Long Up to snuff Poems
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I like to read a book just once,
No matter how I like it;
So when I finish, from my list,
I’ll go ahead and strike it.
The same applies to Broadway shows –
One time is quite enough;
If I go back again, it seems
It’s just not up to snuff.
For movies, though, this won’t apply,
Or certain TV shows.
When favorites hit the screen, I’m glued;
That’s just the way it goes.
Today I went against my rule,
(A habit I should fix)
So we saw “Once” a second time
(My husband had cheap tix).
It reaffirmed that I should always
Take my own advice,
For seeing “Once” just once was great;
I overdosed on twice.
Sam and Twitch, two partner cops
bust the bad guys in the chops
they found corruption
and much disruption
in the NYPD shops
Sam was big, and loud, and gruff
with criminals, he was rough
tendency to curse
sometimes even worse
he’s the first to call a bluff
Where Sam was brawn, Twitch was smart
Angles were his state-of-art
twin pistols twirling
steady aim sterling
simple logic off-the-chart
With Al, confronted evil
sometimes causing upheaval
finding rotten cops
pulling out the stops
integrity retrieval
Their story stops in interrupt
as sales were not up to snuff
sadly the tale ends
without fair amends
their end was much too abrupt.
We expected an Amazon box,
Which had toothpaste and sandals and socks,
Plus a few odds and ends
Which, when Amazon sends,
Rarely ends up with stumbling blocks.
Yet the package, this time, never came
And we’re not really sure who to blame,
For the app said, “You’ll find
That the doorman had signed,”
But he didn’t, despite what they claim.
Finding someone to help was a chore –
Service isn’t like it was before –
But at last we were told
There’s a one-day long hold
So the whereabouts they can explore.
We will wait before calling their bluff,
Though I doubt that they’ll locate our stuff.
Once I thought they were great
But I’ve noticed, of late,
Amazon isn’t quite up to snuff.
Welcome to a world where brute strength isn’t quite enough
All your fears you didn’t know you had make sure you’re up to snuff
Take a look at all your allies and step forward now
Deep within the center of this world’s where you will show
Courage from a Paladin’s blade
Wisdom from magic obtained
Deep in this world so foreign
Ancestry; your test shall begin
Have you given up on those you have now left for dead?
If you were completely alone, would you continue to tread
On the path you never would have thought you would explore?
Or would you just sacrifice all that you’re fighting for?
Soldiers combat for the goal
A world razed until all is cold
Prevention is why they all fight
Heroes from the blue unite.
Written By: D. Collins 2/14/19
When you first peep it, its like, what's up with that?
Keep eyes on it, but keep it under your hat.
Sit back and observe, then connect the dots.
Release a team only loyal to a human robot.
Through all the drama, keep your mouth shut.
Let the targets, solely, bring you up to snuff.
They keep doing what they do, thinking you're not there.
Reach out and touch a few, proving you ain't going nowhere.
Then you lower the net to catch all of the fish.
Those who lie under oath, dig their own ditch.
If they only knew, you already have the goods.
"I Don't Recall" ain't working like it once could.
Don't get bored, we are getting to the climax.
All the little fish will note proficiencies they lack.
And, when you put it on paper, right in their face.
The only thing left to say is, "I REST MY CASE".
He always kept a special place within his heart for church
when every time he felt that way he'd rush away in search
That every time a woman yelled he wasn't up to snuff
he'd go away to church that way and pray she's not enough
That on his way to pray that way
he'd never felt so simple
When saying he himself's that way
was standing up for simple
That on his way to see there's more
for kindness that's quite simple
He knew that they were very fierce
and bold enough to cripple
That he would find a way to go
for not to be as little
When kindness for his church would say
they're shelter from the whittle
And Terry knew to find his way
for losing pain he had
When he would say the one true God
is just what he'd kill sad
I went back to my childhood home.
To recite a few secondhand lines at a first-rate funeral
to try and hold up the survivors' bones.
A half century is a long time to be away from home.
Everything is off, smaller, colder, shadows in children's places.
I was surprised to see a new serf occupying my childhood home.
Most of the climbing trees were gone along with birdsong.
I rode around my old town with my most recent soulmate.
She's uninterested in my ghosts; she just wants something to eat.
I continued with the tour of the sad and pathetic.
"This is where I had my first six-pack.
In the bushes with the bad girls aside the railroad tracks.
The beer was warm and stolen and tasted really bad.
We used to throw stones at the cars that were piggybacked."
One day the train got revenge, gobbled up my puppy...
He was a curly-headed ball of happiness...his name was Fuzzy.
He squeezed under the fence; or somebody left the gate open...
Quality control was never quite up to snuff in our home.
I paid the karmic train with compounding interest.
"Those apartments used to be a green field
where we used to play baseball.
That law office used to be a candy store.
I guess you could say it went from sweet to bitter. Hà ha."
It's nice to see that the ice cream parlor survived
Although the service with a smile did not.
In short, you could fit my childhood into a half-mile square.
An 8-block nest, smaller but sweeter than the Vatican.
It was in high school when life got serious
Some kids overdosed,
some got pregnant
Some did heroin
Some just settled for hash
Some had big dreams
Some simply snapped.
For most, it was our first taste of death.
A few ran away to make a bigger mess.
Life turned from golden ribbons into tangles of stress.
Struggling with the undertow of tomorrow.
The chaining then slaying of innocents.
They say you can never go back.
The gears of time are without consciousness.
Time will not hesitate to chew your heart up.
Sacrifice you to the scrub of responsibility, measured fun.
Time invites melancholy, resists nostalgia. -
It's fond of guiding memories
onto train tracks, warm beer and dead puppies.
Now, as a general rule, sergeants are rather decent guys,
Compassionate, reasonable to a degree and uncommonly wise.
But woe to the private who incurs a sergeant's wrath;
That young feller is destined to tread a very treacherous path!
For minor infractions, privates are relegated to the latrine,
To scrub and polish therein to make it squeaky clean!
A prudent private daren't give his sergeant any sass,
Or he'll push a lawnmower, cutting acres of never-ending grass!
If in close-order drill and saluting he is less than deft,
The sergeant will nix his pass, leaving the lad bereft!
Lord have mercy if buttons are missing from his uniform;
That will incite the sergeant into a massive, raging storm!
If he fails barracks inspection, he'd best not make any plans,
For he'll be in the dining hall scrubbing pots and pans!
If his haircut is not up to snuff, that'll add to his plight;
He'll be pacing his post on guard throughout the lonely night!
Although some sergeants are more endearing than many others,
And some it seems could be loved only by their mothers,
A canny private will play the game and abide with all the guff,
Praying his hitch will end, never more to suffer all that fluff!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
In "The Shootist", J.B. Books is not feeling up to snuff.
He has cancer. What are the concerns
of a man dying.
To die
commensurate with the way he lived his life.
Books dies in a gunfight.
McIntosh dies in the desert, under a broken wagon,
fighting Indians.
Norman Thayer will die of heart failure
by the side of his wife, Ethel.
Two police officers
die investigating a stolen moped at a gas station
in the Bronx.
One buys it between the eyes, the other in the back.
The killer out on early parole
from a manslaughter rap.
The DA blames the judge, the judge blames the parole board,
and the board says the jails are overcrowded.
What should I be doing, old turtle.
Devote myself to re-order the world
or crawl off to a lonely spot and preserve myself.
We are trying
to educate everyone to their individual capacities
and see that all are fed, clothed and sheltered adequately.
Because the suffering of one citizen makes suffering
for another, the slow death of one sometimes makes
the sudden murder of another.
There is this
black rock we live on and its lovely mantle of green.
It is all that is perfect. And everything of it is
perfect that respects its integrity. On the subway
I was amused to find, hidden in the confused
mass of anonymous, bleak graffiti, unseen
by the studied, expressionless passengers,
in pink, delicate script, vertically written,
the word *****.
People are the element I live in.
The world is pushy, we are bone,
the numbers of us overwhelm.
It is going to be hot again soon
and the Bronx will actively resent it.
Books dies in Carson City,
only two or three people will miss him at all.
He died alone as he lived,
with his enemies.
While on my watch today,
My grandson fell and split his lip.
It wasn’t quite my fault, but still,
I thought my heart would rip.
One minute he was racing
Back and forth in utter glee,
When suddenly he tripped and flopped
Three steps away from me.
I scooped him up and hugged him close;
His blood dripped on my shirt.
I knew he’d be okay
But couldn’t stand that he was hurt.
An ice pop offered by his mom
Both soothed and made him smile.
In minutes, he was up to snuff
And ready to beguile.
His lip will still be puffy
For a day, but it will heal;
Yet it will take much longer
To get over how I feel.