Long Slung Poems
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The night began like any other,
I grabbed my gear, laced up my boots,
And threw spit shine on the leather.
Rifle slung and bag in hand with the usual friendly banter
I had yet to reach my ride
As the mic began to chatter.
Heading to a crash, one that happened at high speed
Smoke debris and gasoline
Unsure of what I’d need
I hit the lights and sirens and surged my car to life
I felt beside my magazine
to ensure I had my knife.
Updates came as I picked up speed,
Though their tone had already spoken
There would be no life to save this day, another family broken
The cars like origami, metal mixed with flesh
I cut right through their shattered windshield,
But all I found was death
I remind myself again that I know it’s for the best.
I’m one of the few who deal with this
To shelter all the rest.
I left that call and drove away, my shift had just begun
I was only fifteen minutes in
and we’ve lost another one
She was slapped, beaten, and slung into the mud twice on the same day.
Many of us would have given up after the first time.
Not her. She was determined to change his mind, and make him love her.
She chased after him.
That didn’t hurt!
Did you just blink your eye? Me too.
He tossed her into a window and the glass broke.
You aren’t so tough, she said.
I am starting to love her attitude; which was fully created by my muse.
His face is furious now. He is in full blown kill mode.
Luckily, she was a track star. She ran so hard he could not catch her.
He thought he could run her down with his car, but their children had hidden the keys.
It is not what happens to you, it is how you deal with it, right?
I stopped typing and looked at her grinning face.
You are more than a survivor, I told her. You are my goddess!
I am impressed to my toes.
She tweaked my nose and ran off.
Damn! I did not even get her name
and my smug muse is not talking.
sawed-off on the
crimson emerald from a cloudy sky
squeal
and, at times, the reason
low-slung why
sparkles of a pearly salver
modicum of encrusted damask mist
befuddles me
albeit
moon, amber, and opalescence
spawn a charming sight
the perspective
strikes each crevice of the flesh.
and psyche advise
shrouded in a cinereous cloud
hapless and helpless, a glum-blue wolf
growls out a bluesy bemoan.
creating a lacuna
of gallivant love touchstone
leaden wails of anguish
rhythmic echoed refrain
plainchants of auric yearning
reminiscent of challah
aiming for eleemosynary seeds
cahoots to germinate and thrive
2nd place contest winner
Written: March 20, 2023
A Strand No 1201 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
It happened when I was not noticing,
yet I was so close,
that had I not have been here,
disregarded as I was,
I would missed the weaving,
from branch to branch, a spider’s thread,
meshed with the sun,
as if spinning itself with velvet fingers.
A net,
cradled over the leaves,
slung low over the dew.
Evidence in the spring daylight,
of a chore needing to be done,
skillfully being crafted,
trembling in the soft breeze,
as the sun fondles each delicate strand.
This is not new, or kept a secret,
but I can't help but wish,
for someone here,
to share my excitement,
and to also recognize,
the magic of the silver thread
and a miracle in the making.
______________________________
For Suzanne's Contest
5/16/17
The brain comparable to a sponge
No longer under, like a sub
Thanks to the flood
Rising up above
The top layer of mud
Like bath bubbles in a tub
Near and far from bugs and grubs
Among the trees and shrubs
As well as any bears or cubs
My toes got stubbed
From bumping into nubs
Pulled into the pub
While carrying a dub
Opposite side of the wooden club
Coughing out my lungs
Beyond numb
Off so much liquor and drugs
Oh well, if they want to nudge and judge
I'm not going to budge
Or hold a grudge
Just going to shrug, snub and shun
While I continue to trudge
Through it all including toxic sludge
Those that want to call me dumb
And look at me like a dud
Get viewed as if their dung and scum
From here to kingdom come
Phlegm flung
Out of the lungs
As tools were swung
Below the moon and sun
Wherever we worked and dug
Making sure things were level and plumb
Items were slung
Over a shoulder then hung
Took a plunge
On a planet revolving around funds
Had my fair share of fun
But never said I was done
Like none
Because I am the one
They tried to lunge
Then got broken thumbs
And quickly attempted to run
But I easily was able to overcome
Stepping all over them like a piece of gum
For free, you will not get another pun
Some live by the gun
Using hollow points or slugs
And others are completely spun
Regardless of if their life journey had just begun
My Cuz and any other related blood
I got you, it's all love
Many a times I clung
On the lowest and highest rungs
Unwilling to succumb
Just marching to the beat of my own drum
By: Dalton Ogletree
I'm the son of a gun.
You can call me the son of Sam.
I kill, Bang, bang, you're dead..
I kill. therefore I am.
I remember my own sweet home,
where I never suffered loss,
and the holy rifle on the wall
slung just beneath the Cross.
No earthly power is my master.
No thing can hold me in awe.
To legal qualms I answer.
I stand for cannon law.
And as long as you are still breathing,
get more bangs from your buck.
Industry is thunderously booming
but never trust your luck.
For I may find you any place.
no matter where you roam,
in Iraq or Syria,
or where you are at home.
Gorgeous boy, your skin shines in the sun’s golden hour.
Waves of your jet-black hair, short-cropped like Caesar's
dripping tendrils on a chiseled brow, wisps beside each ear
A bare-chested Apollo cycles in low-slung shorts.
Waves of your jet-black hair, short-cropped like Caesar's,
my ardeur imagines eyes a molten sapphire blue.
A bare-chested Apollo cycles in low-slung shorts,
calves taunt, thigh muscles pumping, a true stallion.
My ardeur imagines eyes a molten sapphire blue.
surely, the night sky is less beautiful than your eyes,
Legs with calves taunt, thigh muscles pumping, a stallion,
lovely man-child, whose dreams will you soon make true?
Surely, the night sky is less beautiful than your eyes.
Dripping tendrils on a chiseled brow, wisps beside each ear,
lovely man-child, whose dreams will you soon make true?
Gorgeous boy, your skin shines in the sun’s golden hour.
It was a strange sort of day
A Heavy treacley sky
That seemed too thick
For any bird to even try to fly.
The city lay in waiting for
Celebrations to begin
The Fiesta of Fiestas
Days of mildly hedonistic sin.
He Danced a Mexican Hat Dance
His sombrero slung on the floor
And then to rapturous applause
He went and Danced it once more.
The Toreador in the corner
Sipped at his third Pink Gin
And waited for the Marshal
To signal the Fiesta to begin.
There were Castanets and Maracas
And a heady Flamenco Guitar
To disturb the sleeping drunkard
As he snored away in the bar.
It was all a much of a nothing
Thought the resident Fiesta clown
As he fingered the tasselled rope
That let the scenery slide down.
Over in the Central Prison
Warden served tea in every cell
Then notified the residents
By three rings of the prison bell.
Just a matter of routine he thought
As he picked up his sombrero hat
And walked quietly back home
To feed his waiting tabby cat.
Tomorrow just after dawn would
Start much more of the same
As they entertained the tourists
In their daily entertainment game.
It’s the same the whole world over
They’ll make do with the tried and trite
Do long as it’s sunny and warm
And they get the timings just right.
Layer upon
layer upon
layer
Living always adds another thick layer over hope.
Sometimes hope is rescued from this layered darkness.
Then slung into the suddenness of light.
Gasping and wide-eyed.
What is it trying to say?
What is it thinking?
Will it re-sprout its wings?
Has its voice become entangled?
Can it still hold a golden harmony?
Will it still be peaceful- will it scream war?
Will it share secrets- will it listen to yours?
Has is it turned into a simpleton-a reclusive savant.
Does it remember the day it was born.
Or simply forgotten what it wants-
Is it still the big dreamer?
Dodging a million potholes of the reaper.
What can it teach you?
is it still tame or has it gone feral?
will it bite or will it kiss you?
will it curl on your lap?
will it love you forever or cut you in half.
It was high noon in Dodge City, Kansas on that hot and sultry day.
The sheriff was makin' his leisurely rounds on Old Dan, his faithful bay.
Rowdy cowpokes was wettin' their gullets tossin' whiskey down.
That mornin' they'd herded their steers to the railhead jes' east of town!
After bein' on the trail fer weeks they was ready to go on a drunken toot!
The sheriff had been through this before and was ready to settle any dispute!
He was lanky with a leathered face and wore a .44 slung low on each hip.
He was fast on the draw as shown by a dozen notches on each grip!
The cowboys convened at the Long Branch Saloon when an uproar was heard!
They was settlin' an issue with Slick, the resident gambler, that had occured!!
They was yellin' and cussin' tryin' to git their paws on that miserable cheat!
A brawl erupted and shots was fired - the fight spilled out into the street!
The sheriff arrived on the scene and expertly drew his blazin' guns!
After the smoke had settled, three fellers was sprawled upon their buns!
Their pals, havin' seen the odds, hopped on their hosses and took to hoof!
The gallant sheriff triumphed once agin and thus ended the daily spoof!
When the swirlin' dust had settled and the billowin' smoke had dissipated,
The tourists who saw this excitin' event cheered those who had participated!
I reckon you thought a bit of history was bein' played out in old Dodge City!
(If I "steered" you in that direction with this bull, what a doggone pity!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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