In words that dance, a poet's grace,
A laureate's soul finds its embrace.
With verses vivid, tales unfurled,
They paint emotions, a world advanced.
Their quill, a wand of rhythmic might,
Crafts symphonies in darkest night.
From heart to ink, the journey's grand,
They wield a pen as magic wand.
They capture dreams in vivid hue,
Reflecting life in every view.
With language as their chosen art,
They touch the core of every heart.
A laureate's essence, pure and deep,
In every line, their secrets keep.
Through verses bold, their voices soar,
A legacy that time adores.
Oars and jars in place,
sails ready to blossom,
map drawn as a moon.
Chinese character, rhythm of life,
painted on the hull.
It is strange that I see.
On every mornings breeze.
That there’s always a doorway.
To you.
It is strange every time.
It is always on the line.
And the door.
It is open.
For you.
Come morning,
Come morning,
we set sail.
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, world to world,
Bouncing from dimension to dimension,
Stranded in the space that is nowhere,
Unsure if this is wake or sleep,
Unsure which option is reality,
Rapid fire stillness,
The love child of sanity and insanity.
I loved you the best I could,
Your scars were so deep and so old,
I could not see them and you could remember,
I love you,
This time love was not enough.
Through doors and windows,
Further and further inward,
Pushing limits until inward becomes outward,
And miracles unfold into reality.
In the music of life there will be sound and rest,
In every day there will be work and rest,
The contrast is important,
Finding the balance is the test.
An apple bitten,
Exiled from the garden of love,
Innocently wise.
From Africa to America spanning the world, quite possibly
My DNA struggled to survive to make me,
My existence is a testament to survival fitness,
My life is to nurture the future and bear witness, the past,
My name is the name to property they gave,
My heritage my lineage is that of a slave,
Yes, slave, property, harsh words to hear,
Great Granddad was born enslaved, three generations too near,
Granddad laid bricks, played music and sang,
Hope from Grandma’s illiterate lips, I sprang,
A lineage broken in Georgia or Carolina south,
passed on and on by word of mouth,
The legacy must pass through me to give my children power,
For their momma’s line stepped off the Mayflower,
In both I must help them see honor,
For the strength and the pride that made me must endure,
Listening, and teaching, and learning I press on without blame,
Learning from the past about my past I move on without shame,
Each new day, new creation, I write the story,
One of survival, renewal, reflection, doggedly pushing toward glory,
I am black yesterday, I am black now, I am black history.
If words are thoughts made manifest, humanity then a poem long ago written
only the poet knowing the design
Tragic or joyous, all things rest in his hands
for once the word is constructed creation is realized ending fulfilled
Later A Poet Laureate
One to me you were so sincere
Then one day when you did disappear
My heart was broken and I became sad
And now I knew I just had been had.
Over and over my mind was tormented
After I discovered it was demented
To God started praying while I kneeled
He said it was always best to play the field.
I really appreciated such a suggestion
After my sins were caught in a confession
And slowly together the puzzle was pieced
When I started listening to the Priest.
One thing at a time should attempt and take
And never again will my heart ever break;
From God to me another message was sent
Have you thought running for President.
Should I protest when I heard God's plea?
What in the world has come over me?
By everyone I would receive all the blame;
Bowed out and later Poet Laureate became.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
HERE'S WISHING YOU A BUCKET OF THE BEST,
FOR HAVING REACHED THAT GOLDEN CREST,
I MYSELF CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER THAT FAR BACK,
TO THE TIME WHEN I BROKE YOUTH'S BACK...
BUT WISHING YOU THE BEST FOR THE NEXT MANY YEARS,
YOU'LL ONLY GET UGLIER AND WISER SO BELAY YOUR FEARS.
MAY YOUR HEART BE FILLED WITH JOYFUL TEARS,
MEANWHILE, KICK BACK WITH A COUPLE A BEERS.
Being pre-menopausal
last night
when I woke up
at three-twenty-four
and picked his book
off the floor
moaned and groaned
and gnashed my teeth
and bit my lip
and said, good grief
are we suppose
to read this junk
Have you ever
heard the word
brief or fun
or light or airy
And laid the book
back on the floor
and shut the light
and said, no more
I'd rather be asleep