Long Storefronts Poems
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The end, or beginning
of the strip mall starts
at the Subway Subs
a set aside frontage overlooked
by bushes and idling traffic.
Further along, the ephemeral
Pop-up Party Shop;
when not ‘up’
that commercial space
sells T-shirts
a print for printing slogans.
Abutting is the computer game center,
pale youths enter
not to be seen again until cell phones
broadcast amber alerts.
Lastly, the hardware store,
a well-thumbed cluttered cave,
struggling to re-invent its old brands.
Abruptly
it all ends
at curbs and untrod paving.
The mall hangs on to the small change
of a larger, more changing world.
On an adjacent blacktop
drivers stay in lane
until the junction and the traffic lights
lead them somewhere else
less out of time.
Dusk comes to smear the parking lot
with its cowls and drapes,
the wingspans of an evening haze
sweep-in nocturnal tones,
chimerical forms reshape storefronts,
leave obscure echoing sinkholes.
The strip mall nightly sinks
into its less concrete reality,
a haunt woven
from the discarded wrappers and scraps;
that spill over its one solitary trash bin.
It will be days before it is emptied
or filled again - maybe weeks.
All abroad! Amazing airplane aims above Asia ascending at an ample airline.
Bestowing big buildings, busy businesses, beautiful beaches...
Camera captures candid cascading countryside.
Dozen dandelions display delightful destinations.
Everyone easily escapes enjoyment.
Families follow festivals featuring favorite foods.
Guests grow generating grand group gatherings.
Happy hikers holler, "Hello", having heartfelt hospitality.
Itinerary illustrates interest.
Journalists jot joyful journeys.
Kindreds keep keepsakes.
Laziness lingers leaving luxury lounging.
Many mountains measure meaningful moments.
Neighbors noticing newfound nature.
Onlookers observe outstanding overviews.
People profile pretty picturesque plains.
Quaint quiet quests.
Rivers rage radiating rainbow rays.
Souvenirs stock storefronts signaling surging sales.
Tourists travel tracing town's treasures.
Upcoming unbelievable utopia.
Visitors vacation vast vicinities.
Wonderful walks were waiting world wonders.
XOXO's xeroxed.
Yesterday's yearly yacht yearnings.
Zooming zestfully.
A white wash of striated clouds
stretch expansively
across the arid desert sky
where Joshua trees commune
lifting up crooked cactus-like arms
towards the searing sun.
Massive layers of brown boulders
jut, forming endless sculptures
hidden places where the ancients
made their penitence with words
swept away by unforgiving winds.
Shadows shift under the arc of the sun
where nervous roadrunners dart
startled lizards seek shade
great hawks circle with outstretched wings
and tortoises amble as the hours crawl by.
Two lane highways trail into the horizon
toward snow capped mountain peaks
lined by nameless telephone poles
and tumbleweeds that roll aimlessly
across storefronts and sleepy
rundown towns in disrepair.
Yet the mystique of the Mojave plains
still remains an inviting oasis
of refreshment and contemplation
where time stands still
beneath the stillness
of the midnight stars.
12/5/2022
I peer back through the mists of time to muse and ponder,
Christmases when a lad, giving my mind free rein to wander.
'Twas a simpler time when life moved at a slower pace.
Wonderful memories flood my soul that I cannot erase.
A canopy of lights arched over Main Street from curb to curb.
Holly wreaths were hung from light poles looking so superb!
Merchants festooned storefronts with delightful decorations.
Children's faces were all aglow with eager anticipations!
Kids pressed noses to windows as they went from store to store,
Oohing and aahing at the trains, dolls and games galore!
Later, they'd visit Santa at Woolworths Five and Dime;
They'd have their hopeful list in mind to save Santa's time!
There'd be a Yule Tree lighting and carols sung on the village square.
Santa arrived on Fire Engine Number One to end the evening's affair!
Mother Nature usually provided a couple of inches of snow.
Ah, the simple beauty of my hometown with the lights aglow!
The cops blocked High Street for kids to sled down its hill.
Flopping on their Flexible Flyers provided the village kids a thrill!
Nowadays, though lights and glitzy decorations adorn the mall,
They don't elicit that old time hometown feeling in me at all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
*Image of Mauna Kea Hilo Bay by Big Island Now.
*Hilo Town, Now and Then
Signs of
Store Closed
or Out of Business
with taped crossed doors
A passing peek
through unkept glassed storefronts
of hanging cords from ceilings
and holes in walls
Abundant parking stalls lay abandoned
near to empty sidewalks of the main street
a marooned Hilo town rest
lives now resigned behind closed home doors.
A father's lengthy search in a parking lot
following, a parked Studebaker remains unlocked
as an anxious boy does a 60's abrupt run
suddenly braked-stopped by a mother's hold
Kress Department Store gleamingly welcomes
naive ignores mannequins that adorn storefront
the scent fills inside of popcorn or packaged candied ones
mom's clothes patterns with dad about as comics filled eyes
Christmas lights droop up and down the main street
every store big or small adds to the brightness
a youngster's glee emanates feelings likewise
hoping that said feelings last forever.
*Hilo: pronounced (HEE-low)
2020 August 15
*1st Place*
Enter the 'STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (24) ,any form,any theme'
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2020 August 19
The cingulate — fires —
the snag — as it were —
the grinder’s patient catch.
A Taxonomy — of Triviality —
in the kitchen lab — arrayed.
In the Underworld —
the Ordinary — gives way —
like Salt — in a spent Broth.
The Moth-chew — in the Wool-blend —
the Tallow — in the Cloth.
Each hangnail wound — a specimen —
bared beneath the light.
I have seen the storefronts
fold hands — men embalmed upright.
“A Micro-loss,” the Doctors humpf,
already eyeing the clock.
But the Blood — it knows no Magnitude.
It pumps — a frantic Scale.
The Vagus —
a viscous Wire — frayed —
the System — poised to fail.
What becomes of a Small Grief — deferred.
Does it crust — like a Sugared Scar.
It does.
Like the Pyrex you keep meaning to soak.
Does it scab — a Low-grade Lesion —
Thicken — like bacon-fat congealed at dawn —
Cling — like mold-apricot Jam on a dulling Knife —
or settle — a heavy Silt —
upon the kitchen floor
behind the Rubbermaid’s swollen mouth.
In the grout — where mop-water darkens —
by the drainboard — settling like Roach Eggs in Flour —
and the day gathers
what’s left.
I am the Tally-maker — of the Unlived.
The Self — a Pane — of trembling freezer-glass —
with grease-pencil — wrapped in foil —
a cold confession kept.
No Eulogy — for the 10mm socket.
Nor Trace — for the Tuesday in the sleet.
Only the Broth-dark Corner —
where the lipids skin over —
and no one scrapes it clean —
hunger aside.
just the wild edge — of a small death —
that does not —
and never did.
weathered fences broken slacks
covered the shores of tan grit
that stained the walk way
of uncharted territories
i frolliced about tainted steel
the hidden smell of poshed hair tonic
as i reached for the door handle
quickly comforted by thought
mingling about stirring about
cold tire rims spinning spokes
i'd remember the jaded hours
focused on the infamous
coming of the dawn
shattering balance and lure
dangling about crowded burroughs
empty canals and rows
of rail road tracks
nestled underneath rusty viddocks
lined with vacant storefronts
filled with the stench
of molded cartons rotten produce
and spoiled fish morbidly covering
thee abandoned market place
In heat
the pulse of your streets.
I've heard the crack
of hard political whips
that pinch the air.
Cores of human topography,
your aging neighborhoods.
Your people kick cans
counting gravel like jewels,
while chiselers roast dogs
in the courthouse.
Swine flu kills
the papers.
And already the sky is
feverish.
In your train tunnels
a violinist plays pianissimo.
I've seen
railroad men search for him
along your tracks.*
But you are always
the sweltering sore
of the Atlantic.
A rusty mouth
for dark ships.
A blind brick town
of boarded storefronts
and ***** flicks,
you are buried.
Brown bag your way
to the last alley.
The tenants throw
rocks at your windows.
The rain has stopped
washing your sewers.
*From an old legend of
railroad workers on the east coast of the United States.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
Nail walking down the street
Carrying a bagful to fix something
For the master who owns my dreaming
Storefronts lolling sidewalks asleep
Night quiet jazz, Erie, PA
The endless road breaking cartons
Locked doors being kidnapped jumping
fences getting spotted running away
Dreaming snatches of words in the air
Fine milky jazz boots on a roll a train
That passes at 10 a,m, cars with their vapor
Mist the chuga-chuga sound of a boxcar to
No-where the rattling of walls when you are
Alone hot tea Lorrianne in a skirt a poetry
Reading in N.Y. moving out with only the
Shirt on my back going down,back,out, taking
Chris to the mermaid bar covered in sand, no shoes
Living nearby close to the sea, changing
Having enough cool to chill sand enough to scratch
That you never itch life that you're full
Digging the Diz and jack going, back going, back going
Because you want to/needing nothing' nothing but a little
Taste now and again just being free doing it instead of it
doing you
Once upon a stranger,
a girl — a well-intentioned woman —
walked with an open soul,
her eyes silvered with withheld sighs.
Behind that quiet gaze,
a seraphic smile concealed its sorrow,
gleaming through daydreams,
as folk songs whispered of her tender defiance.
Once upon a moment,
I heard soft whispers fade —
inside a bus on a starry August night.
She rose to glimpse the world once more,
hope glimmering heavy in her eyes,
half in joy, half in fear.
Once upon what it seemed,
the empty streets turned mirrors —
cold storefronts, dim alleys.
By night she stumbled through silence,
by day she wore her wounds as armor,
wandering through the city’s dense forest
of unaccompanied paths.
An unchained soul, yet caged
by society’s ugly parodies —
cells built from shame and duty.
She pondered the dreams reality killed
as she passed through shanty streets,
escorted by echoes of laughter now gone.
Once again her hope returned:
to fill the void with beauty,
to rise above the dimmed faces of her class.
Her dreams, still burning,
to rekindle the lonely, to build what she was denied —
a quiet joy that glowed against despair.
Once upon a loop of forever after,
lamentations deepened.
Between forced vows and a fractured home,
she lived a life too succinct —
raped, abused, unseen.
Darkness grew familiar,
a slow descent into thoughts unspoken.
And her world took its turn —
the light grew distant,
and she folded into herself,
too late for prayers or wishing wells.
Once upon a stolen dream.
Once upon a neglected childhood.
Once upon a trembling womanhood.
Once upon time, and time again.
A bowed head,
seeking shelter from the tempest —
and as she lies on her five-foot mat,
deep in sleep where dreams unfold,
the queen rises once again,
seraphic and free
in her ultimate paradise.