A sea of marble markers
In perfect rows and place
Adorn the sprawling green
Above each cherished face.
Beneath the graven tombstones
Are soldiers low and dear.
Void of breath, still, at peace
Full of honor, lost in tears.
No one will forget these lives
Though silent, markers speak.
White monuments still stand
Like glorious mountain peaks.
Trumpets blare their tributes clear
Through somber, sobbing faces.
Salutes surround the site
Where loved ones kneel in places.
Their dear loss is not in vain
They bore great pain for us.
High is the soldier's worth
Come lift a grateful chorus.
“Let all thy joys be as the month of May, And all thy days be as a marriage day."
- Thomas Tusser
Potency of a May Marriage
Moistened with red, white and blue, May showers.
Patriotism hitched with joyful tin cans.
Waves, like salutes, admire sailors’ flowers.
Plucky roses set sail with nuptial plans.
Warmed, as if Cezanne’s tulips upon cheeks.
They’re at the peak of a Spring storm’s blessing.
Entwined, as if on a trellis, love speaks.
Potent, tender-hearted, two souls pressing.
The impact, of each raindrop on the glass,
Harbors the couple’s immemorial brass.
Most ardent Baron, nostalgic Bliss
Lover of land and the mighty sea
What more could you not resist?
Belize of my birth salutes thee.
Generations pause or linger
Where your ashen self yet slumber,
ships passing in the night have seen
Your phallic gift sparks new beams.
Lofty spot of courteous transplant,
"On your mark! get set! go!"
We're blessed, staying in the know,
Our youth still thrives triumphant.
*
In 1948 Nina Ricca released a new fragrance – L’Air du Temp which means present time. The first spicy floral fragrance. The bottle was designed by Lalique. The two intertwined doves represent peace after WWII.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Perfume Bottle
In the quiet of silenced cannons,
And odor of reviled salutes now impotent,
Midst plaster dust and stained souls
Of shattered windows
A flacon rises from battle torn ashes
Caressing the breath of a woman
In present time
As two doves intertwine
Above crystal swirls of sunshine
Reborn in signature scents of treaties.
Flawless guardian
For the newborn bouquet of hope,
Beneath wings of peace,
As a silhouette of scent
Overpowers the stench of gunpower
And ministers to children’s cries for bread
In a kiss from immortality
Accents of new notes for princess and pauper –
Spicy and floral –
Released like doves of peace.
Late November,
and lonely resonance of harmattan
salutes this solitude.
A weaverbird's contralto, in one
gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade
of a maisonette,
and the romance of the last seasons
shoots the long throat of the clarinet...
O'classicals, on wings
ye come;
leaf cusps and petal ears —
classicals, swearing oaths of
mellifluous assembly...
Calm rhythms hasten to the
ears of Beethoven —
summon him for a serenade,
lest the dark shelter of a
decrepit day strips this solitude.
Anodyne hisses among
this hidden threshold,
curing and healing the weakness of
Clepoatra's hair, dampened with
the venom of haters of vanity.
Classicals,
rid us now of this grief of mundane
dances...
Even in death, Stravinsky hails solitude
on notes of the keys.
From the clarinet,
the bimetallism of barter —
the platitude of life and death
(symbiosis of percussions)
epitaph to the aftermath of
inveterate tradition —
now and forever...
And the clarinet looms.
Let me rest,
For now I am tired of these quests.
What prize for me awaits?
Those hollow salutes and opened gates?
Or those meretricious praise that would echo,
When all I remember is catastrophic derecho?
Or the Olympus you promise with Canephor,
While all I yearn is peaceful plains and zephyr.
Or the victory parades in Roma you were storytelling,
While those 23 backstabs in my mind are dwelling.
Or those meadows habited with Nymphs?
While all I yearn is a solitary pond hazed by mist.
Or those kingdoms you promised of evergreen reign?
While all I yearn is the slow pit patter from canopy rains.
All you promise is a conquest full of allure and shine.
But what will you tell to those kids mourning and crafting shrines?
So let me walk away to where savannah's sway,
As I am exhausted of this reaper's haunting play.
So now let me rest, as I am haunted and tired of these quests.
Let me breathe where laws of nature weave,
Solitary where I can grieve.
parade had it all
toy soldiers, planes, tanks, salutes ~
a wannabe game
A Doctor of proctology
I can spot them a mile away
with or without the hats
nor the Nazi salutes
they may love their dogs to the max
canines won’t paw out their faults
Oh what stories vets could tell
the owners be in prison
or dropped down where they belong in hell
nicknames for three kids
Perky Pink, Road Runner and
Sailor Girl. in blink
of eye, gone and forgotten
will they even remember
how first i saw them
in hawaiian paradise
personalities
between Pearl Harbor sailing
and home life with pen in hand
a real pen not much
time to let ink imagine
with work and salutes
pretty and cute and active
might kids care to find
the scrawls of my heart
and penmanship less shaky
would the nuns be proud
in true days of motherhood
hug poems for my trio
Let no war death that wears a shroud,
And memorialized, do us proud.
Loud salutes distract us,
Nor pomp make undue fuss,
In vain are young heads rolled
For the ambitious old,
Silver streaks, stripes or not, dark goes death cloud.
___________________________
Happenings |16.12.2024|war, death, youth, old
Poet’s note: Wars are raging on many fronts in the world today. The ambitious old and the powerful plot these fights and young men pay the price with death. We must remember this before we commemorate fallen soldiers who are felicitated with medals in the spirit of Memento Mori in a matter-of-fact manner.
sunflowers gather
summertime fanfare salutes,
shining headliner
On the Garden State Parkway
In New Jersey state,
There are places to stop
To put food on your plate
Or put gas in your tank
Or prevent further grief
With a stop to the restrooms
To get some relief.
Certain rest stops are named
After locals of fame,
Since their monikers give them
A touch of acclaim.
One such area called
“Jon Bon Jovi” salutes
The adored well-known singer
With New Jersey roots.
I’m not sure if Bon Jovi’s
Possessed of a clue
That his namesake’s the place
People pee or they poo.
In the dawn’s first whisper, the sky’s canvas hums,
Brushstrokes of light spill from golden tongues,
Mountains of doubt in shadowed embrace,
Recede as the sun’s fingers paint its face.
Fields of promise stretch, a quilt of dreams,
Woven with threads of silvered seams,
Each blade of grass, a soldier in line,
Salutes the light as if it were divine.
Rivers of resolve carve paths unseen,
Through valleys of effort where hopes convene,
The stones beneath, silent witnesses’ grace,
Hold the weight of will in their steadfast place.
Stars above, those distant guides so bright,
Tug at the heartstrings of the night,
Their twinkling eyes trace celestial arcs,
Mapping the way through the cosmos’ sparks.
Embrace the dawn’s embrace with open hands,
As the heart's compass forever stands,
Guiding you through dreams’ vast terrain,
Where the spirit’s fire fuels the flame.
I often post my poems “A I” - (AS IS)
Spelchek uses “R”s and I don’t
We us “H’s” instead
(we paahk R caahs in Haavaad yaad)
We’ve been known
To pitch a B itch
Mostly about those F-N Yankees
We “gawk at visitors from New Yawk”
We eat “bay gulls” for breakfast
Sprinkle “jimmies” on our ice cream
Buy our booze at the “packie”
Return all one fingered salutes
Drink from the bottle…cuz we know the bartenders
Believe that crosswalks are for sissy’s
That “cursive” is a language
Our politicians are as crooked as our roads
We will BOO the home team when they “piss us off”
Then call them WICKED PISSA when they do well
(we even have it on cups and T-shirts)
AI would unscrew itself if it had to listen to our conversations
We are who we are
DEAL WITH IT…
Someone from New York will tell ya where to go
Someone from Boston will tell you how to get there
Four-score years ago, the youth of Allied Armies stormed Normandy's shore;
Men in the December of their years returned today recalling the gore of war.
They wept at comrades graves who freely gave their all on that crimson strand;
Heros reaped by the Scythe of Death to ensure that freedom would yet stand.
Old men wept as the dulcet notes of Taps was played,
And rendered smart salutes as Old Glory was displayed!
Many of the veterans leaned on canes to guide their stride;
Others in wheel-chairs were helped by guides to ease their ride.
Gnarled hands that once held the fearsome weapons of war,
Beckon for peace that we shall know war nevermore!
Upon the plain above Omaha Beach lie 9000 buddies they mourn,
Who await Gabriel's clarion bugle call on that Triumphant Morn!
The glistening sand that once was stained by a hero's blood,
Is now cleansed by the ebb and flow of decades of tidal flood.
The beach that once resounded with the cannon's roar,
Now trembles with the booming surf rushing to the shore!
The hardships these gallant men suffered, we shall never know;
So much, so very much, to this Great Generation we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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