Long Southerly Poems
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A family affair
A big hotel was built in our rather shy town
the hotel's façade faced the town's lake that
had many birds that visitors thought charming
the hotel needed many casual workers, such
as cleaning rooms, corridors, and plates, and
cups after guests, we thought was posh and
with a southerly accent, which was regarded
as more posh than the way we spoke.
for the working-class young, there was not
to offer, between going to sea or working
at a canning factory, many took to the sea
but lacked the discipline needed to continue
a lifestyle that is essentially a lonely one
although for those with the will to seek to
to maritime school, it could be a fine career
when my father was coming home from
from the sea for good, he was not a seaman
I was in bed, lung sick as often as a child
they had told me he was coming and thought
he might look heroic, like a Viking
the door opened, and a smallish man entered
he pointed at me and in gest said, whose son
is this and forever planted in me a feeling
of being inferior with problems this entails
but I digress years later when taking
the bus into town, I ignored his halloo for
which I suffered sleepless nights
I should have been more polite.
My brother was friendly with my dad
my brother was a forgiven sort of person
they even worked together at the hotel
cleaning dishes
She muddles an unusually warm December
dark drooling deep afternoon
Drizzly wait,
not long before her hungry needy kids return from school,
recomposing herself against a grey back porch wall
Knees up,
peering out
listening for wonder
How her life is the same,
and different,
compared to her backyard river
flowing surely and widely
but silently south
while a raucous river of cars in front
shuttle up and down self-stated highway's over-fueled Advent
of relentless unholyday traffic
Punctuated
with rambunctious horn blasts,
or perhaps warmly intended "Hello"s,
"Just passing by...."
EarthJustice passing
water toward southerly Sound,
carbon-eaters to her back
across a dusky front yard Advent
of early evening's commercial family business,
industry,
institutions for competing corporate commodification
flowing toward stealthy syncopated impatience,
and then by-passing away.
By-passing,
messiah's mass faltering
to sing in her faithful
but worn thin heart and hair,
hoping her river loves co-redemptive Sounding ocean
even more than busy motor air
surging through more urgent toxic time
investment to completely commercialize
UnBirthing Wonder's purgative sacred flow
into therapeutic nature.
Flow,
transubstantiating home and families
into consumer markets
floating down her river of mid-December's discontent
with waiting.
Discontent,
gloaming river fog
Spreading miraculously radiant
around one uninvited yellow street light
waiting for her family's magic blue bus
delivering this December night's
transforming rebirth.
Ah! To be adrift upon the boundless sea sailing, sailing, sailing!
Alone with the sea and pristine sky with southerly winds prevailing.
No particular destination in mind as upon the surging sea I plod,
Nor is there another soul in view as I quietly commune with God!
Ah! To be alone at night in the desert pondering, pondering, pondering!
I lie to refresh my weary bones after a day of vagabond wandering,
Savoring the soothing quietude with gentle zephyrs caressing my face,
Gazing heavenward as constellations wink at me from outer space!
Ah! To scale the highest mountain where even eagles dare not fly!
The precious solitude of it all! I can reach out and touch the sky.
Such divine inspiration it brings to this mere mortal's languid soul,
As God's Creation beyond is revealed for me to relish and extol!
Ah! To amble down a forest path when autumn leaves adorn the trees!
Gold and crimson leaves waft about me, stirred by an occasional breeze.
I'm awed by the Master Artist's handiwork no mere artist dare portray.
This priceless solitude and beauty I shall treasure forever and a day!
Ah! To lie 'neath a shade by a rippling stream and dream, dream, dream!
Watching vagabond clouds scudding across the sky in solitude supreme!
I suppose there are folks who prefer to mingle with the multitude,
But I treasure time alone to muse and write in peaceful solitude!
Entry for Line Gauthier's "The Beauty of Solitude" Contest
Until I've seen, Melbourne days
was not just emptiness in play
I know I'll see
What I didn't see,
the September soaked symphony
of Vivaldi vines climbing,
jacaranda booms,
tremolo spilling eaves
Until you know this suburban kid's righted the wrong
I'll verse on my way, you as the bridges in my song
Making choruses of dreams that could soon belong
And urban princes and their Porsches
Lost in winters, cold in summers
They adore to ornate you, over muskwood and glassy silvers
But can they look up to the night,
And know wonder in the sight?
In that blue-hued veiled Van Gogh I see your stars
These hardened hands carrying letters I send
will wear me down to some sorry end
And this I know
But I'll go knowing
the Chapel charade was the pretty noise
of sonnets chasing sunsets,
drunk Welsh poets
tearing tails for London wisps
Until it comes, a northern boy without southerly blues
The swaying Yarrans, sparkling flutes, Victorian flues
Keeps Flinders Station stepping full of over-priced shoes
And boney bonny dames, old money games
Skirts for winters, surgeons for gains
They climb to lower you, for fifteen lights upon their names
But can they look up to the night,
And know wonder in the sight?
In that blue-hued veiled Van Gogh I see your stars
Ah! To be adrift upon the boundless sea sailing, sailing, sailing!
Alone with sea and pristine sky with southerly winds prevailing.
No particular destination in mind as upon the surging sea I plod,
Nor is there another soul in view as I quietly commune with God!
Ah! To be alone at night in the desert pondering, pondering, pondering!
I lie to refresh my weary bones after a day of vagabond wandering.
Savoring the soothing quietude with gentle zephyrs caressing my face,
Gazing heavenward as constellations wink at me from outer space!
Ah! To scale the highest mountain where even eagles dare not fly!
The precious solitude of it all! I can reach out and touch the sky!
Such divine inspiration it brings to this mere mortal's languid soul,
As God's Creation beyond is revealed for me to relish and extol!
Ah! To amble down a forest path when autumn leaves adorn the trees!
Gold and crimson leaves waft about me, stirred by an occasional breeze!
I'm awed by The Master Artist's handiwork no mere artist dare portray.
This priceless solitude and beauty I shall treasure forever and a day!
Ah! To lie 'neath a shade nigh a rippling stream and dream, dream, dream!
Watching vagabond clouds scudding across the sky is solitude supreme!
I suppose that there are many folks who prefer mingling with the multitude,
But I treasure time alone to dream, write and muse in peaceful solitude!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The stately ash by the fence that provided welcome summer shade,
Has exchanged its sheltering leaves of opulent jade,
To don an elegant golden robe for a few short-lived days.
Its brilliance is enhanced by the sun's mellow autumn rays.
October winds took their toll exposing bole and limbs so stark,
Revealing uplifted arms as if in supplication from its wrinkled bark.
Where once upon my emerald lawn, frisky squirrels skittered,
Now, with a golden carpet, my sloping lawn is littered.
A wizened "hooty owl" has claimed the treetop as its aerie,
Silhouetted against a harvest moon, creating a scene so eerie.
Mellow moonbeams caress the tree forming a delicate shadow,
That creeps across the lawn as the moon flaunts its nocturnal show!
A family of robins that nested in the tree providing me with delight,
Have long since departed on their annual southerly flight.
Sturdy limbs where chattering finches put on a grand show,
Will soon be adorned with glistening garlands of snow.
Tho' each autumn the foliage from the ash will disappear,
And its outstretched limbs now present a picture so austere,
I'm confident that the ever-caring Creator this coming spring,
Will again adorn my tree in green for another season's fling!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
One month deep and winter wears no crown.
Warm Southerly breezes still with scepter rule
without a complaint from newly budded trees
and blades of grass, green as an emerald jewel.
Japanese magnolias have all bloomed too early.
Pink and purple petals fall softly to the ground
breath of Mariah whistles through the branches,
leaving them torn and heaped in a pastel mound.
Squirrels scurry in circles up and down the oaks.
Ripe acorns still hang from the old ancient arms.
There'd been no need for squirreling them away,
hints of Winter weather had all been false alarms.
No need for coats and boots that weigh too much.
Nature doesn't mind the lack of a chilly Winter blast.
It's great not to worry about having to shovel snow.
I'm pleased by the attempt of Autumn, holding fast.
Just after my pears fall off the trees
and leaves begin their turning,
evening fades to dusk in its anxiety
to welcome moon.
I sit outside and watch moon glow
arise from its sleeping nest.
The fresh scent of grilled Salmon
and charcoal-baked potatoes,
lingers across my patio;
the flavors melding upon my taste buds.
My cat sits next to me
eyeballing scraps and my iced tea
and decides to chase the few fireflies
while nearby crickets play love songs.
The soft, swift chill of dew-laden air
causes me to shiver.
I breathe in deeply and revel in
the thought of blissful
colors that will dot the landscape
in a few days time.
Above me fly a flock of birds in
southerly aim as I
glance to the pumpkin patch
and begin to
dream of pumpkin pies and
my favorite harvest veggie casserole;
autumn nights are a
delight to my palette.
9-12-2021
HELLO September Poetry Contest
Mystic Rose Rose
"A kiss is a silence that says everything there is to say." Guy Maupassant.
**************************************************************
The Silent Kiss
In the dead stillness of the early morn
When day`s orb is still below the horizon
When the fading full moon faintly lights the sky
And the southerly breeze is smooth and shy
Pearly drops of dews in silence kiss the blooms
As the first soft and silent kiss of a bridegroom.
It is a quiet kiss with glows of grace
On velvet petals as on a silken face
To mark the coming of a bright new day
Make way to bear heat of the sun rays
As flowers dance with the subtle breeze
And dawn`s golden light spills through the tallest trees.
The sweetness of each kiss hangs as tiny stars
Sparkling with shines of light from a realm afar
The lotus, lily and lavender bloom anew
Beaming with the silent kiss of the morning dew
A symphony of sweet scent spreads apace
Nature`s mellifluous perfume in the space.
Large boulders piled high
stretch out into the bay
and form a breakwater
that shields the beach
from high waves
and heavy swells rolling in
from southerly gales.
I have stood there
at the end when the sea
was hurling its rage
and all fury exploded
like bomb bursts of watery
shrapnel into the air.
I have seen such power
subside and tamed
to compliant licks
around the feet of rocks.
More than forty years ago
on a deep breath
I snorkeled down its ledges
into the rock strewn and weedy
world that lay at its base,
places where stingrays slept
and where fish glided
effortlessly along crevices
and over sponge
covered outcrops.
I cradled a fragile seahorse
in my trembling hands.
I no longer have
the confidence to rock hop
its length to the end
but stand where it butts
the land, commanding memory
to whip up a wind
and set wave upon wave
to awaken a soul
from its sleep
and make it feel
the sting of a southerly gale,
wet, cold and wonderful,
once again.