Best Thereof Poems
IN THE SEASON OF HOPE THEREOF
In the season of hope thereof,
There seems to be
Little justice, peace and love
Meted out to you and me;
Except for what comes from above.
Yet, let us not allow the deceivers
Sway us to be as erring as they—
Let us not be duped by Wall St. persuaders
Out to make a profitable mockery of the day.
Peace, love and justice—the triune for which we pray;
Will continue to be the reality we seek on this glorious day.
So in all the merriment thereof, let us not forget the true reason
We pause and reflect on peace, love and justice during this season.
Was fullness thereof
That is in Jesus's love
Sent from up above.
Wanted from the start
Now I have God in my heart
We will never part.
Thankful yes am I
That for me Jesus did die
See Him by and by
Back from cruise to Southern Caribbean
on Holland American Oosterdam.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
I keep my eyes closed
because there's no hope in sight,
there's no hope inside.
People, here as we tend to glance about,
we find ourselves gathered this Summer's day.
For there isn't a speckle of genuine doubt
that blue sorrow still lingers here today.
Yes, therein the hearts of many does it so,
tho' yet it's onwards which we shall all go,
go within memory's realm to reflect
and seize a memory or two from the
volts to recall good men in such respect;
forgetting not Jonas nor Anthony.
Today, let's remember them a tad more
when good-times re-play in vivid color.
Individuals will recall and share
as others recollect therein silence.
For all whom so choose to display such care
via their attendance do so of love, hence,
such hearts do search, such memory's do jog.
Let us advance our walks therefrom woe's fog!
A day reserved thereof their remembrances
where Kindred and Friends show such reverences.
Fingers go numb and twitch with impatience
Please make my eyelids dance with visions
Form:
A Wordsmith’s pen
Is mightier than the sword
For he can turn a tricky word
Into a verbal weapon
And win the day against the hoard
The words of the Bard
It’s not very hard
The turn of a friendly card
The changing of the old guard
The wicked witch is feathered and tarred
The sky above is dark and starred
It’s feeling out loud
The dancing of spirit abounds
The singing of the soul
The mind and body are whole
Although sometimes it makes no sounds
Manifestations of mental visions
Put to paper by steward, or vassal
On cotton, leather or papyrus passel
Seeing illusions and derisions
Inside the book, the bookmark’s tassel
Of words and dreams, and fantasies
Muses and fancies
Blissful and blithe
Demons and monsters, and zombies alive
Somehow the dead come back to life
Shadows and shades of torment
Ghouls and ghosts, and wraiths
Humans tear at their at the clothes and lament
And prophets forecast and forebode advent
Fortune tellers and soothsayers say
The mind screaming in pain
Devotion and emotion
Evolution and convolution
The sane are temporarily insane
The brain suffers erosion
To purify what has been defiled
Or deride what is pretentious
Celebrate what is momentous
Of the humors; blood and bile
Are both infectious
Soul speak
Affirmation of thought and deed
The lookers seek
All of those who have a need
Reap of the sown seed
Strong encourage the weak
Travels in time and place
Exploring inner and outer space
The Children of the Is
Sing the songs that were once His
Though the Old Man’s dead and gone
His legacy lives on
From dusk ‘till dawn
Memories in tome eternal
Glimpses of Heaven
Thoughts of Hades infernal
Rolling sevens and elevens
Immortal mortals
Of a limited time
Speaking in riddles and rhymes
This poem a babbling run-on thing
Pondering, wandering and wondering
A beautiful mind
It should be dismantled and dismembered
Fuses blown, circuits fried, wires unwind
The Dancing divine
When remembered…
The walls have melted, but this distorted world is still beautiful to me.
Some spiteful god is plucking away at the threads of my existence,
But the world is still beautiful.
The clocks watch my wasted time turn to tears,
But what the clocks fail to see is shattering stability.
They say the world is amazing, just try harder.
I'm looking for the right path to go down in this cruel unchanging world.
My brain is spinning I still feel dizzy but please turn your eyes away,
I'm hurting but you're hurting more, I'm dying but we both are smiling
In this awful, painful world.
In Grace Thereof
Like the babbling brook
The spirit yearns
Of quiet moments
The heart discerns
To deny the flesh
And feed thy soul
To hear the voice
Still and small
Like flowering Love
A King Of Kings
Of Knowledge and Wisdom
If to believe
A gracious promise
Set forth in love
In quiet moments
In Grace thereof
HERE IN THE NOURISHING BOWL THEREOF
Here I am, bowled
And immersed
In the warmth
And awareness
Of peace, love,
And supreme wisdom:-
Not only am I a receiver
But I'm also an ingredient
Of this nourishing bowl
Seasoned with its scented
Appetizing cravings thereof:
How blessed and inspiring
It is to be in the onderful
Oneness and onement
Of this nourishing bowl
Of Supreme Poetry Soup:-
May the entire world’s appetite
Be drawn and satisfied with
The nourishing ingredients
Of this cisterning bowl
That daily overflows
With awareness, faith, hope, love,
And belief in the wonderful oneness
Of the onement of unified humanity:-
In The Waiting Womb Thereof
(Apropos Of Poetic Onement)
Thanks for being here with me
in the waiting time of the birthing
flow from the poetic womb thereof:
We mind-pregnant poets have all experienced
that spacing time reality of which poets must be
in waiting for the waiting poetic womb to give birth:-
At times, we’re forced to realize that we, too, must be,
and become as was Shara, waiting God’s timing of poetic
pregnancy and mental water breaking delivery of the crying word:-
In doing so, we sometimes just stand while waiting on the word;
or walk around or just sit, while waiting on the word’s water to break;
and sometimes, we just lay down, and feel it pushing to freely break out:-
My fellow poets, be not in poetic dismay; rather, be in the awareness
that in the waiting, we are where we are, as yesterday was where
we were so that tomorrow will be where we are willed to deliver:-
Know that the graceful beauty
of our cisterned mind’s womb is in
the guided wisdom that is poured out.
As in nature, so it is with us: poetic words are not born ripe,
and ready, but like all else, they are born to become so in their
own time, and when their water breaks, nothing can abort the flow:-
Thanks, I’ll soon be there with you,
and the birthing of the echoing words
from the waiting womb of yours thereof:-