I went to the orchard to pick a pear.
I picked another so I’d have a pair.
But now their skins I’d have to pare.
One was all I had gone there for
but soon I had a basket with four.
For room, I moved them to the fore.
It got late and I had quite the load.
The hens roosted and the cattle lowed.
As I was leaving, I hit the Mother lode!
Well, now I had enough pears to sell.
Maybe I could even have a pear sale
or send them overseas by para sail.
Okay, I’m finished with my tall tale.
Oh, and about your day, please do tell!
I’m outta here – I’m draggin’ my tail.
Amber eyed angel, like a Greek goddess
Nostradamus too could not have foretold
Glowed in the night, luminous her bodice
Effulgence sublime, aura flaming gold
Locked her gaze with mine, beauteous yet bold
Velvet soft her touch, bliss caress divine
Intimate love throb caused nodes to align
She left me then, as magnetism heightened
Instant knowing beyond mind became mine
Tryst with angel thus, left me enlightened
08-December-2021
(Acrostic Dizain)
Disclaimer: Fictional account
(Not for contest)
Black folk kept in sad condition
By owners without contrition.
What to do, what to do?
Wage war for emancipation
And forge a fresh slave-free nation.
The Forrest-Byrd Klan and Jim Crow
Surely are the ones you should stow –
What to do, what to do?
They rule and oppress your city
Blame them not ones who set you free!
Martin loved character content
With black and white talents lent
What to do, what to do?
Stevie and Paul in unity
Played in sweet keyboard harmony.
Smooth Barack cooed high in A sharp
As Hillary lowed in B flat
What to do, what to do?
So white folks, none playing a harp,
Chose the black, how racist was that?
Oppressed rainbow coalition -
All races rate full admission.
What to do, what to do?
Name trophy oppressor maestros
Amin, Mao, Adolf, and Castro.
Critical race theory, woke
Marxist, oppressive and no joke!
What to do, what to do?
Its rancid retro racist sin
Embalmed in landfill would fit in.
The cymbals clanged
The drum boom boomed.
The pickle lowed
While the violin tuned
The trumpets drowned
The sound of the drum.
The conductor frowned
And cried for Mum
The fiddler fiddled
With his bow
The flautist giggled
Until she could not blow
The pianist played
Melodious and sweet
The conductor prayed
As the musicians took their seat
As the conductor raised his baton with flare
Wondrous music filled the air
It was marvellous to see
The orchestra playing in harmony
Forlorn sprawled
on dawning lawn
as sunlight steals
dew breath fawn
learn has never lorned
and fol
............lowed
........................lowered
Forlorn
against lorn
The moon had risen its light
Into my bosom taking a flight.
Lofted from pedestal, arise
from this life's caprice
so delight
still but cries.
Life's mortality lowed, renounce
Its memories; never pronounce
The blades, the grass forbade.
Yet the cup of mad,
the death, announce:
Love is bad.
If you yourself, befall;
Then you yourself, a fool.
The cows, they lowed
The sheep, they bleated
The pigs, they squealed
Herded together tight, overheated
Squeezed into lines
Individuality stripped
Indignity's design
Poked, prodded, whipped
through airport corridors
lines stretching forever
making tasty hors d'oeuvres
for blue-uniformed beasts, however...
E-arly
M-orn
M-arch
A-bates
R-ain
U-ntil
T-wo
H-as
G-lowed
A-s
D-awn
I-nitiates
Topic: Birthday of Emma Ruth DM Gadi (March 02)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Brutal and scourged bodies in fear,
This road; walked miles in silence,
Poor masses voices out in pain,
For a tyrant who never learns from the past.
His holiness on a second arrival,
On an errand to a stone heart,
Watered by a word, to the old wicked pharaoh,
What a re-occurrence?
How long can a strong heart lead you tyrant?
What direction would that be?
A mighty dictator eliminated by an apple.
What an Eve that led a dictator to destruction?
A dictator on his death,
Lowed below the open mud,
Naked.
Empty casket with all rites observed.
As those anthems came recurring,
Guns in the air to bid farewell to a dictator.
Our halcyon days will be restored,
Jubilation, celebration greets the exit of the ‘dark guggleman’.
Hank hired on fer a dollar a day an' found.
He wuz knowed as th' best bronc buster around.
They wuz allus a roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips,
An' he wore his jeans an' chaps low on his hips!
He wuz lean an' lank an' had spent years in th' saddle,
As bow-legged as pliers, spending so much time astraddle!
Wearin' an ol' slouch hat an' well-worn boots,
He'd rode many a wild bronc out uv rodeo chutes!
"Thar stands th' orn'riest critter alive!" th' boss implied.
"Thar ain't no mustang 'round I cain't tame!" Hank replied.
Other cowpokes ambled to th' corral to enjoy th' show,
An' with knowin' grins watched Hank earn his dough!
Th' bronc jes stood there snortin' with fire in his eyes.
Hank could see trouble! Boys, wuz he in fer a su'prise!
Sech hossflesh he'd never rode! He'd never seen sech gyrations!
His ol' bones had never experienced sech sensations!
He wuz throwed, stomped an' wedged agin' th' fence.
With his pals cheerin' him on an' things a-gittin' tense,
He 'lowed, "Boys, I give up! He's beat me good!
I reckon I'd better find myself anuther livelihood!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
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