Lyricism of wisteria ruses…peacocking muses gushing tomes
Classicism flocking..roams & woos homes not garden gnomes
Colourful creepers cruising..schmoozing with boisterously blushing bricks
Spring exudes mysticism..oozes oodles of bamboozling serendipity flushing
Cherished fingers rushing freely..delivers..unctuous ravishingly rambunctious
Relished slivers lavishly lingers..embellished..proudly protrudes
Inspires rhyming platitudes about gratitude...fires fresh
Attitudes across a range of altitudes & latitudes
Sprinkling wryly of vintner's drily sparkle...ends strange debacle...
Skint stints of wily skinflint winter’s splinters..with hints of now..Spring sprints
But also somehow.. if one squints..get an inkling of change..
Glints of summer's tints slyly twinkling
Moon, why do you taunt me?
Your haunting glow consumes all I am.
I howl at your feet as you hang majestic
from a diamante sky
I am breathless, shackled to the earth as I gaze at your beauty, your shape centred in a clustered jewel.
Your children sparkle in sibling frame.
My heart is lost, no other will pacify the aching wound that protrudes from my chest
My healing is long and painful. Will sanity return? One day, maybe tomorrow?
You stole my dream, ripped into nocturnal misery as the ghosts pose in silent masks.
Regret stirs, clinging to the winds of a toxic flame.
Beguiling, my eyes burn as sunrise shapes its day,
Tender strands of light peak through the gullies and allies of my being.
Romance still forms within me, a harmonic tune that whistles with the easterly breeze, but this tranquil sea stirs madness. Fire will again light this soul once regret has done its worst and left my shadow.
Moon, never leave, be my secret no more, rejoice not weigh me down and, I will love you forever.
A soloist Java Sparrow flits,
A cathedral canopy of arched branched leaves,
The sparkling daylight dances the vast green space,
Moss glut rock form protrudes aground sits,
Pews of raw design entertain flocks trade eaves,
Sparrows respect prompts to spring cascading grace,
Heaven gifted natural blessings flow,
Dove coos the flock of Sparrow's faithful pace,
A breath of peace on Earth nature receives,
Bestilled feathers as the sun sets aglow,
~God's Face ...
Full of looming fruit
The black wind whispers
the children lived blithely
yonder in blue cave
The silent river protrudes
by the forked road
where the seagrass grows
The seagull mutely follows
jaded in evening sun
old church bells whisper chimes
Coolness and Autumn play in lonely chambers
Sacred blue chimes in plaid footsteps
The rusted window rattles
to the graveyard on the hill
The legends are foretold
twig like, the people remember
the dark ember days of spring
There is a bull’s eye on my heart.
A knife protrudes up to the hilt.
It twists and turns and tears apart,
defines the edges of bloodguilt,
but I survive, rebuild from start.
The bull’s eye shines - I can’t fake it.
Continues on around, around.
Again, repeat – I can’t shake it.
Goes up and down and runs aground.
When all is done – I can’t take it.
Semblance of love and care depart.
It tears my heart to small pieces.
Your aim was good, your words impart
intent for true love surceases.
Observe the bull’s eye on my heart.
NIGHTS TOGETHER – MORNINGS TOGETHER
As, I look a little closer, just to be sure
I write to you before any sun protrudes
from nights velvet shroud
I move across your thoughts, unknown to you, yet familiar
Unrevealed in presence, I press upon you
in spirit, silently I trace the echoes of your heart beat
its words soft and sweet
in the distance, sound fades, with morning’s light
An angel watches over you in mid–heaven
awake as I hear you breathing
it lingers on my skin
soft and warm
Reminding me of the first
time we spent the night
I hear the morning sounds
opening my eyes to you
You do not move
these ubiquitous sounds
are unable to penetrate
your dreams
I lay my head on your chest
and pull the covers over my head
I can still hear
your breathing
Being a chameleon is easy for I am born under Gemini sign
Mercurial and free flowing, I am held to my own desires
I wake up as Pollock one morning, Poe the next.
Coleridge and Van Gogh may not show up until Thursday
if at all. It might not be their week.
Yesterday I was a peacock before chameleon me appeared.
Male of course, as they have the prettiest colors of aqua and cobalt.
The day before, I was an oak. A giant Cheshire cat was sitting on me.
I am not averse to being a closet monster either.
It is one of my happiest memories.
Honesty protrudes out of my art and writings when I am human.
When I am the wind, or the daffodil, I merely am.
I never know what I will be.
Sometimes I change in the middle of a thought.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
I am now a wolf, a lone wolf, so stand back and keep your distance.
Death bubbles by
in such a sorrowful state.
A snowflake melting
in the midst of life.
A rusty knife
the tip of which protrudes
to make a third nipple.
Creating nary a ripple
in the scheme of things.
Which brings us to an impasse.
Unobstructed,
Our methodology measures
the in-constitute and volatile breaking of sound?
One cup sound; two cups shatter,
an eardrum rapidly boiled.
Why would it matter?
Death rattles by
Cough Cough choking on
his chopstick nun-chuck
glory road to Hell.
Did I say for whom the bell
tolls now?
Did I mention that it’s NOT
some sacred cow?
Be silly-still and listen
to the feeling of guilt
Measure your Mayonnaise Days
with Infinite Care
dollops of sweetness
filling you up to the hilt
A Fruitcake Day
in the ordinary life
of an insect.
Seems Like Spell Trump Was Under
Seems like some spell Trump was under,
Sifting through plunder made big blunder;
Bunch of bull,
And all full;
How ironic;
Was psychotic;
All of his idiocy would make us wonder.
Jim Horn
Did determine that Trump had a tendency,
To only on himself possess a dependency;
Destruction poured,
From a war lord;
Must seek psychiatric help from an agency.
Jim Horn
Trump surely a moron he is still;
Goals and duties never will fulfil;
Crazy crescendo,
To an innuendo;
Does have dog that is an airedill.
(Pickled nose protrudes determined a dill.)
Jim Horn
Trump is definitely a dilly for sure.
Remember time when Trump was dreaming;
When he woke up had started screaming;
Put on pants;
Start to dance,
Then tell many more lies and be scheming.
Jim Horn
A spiral which went viral while on trial.
See if you can make a poem out of that.
Dead wood for bed
Withered cotton for a mattress
I don’t pluck fruits
I gather them ripe from the ground
A tasty tuber protrudes
With delight I up root it
Cobwebs hang in my ceiling
Ant routes run up and down my floor
Dry grass for a roof
Thick mud for my walls
The wind whistling through the trees
A song announcing a cool breeze
Dry leaves fall graciously like feathers
They form a rustling soft carpet on the ground
The artistry so beautiful without a human hand
It blossoms in my face all the time
I don’t grab from the earth
It gives generously on its own time
An island of memory forms in the
vast oblivion.
Emotions froth with warmth. Minds
are connected
through the broadband of nostalgia.
An everlasting
get-together of old classmates. They
wage war against
vices. They sob over sorrows that are
not theirs. Pics
of triumph get applause, while envy’s
horn protrudes
from a pit. Origin of congratulations
and consolations
is from the same key. Some purloin
from philosophy.
One buddy’s a marauder of wits. This
WhatsApp group is
a life jacket to escape from drowning
in ennui.
First printed in The Literary Hatchet.
Redeployed in an ugly skin
Pleated and spotted and grumpy within
What I call walking ,they call shuffling
I'm bending down to tie my shoe
While Im down here what else can I do?
When driving down my lip protrudes
Only for the dentist will I open mouth
Okay , Ill wave at you but I wont smile
The dog and the toilet are my only true friends
You get up to go and then you go again
Memories are yesterday
Forgetfulness is all over today
Ill tell you what it is
But forgot what I was going to say
Got to buy dogfood
Where are my glasses?
Who am I talking to?
They've all gone away
At the shore’s edge of the Pontchartrain
a small barren peninsula protrudes
where a lonely couple gazes toward
the lighthouse perched at its end.
Its shadow partially obstructing
the bright pallet of a setting sun.
It precariously hovers on the horizon
for one last fleeting moment.
Its hues’ are awash by the mist
ascending each step of the seawall.
Just beyond, a sailing ship gracefully
glides along the crystal lake,
its sails waving a tranquil
and cherished farewell.
Cracked sidewalk,
Running beside overgrown bushes
That moan under the weight
Of immense unknown blossoms.
It leads me to my own home,
Where he waits alone
Under the stone archway.
His hipbone protrudes;
I can see it through his shirt,
Which I’m sure he’s sprayed
With his sweet cologne.
I can almost hear his deep groan,
Muttered into my ear as I atone
For having flown away from our safe zone.
Everything is an issue with my friend
I hope she is a girl as she is known to claim
She thinks she is Marilyn Monroe so
Think on my pretty
In fact there is but one good eye
Like a lighthouse beam beckoning
About the middle of the head
Large with yellow, pus oozing on her tiny face
Sometimes it looks cloudy or milky white
Under moon light it stands out frightening
She orders me to give her money...a gun
It must be time to make love
Or take her dancing in the dark
That makes perfect sense for the digestion
A large tooth stands out yellow gray
Turning green and festering today
It protrudes from her lower jaw
Stands as a monument to former days
When there were plenty
From the vicinity of the mouth she shouts
Commands me be still while she takes aim
I am a target of her love
She screams at me to pay the rent
Slurs her words, most unheard
Pretending to be sultry
My girl is far from pretty
The distance is from here to Mars
Ugly defines her nicely
Skinny is her only attribute
Shoot me!…. Shoot me now my pretty!...
Related Poems