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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
A well-appointed cowpoke, of whom there are still a few,
Wanted to be properly clad for his first job interview.
So, to impress his potential and somewhat cynical boss,
He has a silver-studded saddle throwed across his hoss!
He's wearin' a ten-gallon hat, a Stetson if you please,
And a bandana 'round his neck to catch the dusty breeze.
The dude has a roll-yer-own a-danglin' from his lips,
And a shiny pair of forty-fours a-hangin' from his hips!
He's wearin' a hand-tooled leather belt of the finest grade,
And a "cowboy" shirt and a vest cut from top-grade suede!
A woolly pair of chaps covers his bow-legged knees,
And protects his Calvin Kleins that fit so tight they squeeze!
His gleamin' pair of Tony Lama boots with pointy toes,
Completes what he considers proper cowboyin' clothes.
The silver spurs on his boots glint in the noonday sun;
Ah, he's the ideal picture of a range-ridin' son-of-a-gun!
The boss, arms folded, feet spread, sportin' a knowin' grin,
Didn't seem to be impressed, much to the greenhorn's chagrin.
Sizin' him up from head to toe, he said, "You look fit and able",
Handed him a fork and shovel and sent him to the stable!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
He served as a deacon in his church and was as pious as they come.
(But on the side, he sold whiskey from a thirty-gallon drum!)
He taught the junior high Sunday school class and was a Bible scholar.
(But on the side, he 'stilled' moonshine way back up in the holler!)
He was faithful in tithing ten percent of his ill-gotten gain.
(For his John Barleycorn he used only the best obtainable grain!)
He occupied the same pew every Sunday listening with attentive ear.
(It was rumored about that he also brewed some very potent beer!)
He proffered an "amen" at appropriate times and wore a suit and tie.
(He was renowned throughout the county for his very delectable rye!)
His tenor voice blended well when singing, "I Love Thy Kingdom, Lord."
(On back roads he did a bit of bootlegging in his hopped-up V-8 Ford!)
He was the first to offer succor to widows, orphans and others left bereft.
(He'd run his still for years - at evading "revenooers" he was very deft!)
When folks were needed to serve on committees he was first to volunteer.
(When asked his occupation he replied, "I'm a 'Spirit'ual Engineer!")
At Yuletide he was generous with the parson giving him a beef, cash and pork.
(At the annual church picnic he surreptitiously passed a bottle to uncork!)
There couldn't be found a finer saint in all of Boondock County, Kentucky.
(He'll continue to "minister" to parched throats thereabouts - if he's lucky!)
Entry for Tania Kitchin's "Primiere Trophy Contest" Contest
This poem is worthy of a Primiere Trophy since it won First Place in the Poetry Soup International Poetry Contest in April 2011. (Won $50 and an Outstanding Poetic Achievement Certificate).
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
Lord, place Thy Hand on the yoke of those who fly,
And guide them through the vast reaches of the sky.
Bring them safely through their perilous flight,
And may they ever look to Thee as their Guiding Light.
Lord, protect the sailors who sail the treacherous seas.
Calm the roiling waters that they may cruise with ease.
May they always look to Thee as their Pilot for support,
And with Thy guiding hand, bring them safely home to port.
Lord, protect the soldier with Thy mighty sword midst the battle.
Give him strength to press on despite the muskets' rattle.
Hear his fervent supplication for Thy protection from all harm,
And provide him with courage as he leans on Thy eternal arm.
Lord, shield the brave marine as he storms the dangerous strand.
Strengthen him with fortitude and provide Thy protective hand.
Surround him with Thy angels as he strives to overcome the foe.
Bring him safely through the conflict and upon him honor bestow.
Lord, bless and provide comfort to his family, for they also serve.
Until that day they are one again, give them hope and steady nerve.
Hear their prayers O' Lord, for the safe return of heroes dear,
And from their trust, hope and faith in Thee, may they never veer.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2014
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.
What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.
Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.
Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!
Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.
Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.
It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.
It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.
(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2016
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
"I've rode the range now fer nigh on sixty years,
Brandin' dogies and ropin' them wily Hereford steers.
When I come to the end of the trail, I don't want no big scenes.
Boys, jes' wrap me in my hoss's blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"I don't want you fellers carryin' on and bellerin' when I'm gone.
Jes' say a few kind words, git back in the saddle and carry on!
Think of me now and then when you're chewin' yer bacon and beans.
'Jes promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"Promise me you'll take good care of my faithful hoss, Old Dan,
And let him tag along on roundups on the range when you can.
I love cowboyin', but boys you know I ain't a man of means.
Jes' wrap this poor old soul in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"Buck, you kin have my scruffy boots and old sweat-stained hat.
Rusty, you take my saddle - Red, you kin have my 44-caliber gat.
Them's my worldly goods 'cept fer these jeans that's worn to smithereens,
But promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in them jeans!"
"I'd like to be planted on that knoll yonder 'neath that ponderosa pine.
If you kin scare up a preacher to send me on my way, that'll do jes' fine.
I've been a cowpoke since I was fourteen - I reckon it's in my genes.
Boys, promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
Entry for Line Gauthier's "Cowboy Poem Contest"
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
Prospector Pete had roamed the hills fer years searchin' fer gold!
He and his faithful burro, Fred, were both growin' weary and old.
He'd looked fer color in many a mountain and stream in Colorado,
Lookin' fer that mother lode, that elusive vein, his own El Dorado!
Oh, he'd found a few nuggets here and there, but didn't amount to much.
Those he did find he'd blown on gamblin', women, whiskey and such!
Pete would save a bag of dust or two from his many wanton toots,
To grubstake himself to re-supply his picks, jeans, shovels and boots.
He staked his claims along ripplin' streams and left many holes along the way.
The mountains and valleys are pocked with his many diggin's to this very day!
He'd come up dry, nothin' there, and move on to more appealin' pickin's,
Burrowin' and pannin' with elbows flyin' workin' like the dickens!
Pete would winter in his cabin 'til spring then he'd begin his annual quest,
Packin' his tools on long-sufferin' Fred and headin' fer the hills to the west.
If he didn't find that elusive bonanza this year he swore that he would retire,
To his ramshackle cabin at the foot of Mount Pisgah and enjoy the blazin' fire!
Years passed and Prospector Pete wasn't seen 'round town much anymore.
One wintry day his friends found him froze to death upon his cabin floor!
They dug Prospector Pete's grave and buried him outside his cabin door.
Eureka! Six feet down was that vein of gold that he'd been a-lookin' for!
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2012
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
Emotions flooded my very soul as I viewed that Sacred Wall.
Etched for all eternity are hero's names who sacrificed their all.
I sensed that I was on hallowed soil as I knelt on bended knee.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.
I offered a silent prayer for each of the names that I caressed.
Tho' their time here was brief, by them we were truly blessed.
They placed national destiny above their own defending liberty.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.
They were ordinary Americans who performed extraordinary things,
Such grand and noble acts to ensure that freedom's bell yet rings!
They gave their full measure that humankind might live free.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.
What might they have become, I muse, had fate not dealt them so,
A teacher, doctor, a farmer? Alas, we shall never know.
To teach nations The Golden Rule, I suspect would be their plea.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.
Tho' grander monuments have been built for those of greater fame,
This simple yet powerful memorial will keep alive the flame,
Of humanity's quest for brotherhood, peace and dignity.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed 7th in "The Best Day Of Your Life" Contest
Placed 3d in the "Your Best Poem" Contest" June 2010
Featured Poem Of The Week 2-9 May 2010
lst Place in Security Public Library (Colorado) Poetry Contest - May 2006
Published in Poet Bob Casey's Book, "An Oasis In A Cluttered World" - 2006
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
LUCIFER'S gullet was as parched as hell!
He said, "Lord, some cold HOOCH, would do me well!"
Lord said, "In thy condition,
Smoldering in perdition,
Not a snowball's chance in the place ye dwell!"
Entry for Catie Lindsey's "L&H Limericks" Contest
Took First Place in the contest.
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
Strolling the beach one day, a magnificent shell I happened to see.
I picked it up and held it to my ear - just out of curiosity -
To see if the old wives tale was true that it could speak to me!
Behold! 'Tis true! What fantastic tales it spewed forth from the sea!
I heard waves lapping gently against a sailboat as through the sea it tore,
And the mighty roar of breakers crashing upon a distant shore!
I eavesdropped on a pod of gossiping whales cruising at their leisure,
And I could swear I heard phantom pirates arguing o'er lost treasure!
I heard the battles' roar of mighty armadas in their quest for victory,
And the screams of heroic men slipping 'neath the waves to spend eternity!
I heard the groan of majestic ships breaking apart plunging to the deep.
I even heard the final SOS of the Titanic before it took its tragic leap!
I heard the chanting of old sea dogs as they plied the bounding main,
And their pleas for God's mercy as they sailed his treacherous domain!
I heard the wind shrieking through the rigging of the dashing Cutty Sark,
As she sped through the Roaring Forties, those straits so very startk!
I was startled to hear sergeant major fish count cadence as if on parade,
And the amorous beckoning coo of a charming, yet illusive mermaid!
Could it be that these mysterious things I heard were just an aberration?
Perhaps, but what a change from my boring cell phone communication!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2012
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Robert L. Hinshaw Poem
Angels are heavenly beings who minister to our needs we are told.
'Tis said they are celestial spirits with wings who play harps of gold.
But I see Angels ministering to others every day here on earth,
And of their tender compassion, love and care there is no dearth!
I saw an Angel yesterday who cleared a widow's drive of snow.
I saw an Angel helping an old gentleman with his back bent low.
I saw an Angel filling a bird feeder on a blustery, winter's day.
I saw an Angel in the park watching over little children at their play.
I saw an Angel who took a shut-in for a drive to view the hues of fall.
I saw an Angel who took a handicapped boy to a professional game of ball.
I saw an Angel preparing a Sunday school lesson for her Bible group.
I saw an Angel at her stove that for a sick neighbor was making soup.
I saw an Angel who simply held the hands of one who had suffered loss.
I saw an Angel playing with his dog with a little ball that he would toss.
I saw an Angel reading a book to an older man who was losing his sight.
I saw an Angel who visited a lonely inmate in prison the other night.
I saw an Angel who was being deployed to uphold the freedoms we hold dear.
I saw an Angel left behind to tend their family alone for an anxious year.
I've seen Angels ministering among us every day upon this earth,
And of their tender compassion, love and care there is no dearth!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2012
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