Long Ungracefully Poems
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A mess inside out
From head to toe
Her boat, afloat
But refuses to go
A dime piece if she tries
But prep, a bore
Hops in the car
Her purse by the door
Cruising the highway
Radio blaring
Singing ungracefully
People staring
Can't paint a picture
Or tie a decent bow
But something about literature
Gives her a glow
She will write about the moon
And it's many craters
From midnight till noon
A word generator
Painting pictures with words
Building bridges with thought
Most remain unheard
For listeners, she's sought
It doesn't pay the mortgage
Or dress the table
But it gives her an edge
And she is mentally able
God gave her this passion
There must be reason
So she'll use her ration
And wait for her season
~~A chess match is an opaque mirror into societal clash.
Slippery rules and taboos playing upon a checkered past.
Balcony kings and queens glaring down on the lower caste.
Ramparts buttressing crooked flanks, serfs in the murky front.
Devouring dirt, taking the brunt of many skirmishes to come.
Senators riding sky horses, gliding so high above the fight.
Neighing nonsense -fanning their brand of hellfire lies.
Speedy-tongued bishops blitzing on the slanted slide.
In our faces, showcasing only the wrongs of our lives.
Black and white toppling ungracefully to the side.
Flimsy smiles and flint handshakes without dialogue.
Another fiery stalemate on the blazing horizon.
(my fashionably late xmas greeting
could long foster for this century 21 a meeting
of thee poetic minds pleasantry sent once
boot not worth reap peat ting).
up in the air
mine barrel sized girth
sloshes with cheap beer
wishing many strangers
happy holidays and good cheer
making me suitable
as santa claus and his team of rein deer
chewing gum to avoid
popping in both left and right ear
yet the rickety sleigh
may not become air borne I fear
landing ungracefully
scattering presents and gear
if wooden contraption alights,
a horrendous crash many will hear
no doubt instigating
children and adults to jeer
comparing this jolly fellow to king lear
yet running for the hills
as this mad man gets considerably near
the madding crowd,
who expected a more
healthy saint nick to a pear
with healthy physique
instead of the trademark outsize rear
which cause for observers
to guffaw and sneer
whereby my trademark suit
will seemingly tear
and reveal that this clown
wears frilly under wear
prompting me to avoid
accepting this role for next year.
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread
inviting.
Between those limbs, chords darken
where pale angels go blind.
A deep ewer of sound
pours from palpating fingers.
While her other hand
strokes the pulse of a
sonorant beast
carved from lava.
Her body croons
wrists cuffed to the music,
closed eyes
bathe naked in dark pools.
A depth climbs to a tree top
yet the music
is still the lowest place on earth.
I am nudged into her
by the sweep of her arm,
the weeping intensity
of her shoulders.
The cantabile purse
of her open lips.
There is no place to be
other than inside
the voice of her cello,
skull drumming
to a spiccato cadence,
as her bow softly taps
on the strung spine
of a bruised sorrow.
Lord, have mercy! Who is that in the mirror I view?
That can't be me with the gray-haired hue!
Seems only yesterday I was a jaunty thirty-five,
Now, I'm reminded that I'm nearing seventy-five!
What are those brown spots on my hands and face?
On top of my pate, I observe a sizeable bald space.
To further deflate my ego, I wear a pair of specs.
Alas, I'm rapidly becoming one of those mortal wrecks!
My teeth grin at me from a glass on the table,
And I have a cane handy to keep me stable.
In the morning as I arise I detect a creak.
Is that the bed springs or my bones making that squeak?
In church I must occupy the very front pew.
From the rear the preacher's words are hard to construe.
It takes me more time to shuffle around the block.
After all, I'm no longer a twenty-five year old jock!
Sometimes I feel as if I'm falling apart,
But thankfully there are docs, their services to impart,
And if they can manage to keep me all patched up,
I'll get around, thank you, as well as any young pup!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread
inviting.
Between those limbs, chords darken.
Do I lean into the cello
or her?
A deep ewer of sound
pours from deft palpating fingers,
while her other hand
strokes the pulse of a
sonorant beast
carved from blood and lava.
Her body croons
wrists cuffed to the music,
closed eyes
bathe naked in dark pools.
A depth climbs to a tree top
yet the music
is still the lowest place on earth.
I am bound to the music in her,
by the sweep of her arm,
the weeping intensity
of her shoulders,
the cantabile purse
of her parted lips.
There is no place to be
other than inside
the voice
but whose voice?
My bare skull drums
to a spiccato cadence,
as her bow taps
on the strung spine
of a bruised sorrow,
one that for a long moment
we both share.
The cello is between her legs,
skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread.
sexually inviting.
The cello drums her
Thrums her darkness
Into blind angels
The cellos voice is her voice
Her body sings through it
Or is the cello making love to her,
making her body sing
into its hollow mouth?
I am mesmerized by her closed eyes
behind those eyelids the music runs naked.
The bow and her hands weave
moon drenched emotions
The bow is low
it nudges my body sideways into a place
where souls go to weep and rejoice
in the same instant;
there is no name for that place,
it is somewhere inside the cello
where her soul sings.