He had pals once, he had mates,
he once, twice and many times after
had women.
He had a hat but he lost that.
Lost the girls, lost pals, lost mates.
He had to admit
that all he once knew were disappearing,
he himself, was disappearing,
bits of him
had already been cut out
to be burnt up in Hospital incinerators.
The details of those many far flung places,
(all his peripatetic wanderings),
were disappearing one by one,
one temple,
one hotel, one mountain at a time.
One day he will awake
get himself ready to go out to walk his dog,
then remember to late,
that his dog had disappeared
about the same time
they both got throat cancer.
For now, he instinctively checks his pockets
for whatever is left.
Categories:
incinerators, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Cheers! Emmanuel Amos:
A Fast Gathering Moss!
No more a Rolling Stone.
The magic wrought alone…
Now, nice strong. houses builds:
Vibrated blocks for them wields
All Strong Generators
Withstand Incinerators…
Amos I’d taught in Okpo
A World I’d sought her succour:
From a tough part of the clan;
She could go to war no plan’
I would never forget Amaiyi:
Sounds much like Poet Niyi.
Four years it was over
And again turned A Rover…
A Great Meeting this year
January starts with beer!
Categories:
incinerators, care, celebration, devotion, new
Form: Rhyme
Nuremburg Turmoil Part II
It seems so sad to think that final result
To all of humanity has been an insult
Lives of people being taken advantage of
Bodies into incinerators they would shove.
Bodies were destroyed and badly twisted
Many forms of torture had been enlisted
Completely messing over my mind somehow
When I think of Auschwitz and Dachau.
We were once in Germany taking a tour
Avoided sight of Nuremburg trial for sure
Thinking about things that had been done
Collecting souls when country was over-run.
Not only that, they even killed there own
Whose last name of Stein meaning stone
That we assume were of Jewish Ancestry
Not from board of a local church vestry.
German people came up with perfect excuse
For all of the horror along with child abuse
In my mind, there is no explanation why
Those people were tortured and had to die.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Bolivia, NC
Categories:
incinerators, bereavement, sad,
Form: Couplet
No, It was not my time
to jaunt & jump about
the Morld with You, to
glowering-green-glows
of Ischia, the privileges
of Mackinac, "...our Paris, Ilsa!"...
Ornamented ataud &
calefacted incinerators are
merely better-funded!, to a last-
notice of proteaned hoar, the
dearth of silk...
So, it was to be
Goa, or Delhi "curry-in-a-hurry" not,
and the touts & shouts
as We passed...
You in those shoes,
toeing-up with heel asway
like a silent, ticking-pendulum,
Me, watching...
Allowing sole specialnesses, but a few
to my inti-mated Life,
why there was You insinuate...
E'er Yours-sporadic, tho'
an extravagance of Soul!, like
incipient Sinatra, or
the piano of Jarrett! But,
No, it was not your time
to jump & jaunt-about
with Me, but for You,
like a junkie afeared of needles,
to be going, & mine
to Write... of It, plecking-off
the pilpuls from
My blanket, & You to
replacing contoured batteries
and
for Now... perhaps as recent
as tomorrows' accident.
H.e.m.
c.5.10.MMvii.
Categories:
incinerators, introspection, life, lost love,
Form: Free verse