Long Cuticle Poems
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When he was young. I thought he was old. It never occurred to me that I might be wrong. That old wouldn’t show up for years and years, decades even. He wasn’t tall like my grandfather. But he wasn’t short either. He had a habit of biting his cuticles that I inherited and would be reluctant to give up until I found myself with dentures and the inability to truly bite through the meat of the cuticle. I don’t know if he discovered the same inconvenience when he started wearing dentures but feel like he must have. When he left my mother, back in 1977, I wasn’t devastated the way some children might have been. The devastation came when I found out that his leaving didn’t leave me with much of an option. I had to grow up and discover for myself – this world where I’d been a child, an only child at that. It wouldn’t take me long to realize that, without him at home, I had more liberty. I could ask for things and they would be given. I could stay overnight with friends without being hassled. I could do those things that he wouldn’t have allowed because he was more controlling than my mom. It was only when I got older, much older, that I would remember the days before he left without thinking to myself, I must have got that from him. The angry words, spoken before thinking. The jealousy that came in spurts. The dark side of myself. The side that was so unlike my mom, who was a reflection of grace itself. It would take me many years to whack away at those character traits that made me realize I was, like him, the “bad guy”. It would take me years, and he became old as I lived. In his old age, I could see that he wasn’t as big as I remembered him to be. He wasn’t as bad as I’d thought he was. I realized that he was just a child himself. A child, when I’d thought he was old. But when old finally showed itself, it came with such defeat that I knew he wasn’t as strong as I’d thought him to be, either. In fact, I could see he was quite weak. So weak. He’d put on that strength like a coat, just a coat to help him survive the storms. While inside, he’d felt feeble all along. Just like me.
tears never melted
the silence between our hearts
though years misjudged us
In Response to Another Poet's Poems.
Who said for whole world I was not caring
Making many mistakes and continually erring
While under her clothes things were well-stored
Being two breasts big beasts I highly adored.
I always liked her face and its colour
Which found me as it did allure.
From high on head to each tiny cuticle
Her whole body was bound to be beautiful.
Eventual down she tried to simmer
Even though her lips would often tremor.
To me each one I saw was God forsaken;
All those selfies of herself that had been taken
And if of all her clothes she were to divest
What would she do with all of the rest?
Used palette knives for appearance which was palatial
After finding a frown which had been occasional;
Only reason husband had been on bended knee
Was so up my dress he again could see.
Both my eyes jumped high like over a hurdle
And all I ended up seeing was her girdle;
Guess what when I looked into her eyes;
She said, "Your turn to make the French fries."
What I always wondered about our genes
What will they be like in our teens?
And to say and ask question hope I will be at liberty
Which sex will be first to end up in puberty?
Oh, and will sustaining be well-worth in her hub
While you love drinking another round at local pub
If I were intrepid and ended up being remorseful
Did it first require a fin destined to be a dorsal
(And to eat each would only munch on a morsel.)
James Thesarious Horn
Whew. What a bunch of BS
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.
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
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
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
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
Form:
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