Long Wielded Poems
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A wizened little old man hunkered over his bench.
Gnarled hands wielded screwdriver, hammer and wrench.
Hung on the walls of his shop, all types of clocks were arrayed.
He'd been a clock maker for decades - he was master of his trade.
His quaint little shop was set in the Black Forest of Bavaria.
For his horology craft he was renowned in all the area.
Always smoking a pipe, the smoke forming a wreath about his head;
On his cluttered workbench, springs, gears and wheels were spread!
He could repair any old clock in a trice,
And have it back up and running for a reasonable price.
He could make you a fine clock from oak or cherry wood,
That would make you the envy of the neighborhood!
He adjusted pendulums to ensure a synchronous tick and tock.
Grandfather, cuckoo and mantel clocks he made from stock.
He took pride in his guild and his clocks are antiques today,
And in antique stores and museums, you'll find them on display.
To make his clocks he used no fancy lathes or tools,
Nor did he learn his craft in one of those elitist schools.
He dear old Father taught him everything he knew,
Telling him, "Son, be accurate and "timely" in all you do!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Melancolie
The August heat is hotter than other summer months
more lethal going in for the kill,
The olive trees gasp, bark crackles and leaves hang
lifeless, but the sun keeps on shining
I think of Norway. to be back to my hometown run
down to the park and remember the joy when
Stavanger became a modern town Cafe Alexander
where one could have a pint of beer without eating
a sandwich that has been the norm
The idea was to stop people from drinking alcohol
that was, in our narrow-minded society, a great sin
there were other places to go on a Friday, say
Inter cafe, but to get in after nine, you had to be a friend
of the doorman who wielded immense power but
was open for a bribe
Then there was a place called "Hunters Lodge." always
full, the dominating waiter at the inn, grew wealthy
taking bribes, keeping order his way, believing in
free enterprise.
It often rains in my hometown, and I refuse to carry
an umbrella, which is a defeatist sign giving into
the vagary of the weather.
As I walk on steep streets, I remember how sad I was
feeling like a loser and not finding the tune, I knew
was there only to get old and understand that I had
demanded too much of life, the not obtainable
perfection
The Potter and the Blacksmith..
I can hear the distant muted sounds,
Sounds that are clouded in mystery and memory,
Hammer steel, scree,
Clank,
Clank,
Clank, metal on metal
Brazen and hard the un-pliable steel,
Forged by sweat and blood,
I can feel it, feel it in my bones,
Turning, banging, pulling, forming
The Master bending and clanging upon His proud work-in-progress,
For some are like the clay upon the potters wheel,
Easily pliable, soft and fragile, made for a specific purpose,
While others are hard like the steel whom the blacksmith
Heats and beats into a formidable weapon,
The work is more laborious and strained,
And the trials and tribulations we face at times unbearable,
But oh the lethal force wielded in hand.
The steel and clay did not choose its own design or composition,
It can only relent to being used for that which it was made.
Hank had cowboyed on the Triple T Ranch fer nigh on fifty years.
He'd rode the range herdin' beef peerin' betwixt his hoss's ears.
Durin' cattle stampedes he'd broke bones and many a time was throwed,
And he'd been astraddle his saddle so long that his legs was stiffly bowed!
He loved the cowpokin' life but he didn't become rich by any means.
He'd even come to savor Cooky's usual grub of bacon, taters and beans.
Durin' brandin' time he roped and branded many a steer's scruffy hide.
He was a master with the brandin' arn and he wielded it with skillful pride!
He liked lollin' 'round the campfire a-jawin' with pards beneath the stars,
Sippin' java that smelled like old socks, smokin' roll-yer-owns and ceegars.
He pulled many a nighttime guard duty in sleet, snow and peltin' rain,
Blowin' on his harmonica to calm skittish herds which was quite a strain!
He'll miss huddlin' 'round the bunkhouse stove as storms blew driftin' snow,
While he and his pals listened to Tex sawin' away with his fiddle and bow.
Hank hung up his scruffy boots, tattered chaps and sweat-stained hat.
He'd already given away his well-worn saddle and his 44 caliber gat.
This was Hank's last roundup herdin' cattle to Abilene up the dusty trail,
Cussin' and sweatin' to get 'em loaded up to ship on the Chicago rail.
He stopped by fer a few snorts with the boys at the Long Branch cabaret,
Then cantered off into the sunset on Old Dan his trusty hoss, callin' it a day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Bones of steel hard and cold
torn with fire from rocks so hard
fiery liquid hot burning bright
forced to serve the thoughts of man
Mountain highs sundered apart
their cold hard bones cut from within
shaped to be unyielding skin
to trap within and hold tight
cold flesh of land in fire placed
burnt with flame till colors flee
cast in forms that cannot hold
piercing beams of morning light
locked away trapped within
high above the distant land
gazing down so far below
held from where one would be
Windows bright hard and cold
placed where light will never be
morning sun does not shine
setting sun this place can’t find
cold shadows here occupy
where warming light cannot be
steals the warmth from those trapped within
and the hope they cannot find
hot tears they cry that fall and cool
anguished wails that ears don’t hear
trapped within and held a way
From all that they would be
knights within their armor fight
beneath colored banners in the breeze
magic trapped within the weapons held
wielded with skill hard earned
battles long they did fight
within the tower and mornings light
and into cold dark of night
endless the battle that they fight
the foe insidious will not yield
seeking ever against their might
attacks from shadows everywhere
cast by the falling of the light
hopeless cries in the night
within the tower high and cold
bones of steel and flesh of stone
and windows that never see the light
* an updated version of a piece I wrote for my favorite baller, Kevin Garnett *
~
intensity ... defined
excuses were for gods and gamblers
(lesser giants with fairer feuds)
HE ... was of a wholly-invested mettle and mind
the conscript of a checkered court
dauntless defender of glass and lattice
and the pride of a kingdom
grand and green.
chilled steel above
warm wood below
the thund'rous awe
each mightied blow ...
adversaries wept for his fervency
ability, focus, effort ...
at levels unequaled and as yet unseen
a vitality and resolve
that at times seemed immeasurable
expecting the utmost from his confreres and allies
yet far MORE from himself ...
of rare devotion to his cause and kind
a jaded gypsy who had found his home and heart -
the hallowed ground
worthy of his marrow and blood.
one honored hub
a stronghold land
worth ev'ry wound
each knuckled hand ...
he was clad in shining-yet-simple armor
- béni avec cinq -
that he wore with a generation's honor
and wielded a sword of sinews and strength
noble and knightly, but of ferocious intent
with a dignity, dark ... outspoken
mindful, selfless ... monstrous and mad
the grace and guile of a mongoose
with the hiss of a snake ...
the childish charm of a leprechaun
with the wild howl of a wolf ...
and a heritage that coursed his veins, veridian.
those demons, green
that spurred his dance
brought each his foes
naught e'er a chance ...
his fortress now stands empty
but the ramparts still tremble with his ire
the ether within those sacred walls
yet echos his roar
and strains to press a cheek
all for the sake of his standard and spoils
and thus, now -
yes, and none too soon
those rafters roil with a banner his own
and a kingdom, blessed, bows in reverence
for his consummation and creed
and the green blood that still stains his flesh
and those proud parquet floors …
one day that land's
bright sun may set
still, flames will burn
the name ... Garnett
thank you, KG!
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, September 2, 2020
A continuation of Rick Keeble's "The day innocence died"
The two sides locked eyes, neither wanting to blink, both ready to fight. The villagers though not out manned, their crude weaponry was no match for the glistening swords and ornate shields the Vikings wielded. The silence was almost deafening but fear rang loudly throughout the village, echoing in the hearts of those about to face battle. The Vikings, now in commanded battle formation took one step forward in unison as the villagers mirrored their movements, slowly and steadily, still not wanting to instigate the inevitable confrontation. Shutters were pulled closed and doors were locked by the women though that would only delay imminent, but it did create a small sense of security as they did whatever they could to protect their children and their own lives. A strong gust of wind blew through the center creating a dust cloud that momentarily disguised any threat that was coming, but when it fell still again the Vikings were that much closer. With swords and shields raised, the enemy advanced at a quicker pace as the villagers stood from behind their wagons and barricades waving sickles and clubs in the air. When suddenly from a doorway ran the young boy brandishing a wooden sword. He stopped directly in path of the two factions and seeing what was happening, took a defiant pose as he stared directly at the leader of the Vikings causing him and his horde to pause. He then turned his attention to the villagers, who stood still now as well. As a tear started rolling down his cheek he shouted . . .
Please read Rick Keeble's "The day innocence died"
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_day_innocence_died_844191
Okay, who's next???
Horrible, my map upended our time with boot camp son.
Horrible to get back to base, not be caught, had to run.
Horrible, to see Mom hurried into hospice, her hours few.
Horrible when we heard last sweet breaths, as time flew.
Horrible when a tree splintered the roof of our deck.
Horrible, the tree balancing, just above hubby, in check.
Horrible when eggshells were underfoot, a bad spell.
Horrible the slamming doors, curses and raising hell.
Horrible the gall stones and bladder, ended grand visit.
Horrible the nightmarish nettles that percoset gifted.
Horrible heaven’s so far away, like pot of gold source.
Horrible, like vagabonds, earthlings veer off course.
Horrible, the end of a savory and sweet meal.
Horrible the rancid leftovers of mortal ideals.
Horrible when poetry is no longer wielded, engaged.
Horrible when Armeggedon speaks, when war is waged.
He was the only one from the house of the dead at the cemetery
and he scared the living daylight out of other guests at the funeral
shuffled in rigor mortis and reaped a few condescending remarks
How dare he wield the scythe in his sick hand as if he was real
All the other mourners were dressed in white clothes and offered
eulogies so distorted that none recognized the deceased woman
who hence appeared to be an apparition hallucination and phantom
but he stood tall a few yards away from the expensive marble tomb
Wreathed and writhing she convulsed in her gold-plated coffin
tore the silk and satin lining in post mortal agony and disapproval
Those greedy bigots are shameful to pretend sorrowful everlasting love
they never took me seriously when I rejected their anger and wrath
I cannot breathe with such onslaught of hellfire and false tears
thought I had got rid of their dishonesty and dispassionate lies
Finally I could rest in peace and savour kindness and solitude
and then they spoil this moment and desecrate my final transition
Fortunately the ghost was for real and dispersed the demonstration
of counterfeit sadness cast a spell on the congregation had arranged
for water cannons tear gas and slurry and wielded jolly good canisters
of pepper spray to give them comeuppance and something to cry about
They did not know yet what she had decreed in her last testimony
made them wait for after the burial to prolong avarice and suspense
and delayed the opening of her will until one of them killed off the rest
Call it assisted and advanced suicide in the name of seeking the truth
18th February 2021
Reed Richards, Mister Fantastic, a logical wizard,
Susan 'Sue', invisibly caused many a blizzard.
The human torch, Johnny Storm, who caused blaze-smouldering flames
Ben Grimm, the monstrous thing, who, with his stone-like flesh, played games
Traditions they trespassed; boundaries they bound; Chores ignored;
Subdued the subversives; tackled the terrors; caused concord;
The king rogue Doctor Doom, planet-devourer Galactus
The bleak realm's Annihilus... each they crack as though fractus
Brisk, like lightning or thunder; shape-shifting when needed;
Brim-filling optimism and integrity, well-wielded
They were, yet, true human beings with hearts of flesh and blood.
They could, however, survive midst dire drought or fatal flood.
As global celebrities, as unconventional friends,
And as invisible miracles with fulfilling ends
They expanded the Marvel Universe and its ventures.
With all spider-web-like intricacies and indentures