Best Jim Poems
Jim was a lumberjack from Borehamwood
A chainsaw mishap took off his manhood
His Love life was a mess
He now suffers from stress
So he made himself one out of oak wood .
He went to bed one night full of desire
Sue his wife put on her sexy attire
Things got steamy and hot
He gave it all he got
But with the friction his oak thing caught fire .
His poor wife shouted " For crying out loud"
The poor woodcutter no longer stood proud
His once oaken member
Was a glowing ember
A blackened stump he's no longer endowed.
The smoke alarms in the house all went off
Sue and Jim splutterd and started to cough
Fire men broke down the door
Saw Jim's dong on the floor
Couldn't believe Jim had used it to boff.
So every night when they both go to bed
They both read books and watch TV instead
Then he had a great thought
And the next day he bought
A ten inch piece of pipe made out of lead.
In his workshop he worked on it all day
The next night asked Sue "Well what do you say"
She couldnt help laughing
At the size of his thing
She said" You're not coming near me, no way. "
Written on the 9th June 2020
On this tropical beach, one hot summer day
Jim the Trim came, his bod to display
Been workin’ out day and night
Made the girls' eyes burn bright
Next, he's running from muscles that sashay
KIM PATRICE NUNEZ
10 April 2015
Jim, now rich, bought a wee li’l islet;
there he lived, with ten men and a starlet.
Changed his partner each day,
heaved and huffed till they say,
the islet is now, the town named Scarlet.
---------------------------------------------
The story's not over, he's not decadent.
Send away the men, he just simply can’t;
they built the town housing,
the roads and some building
for starlet Scarlet, whom the islet was meant.
21 April 2015
Humorous Poetry Contest - 4th Place
Sponsor : Thomas Martin
A homeless man on a park bench
wore a tattered shirt bearing a stench.
He munched leftovers from garbage cans
with deep tanned face and unwashed hands.
He slept on a sidewalk heating vent,
pondering what life meant.
During the day at the Town Square
he avoided each condemning stare.
Every day at noon he would ply
to a large cathedral nearby,
To sit alone on the back seat –
a hungry homeless man from the street.
His eyes on the cross in front of him,
Not knowing how to pray, he said, “Hello Jesus, it’s me, Jim.”
The pastor saw the man from the street,
but they never had a chance to meet.
Then one day he noticed the empty pew,
Perhaps tomorrow he’d drift back through.
After the man was gone many days,
he wondered if he had gone away.
Later, while on a pastoral call
he met a nurse in the hospital hall.
“Come, see a man who has changed the whole staff,”
She said, suppressing tears with a laugh.
“Lately he has gone from door to door,
And has changed all of us on the floor.
“Doctors, nurses, patients – all are touched.
No one has affected us so much!”
In the patient’s room, he stood by the feet
of the homeless man from the street.
He saw a glow on his bright, washed face,
speaking so fast he could barely keep pace.
“One cold day I passed out down town.
When I woke I was hospital bound.
“I don’t know why I didn’t die.
In this room, when I opened my eyes,
“A man appeared, to my surprise,
Looking so calm, so holy and wise.
For quite some time he never spoke.
He just stood there in a long white cloak,
so peaceful at the foot of my bed,
and this is all he ever said,
‘Hello Jim, it’s me, Jesus.’”
(A limerick for Jack Ellison)
A surgeon was called to do operation,
as Jim's "little friends" need urgent attention.
His aspiring poetess wife
Scarlet yields a mean word knife;
To reduce sillyballs was her only intention.
*sillyballs? syllables! duh...
09 October 2015
He lived in a small place down by the river
Raised a few chickens and a garden to tend
Neat and clean but we knew he had little
But to us children he was a dear friend
Always ready to come play our silly games
Or happy to listen to our childish tales of woe
He knew when and where the fish were biting
His wonderful tall tales he was glad to bestow
He rode into town on his old cow names Irene
She didn’t seem to mind at times being a horse
If it rained he carried a big black umbrella
It was a sight to see, we loved it of course
You can imagine , our parents thought him odd
And I guess he was if the whole truth be told
But he was a special part of out young lives
We wouldn’t have traded him for a bucket of gold…
Believe it or not, this is a true story..
10/23/14
Barbara Gorelick- Sketch a Character contest
Jim the Trim’s been watching too much video
The kind that caused rise in his libido
Mind still on a femme fatale
Was brought to the hospital
His front was trapped by the doors of the Metro.
KIM PATRICE NUNEZ
10 April 2015
Bank robber Jim was one unlucky bloke
Went to draw his gun but the holster broke
It dropped on the bank floor
And went off with a roar
The shock was too much and he had a stroke...
Though he was unconscious he hadn't died
Woke in a coffin for his final ride
In a desparate bid
Banged on the coffin lid
But all he could hear was laughing outside...
Written 17th June 2021
Then someone shouted can you hear banging
It was quite faint because folks were singing
The sheriff prised off the lid
And he was so glad he did
Because he thought we'll have us a hanging...
Jim didn't know whether to laugh or cry
Resigned himself to the fact that he'd die
Saw sheriff holding a rope
Realised there was no hope
And for unlucky Jim the end was nigh...
He was taken to the gallows in town
Handcuffed and wearing nothing but a frown
Jim was then starting to choke
But with the drop the rope broke
The crowd screamed as poor Jim came tumbling down..
Unlucky Jim jumped up quick as a flash
As he passed the bank ran in and grabbed cash
He stole the first horse he saw
Then let out a loud yee haw
And for sweet freedom he made a quick dash...
Written 19th June 2021
A bounty hunter called Nevada Slim
Went after bank robber Unlucky Jim
With tracker Spirit Bear
They discovered Jims lair
And Jim's future was now looking quite grim...
Slim called out "put your hands in the air"
Jim grabbed his gun, Slim said "don't you dare"
But Jim was too fast
And let off a blast
Slim fell dead then Jim shot Spirit Bear...
Jim quickly packed his things and rode away
Thankful that he'd survived another day
He decided to lie low
But what old Jim didn't know
Was that Pinkertons were heading his way...
Jim was sleeping in the afternoon sun
And didnt hear the cocking of a gun
He woke up with dread
Saw guns at his head
And a lawman said "Jim looks like your done"...
Jim was handcuffed and they rode back to town
There to meet them was Sheriff and Judge Brown
The charges were read
Jim nodded his head
Sheriff said " this time Jim you're going down" ...
For Jims last request he asked for a smoke
And noticed the hangman had a new rope
He put a hood on Jims head
Jim dangled then he was dead
An escape this time!, there wasn't a hope...
Written 1st July 2021
RIP UNLUCKY JIM
1963.
I ran crying to Uncle Jim, standing by the barn door.
We hugged, and I tried to hold the smell of him,
of Vermont -- Old Spice, oatmeal, rotting leaves in crisp October air.
"Oh, kid, you and me, kid ... you and me," he said.
But the car was waiting, all packed.
My grandparents yelled one more time, to come.
He stood alone, waving goodbye, his head held
to one side, a war injury.
Perhaps that's why he drank.
Or maybe it was living so far away from us,
in a wild place, where snow is measured in feet.
On winding roads, I cried for two hours, through valleys of orange and yellow and graveyards of granite, where men with stovepipe hats and ladies with hoop skirts lay side by side underneath the green.
Through my window, I counted the steep, pitched roofs.
Cows of black and white and brown.
Was Uncle Jim, by now surely in his house watching snowy TV, crying, too?
1975.
Uncle Jim is dead, at least he told me so, as he stood by my bed one night.
Even now, when I think of Uncle Jim, and how he held me, what he said to me in 1963,
I could cry.
I think of how you must have been
in bygone days with friends from your boyhood.
From things you’ve said, I picture you back then
blazing trails and camping in the Cincinnati Wood.
And then perhaps you stood a man at seventeen
with one carnation pinned onto your suit.
Vernal still, and on the threshold of your dreams,
you’d blaze a path anew and leave your roots.
Years passed. Only you can fill in all the spaces
of what you heard and tasted; what you did;
pursuits, accomplishments, and the many places,
and when you found Alaska, I was just a kid!
I’m certain that you felt at home, grew bold
on the tundra, moved with feline grace, and maybe kayaked there,
viewed double rainbows, hunted, and knew the color of gold,
climbed mountains and inhaled the pristine air.
You’ve seen the eagle soar; fulfilled a destiny.
So much you’ve done in all your fruitful life.
You served your country, married, made a family,
coached softball, taught and traveled; loved your wife.
Today you move more slowly, or so you’ve told me.
I’ve never seen your face. Better do I know your soul.
I see you as a wine finely aged – mulberry,
red and sweet – not bitter – and you long for a life that’s full.
Behind closed doors you sit alone in your chair.
I envision books displayed, numerous on a shelf.
Despite this show of knowledge gleaned, your house seems bare.
Your family’s gone, and you’re having to care for yourself.
You like to frequent restaurants and watch a little TV,
but friends have passed. You need a fresh new plan.
Forge a new frontier, my friend. Exclaim your poetry.
Poems should have a purpose, and so too must a man.
May 29, 2022
Can you see
through to his invisibility
Don’t grasp onto
who you need him to be.
Sure, he’s a bit complicated
Let him be fancy free and overstated
If you try to hard you’ll never be sated
Change this
change that
He’ll never be that cat
Meow mix baby
listen to him scat
His ideas are deliciously fat
Lay out all the bases
It’s his turn at bat!
If you let him
he’ll move to you
If not you’ll be through
There will be nothing
you can say or do
Unless you be you
and let him be him
your chances are slim
Cause he’s cool hand Luke
disguised as Jim
hat slanted with smirk
eyes hidden below the brim
He can’t see
through your invisibility
You are now the ghost
he needs you to be
No need for explanations
to describe your decisions
You couldn’t fix him
to meet your expectations.
You made the wrong calculations!
Beneath lie the remains of unlucky Jim
A great white shark made a meal of him
Fell off his surf board and hit by a wave
Half inside ‘Jaws’ and half in this grave.
Written on 13 September 2018
For a funny epitaph poetry contest
Sponsored by Jesse Rowe.
Grandpa was a Bowie.
A tight-lipped protestant Ulsterman
who drifted into the Poblacht na hÉireann
in search of a cure for his cold heart.
His thin lips wed a soft Catholic girl.
He joined the Garda Síochána settling down
to breed Kerry Blue’s. After he retired, he still
wore his uniform, his neck as stiff as ever.
Grandma wrote letters to the Pope
begging for Papal forgiveness
for her heathen husband.
I have not been to Hidalgo County,
but if I were one day to go, I might try
to convince the Daughters of the Alamo
of my credentials to be worshiped
in a mild, concessionary way.
A complimentary burger, a free pass
to the museum, a photograph
of myself brandishing a big knife
at a picture of Generalissimo Santa Anna
that would suffice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poblacht na hÉireann" = Republic of Ireland (Éire).
"Ulster' (Northern Ireland).
"Garda Síochána" Is the Police Force of the Republic of Ireland.
His “words hit the highway like a battering ram”
And “burn like the metal on the edge of a knife”
So “cold and lonely in the deep dark night” I am
“Crying icicles instead of tears” for his life
January 29, 2022
The first step was violet, the color of the flower,
The second step was indigo, the color of a thunder shower,
The third step was blue, the color of a lake,
The fourth step was green, a field of hay to rake,
The fifth step was yellow, the color of corn,
The sixth step was orange, a gorgeous summer morn,
The seventh step was red, the color of the rose,
Like the ones he planted for Ruby, a little while ago,
He walked on tall and straight until he reached the golden gate,
Then God put out his hand to welcome Jim to his band.
While he's so far from you, he's in good hands you see,
The angels love his stories, while he waits there for thee.
Cile Beer
written 1999