Best Innuendoes Poems
A future world rule by Trillionaires and Billionaires
Each country with segments of puppet regime governments,
With exceptions of course,
The drug lords the cartel those with the power
And the glory to hold what they consider theirs,
They will be the enemy, and will be a constant
Thorn in the side of the establishment.
A world where every citizen registered
At birth and death, as always, the way,
Now a blink in the cell of a hand device,
Where to veer off, constitutes a written warning
Threatening one’s employment a system
Of points and reviews. Twenty years of age,
One is introduced to a multitude of choice,
Law enforcement, United Nations, battle hard platoon,
Ablutions cleaners, Spies and Reapers, alas,
Those over educated with self-righteousness
Seen as a threat, with re-education, to aid
Choose the right path. The system will know
And will have its way, even woke, on a long chain
Will have its day, when only one-sided opinions
Are set in law, therefore, easy to dictate the terms
Of one’s life. Yet if to conform, there will be no
Slippery slopes, humans, like colonies of ants, their purpose
Granted from the throne of insatiable grandeur,
Childhood once a foundation, where one found happiness,
Education now the way to the day of recognition.
If by chance, to live with one’s flexible opinions,
Those that somehow bypass, the system, will become
The hunted until ridiculed, outlawed, then to wither
As autumn leaves, windblown proud foliage will decay,
When minds forced to cast out truthful innuendoes,
Those, embedded in hearts and minds of fallible man, his ideal’s
Firmly fixed, of earthly struggles. Once weaken,
A blend within the unwelcoming stigma of standard deviation,
Those making policy from man’s inconsequential plight,
To decompose, the humus of society to clutter the gutter,
Until the arrival of the Street Cleaners!
© Harry J Horsman 2023
Fingers intertwined in
wondrous oneness
together foreverness
breathtaking bliss
Eye to eye in
lyrical longing
melodic memories
soul symmetry
Backs turned to
bygone brokenness
solitary sanctums
heartbroken hibernation
Face to face in
aromatic anecdotes
possibility potpourri
enmeshed essences
Voices join in
rondos of rendezvous
chorales of compatibility
madrigals of mutuality
Heart to heart in
a fulcrum of fulfillment
a seesaw of serendipities
a trapeze of timelessness
Lips engaged in
passion's pendulum
voluptuous vocabularies
intoxicating innuendoes
She is lyrics and I am music
~ harmonizing a hypnotizing love song ~
a dizzying duet of delight
Be kind to our in battled President my friends.
His policies and actions are not his own.
The hard right urges him to "Make America
Great Again" I really don't know what that means.
His policies and untruths coupled with his attitude
against those that attempt to disagree with him, is not
really his fault. The fact that he believes himself to know
more than everybody else is just part of his condition.
He defends Nazis and Russia, because he believes those
who support him will remain loyal. This is not his fault.
He wants to make "America Great Again" and he is guided
by those who want to return to the way America was fifty
years ago.
Can you blame him for this? His lies and innuendoes and
his inability to distinguish right from wrong is just due to his
condition. He is really a narcissist who sees himself as the
center of the world and feels he is more intelligent and
savvy than anybody else. Those who believe this, continue
to empower him. They don't know he is very sick.
This pathological condition is a sickness of the mind. Instead
of piling up on him, we should help him. He suffers from
delusions of grander which he cannot help. We should
recognize the symptoms and get the needed treatment for
our POTUS.
We don't want him to damage our Democracy nor get us
in a war we can ill afford. Finally, Do we really want us
to walk backwards into the future?
Lets help our President get well.
Contest --Anthony Slausin. February 2, 2019. President Trump
Will I be impeached?
When all the delicate words are gone,
and all the subtle innuendoes have been written,
and my polite stance is overcome by passion;
patience ended by passion,
all that's left for me to say,
is "I want you".
"I love you"
"I want to kiss you".
"I want to make love with you, now".
I just cannot continue
my lattice work of words.
Unrequitted love has finally taken me down,
end of story.
continues from part 1
And I to him: “Show me where I can find,
If you want that I bring your news then up,
Who is who foresees with so bitter mind”.
Then he put his hand at the yaw to grasp
Of one of mates his mouth to unlock,
Screaming: “This is the one whose voice has stop.
This, when was banished, then the doubt could stock
In Caesar, affirming that the supply
Was always late to arrive giving shock”.
Oh how much dismay appeared to imply
With his tongue fully in his gullet cut
Curius, who so boldly could reply!
And one who had his hands both cut somewhat,
Raising his stumps in that just dusky air,
So that his blood then made his face a smut,
Shouted: “Of Mosca memory you care,
Who, alas!, told, “End has anything done”,
Which for tuscan people was seed unfair”.
And I added: “And death of yours begun”;
Since those, summing pain to pain all the way
Went on as people who is crazy and won.
But I remained to look the souls array,
And saw a thing which then I strongly fear,
With any proof, to just relate I may;
Although my conscience looks to be sincere,
Thanks to good partner I have had at side
Under the shield of feeling to be clear.
I saw for sure, and still it seems it’s eyed,
A body without head to go on so
As went others of herd of badly died;
And his truncated head held by hair low
Hanging from his hand in a lantern guise:
And that looked at us telling “Oh me woe!”.
Of himself was doing himself light rise,
And so were two in one and one in two;
As it can be, it's known by who is wise.
When he walking reached then the bridge foot through,
He raised up his limb with his head well up
To get closer to us his words for true,
Which were : “You see by now the painful stoop,
You that, respiring, go and dead souls see:
Observe if any is worse than this you scoop.
And so that you to bring my news agree,
I am Bertram from Bormio, just the one
Who gave to the young king bad advice plea.
I made foes among them father and son;
Achitofel with Absalon had no more
And with David evil innuendoes done.
Since I divided people close with sore,
I bring my brain divided, oh weary!,
From this truncated where it was before.
So here see retaliation dreary”.
(The rehab of a supervisor)
My eyes! Saturated
with industrial crap, eventually
to intoxicate what’s left of one’s
bewildered brain.
My sight! Shackled to the
delusion of corporate inconsistencies,
when leading one’s head through each
enigmatic juncture.
My ears! Burn with unprincipled
mispronunciations, after boardroom
lampoons of delinquency miss the
mark, especially when delivered
within the queerness of each
insidious secretion, only then to be
viewed with suspicion, when basking
within the formulation of one’s own
comfort zone!
“Labeled” Non aspirant
when introduced to those
emerging within the endearment of
one’s company charter!
“Without ambition”
The blind clown of managerial youth
articulates, one score and five
not an option in this perfidious
global arena.
Astute! The annual assessment
in place, only to bolster
insecure managers.
A feedback, to aid keep one
in one’s place.
The first phase of corporate
correctiveness, complete with subtle
innuendoes.
Barriers! Put in place to analyze
inflexible overtones, before pleading
guilty of being in possession of too
many answers.
But alas! Enlightenment validated, only
if, of a positive kind.
Ah! Is this the answer! Positivity with
in this negative world, where truth has
lost its meaning in a labyrinth of
corporate “Lunacy?”
Seminar after seminar concoct to
intergrade somewhat aimlessly with
today’s intellect, corporate logic
filtered through hidden agenda, systems of
corrective surgery implanted, to keep
“Shop floor” On track.”
“I! And some, from
a bygone era, ridiculed, insulted,
with in the classroom.”
© Harry J Horsman 1999
Nigeria, the Soul of my Pride (Part One)
Nigeria, my country, where mournful of pledges aren’t reneged?
Indomitable she would have maintained, if crowns aren’t clowns
Gyrating on the mishaps, wearing wan gumption—unwelcome!
Ears do attend; but eyes haven’t yet seen what watery mouths do speak (of).
Roasting are to rich physiques, as paupers’ plights mount on their rotten.
Innuendoes of yesteryear ‘nattered’, nativities’ woes unforgettable.
Atrophying (now) are the little legacies her founding fathers had raised.
Nigeria my country, where true sons and daughters’ tongues sip in her bounties; sobbing,
Some are endlessly praying and raising their voice to hearings and their words to readings.
....
6/4/2014
I went to the places
where the poets all go
There were so many rhymes
The going was slow
The sky had fluffy clouds
Reminding me of snow
The ground verdant green
had an emerald like glow
Metaphorically speaking
Under rocks I was peeking
to find fabled lions
who were brave and not weaklings
Instead I found several
innuendoes and puns
Much better I suppose
than violence and guns
Some places were tidy
Conforming and glad
Other doorways were darkened
Still good triumphed over bad
There were sunsets and storms
Silver linings and things
Knights on white horses
clever dragons with wings
Romance of the ages
Passion reigned supreme
Some had hidden messages
only their lovers had seen
Spaces and pauses
with inspiration in between
Some possessed erotic images
Extremely sexy but not obscene
So many places I ventured
Some far and some near
Poets traveling on thoughts
moonbeams and tears
I listened intently
so that I might hear
Gifts of imagination
the wisdom of years
Nothing is impossible
When expressed with a pen
The ultimate do over
You can go back once again
Or live another's life
Prince pauper or Queen
a hero or villain
a kind person or mean
So let us all travel
To where poets go
Travel quickly
or choose a journey more slow
bring along heartstrings
They will surely be played
Meet Shakespeare and Keats
and many others who stayed
Add your own verses
Immortality gained
Thoughts on white paper
Beautifully stained!
Dedicated to Anne Currin and Yanny Widjanarko two poets I miss.
Written on a February 24th 2016.
The Master Of The Rhyme
This was inspired by comments
made to me , by Great Poets
Peter Duggan and Olive Guillermo
And sung to the tune
Phantom Of The Opera's
"Music of The Night" by Andrew LLoyd Webber
Words that rhyme well--- serve to show my passion
Searching for the--- style that suits my fashion
Everything I see--- Is a poem meant for me
And I write it though it seems to be sublime
I truly am the master of the rhyme
While I’m sleeping--- in my mind come creeping
Filled with laughter--- mystery and weeping
Like an artist with his brush---I am filled with such a rush
And it paints a picture deep inside my mind
I wonder if I’m Master of the rhyme
Do you know who’s the Master of all known words
Do you know when he comes or where he goes
As He writes with my hands and through my soul
Whether it be a rhyme or it be prose
Written words--- start forming innuendoes
Join and bond--- then rise like a crescendo
When I awake I find--- this happens every time
I am just the name that must be signed
For I am not the Master of the rhyme
As I sit here staring at the empty page
He whispers in my ear again
I don’t know where the poem’s going to go
But, when I start the words begin to flow
Is It God, and is He on the level
Cursing me, as If I were the devil
Cause once I start to rhyme---the words begin to chime
Like a bell--- keeps ringing in my mine
He truly is the Master of the Rhyme
He alone holds the blessing---I make mine
For I am just a servant of the Rhyme
MESSENGER
Blue circles
white lightning
my days vivify
ease pain
mollify
fright nights
and sleep
fighting
red numbered spheres
three bouncing dots
forgive and forget
me not’s
conversations
reparations
private jokes
and
innuendoes
soul breaking
life saving
love in
dialogue
© Kim van Breda—1 January 2016
A verbal warning this day
of redundancy, an end to
Twenty-four years of hard graft,
releases doleful innuendoes
from those safe, left on the staff.
Each dawn! That initiates, now
leaves the sound of silence
ringing, in one’s dependable mind,
each journey down “Everglade”
strange, empty and wry, now the
dignity of retirement, fade from
an unveiling sky.
Yet! Upon this February day, the
puppeteer of Vevey reaches out
to the land of the “Long White Cloud”
Weaving his website of hideous agenda,
strategically infiltrating the very soul
of simplicity, when lifting of the
corporate shroud, upon an
ethical unswerving crowd.
His disciples cynically well versed,
a subtle way his empire constructed,
the turning of the Sabre
of injustice within the wound.
His greed insatiable. Shop floor
loyalty marooned!
Oh! Nested bird, pretender of
family values, branded power
taken from long ago sincere ways,
who’s personified voice, continually
heard on mountain peaks,
within the valley, around the bays.
Yet! This minute, many lives,
especially those belonging
to us “The Clown”
Have seen in lieu, better days.
Alas! Time does surrender
each day the scaffold unfold,
hour upon hour, one assumes
a condemned man’s threshold.
As the final moment approaches,
the noose of disparage
set, posthaste!
The “Vevey Executioner”
gets rid of his
industrial waste!!!
© Harry J Horsman 1999
There is a minority force out there
one of evil and intent
disguised by enchantment and empathy,
within surging tides of coercion
steers one’s ever defiling poetry
of the predator,
those that crave to share one’s shadow
and constantly demand on return
a challenge to please one.
Yet
with words created in a
cynical brief of heartlessness from
gardens of perversity, cultivated
in domains of lies, untruth,
when a trigger-happy progression of rapidness
perfumed in eloquent penetration
aimed at one’s very soul.
Every
word every stanza to tug at the recipient
being delivered in poetry humaneness,
inflicting the aroma of fragrance to entice gullibility
before the enforcement to the nurtured
of a mature kind,
and the eventual trial of tempting innuendoes.
With
defloration complete,
here one reaches the pivot of reaction
the highway crossroads of decision,
a last chance to tread the right road
some will, some will not
those to fall into another’s perverted obscenity
to be ensnared, then scarred for life!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
It’s a milestone at least, chalk it up as a feat,
That your younger self never thought you could meet.
But how does it feel, this crossroads you face?
It’s a case of you got there, it’s no fall from grace.
Are there any advantages to this dreadful affair?
They call getting old, it’s simply not fair.
It’s gone in a flash, yesterday I was ten!
Only to be reminded, that was way back when.
I snore all the more, the hairs are a pain,
Grow in all the wrong places, again and again.
And the hairs on my head, they see not the sun,
Receding to follicles from whence they begun.
As grumpiness sets, becoming part of the psyche,
Talking to oneself becomes ever more likely.
The stares from the driver pulling up alongside,
Are testimony to the depths I reside.
Don’t get me on sight, or my hearing, please no,
In chatter I nod but it’s only for show.
I recognise no-one at distance these days,
I’m waving profusely to strangers not phased.
It has its advantages though, I’m assured.
Free prescriptions for one, I’ll maybe be cured,
Of the ailments, I once couldn’t pronounce,
That now lick their lips as they poise to pounce.
It’s funny though, your priorities differ,
From the innuendoes that caused you to bicker.
It’s a new priority, what will be will be,
Live in the present, the future ‘we’ll see.’
Those dreams you once had to get to the top,
Are now different dreams, as the ego you drop.
You can reminisce, with some sense of pride,
The events of your life, it’s one hell of a ride.
At sixty there’s wonder, enlightenment.
No stature, no dreams, no entitlement.
It’s life you revere, just making the best,
Of this world we all cherish, we’re merely a guest.
Women who live singly and privately
suddenly become preys to fleas,
who are seeking self serving opportunities,
If they aren't married they are considered
old maids, or bombarded with innuendoes
and clandestine propositions,
The lengths people will go through to make acquisitions,
includes tales of work and corporate compensations,
when deep down it is the "Johnny Syndrome" set in
motion to cause corruption and defamation,
Why do folks assume that unmarried women need to
be controlled?
Does being married mean many women have sold their souls?
or are husbands really "Johns" in disguise,
Our changing world is proving to be not so nice......
I hate the taste of alcohol
a squalid little drink
that twists the thoughts inside of you
and changes what you think
It takes away whats good in life
destroy's the growth of love
replacing it with bitterness
it covers love in mud
its bitter innuendoes
it's thoughts provoking fears
With anger in the fights you share
your violence and your rage
the wholes within your budget
build room for lovers graves
the cost of loving beer my friend
is subtle deep and strong
attacking home and family
to me my friend that's wrong
You blame your wife, your husband
your son, the friends you share
destroying life around you
with each and every year
yet still you keep on drinking
your liquid cruelty clear