There's a tendon in my calf rhymes with my surname
I call it my a- Gillies
Most would know it's common name
connecting to the ankle the achilles
Two months have been unable to do a daily run
an hour so of fun
This right tendon has been torn I am forced to limp
Finding alternative exercise no desire to be a wimp
Each day the injury receives some heat
my leg upon a stool my bum upon a seat
With hot water I fill a water bottle
Most unusual for me to have to hobble
Knee repair went well
it's the walking that gets you
returning to work
my body lies limp
suns heat dries me like a prune
in need of raindrops
Daylight drags its feet,
its slippers are grey and pad silently.
Long after dawn
night keeps rolling over in its grave
refusing to die or give way.
Bats flutter listlessly in twilit belfries
somewhere upon a moonlit pond
a trout is crossing over a fishy Rubicon.
It is belly-up, a mottled death gleams
upward where only yesterday it leapt.
The dawn is going nowhere.
In dew-wet theme parks
unicorns shake their soggy manes.
The cat dreams on and will not
visit the litterbox for hours yet.
I am bogged down inside a poem
seeking not, rhyme nor reason,
but a little wiggle room, a plausible excuse
why this tardy day has marooned me
just nowhere,
with nothing more to say.
To The Begging Blind
Be squarely kind:
The ones walking our streets lined
But also those doing it singly
And sort of acting kingly!
The Blind also battling with a limp
And The Ones who seem A Pimp,
Never them to a halt grind
Nor to a spot with stories bind;
In their front leading, not behind
Their guide pretend you’d signed
And their alms release like one fined …
With The Begging Blind
Deal with an open mind.
A photographer of Indoor Sports
Found himself dragged through the lower courts
The hotel said
He filmed their bed
When a buxom housemaid dropped her shorts
can you imagine
a life without tears
a dawn free of clouds impending
a sparkle without a smoke tail
a ding, a dong that does not clang
a love free of clings and shrouded claws
a dream free of seances
to imagine without consequences
to imagine without strings
is a limp puppet,
a lifeless blimp with
wind expelled
gentle pops of ice
as surging streams
release its imprisoned brethren
decaying leaves grasping onto blackened fingers
as weathered wind encircles
sputum gurgles past
as stream seems to gasp
chiselled bedrock teeth
laugh as speckled waters
erode and carry
child particles
far away
I am so drained,
a tired mind,
melted into goo
upon a platter.
Limp butter-soaked
biscuit,
no longer warm.
He called me a limp-clod.
What is it?
I have no idea.
But it made you mad?
I am furious.
I could hit him.
Can we ask him?
Okay.
What is a limp-clod?
A limp is my best friend and a clod is his name.
Your name is Claude?
Yes.
Are you still mad?
Not as mad, but I have not slowed down yet.
Understood.
Gimp and Limp
In Trump style should put a crimp;
We should love those who will limp;
With words fumble;
Forgot about humble;
Trump's body looks like a big blimp.
Jim Horn
About time Trump is always behind,
And the last time we saw his mind
God had delivered,
And Trump quivered;
He gave his back to God in a bind.
Jim Horn
Pink Browed Rose Finch
His pink color with back feathers trim,
Always reminds me so much of him,
Wise men of old,
Have been told;
With gold, seraphim and cherubim.
Jim Horn
Poet Named Kash
With a round face and body thin,
I always can remember when,
Had been caught,
With much thought;
My life had started and did begin.
Jim Horn
God Again Will Bless
CVS must really be a mess,
That you know is my guess;
May be ill;
Prescription fill;
God again I know will bless.
Jim Horn
limp intentions
draged us down
take a step back
learn to get found
silence tried to hide
masacara of pride
tears smearing blue
leathes reflection
of
you
wrinkle skin
stretch it out
our form of never doubt
eyes with flawless vision
handling hydes-jekle incision
reason found between the lines
understanding is under defined
brittle wombs collapsing deep
shattered teeth begin to seep
waitng on content christians
only to find
limp intentions
?
The old man
crossing the street
has a bad limp
we try to ignore.
No one wants to look
at a limp like that.
We like to think
no one else can see
the limp we have
the limp we earned
by ignoring little people
who get in our way
who strike us as
the litter of life we
want swept away.
Donal Mahoney
McGee walked into the local pub
He shuffled along with a limp
Although it was certain, he was in pain
He assured everyone He's no wimp
He made his way to the table to say
"Hey Doc It's me leg it's in pain"
The Doc wore a frown, said "Please sit on down,
and alleviate some of the strain"
"Doc, what do you tink" as he ordered a drink
The Doc said "It's merely old age"
McGee was in shock as he glared at the doc
Then burst out, into a rage
"You don't know a ting, form a cast to sling"
Said McGee, as his rant rambled on
The Doc staying cool, said "listen you fool,
What makes you think that I'm wrong ? "
Now McGee calmly said as he slapped his own head
"This don't take a psych or sage
Me other leg's fine as it's been all the time
And both of them are the same age"
Written for my heart, my son, Kyle
Wash me gentle in the river –
Ease me on down with care.
I’m an emotional giver –
It’s my song in the air.
Dry me smooth upon shore’s sliver -
Warm away my despair.
Constant tears are in my eyes,
but I’ll deny that I cry.
God loves me inside and out,
He knows what I’m all about,
but I can’t settle the shout
that sticks down inside my throat
and threatens to choke me dry.
Emotions lacking corners
have only circle borders
and trap me in feelings bleak.
Searching answers to know order
leaves me sadly limp and weak.
First I prayed, but now I rage:
oh, dear God, please turn this page.
World, you allowed darkness,
with its brutal hurtful hiss,
to maim the child life of his.
Harsh cruelness such as this
brought me to my knees
with a Mother’s enraged pleas.
Wash me gentle in the river –
Ease me on down with care.
I’m an emotional giver –
It’s my song in the air.
Dry me smooth upon shore’s sliver -
Warm away my despair.
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