with much sweet sorrow
had to pay for the cargo
will have to borrow
wind in big bluster
they could be in a cluster
flowers with luster
could be thrown in clink
to buy a coat made of mink
would steal kitchen sink
cal
for me to abort
current system sold me short
will see you in court
will have to adept
on the subject we had slept
when we were inept
we had much humor
when we started a rumor
cancer in tumor
cute cuticle
cord which was imbilical
evangelical
had been born again
we never knew where or when
they were free from sin
had to excavate
with sin world would satiate
was found full of hate
If I compose tunes
Of ardor under moon
And trust there’s a cow jumping
Somewhere above
And lunar is made
From cheesy mice love,
Then how come that crescent
Just looks like
The Sky Giant’s nail cuticle tonight?
Flowing into healthy sun
Beams subtle on my face
Mama’s ills are often none.
Hands peek in a good grace
Obviously I am still needed
Battle won, continue earthly race
Healthy cuticle glow completed
Hands sparkle, vibrancy attack
Fears and woes superseded
My aches and pains are pushed way back
Sitting on my porch, completely alive
Wondering at the clutter and clack
Numbers game, six. Seven. Five.
Two X’s, 6’s, and 9 lives won.
Like a giant cat, Vitamin D keeps me alive
I marvel at my pretty skin
Amazed at the great shape she’s now back in
Trump Futile While Being Brutal
Trump's attemps all proved to be futile;
Then had ben bad boy who was brutal;
Plague blubonic;
Poor each phonic;
From his small hand chewed off cuticle.
Jim Horn
Strive to drive out sleaze and sorrow from our race
Prospect and elect to inject laughter and love beneath and beyond the surface
Where we fly and cry to promote and devote principles in the ace
Life hands us
Enjoining us to kick out fuss
From our thought, plan, action and bus
Not only from our brain, heart but also from our cuticle
Promoting principle beyond a mere trickle
Although the spice of vice our fancy may tickle
But the culture and nature of our future
Matters more than the rapture
The pulse of impulse and its reverse aim to capture
In the intended handsome dividends
Lying yonder bends, blends and amends where friends
Strengthen our wobbling knees as we embrace trends
That focus energy and synergy on the ultimate prize
We reap in the wake of deleting and quitting sleaze
To rise in the grace and glory God grants without meting out any fatal fees.
Cruel and Unusual Punishment 8th Amendment
Of particular news was a protrusion
Upsetting people with a serious infusion
About proportion of a pharmaceutical
Enough to raise and curl your cuticle
Cruel and unusual punishment create an exclusion.
This should be blocked and not allowed
to exist in our society. According to
Code of Hammurabi cruel as well as
unusual and capital punishment never
had any effect on people killing each
other. Capital punishment should be
removed from our social etiquette.
What do you think.
Jim Horn
Have Left Me Hanging
Have left me hanging;
My beautiful cuticle,
I broke while in school.
Jim Horn
Critical Is Cuticle
You are sure to know
Critical is cuticle
Those who step on foot.
Jim Horn
Wonderful Woman Horn Limerick
Wonderful woman and lovely lady;
I always will mean it and not maybe;
Also so adorable while being beautiful
Right down to here very cute cuticle;
I am sure glad God made her for me.
About my wife of course.
Jim Horn
She Does Her Toe
Following are my favorite poets and writers:
Robert Frost, Will Rogers and Ogden Nash.
This poem is at least one about the last
one which was so much fun from start
until finally done and also hope you
appreciate my pun I have done.
You could have seen her cute cuticle
All it received was ridiculous ridicule
Calm and collective not loosing cool
Protective coating when in swimming pool.
Through all of the water would slip and slide
And her hairy ugly nail she had to hide
While in water all of her time did abide
Until water from feet had finally dried.
Heard another swimmer wanted to propose
Has such great ability and wherever she goes
Whether it be here or there or to and fro
Instead of flipping finger she does her toe.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
A calling from zietgeist;
when a flute versus beast
starts a power play.
My world becomes wet.
Amorous,
when I watch a moth in your fist.
A split moon peels off
the cuticle, for a mega show of the
cone, shedding cruciform sword.
The white tiger leaps with
precision, spilling the milk container.
It was moonlight.
The baked smile now gathers
the teeth for a final bite.
The diamonds now quiver like a fear.
Satish Verma
She had to have been heaven sent and it was evident
By her beauty and her temperament
So beautiful
Her very essence could make you emotional
And so graceful
The stroke of her cuticle could turn the harshest heart playful
So natural
That to her casual
Is basically relaxing
In his and her matching flip flops romancing
subcosciously dancing
pirouetting
Over obstacles
Turning their damaging effects comical
So tender
Theres not a day with her I cant remember
Like cold nights in november
hearts warmth melted away the winter
So basic
When she throws fits I apply logic
And deal with it since those lips movements
turn my mentals fluid
So amazing
That while the rest of the world is raging
We in the tub bathing
navigating each others creations
without relations
just playin
Was it a summer storm of sexuality?
Only the chaste statue stood in threads,
and then went down the cuticle
with nipple rings.
The demand of namelessness was rising
in the dim shadows of brisk tones.
To step down from sanity, a clown
was ready to become a hunchback.
Inserting the name of cupid in the missing years
the theme will encircle the house.
First conceived as a rose, its petals
are covering your cleavage
and our poor kids are slaughtered without
a surveyor. Do not read between the blood streams,
the solf face has become a bomber.
Of eternal rage, colours are moving
from red to gray. Ash was filling the empty bottles.
SATISH VERMA
Skin pale white,
her hospital gown,
a moth filled wedding dress.
straps and shackles tie her down
like a corset;
more buckles and ties than Harry Houdini.
she frantically turns
toward the door
like a two year old
throwing a temper tantrum,
her hands wrapped around her body,
hugging her own hips.
Fingernails cut down to the cuticle
just in case she had any ideas.
Dirty blonde hair becoming static
as if she rubbed a balloon on her scalp
a head of tranquility, restless hair from sex.
Panting,
like a winded dog chasing its ball,
Her lips caught me off guard,
They were blue, not like
the cold midnight sky,
but a body
bound for hypothermia
longing for freedom from restraint.
That is my psychological diagnosis