Long Vista Poems
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“Universe is an endless verse “--Poet
ENDLESS UNIVERSE
Void cosmos, no matter, no energy,
neither time nor space.
Big Bang exploded.
Energy, matter appeared.
space to set, time was on: Simultaneous.
Mysterious debut.
Universe was created: An EVERLASTING existence.
Time running INFINITE.
BOUNDLESS expansion continuous.
LIMITLESS space procuring perplexity.
BOTTOMLESS to plumb depth.
Non-destructive Energy: Potential and Kinetic.
ETERNAL cosmic flow carrying conscience in dormant state.
Life and soul entwined going under evolution
on slow continuation always approaching betterment
seeking manifestation
in versatile formats with multi-faced pattern.
Blind progress on Natural selection,
non-judgmental but just Universal.
Unplanned! Nothing schedule,
yet continual rectification of flaws
to open new vista setting Universal Laws.
A never-ending complexity.
UNBROKEN whole sum entity,
having profile with ever changing style
adapting Environ: Main criterion.
Dynamic relentless effort
processing more and more perfection.
Quality tending to eternity.
Universe is an ENDLESS verse beyond perception.
The gods were deleted and the tribes archived
the Vista-View—two bedrooms
beige-on-beige a fungal beard
colonizing the microwave’s lip
You watched the iron bars then the glass
then the greenish biometric light
the glass drinks the whorls of your thumb
a cyan leech labeling the ridges before
the neurons arrive early
coaxing a instinct to open its eye
matter blinking awake in their wake
always a beat behind
its outline—stubborn delayed—stumbling to catch up
A vertebra clicks and the world misfires
the locker room’s thick lactating reek
wet cement and the chemical musk of
Axe Phoenix—a scent so violent
it strips the insulation
it kicks you back into the teenage animal
gristle of your own neck
3:14 a.m. at the Wawa parking lot
sodium lamps stutter in saltatory arcs
leaking amber data into the asphalt
a signal failing to hop the gap
unsure which reality they are meant to illuminate
You a prisoner
You the Ouijaboard
the opera is transcribed in unpaid late hours
stripped myelin pale lipids drifting like snow
the white noise of your own making
slowed to an unmarketable frequency
The listening that is not a listener
does not want your confession
it waits for the precise imperceptible
asymptomatic instant
your respiration falls out of compliance
Status: nerve sheath thinning
Status: saltatory conduction faltering
Status: epineurium issuing final instructions
What a splendid vista is displayed when a new dawning is begun!
No mortal artist could create a canvas as magnificent as the setting sun!
Mere poets can never express in their most flowing verse the beauty thereof!
But of these, there is nothing, absolutely nothing more beautiful than love!
Love glowed in their hearts when they were united as man and wife.
Romance was very much alive as they celebrated 50 years of wedded life!
They weathered the vicissitudes of life with beams of Love from Above.
Ah! There is nothing, absolutely nothing more beautiful than love!
What overwhelming love warmed your soul as you held your newborn child!
Tears of happiness welled in your eyes as it peered at you and sweetly smiled!
That precious and helpless little gift from God - you felt so undeserving of!
The thrill of it! The very thrill of it! There's nothing more beautiful than love!
There is nothing that binds like love for comrades marching into battle,
To face the stench of war, the roaring cannon and the muskets' rattle!
They press on caring only for their buddies, facing perils undreamed of,
Forfeiting life that others might live free - now that is unconditional love!
'Tis love when a father donates a kidney that his little son might live.
'Tis love when foes find it in their hearts to forget and forgive.
Love for one another is what this troubled world is more in need of.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing at all more beautiful than love!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
How large the pearlescent sun seems today.
Yet it is dying, its flaming rays ineffective.
After a long hot day, tired, it must be spent.
So patiently it descends out of humanity’s vista,
Far across the sea, behind the shimmering horizon.
We enjoyed the calm stillness of eventide.
Quietly the moon takes its rightful place.
Shining in a wan mysterious way,
Night intensifies as stars twinkle all around,
Above gardens plumb in the middle of the vale.
How we adored the perfume of so many flowers,
Especially the crimped fuchsia edged white star flowers.
The moon lightening effulgently the rugged paths
Of the mysterious countryside around,
Fragrance everywhere with a gentle tang.
On mountains far away feral dogs howling their random growl,
While countless cicadas commence their orchestrated song,
Hell bent on mating before their adulation time is up.
It is good we need have no hurry, dear,
So, we can relish our time together.
With a small mandolin I thrum a love song,
As we huddle close under the banyan tree,
Fireflies dance their intricate dance.
I snuggle my head against your soft cheeks.
How smooth and pleasant it can be,
As our lips meet and savour our delight.
Dreaming of our future and days to come.
16 March 2021
Placed 2
Climbing Like Me
I climb to some lofty place I've never known, as one by one...,
my feet alight the ladder rungs, though blistered now.
I look up from the swaying, rickety works that ascend toward the heavens.
Dreaming of down below..,
where there is a ground.
Now, try to remember what it felt like to walk barefooted...,
through grass, and mud, and the sandy stream bed.
From this vantage, the distant vista, my toiled years I see.
The meadows, the hills, and the misty mountains beyond.
I take my rest and watch the children playing far below,
and feel the coolness of the growing twilight.
Down below there is a chance for redemption.
Up here, on this ladder of my choosing..,
there appears none.
Thirsty now, so many years gone, I long for the taste of cool water,
that flows so far below, so cool.
A small smirk plays across my face as I begin the climb again.
I look out for miles, at the multitude of ladders.
All of them climbing, squandering precious moments...
like me.
A crepuscular theatrical serene speech prompt,
slip spill in an echoey pattern down my soft skinned ear,
as I was captivated by the gloss quilt luminance of,
glow worm stars, silver moon tarpaulin, indigo horizon,
elysian sidereal dust that so magnetic trance,
I dwell on flawless antique navy blue tapestry,
of enthralling nocturnal mirth streamed murmur,
timelessness a slow tick second hand mesmerizer,
symbiotic solitude on moulded granite bench,
whets intense yearning as my elevated odyssey,
where gilded gust a universal sage’s hint from,
invisible zone whose through the age enchantment,
forevermore a velvet hush, a lush chrysalis,
metamorphosis at a peek, diurnal cyclic mystery,
forevermore I am an affluent lodger to telluric haven
riddle of the night
unveils its lucid passage,
beyond mortal span
Heaven within an effervescent spiral steam moiety,
juxtaposed across emblazoned morning patch
immortal,
of swooning sun whose rays bounce off garnet veins,
me, spectator, bard, curator of reflection for posterity,
this tantalised dawdler in a dewdrop leaf coppice,
majestic mountain summit under dawn spell,
arousing passionate interwoven interface of cordial,
bonhomie link to merriment, auroral pathos,
perpetual and beyond expansive firmament,
romantic fingertip alignment in surreal fog tango,
where pounding heart oath infinite in salient scope,
blue lagoon bounty, argent cascade, rainbow chaser,
dizzy upper echelon beauteous my twinkled torrent of delirium,
forevermore, longer longing, forever as this wonder world dervish,
waltzing through eternal mists, with my zest for life,
as gold encrusted passport to a rapturous paradise
daylight points the way
to lasting beauty on earth
cherish the vista
Picasso, oval face and olive eyes,
always solemn and searching.
Pushing boundaries, challenging authority,
his artistic torch cut through the fog of life.
At times his scrutiny turned inwards.
Self-critique of the physical and the psychological took hold.
Could it be self-doubt or ego which drove him on?
Or was it simply a visual diary of moments in his life?
1901, subdued bluish tones portray young Picasso in an older light.
Sadness and solitude emanate from the cloaked figure.
Though beset by trials and tribulations
he stands proud gazing at his audience.
1907, the face of cubism unfolds
angular features with large searching eyes.
He seems lean almost undernourished.
His sombre outlook dominates the vista.
1972, and then the end draws near.
Staring his own death in the face
there is fear in his sunken eyes.
Flesh nearly gone reveals his skull for all to examine.
Pablo asked, “Are we to paint what’s on the face,
what’s inside the face or what’s behind it?”
The recognisable image becomes less and less distinct,
until what is left is the naked soul.
And Pablo said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
But eventually the soul becomes dust and all that is left is a memory.
We will always remember Pablo,
for art is life and life is art.
-----------------------------------
2020 published in PS: It's Poetry, pp.286-287
2019 November 26 *1st Place*
Your Favorite Artist Contest
Sponsored by: Anne Cooke
When I imagine my iconic vistas of love,
I watch a sunset
red and yellow,
purple and pink,
bruised lavendar and darkening grey
until pointing jagged mountain peaks
turn to black understoried landscape
plunging against gravity
toward a slowly emerging sea
of glittering stars
Twinkling pinpoints
of light's long poignant memories.
I imagine this vista
through my velvet brown-skinned manchild's deep autumnal eyes
starting back and forth,
side to side,
without capacity or need for language
to absorb Earth's dusky light
and pine-soaked scent
turning up toward dancing brights
'til dawn's epiphany of grey
then transgressing violet lust
for sensuous life.
I imagine iconic eros vistas
and feel internal agape
conjoining philos,
appearing nowhere
except together,
like Yang strong bright
and Yin flow night.
When was the last time we made love?
Some of the time you were tired,
Most of the time you were not in the mood.
And you just saw me with another girl,
You are not having another having eyes for me!
A badly maintained man is hazardous,
And tonight you can not wait for pillow talk,
Tonight you want to eat me whole,
Tonight a spot of jealousy ignites a vista of pleasure.
What do you think I would ever do for love,
When I do not get it at home,
And you saw me with another woman,
You are not having another smooch with me.
Seems to me competition that makes you be,
What kind of love would that be,
If you only want to take away the love given to me?
Chambermaiden, a damsel in distress,
Cinderella, Prince's Valet high on Stella's finesse.
A fury by a butchered phreak,
screaming at him, no mercy to speak.
Living in underworlds with the creeps,
foreshadowing defeat.
Inebriated ex-socialite seeks Bhang,
meets manservant, hopping with the gang,
dodging a renegade from Hades,
in her ’98 Mercedes, green as despair,
his fate—servitude, escape just a prayer.
"Come hither, quiver, express card in the dresser,
stressor, benefactor, donor,
red eye for an eye—see it from my side,
in the black, red ink, brink.
Debutante saunters higher,
landing on her supplier’s bones."
Manservant spending nights with Pythia,
maxing the visa, obscuring the vista,
canopy open, hair blowing,
severing ties with the Phreak,
berated as he summits an intellectual, sexual peak.
"We reincarnate in the ether,
post-war fever,
two Gemini after Hiroshima,
ending the edema."
Trajectory lost in audio-tronic streams,
specters vocalize on the chorus machine,
sonic dream, quiet screams in a Fiesta,
sunset serene,
ready, keen,
torn apart at the seams.
Godless oracle with a Pluto-shaped crater,
underneath the beret,
Immortal spun out on prognosis,
rage hitting me deep.
Pythia, flushed, bitter red,
breath heaving, chest heaving.
Words stumble in gasoline,
purple and green.
Bumbling, fumbling, hostile,
peeling paint from blank walls—
committee, selective few.
Pity for Pythia,
teetering off the ledge,
obscene, smoking green.
Words paid for by the prophet of industry,
servant of power,
planting his own crop,
finding the hot spots.
Houses for dots on success’s map,
cheques signed to a woman on edge,
running from wrecked family homes,
parking lot regret.
Catching an ounce from a mobile house,
rolling down the street,
rent-a-wrecked, reeking of cheese.
Row upon row, he patrols,
marking targets with IOUs,
fast sales, cold criminal moves,
overcharging intoxicated fools.
Out of luck but not the stooge,
trading stash for a getaway dash
with his honey from the shadowed street,
whistling off-kilter,
mouth full of vapor, exposed brain-meat.
She fell from Olympus’s feet,
thrown out for misdeeds,
new queen on the block,
urgency speaks