Our Lady of Fátima
Our lady of the Rosary.
So young and beautiful you were,
Absolute flawless poetry.
The mother chosen
For your adoration,
Your love true devotion
To give the world God's Son.
The Lord is with thee.
Us sinners, our whispers
Ask to keep us in your prayers.
You appeared in a flash of light,
Brighter than the sun
On the holm oak tree in Fatima
To the faithful requesting devotion
Promising comfort.
You ask for peace of the world.
11/7/2020
Fatima Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
https://www.bluearmy.com/the-story-of-fatima/
Categories:
holm, prayer,
Form: Free verse
It may be fallacious to make a poem about a fallacy
But I wish to talk about a problem in reality
Once upon a Texas morning, a man held in low respects took a gun from his home
He moved quietly in the afternoon shooting all 6 rounds
He took red paint and drew a target that astounds
He claimed I himself a sharpshooter greater than ol’ holm
He held himself a genius in nirvana’s dome
Not knowing of that I would use it on these battlegrounds
It is Arguable
But scientists always do this
Shooting gene differences
Making excuses
Saying you are DNA
Check your fallacious privilege
Context help:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Texas_sharpshooter_fallacy
Recently, I was doing some fallacy research for improving myself with making arguments, after reading this Wikipedia article I realized a large amount of genetic research didn’t seem to match up and decided that I should share my realization about this. Anyway whether this is useful or useless, thanks for reading.
Categories:
holm, corruption, satire, science,
Form: Free verse
The tree of ages
There had been a storm, not a squall making it difficult
to walk from the supermarket to your car leaving you
with tussled hair and breathless, no this was
the real thing and the holm oak crashed to the ground
roots and all blocking the road.
It was an old tree had lost weight, and bark slung around
it like a poorly fitted mechanic`s overall, so it had to happen
it was what ensued after the fall, and it had to be moved
still alive they cut it in half and pushed it aside with
a fork lift truck no ceremony here no kind words, the tree
was blocking the traffic; not a word of regret, you see,
hadn`t it been for the storm the tree was well enough to
stand by the entrance to the lane for 100 years to come.
Categories:
holm, age,
Form: Sonnet
Exodus
Under a big holm oak, I sat on a stone resting a little
the sun so early in the year was hot, years ago there were
flocks of sheep here they laid chewing ignoring me.
This year there is none not even pellet droppings
the landscape is being gentrified and no peeing up against a tree
It is strange when people who are not of the land
the first thing they do is to try trimming it and making smooths
tracks made of imported sand, plastic chair and a nice cuppa.
The extended field of olive trees lends itself to a golf course; they will
of course, leave a few trees with tall grass and call it the rough
little can be done give the developer a chance and Portugal
ends up looking like Florida, and architects will draw the same
dull estates and find some fancy names
for their vandalism.
But let them spend money before it comes crashing down
abandoned and nature can take it back, yes it has happened
before and with good reason when small farmers were so poor they
sought work on the other side of the ocean
and their old homes has trees growing through them
nothing is new only the name changes like a rabbit would care
Categories:
holm, abuse, gothic, graduate, grandfather,
Form: Blank verse
In weathers un-listened geography
I await the late years
low ambient yellow
that will dissolve
the drenched slumber
of landscape grey and spindrift froth.
Names of other elemental places
slip beneath the door,
they are given character
of sea scape gust, and mercator projection
softened in the description
"slight"
They veer now,
howling their last
close to battered breath tide,
striking afresh the holm of landfall
where waterline inhales the outrun
of each encroaching wave.
The night splits
and torch lit dawn
illuminates muscular wrestled trees,
bent as hungover drunks.
And you and I sing to their jetsome,
mindless as children
Categories:
holm, words,
Form: Dramatic Verse
Sea the wight-capped waives rolling inn the see;
here the howling wynds, wile I’m standing hear,
whale and forme hi waives. Theirs eh jumping wail-
tale upp inn the ayre! This should make gneiss tail
two tel wen eye get holm. Butt now theirs too
blew wales inn wiaves- there water spouts just blue!
Whether getting worse, kneed two sea weather
it's my thyme too lieve since wynd now blows it’s
grate, whiled sounds awl across the see, witch great
allowed and shriek. Could bee, I’m knot aloud
write hear two stay- dew knot want gnus too right,
“Sum man fell inn the see and payed the some
witch cost his life from storms angry whiled which.”
Week legs mite make mi sync and fall; eh weak
wood pass before they fined mi with eh would
bored inn my grippe from roe boat beet and board
bye waives and whild wynds that kame and flue buy.
Eye no, its thyme too lieve, cum back wen aye
cee com, and eye can stay eh wile two sea
wails jump inn waives without the wynd’s whiled whales.
April 7, 2015
~2nd Place~
Contest: Only Homo’s Allowed
Sponsor: Jerry T. Curtis
Judged: 04/30/2015
(Homophones)
Categories:
holm, imagery, nonsense, word play,
Form: Free verse
Almond Tree and Prisoners
As a child I lived near a farm a farm that was
next door to a prison camp. Russian prisoners
marched up and down trying to keep warm
it was January with much frost, year of 1945
I thought of this today on my walk passed my
almond tree that is situated so good it catches
most of the westerly sun, yet hidden behind
a Holm oak protected by Nordic wind blasts.
My tree is already flowering, it has pink petals
shivers a bit dressed in a delicate nightdress.
The Russians had to wait longer for their spring
when it came, it was false one, they were sent
home and put in prison camps for surrendering
to the enemy. For some the winter is endless.
Categories:
holm,
Form: Sonnet
I remember that place
in green pastures called home.
But where are you now
“Union Yard, Britton Holm”
Deep in reams of memories
indelible you lay,
reposed at the helm
of a life rushing by.
Guess i’ve played life’s
generation game,
yet somehow you appeared the same!
Misguided my mind
in local pursuit,
when reminded
one does not belong,
the only stranger there was i.
Sometimes I try to tell myself
that life yesteryear was never real,
just a fantasy of one’s youth
the way I use to feel.
“But you are so astute”
No one to change nature’s way
when every step together we retraced,
“Only the human race it seems fluctuates.”
From time to time
the dream awakes, then swiftly abates,
even the memories seem to fall
like autumn leaves
that swirls within the gutter,
when I see urbanization,
spread its wing
like some gigantic woodcutter!
Alas no more the sight
no more the sound
no more the light,
in this life to be found
in that foundation called home,
the last bastion of my folks,
only a memory of love
and a mind at will to evoke!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Categories:
holm, nostalgia,
Form: Free verse
A
lasting
requiem-
music to the
soul
Tribute to Christian writer/muscians eg Graham Kendrick/Stuart Townend/Dallas Holm
Categories:
holm, faith, music
Form: Lanterne