Discoveries within the stem glass,
strawberries are lemonade rubies.
Bellies are hungry to find riches,
stories deliver that meal with ease.
Eyes tormented by one another,
paradise seems within easy reach.
Dusk-rise now pales in comparison,
‘sky’s on fire’ is a figure of speech.
Heart’s at peace in our sunset years,
which is no mere figure of speech,
since reduced are desires and fears
and heaven’s light seems within reach.
Ambling along in witness mode,
heart’s at peace in our sunset years,
wherein singing to love an ode,
we’re suffused with bliss that endears.
Our destiny God Himself steers,
for now with ego cravings gone,
heart’s at peace in our sunset years,
with each life breath ushering dawn.
According to conscience consent,
going wherever bliss throb spears,
simply by following the scent,
heart’s at peace in our sunset years.
Blue and violet clouds unhurriedly grow
Adorning the sky for the evening show
The deck chairs are empty, and so is the beach
Time is no more than a figure of speech
Say it’s enough now, drift with the tide
Succumb to the stream of perpetual ride
There is no tomorrow, there was no today
You're gifted to see how the colours turn grey.
Band-Aid
To cover up a scab.
The lies won’t disappear.
Only a temporary cover up.
You can still see the scar.
Always an excuse with a band-aid.
Just a figure of speech.
Dust under the rug to compromise.
To avoid confrontation or a fight.
The guilt is rising.
I can see the under lining.
Just another delay.
Injustice is transparent on the wave.
A scar shows your true colors.
A secret to be revealed.
Hinder the truth.
The reckoning is on the move.
Telepathic lies.
Never honest, no surprise.
I have thrown out all the rules,
No rhyme or meter to follow through.
Just thoughts of you,
And the way you walk under the trees.
You are the figure of speech,
The embodiment of beauty and grace.
With each line, my heart does reach,
And the words begin to take shape.
Like a bird, I am drawn back,
To the place where my heart is never slack.
And in my heart, you always rest,
The one I love, the one I bless.
A lonely bird, coming back to its nest,
My thoughts of you, never at rest.
As the words flow from my pen,
My love for you, gets its reign.
The words I write, they speak of you,
Of all the love that we’ve been through.
And as I write, my heart takes flight,
A love that’s endless, full of light.
As the words flow from my pen,
My love for you spills out again.
It dances on the page, so true,
A never-ending ode to you.
So here I am, writing free verse
With nothing to hold me back
My pen dances to the rhythm of the universe
As I pour out my soul on the blank track.
In these lines, my love remains,
A treasure that forever sustains.
As long as I have pen and page,
My love for you will never fade.
…
Her head was on last night.
She has many different heads -
there interchangeable.
She's no potato head though
just a figure of speech and expression
with lots of playful parts.
When her heads not on
it's difficult to get to know her
her mouth turns into a moth
chasing moonbeams.
Eventually her head stays put
then I impatiently construct imaginary
love scenes
while she sips red wine
through red lips (slightly bored as usual).
I hurriedly cobble together odd bits of fabrication
out of unprintable words,
sometimes she helps
sometimes she runs around
screaming:
"For God's sake do better."
Then I get mad
and change her face.
We're just a normal couple
neither of us are content until
we disassemble our reality completely.
Often we don't know who we are.
Those times are the best.
speech of a term is speech of a speech
speech is speech of a speech
speech is speech of america
america is a figure of speech
speech is a term of speech
speech is a term of america
america is a term of america
america is a beauty of a beautiful speech
beauty is beauty of a magnificent speech
beauty is beauty of a magnificent term of speech
a beautiful america is the beauty of america
beauty is a beautiful america
beauty is a beautiful speech
magnificent is a figure of speech
america is a figure of america
a figure is a figure of speech
a figure is a figure of america
america is a magnificent figure of america
america is a magnificent term of speech
beauty is a magnificent figure
beauty is a magnificent america
Poetry a figurative sense is one in which words or expressions acquire meanings that depend on their context of use. The literal sense is used to give words the objective meaning they have...
Poetry therefore exists when it exists
figure of speech... metaphor, metonymy etc. SO POETRY IS NOT WRITTEN TO AGREE OR NOT,IS to READ, understand, APPRECIATE... READ, READ a lot OF POETRY !
When one is down and out
Do not give up on life,
The bible says
‘And it came to pass’
Never did it say
It came to stay!
© Harry J Horsman 2022
A repost of an old Tanka form poem.
Poetry is intended for restlessness,
too much sweetness drives away poetry...
You can be pregnant with ideas,
stocked with what is benefit and write
emotionally without stoppage,
but the unusual metaphor is missing...
to the one that outlines the poetry...
Behold, the singing of joyful countries
it's sad...
The singing of sad countries is content...
There then lies the poetry that reflects
what the soul does not sight...
Poetry is not sympathetic text
in pretty words that appear
always full of emotions... and with
melodramatic sweetness... lack the
high-sounding that the Greeks call Beauty,
when the imagery that materializes the mystery is lacking,
only through metaphor or metonymy,
it subverts the original meaning,
gaining in breadth and beauty...
That and poem with poetry...
The word has to come dressed as a party
the poetry is dressed in the real fantasy
that the figure of speech contains...
Poetry is immaterial...!
Have a great birthday, Brother Sam,
Figure of speech finds the writer;
The kind's as gentle as a lamb,
Anger turns sheep into tiger.
Topic: Birthday of Samuel Peligro (March 24)
life can indeed be short,however ,death is always longer
Chiasmus a pithy reverse figure of speech
Blood On The Marquee
Savor host
Savior moist
Search within
thoughts of Rin Tin Tin
shallow peaks that stink
fall away from me
the clearance way from me;
within its love set free
shallow road where Chinese man pee
Blood on the marquee
water within the base of the tree
hoping someday my sweet would so kindly marry me
Blood on the marquee
some folks live in the land of make believe
source through shallow peaks
busy as a bee
come with source to marry me
unlock the key
Blood on the marquee
shallow pool with dreams;
base the pool filled with leaves;
chase back the hill one be willing to believe
blood on the marquee
see through the hills will follow me
lest, you never achieve
lobster with soda strange as getting to know you
words that clash
figure of speech
satin sheets
blood on the marquee
foreign lead
apple pie with ice cream
amuse the cat with sleeve
In reprimand of Donald Anus Trump
(the Grand Old Party's best and choicest loser,
who sleazed and promised us he'll “drain the swamp”),
you live up to your name for there's none cruder
than you. And you behave like a male hussy
(who'd lay your daughter because she's a blonde peach),
and chirpily urge Bush to “grab [women] by
the pussy” (on video) in no figure of speech.
How to laud you our Commander-in-Chief;
when all you do is lie, distort, and threaten
your way out of the charge that you're a thief
(and fraud with whom Lord God has yet to reckon)?
And God help those children all at the border,
now dying by your executive order!
© 2019 Ngoc M. Nguyen...All Rights Reserved.
Horn Haiku.
To be culpable,
You do not need to complete,
Any obstruction.
Trump is never nice;
With his vice he does entice,
And sins shall suffice.,
Truly a lost cause;
Qualities not redeeming;
Sets poor example.
Trump lied while we cried;
He had killed figure of speech,
Being blasphemous.
Trump has been lazy;
Always sitting on keister;
Never getting off.
Sri Lanka so sad;
Once was country of Ceylon,
And now death does part.
He fought off our foes;
We know that Jesus arose,
After death He chose.
You should think about,
All of the things that I wrote,
Then read them again.
Jim Horn
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