Strewn with buds upon night’s skyscape ,
we followed the hovel of an outer-world
As fluted leaves
formed a hologram of our map--
a journey granting passage
into real existence;
Where our twin- souls moved in silence.
I felt your hands cuddling a bounty of flowers
And we meet in Portugal
third instance,
Cleansing lost time in holy water.
The procession of candles brushed the air
quite sacred: white lilies unfurling petals
into hundred lights
on the shrine
of mother Mary ,
while young stars crowned us again...
was it 1918 when our eyes first met here?
Till we strolled through a monolith of statues
blessing our paths ...aligning our thoughts
In the house of Fatima, of transparent gods;
taking our silent vows
with co-owned vintage cameos...
But the vision turns into ripples;
I’m by myself ,
a lone pilgrim
trapped around a grotto...wondering
if this scene were chimeric illusion
or timeless reality...
How I longingly touch your face,
feeling those sighs , like...
like they were my own earthy breath.
There once was a man named Dan
rather tall handsome and tan
the girls all did swoon
when Dan chose to croon
not a songbird could even compete.
Though Dan was a man, yes indeed,
came some warnings he chose not to heed,
he was virile and strong
and life rolled along
till this sign appeared visibly.
No chance anymore he'll ignore
time to see the Doc for a cure.
Turns out the Doc starts to laugh,
you are naive my dear young chap,
no reason to panic you see,
just a stiffy, is all it would be!
At the ripe age of 15
I feel 51
Afraid to bend my body
Scared to hear a back crack
My legs scream in agony
All the while, my torso remains thin
Reminding me of my youth
This so-called youth
With raging chest pains
Stabbing with a pounding heart
Raising arms to catch a pass
I’m immediately faced with regret
Brought with a side of torn muscle pain
And the randomness of a cyst invaded ovary
Possibly
I just hope 18 doesn’t feel 81
Preventing domestic contratemps
from morphing to explosions
requires tact, diplomacy, finesse
ability to decipher emotions ~
On armed cops my town relies
Back in the day stares into space
Many a moon
Never is a one-track mind
Forever one moment at a time
While it seems like a decade ago
Sometimes clocked out yesterday
Hours are away operating
Infinity is perhaps everlasting
Days on end makes a statement
Chronology hides the logbooks
Present being invariably in season
Later is a future occasion
Tomorrow right to the left
In a second too far
Indefinatly is instrumental convergence
End is fueled by absence
Possibly without a cause
Today is a good day
Sky winks at the sandy Florida beach
In cahoots with the colder waves
Sun slipping out of this hemisphere
Gleeful laughter of chasing children
It has been a glorious day,
I stare at the sky, is she a premonition?
She gives nothing away,
Allowing my imagination to surmise…
Will this be the best day ever?
In my lifetime?
Possibly.
I am the water flowing so free,
Your scorn and ridicule cannot restrict me.
I am the air you breathe to survive,
No wonder, without me, you find it hard to thrive.
I am the sky you want to reach,
Be careful of what you preach.
Shoot all your arrows, darts and spears galore,
For when I am gone, you will be bereaved, crestfallen, and hollow.
Absolutely depressing.
Truly ludicrous and ridiculously.
Can, at the very least.
Though tragic, right opposition.
Is similar to a harsh rejection.
I beseech my muse to return to my dendrite highway.
She laughs and skips away, off to a new poetic interstate.
Come back! I shriek, no longer hearing her red boot steps.
I stare at the pristine snowy white of a page. I can do this.
Ten minutes, thirty, fifty-two, an hour. Nothing.
What kind of magic is this? Were all the ideas Trixie’s, all along?
Did I have nothing to do with the poems she wrote?
I take a little nap, eat a snack of peanut butter on crackers.
Fix lunch. There is nothing interesting about lunch.
Two hours have passed. Maybe it is time to get a dog.
I feel annoyed, perplexed, provoked.
My pen has made swirls, circles, dots.
I have written the words “dance, prance, joy and boy” six times.
I circle them and put stars by them.
Cartoons begin to form. A new hobby? I hope so!
Pink rose of Sharon blossoms
Look like a field of hollyhocks surrounded by verdant green
Weird how long it took me to notice this
I am not as observant as I thought I was
Possibly not observant in any way at all.
Possibly Put Up With It
How could anyone ever put up with it,
And what we really do want to admit,
While thinking;
Heart sinking;
Leave Trump behind and we must quit.
Seems to be name of the game. Either
you quit or end up getting fired when
Trump does not like you or what you
are doing.
Jim Horn
I steal everyone’s ideas
It is not like I do not have my own,
But the others are so much more interesting
As they are new
I have always been
A changeling
I change my residences, my clothes, my jewelry,
My taste in books, my interests, so that I can
Live in a new world.
I live in a new world most of the time.
Because I get bored rather fast.
When I am on a kick, I am
On that kick fast and furiously
But when it is over, it
Is truly
Over.
Every day I think is this my
Last poem? Is this the last time I
Will write anything? The day will come,
And when it does, I will simply stop.
Fade into the sun, disappear.
But ah,
My poems will still be there.
This is why I write.
I don't, and probably won't
know the truth of her fate,
I don't know whether she left us,
but I do remember her well.
Tall, slim, quiet and shy,
I remember her deep orange hair,
and an awkward prettiness that grew.
But more than the sight of her,
and the lack of sound of her,
I remember a peculiarity.
She was there every day,
and then she was not there
almost every day.
Many I've seen since
and suddenly not seen since.
Each had their own story,
stories that I'll never know.
I don't, and probably won't
know the truth of their fate.
We chattered with amusement,
callous or unknowing,
when she appeared for a day at a time.
A day at a time,
two, maybe three times a year
for a year-and-half or two.
Later I heard a whisper,
dread disease, it said,
and it all made nasty sense.
Moments past midnight I awoke
to the horrible understanding
that perhaps she wanted only
to feel normal for a day.
11th August 2018
Possibly Pavilion or Could Be A Cottilion
It possible had been pretty pavilion,
Or it could be an incredible cottilion;
Maybe curved,
And swerved,
That was seen by handsome Sicilian.
Jim Horn
Did remember seeing a delightful mermaid,
Who had around in ocean swam and played;
Made a truce;
More produce;
An elegant mermaid egg she eventually laid.
Jim Horn
Looked like more abundant autumn leaves,
When tree will want to continually relieves,
Colors displayed,
As on ground laid;
Were made for those who in God believes.
Jim Horn
One time in a Kansas named No-Sleep
There lived a proud woman named Peep
She fought and she threw fit
Tongue seemed a marvelous whit
This no-sleep Grand-MaMa, Mrs. Tweet.
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