Person of colour is coherently germane,
He is never insane.
Some things about this person of colour may seem strange,
He is simple and he is yet to engage.
This person of colour loves the critics,
It is from them, he ticks.
This person of colour is natural,
And so, he is not a trial.
This person of colour loves to exchange
Ideas beyond his range.
This person of colour loves keyboard,
Tis with this he comes on board.
This person of colour is a charcoal- a black beauty.
This person of colour is me.
They ask me why I’m so happy
Asking me, if I just won a prize
I replied, well I reckon I did
Today is a wonderful surprise
When you have a past like mine
My today is always bright
There is no better feeling on earth
Than the joy of doing right
I may be an old man on a cane
My heart is skipping along
I learned to embrace the meaning
Life is a beautiful song
True life has its ups and downs
There’ll be forks in the road
With a smile I’ll stop for a while
Help you with your load
I had me a bag of popcorn today
It tasted exceptionally good
In fact, I will go as far as to say
Better then it probably should
For years, I had a guard in the pen
Popped him a bag each night
Then he would simply throw it away
His twisted little delight
He knew, it was those little things
Ate at our heart and soul
Movie with the wife Friday night
Popcorn in the bowl
I had a bag of popcorn today
Wife sitting at my side
I had a smile, which lasted awhile
One I could not hide
They ask me why I’m so happy
Asking me, if I won a prize
I replied, I reckon I did
Today is a wonderful surprise
For some reason today I was thinking about C.O. Talbert and
how he would pop a bag of popcorn even though he didn't eat
popcorn. He did it just because he knew it would make everyone
want some. I always felt sorry for him. His life must have been
very disappointing. The moral here: when you learn to appreciate
the little things in life your popcorn will taste a whole lot better.
You and I would make a terrific poetic pair
Yours all flow free with so much care
Some say an Artistic poet I have become
Jerk then smooth out and hum along.
You to me are like a Robert Frost
While I in my imagination am lost
Being daring yet avoiding a crash
And enjoy humor of Ogden Nash.
Will Rogers is last one I longingly like
Can you imagine if in front of a mike
How impressive he would have been
Through the thick with all of the thin.
So Andrea Dietrich what do you think?
In my poems, help me work out each kink
So mine also for long time each endures
And some day too will be just like yours.
Previous Poems Protruded
Two previous poems protruded from my mind
Then to many more facts I became resigned
What I had looked for often and found
Is much happiness in those all around.
Lack of love was leading cause of insanity
And it has always been known to all humanity
When it is only my poems which you prefer
This could be know to cause and create a stir.
Poems from God were granted with gratitude
On some parts of bodies have been tattooed
Like good weather which they are forecasting
My poems are appreciated and also everlasting.
With a great memory possessed by your mind
Would you my beloved friend be so kind
After killing and insanity is brought to a halt
Kindly with much pleasure, please pass the salt.
Does this remind you of one of those seagoing movies?
It was something about ten items in the Bible which I
often have a hard time mastering. Jim Horn
Ream After Ream
What I have written was ream after ream
Of good poems which I rated as supreme
Of such great quality could hardly find
In any imagination of a normal mind.
When I wrote this it was at midnight
After sleeping tow hours with all my might
Suddenly I awoke and each poem was there
Appearing incredible and beyond compare.
Many can't make any sense of them at all
And to others are outrageous or may appall
While I wondered how much effort it took
To arrange poems so they could become a book.
Was struck by awe while my eyes opened wide
My new poems did come out from deep inside
Me, myself and as hard as I definitely did try
Wanted to complete poems before I would die.
For writing my poems, I have this great thirst
And even if it is for better or absolute worst
Every day I keep trying to pave the way
For nice things about my poems thou shalt say.
James Thomas Horn
(Only considered to be
a Viet Nam Era Vet.)
PS. Birth of new ideas.
The paper lay flat
on a low reading table,
yet thick in it's pages,
a days worth of fable.
Our library bright with it's
rays to it's sills
and the paper bleached white
with a grey side of gills.
It's HEADLINE in blue
relaxing your eyes.
Large print making stories
seem simpler than size.
Text in black letters;
dragged out into words.
Knowledge you crave for.
Ideas in herds.
News from a paper
pressed for attention.
Left on a table
as though for detention.
All the little bunnies were lined up for a race. Why, you may ask?
Because the dear old Leader Bunny was stepping down with grace.
He had led the others for years without disgrace, in all pursuits.
He was their advisor, friend, and confidant... solver of disputes.
Such a lofty position was dearly sought by all…from all around.
But he could pick only one to wear that lofty, wonderful crown.
So a race was determined to quickly resolve, the question therein.
And a lovely little laurel crown was offered, to the one who did win.
Now many strategies to win emerged from within the race.
The most common was the notion to set the fastest pace…
A few would use tricks that might hurt, in order to slow others down.
A few were mean, for they wanted the power that comes with the crown.
Two were clever and would catapult each other at the very end.
A few just practiced running to gain the added stamina needed to win.
Only one little rabbit found shoes for the poor, for it was a rocky trail.
And when the race began he helped those hurt in the prevail.
Now the dear old leader had never actually worn a laurel crown.
His had been symbolic; his works had brought him his renown.
When the Leader Bunny gave the laurel crown to he who won the race…
Only a few were surprised, when the little helper won the Leader’s grace…
Though some would go on to complain because he had come in last…
It truly takes someone who knows how to serve, to lead and guide the rest.
But my moral to this story is that…. Regardless what some may think…
It takes compassion to correctly lead…and sometimes the last can be the best…
What is a dream if not reality's conceit
What is reality if not a shadowy deceit?
The circle of reality was unsealed when we were born
But dream-time filled our lives from night to early morn
The circle got ever wider in our youthful days of yore
With unbounded dreams of glory on some far distant shore
But then the circle tightens when our days near to a close
Dreams replace ambitions as one's mortal body slows
So we shall write our dreams in poetry hence when we disappear
We'll leave our mark in some small way to show that we were here
And in some far off time we dream someone will read our verse
And a dream that was a part of us will shake the universe
I shivered and watched him as the snow fell
Frail, tattered clothes, bearded, no shoes, but--smell!
I thought--what a contrast--comparing sights,
But love was a lesson I'd learn that night!
Not from plastic steeples or rhetoric,
Philanthropy or emotional trick...
I would learn to look in my own mirror
For compassion, mercy, empathy--clearer.
This complex multiple of nature lives
In dying daily to Ego-------Forgives!
Then I saw neither black, white, red nor green,
But only insolence and heard him scream:
"Get away from us! You Freak! Reprobate!"
Then with his cane, knocked him down--oh such hate!
Top hat and tails perched with pride by the door
Assisting the dilatant he adored.
Snow was a gossamer curtain all 'round.
Vision obscured even steps on the ground.
Lights came from nowhere as they crossed the street,
Aimed for the dilatant--innocent, sweet.
Watching I saw from the shadows immerge
Sprinting like 'Coldstream Guard'--out past the curb,
That same man, pushing the dilatant fair
Out of harms way as he flew in mid-air.
Emerging unscathed from the ice and snow:
"Who was that man? Tell me! I want to know!"
The crowd huddled 'round like a football team
Gawking with questions of what they had seen.
A donor card was his only ID.
No name--just a wish--was all they could see.
Donor card cashed in...Science and query...
A grave in an obscure cemetery,
With small unadorned head-marker amends:
"Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends."
*For Michael's "No Names on This Love Contest"
Some lives are like a stone quickly skipping over the ponds top, forever tossed.
My life is below the surface trying to reach upward with each breathe lost.
But there is still beauty, deep down here in the great depths below…
For the solitude holds me in its grip as I dwell with what I know.
My occasional trips to the surface leave me vastly wanting more…
Still, my life below the surface doesn’t scare me as it did, once before.
And the breaths will come when given, as my life continues to flow.
True it is dark but beauty lingers, everywhere the currents move below.
At times, the surface reflections seem surreal, as if it’s a place not to go.
Comfort comes more and more to my soul, as the deeper I glide below.
Here I dwell within myself, with words, and thoughts, that carry me along.
Perhaps I have found where I truly belong, as I sing my siren songs.