wine
and awful spritz, all I could do was tuck my head in and walk ;
"Maggie, you look like you just saw a ghost " my co-worker said
I gave her the do not disturb sign, " place this on that door please,
they don't want to be disturbed"
Then I walked to the front desk and dialed the police,
I told them where they could find him. Then I went back
to that dirty rat infested apartment and cleaned all night,
until the dawn bathed me with morning light. I was going to
be alright, at least for a fortnight.
October 24, 2021
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Contest Name: The High Road
pants for watching -
as we wonder around the supermarket
my daughter pushes her own trolley
she's trying to give her brother's shins a wallop
he shouts at her - how dairy
the trolley is confiscated; we look for the extra strong mints
there's a dog in a trolley
looking shell-shocked
we pass the ham
my son talks of hamlet
my daughter, in the trolley; her cheeks scrape against
the frozen food doors
sweet chin music in the fruit aisle
i jump on the melons
in snack limbo
we find the mints and confectionary
we can't find the car
cash and carry blues
a trolley is rolling towards us at 20 mph
we're running out of thyme
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.
I worked in a bowlin' place settin' pins,
Tryin' not to let a ball break my shins!
In those days of yore, pins were set by hand,
And you had to hustle to beat the band!
I was around fourteen when I was hired,
And was around fourteen when I was fired!
The boss man paid me fifty cents per hour,
'Til one night our relationship went sour!
I advised him where he could stuff the job!
Said he, "Find another line of work, Bob!"
Couldn't face workin' there 'til I retired.
Found work pumpin' gas when I was rehired!
8 November 2014 - Entry for Sara Hendrick's "Jobs" Contest
Whither now hunker-shins?
You have a sweet countenance,
a squat grace,
always middle-aged
on the still edge of a speeding sun.
Another swift day has begun
yet here you sit among the traffic
unflinching, a bold
bladder quelling gravity
with low-sprung shanks.
You deep-seated recliner,
standing-pat over upholstered hams.
A lumpy Mona Lisa,
with your come-hither girth
and just a thin membrane
between you and chaos.
Your skin an alien chiaroscuro,
a candle-lit atlas,
and in the cockle and crimp
of your glistening skin
a truculent contrarian gleams
beneath your world-dismissing
Buddha smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
redux
As happy swing-set riders
join the skating board sliders
the more affluent children
rode on the Merry-Go-Round.
With scraped shins and scratched up knees
we would climb the tallest trees
and dirty our new sneakers
playing on the muddy ground.
We'd build castles in the sand
with plastic buckets in hand,
a league of superheroes
that dreamed of becoming kings.
Swapping marbles made of glass
we'd form whistles out of grass,
and drank gallons of Kool-Aid
while doing summery things.
Jeans covered in green grass stains
we'd walk the tracks between trains,
and often, we'd go fishing
in the large pond in the park.
We'd get bronzed from the sun
running around having fun
and playing hide-and-go-seek
till it started to get dark.
(Rhyme)
8/5/2018
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.
Ponder awhile, as should we all;
at dulcet morning birdsongs call,
at virgin leaves that break the earth,
watch mother nature giving birth.
Observe your lover now at rest;
slow rise and fall of her soft breast.
The sun glint on a drop of dew;
white clouds against a sky of blue.
Think of something that you now miss;
when your mother gave her last kiss,
the butterfly that brushed your nose,
your baby’s soft pink wrinkled toes.
Soft ripples of a gentle stream,
the cold delight of fresh ice cream,
a lacy web that spider spins,
the joyous pain of tree-scuffed shins.
Oak leaves that turn from green to gold,
a sleeping chrysalis unfold,
and tadpoles growing their new legs;
the dripping yolk of soft-boiled eggs.
Stare out, stare out, stare out to space.
Your too-short life is not a race.
Ponder awhile, don’t wonder why
that everything you see will die;
they will not, if you let them stay
there, in your mind, as bright as day.
THE WATERMELON THIEVES
Once when I was oh so young,
My mom decided she,
Would show us where some melons grew,
Beneath some large orange trees.
A farmer man she knew of,
Grew them there she said,
So folks would leave alone the fruit,
That grew above their head.
The melons were okay to take.
Just let the oranges be,
So off we went to pick some,
My mom, my sis and me.
I was only five years old,
So I sat in the car,
With Mama's friend who drove us there,
No light from moon or stars;
Because the orange trees blocked their light,
And I was sore afraid,
Because it was so dark in there,
Hidden in the glade.
Suddenly I saw my mom,
Running like the wind,
Right behind her came my sis,
A melon 'neath each limb.
Then in a flash my mom went down,
She tripped and broke her melons.
"Run Ruth, Run!" I heard her say,
They're runnin' and they're yellin'.
Mother! Wait! I heard Sis call,
For she had gone down too,
Stepped in a rotten one and fell,
They both were in a stew.
A flashlight beam then pierced the dark,
They made the car just barely;
And we took off just like a shot,
Took out the fence gate squarely.
We made it back home just past one.
They laughed until they cried.
I was so young I just sat there,
Agape with my eyes wide.
My mother had skinned both her shins,
My sister, she smelled funny,
Because that melon she stepped in,
Was rotten and real funky.
Some thought my mom as mothers go,
Not what you'd call high scoring,
But I can tell you life back home,
For sure was never boring.
Judy Ball
FOR NATHAN D.'s - LET'S PUT A SMILE ON MY FACE CONTEST
Remembering Mother on Mother's Day
When I was growing up,
I remembered
The time my parents
Bought me a brand-new pair
Of rubber-soled, hi-top,
Black canvas running shoes.
To say I was as proud as a peacock
When I donned the footwear
Was an understatement.
My dad encouraged me
To run (as fast as my legs could carry me)
With those sneakers on
My feet all laced up.
Down the lane
I ran as fast as I could go
And tripped over my own two feet.
I could hear my dad laughing
As I tried my very best
Not to cry (skinned shins and all).
Then, I saw my mother
Running toward me.
Into her arms, she swept up my head
And bent over
To quickly kiss both of my knees.
“There,” she said, “the hurt is gone away.”
The pain was still there,
But I felt guilty and said I felt better.
My dad, still laughing, watched,
And I felt ashamed of my clumsiness
And of loving my mother’s coddling.
After an arduous day of play
And eating everything
My mother set on my plate,
She or my dad would read me to sleep,
And in dreams I would live fantasies.
But there were times
When nightmares awakened me,
Scaring me half to death,
And I would lie trembling in my PJs
With the blankets pulled over my head.
How my mother ever knew remained a mystery,
But she would be there,
Sitting on the edge of the bed
With her hand softly caressing my forehead,
Whispering loving words to reassure
And comfort me and lull me back to sleep.