Pick up your oar, sweet -
And row by me forthwith
Away from the huddled reeds;
Away - away, my intrepid!
The canyon rim keeps us
And also the foot of time
And sufficient tenderness
To carry us on wave and whim.
What will we find further on?
Jesus and the angels expect
What lies on the horizon
So let's go there on account.
R-ain
O-r
S-hine,
E-agerly
M-ake
I-t,
N-icely
E-mploying
T-he
A-im
N-ow
©bfa052725
Monocrostic (Birthday of Rosemine Tan)
light of life's reflections be seen as
within minds meme-ores...easier...
than heard as some physics-call of a
ringing headache as a reflect...shun...
stan sand
I rowed for what seemed like an hour;
the water gurgled oh so pleasantly.
I had the morning to myself:
no other boats as far as I could see.
Warmed up, I soon increased my stroke,
And pulled as I had never pulled before,
the legs on fire, heart thumping fast,
sweat ran in rivulets from every pore.
The timer dinged, so I got up,
flipped off the lights, and shut the basement door.
Away or home they slept beneath one roof,
And mingling breath in dreams were mighty pleased,
Fond memories dissolved in sweat released,
The rhythm of their breath a red hot proof
That each hour s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d like life lived on same page,
Yet, days spent lived apart looked like long years,
And a mere day’s dearth felt like entire age
To look as if their life ran in low gears.
And yet, a lot they travelled and alone,
And oft drifted apart in their own boat—
Two bodies but a single soul afloat,
Each hoping to moor side by side and prone—
And wanting none more than their boats to ply
In sustained buoy O rocking gently by.
______________________________________________________
Sonnets | 06.12.08 |
Long time ago, in lonesome youth shine
In a wonder state of boykind
Making paper pontoons
Skying an oar, in a creek lagoon
On a yummy, afternoon
In swampy, draconian, water spittoon
The artsy-crafty, paper tub boat
I heedlessly, knacked, to float
Voraciously, rocked and rolled
Swiftly, into wet slimy herbage
Between crying, wet, musty edges
Cruising, murmuring, delicate, breezes
While under perpetual, shiny, sky
With a calming, breeze, high
My desolate vessel going bye-bye
Sailing, sailing away
Like the days, that passed
When once, a young spirited sass
There is a special calm when you step upon the shore...
If the night was dark and you had only one oar.
There are times on life's lake when the storms blow and rage...
It can happen in our youth and even old in old age.
Things can be peaceful and quite then suddenly the waves appear...
And your heart becomes instantly gripped in fear.
The panic button is out of reach...
Then suddenly Jesus says, " Relax my child and let Me teach."
There is a special calm when you step upon the shore...
Especially if the night was dark and you had a broken oar.
TK<
Many a days i spent lost in her thought,
and the nights fled by imagining her by my side, though there she was not ,
but still my heart beats everytime,
trying to match her's with mine, like a synchronous rhyme,
but just as the dawn breaks in,
a horrid reality sneaks in,
and emerges right back in my mind , that dreadful thought,
that i so wished would have rather forgot,
the fact that shes there no more,
and my abandoned boat has now even lost its only oar!
Weave bin tolled ain't nothin' rimes with orange!
Weave bin duped end eye prey with this exchange,
Two rebutt all that nonsense,
With sum poetic lyecense,
Butt doubt that vary few minds aye will change!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
To direct thoughts as an oar guides a boat
Thoughts of good,not evil, rowing swiftly
Avoiding those whirlpools of tongue's cutthroat.
Trying always to row words that would lift.
Razor tongue get caught in the watefall.
Jumbled, twisted thoughts be steered to rough shoals
Trapped,hung on rocks to avoid a brawl.
Captain, turning my ship to you with soul.
Let the Pilot be life's guide everyday.
Swift may be the water, broken mine oar.
The Pilot will be mine help in all ways
Guiding safely through life to distant shore.
Mine flatboat, needing repair; broken oar
To Pilot give, now to you my soul soars.
Era propelled by time
Oozing onward and onward
Upon an endless rhyme
Where meaning becomes absurd
Moving along with age
Grasped by instance
Wrested, engaged
By tomorrow’s suspense
Held by the river of existence
Where our vessels flow along
Held by our presence
Where we belong
Alive to be activated
Destiny lies in our hands
Awaiting to be created
It’s only ourselves we strand
We choose to steer our vessel away
From the rampant torrents…
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