Before him, my hands belonged to me—
ten fingers with no reason to be careful,
good for gripping steering wheels, counting money,
and reaching for whatever I wanted next.
Then a nurse folded eight pounds into my arms.
His whole hand closed around one finger,
too small to circle even half of it,
and somehow that unfinished little fist
held more of me than mine ever could.
I remember watching his little chest rise,
a heart-shaped birthmark moving with every breath,
counting each one without knowing I was counting,
afraid even air might mishandle him.
Those hands changed after that.
They learned alarm clocks before sunrise,
time clocks, grocery bags, medicine bottles,
how to stretch one paycheck past Friday,
how to check a fever without waking him.
They learned shoelaces. Bicycle seats.
And even how long to hold on before letting go.
Years later, those tiny fingers
filled the gloves of a United States Marine,
and I stood looking up at the same boy
I once was terrified of dropping.
Funny—
The first day I held my son,
I thought I was carrying him.
I didn't know
he was carrying me into manhood.
Are wars as natural as forest fires?
The world is a restless war between India
and Pakistan's armies are ready and eager to fight
as usual, the people are ill-informed
Israel has a problem; people are in an uproar
the way the sitting regime mishandle
the constant warfare, there might be a civil war
the USA, that believes in an uni-polar world but
see they are no longer the world's ruler
Europe wants more war in Ukraine
Alexandre Dugan believes in a multi-polar world
he is correct; the age for supremacism is over
Or is it as many people think that war is like the plague
a natural phenomena buried in our mind
from time to time, to destroy and mass murder
will occur, will not stop until the old order is destroyed
then peace can come, and the world is set free
My imperfections speak volumes with cutting
words in perfect prose to my higher self
Long ago those shards caused wounds but
now are ghosts of a broken lower self
Hollow shells of a self we loved the most are
shattered versions & bound to go
The Rapture occurred in the vessel I call a home
but untrained eyes would never know
I show the world every part so they are privy to
the version they need the most
My mind is a house for you to visit but not a home
for those that mishandle hosts
I'm at home wherever I go so it matters not were I
pitch a tent
This world lives in your minds hidden rooms
without having to pay the rent
I'm convinced the broken are beautiful beings & just
mirrors for us to see
The world is broken so of course we are but we're
not destined to always be
The last best hope, the redneck pope the hicks
are counting on, won’t need his travel kit
when he’s on Ricker’s Island. Gavel it!
He orders bedroom windows made of bricks:
aspires to nothing higher than Stevie Nix.
The break-up (that’s why Vaclav Havel quit)
– how cross is Marjorie, how cavil-fit –
is something he would engineer for kicks,
so put him where he can’t mishandle chicks.
He screwed it all. His team unravel, knit:
on Epstein’s isle, he did the Savile bit.
With Kavanaugh and J.D. Vance his picks,
The Hollow Man is running out of tricks.
There’s only one thing left – the Gravel Pit!
(I’m penniless: I have no hint of loot.
I fear no a-hole’s defamation suit.)
Jurors mishandle the facts why can't we?
Does it hurt when you hear others laugh,
or do you think they are laughing at you?
Growing the pain deep inside.
On your mind grows a hurt you can't hide.
What will happen to you if you talk?
This crime to each other goes every long day undescribed.
People who go to school to learn how to think,
then come back to the home to red ink.
Remembered control over they to you is the plan.
If you cannot speak they to you your mind they have gained.
Unable to speak few children can think.
Mom or dad a teacher that knew most don't have.
Detached from emotion this is the place where you hide.
Each to a room none can find.
TANTAMOUNT:
Whether by genes or by blood,
Whether by menage or by clan,
Whether by power or by class,
Whether by race or by nationality,
Whether by age or by gender,
We are all tantamounted inherently.
None of us is special above the other,
For we all have our unique qualities.
Everybody is yoked with weaknesses,
And with strengths... inseparably.
So why should I treat you wickedly,
As if I'm so much important than you?
And why should you mishandle me,
Based on animosity, like I'm a wood?
Well, we all came from mere women,
Into this world as slaves and poor men.
Where we battle to become freemen.
So simply, there's no need for disregard.
But we are required to render real love,
In order to groom the peace we have.
This is my personal opinion right now,
Equally, you too have yours in your hand.
Thank you...I'm out!
Politicians will not ever be amusing;
Mishandle things they were misusing;
Pushed and shoved.
And no one loved;
Have found it hard to be excusing.
Jim Horn
shooting for a total of 7,800 now
and 8,000 later.
...by gone past former shores of lands mishandle!;
Alas disoriented having lost one's bearings;
adrift going round in circles at sea darkness covers;
Hark! I hear Atlantis calling...
As the sea brings me light the candles;
Of the painted blacken skies;
Hark! I hear Atlantis calling...
Yet still alive, lost amidst the waters;
Prince Namor whose off the deck;
Surfaces on to this timeless wreck;
Whom am I to descend and at what cost;
unable to find one's way; "Help! We're lost!"
Treading waters seas shallows
Of the painted blacken skies;
Hark! I hear Atlantis calling...
11/03/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019 ©
My thought reek of bloopers
All I see is blue birds
Ever since you left me
Maybe I deserve it
A southpaw has to be used to this
Sleeping in the mud
Reminiscing the dirty games I played
Staring at the dice
you flipped on me
I hate how the tables turned
Used to mishandle the lighter
look at how I got burned
Flames of anger
puff out of the words I breathe
I was stupid for thinking winners never lose
I've learnt the best lesson in the worst way
I know my stars were cursed
for how I kept many in the dark
Cloud of lies
Crazy how I rained promises on them
Only to let ignorant fairies drown in disappointment
Spare me the regrets
I deserve this stunt
The wrongs I did hid in my shadow
The future looks uncertain
Still feeling reluctant to change
from those ways
Honestly
Breezes from my past don't feel good
The maybes will probably fade
If I start being true to myself
and the few in my world
I pray the earth helps me now
Or it will be forced to hold me down in the end
Trump On A Funny Farm
Trump's lips do look like Donald Duck
Sad imitating palsied person when he does cluck
Like a cruddy chicken carries on and on
Sure hope pretty soon he will be gone.
Down people he will cut and criticize
Has short stubby hands and sleazy eyes
Then he really tries to put you to the test
When he starts a head-butting contest.
To keep up with Trump we simply refuse
Way people does mishandle and will misuse
Thought of him as President surely alarms
He belongs on either an animal or funny farm.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Ended Up in a Pickle
You probably ended up in a pickle
Received no things from theory called trickle
And felt down after reading latest pole
Gave away heart and sold your soul.
Some also heard what I often mention
Trump in ranks causes much dissension
Created chaos and also a lot of fear
Wish he left us and is no longer here.
At convention last night yelled out loud
Most important thing is being proud
Of who we are and no one will abuse
And never mishandle or else misuse.
America is beautiful in all that I see
Looks so lovely here in land of the free
And Hillary truly has proven potential
To guide and lead us and be presidential.
Great guardian angel to us God has sent
And now know what he always meant
Be careful what you do or say in a mike
Someone was listening who is a little tyke.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Send me the pieces of my heart so I can stitch them back together. I'll lock them in a
glass case that no one can shatter. Love is just a word to you, not a true feeling. Your
heart is made of stone & you don't know the meaning.I gave you my soul & you sold it
to the devil. I let you keep my heart and all you know is how to mishandle, dismantle,
disassemble, shatter, batter, take & break, stomp on it until the pieces are like sand &
blow away when the wind blows. Blows like the crap you tried to fool me with, the lies
out of your mouth. All you know how to do is bring true love down. Down into to hell is
where I fell. You left me there to burn & be in agony. You don't have the strength to
save me. You give up & move on leaving my heart jagged & torn & forever damned to
be alone. So send me the pieces of my heart so I can try and stitch them back together.
I'll stitch them the best I can, but it will bleed through the cracks you made. FOREVER.
Send me the pieces of my heart so I can stitch them back together. I'll lock them in a
glass case that no one can shatter. Love is just a word to you, not a true feeling. Your
heart is made of stone & you don't know the meaning.I gave you my soul & you sold it
to the devil. I let you keep my heart and all you know is how to mishandle, dismantle,
disassemble, shatter, batter, take & break, stomp on it until the pieces are like sand &
blow away when the wind blows. Blows like the crap you tried to fool me with, the lies
out of your mouth. All you know how to do is bring true love down. Down into to hell is
where I fell. You left me there to burn & be in agony. You don't have the strength to
save me. You give up & move on leaving my heart jagged & torn & forever damned to
be alone. So send me the pieces of my heart so I can try and stitch them back together.
I'll stitch them the best I can, but it will bleed through the cracks you made. FOREVER.
Infamous girl
you sank to a grave dug with a silver spoon
infamous girl
you drag your dress across an ill fated field lit by the moon
Lure you, comfort you, f-ck you, toss you
put this cycle on repeat, spin in your own spit
This is a damning of the innocent hearts turned noir
Bang out of your intentions, or what’s left of them anyway
The music thumps in corridors made by the misfits who mishandle your direction
Your phoenix rose into this glorious infection
Infamous girl
you rang the bells at your own funeral
the parlor was set, the flowers arranged, but everyone showed up in white
They smiled at the tint of your skin
they reveled in the story of your sin
No one talks about the whore after she’s been buried underneath
six feet of earth and concrete
They remember the scabs and fancy footwork you used to get there
The past has been erased, the bobby pins and the pigtails in your hair
The past has been deleted for knee high boots slouched against a strangers chair
the blips of actions before you ceased are the talk of the town
of why you aren’t spreading your filth since you’re resting in the ground
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