I heard a still small voice
prompting me to write poems to uplift, inspire.
Not my choice.
My inner guide
directed me to try, aspire.
A stride.
Attained.
Published the quire.
Fain!
I heard a still small voice
directed me to try, aspire.
Fain!
You can easily raise your vocabulary
by using words that are seldom heard.
Such as Quire,Nudistertian, Agastopia
which I believe sound quite absurd.
But words should just flow naturally
from your thoughts and all you see.
A poem of love from your heart
there's no need for an English degree.
Therefore I won't be wrecking my brain
searching for words to fit in line.
I have no need for a dictionary
I'm just happy when my poems rhyme.
Yes! the poems that I love
are short and sweet but full of meaning.
So please judge me on this ending
not those obscure words at the beginning.
Fall season with pumpkins and apple pie colored leaves
Falling in front of your eyes little girls wanting tractor rides and chilly wind breeze blowing in the air jackets that zip up loud and farmers that are pretty proud of the crops they grow sometimes it’s good to be just sitting on a bench watch the sky colors change from blue to Orange then to red than finally a midnight blue night sings now people are roasting marshmallows on a open fire while preachers sing from the quire heavens above I love fall don’t you
God sends someone to
Fix injustice, oppression
In quire dire option.
It was the night before Christmas, and I couldn't sleep,
I got out of bed without so much as a peep.
And headed to the kitchen for something to eat,
buck naked, except for the slippers on my feet.
I didn't dare turn on the nightlight and wake my wife,
for the last time I did that, she threatened my life.
The house was dead quiet; I could not hear a sound
as I ventured downstairs, feeling my way around.
I got to the living room, stumbling a few times,
then I heard music that sounded like Christmas chimes.
So, I went to the window and pulled back the drapes,
thinking the neighbors were playing some Christmas tapes.
I forgot I was as naked as a jaybird;
till I heard the loudest scream I had ever heard.
The church quire was midnight-caroling on my lawn,
and in plain view, I stood bare-assed, not a stitch on.
Judging by the faces I saw scrambling to leave,
I don't think they'll ever forget this Christmas Eve.
It was never my intent to flash anyone,
I simply wanted a ham and cheese on a bun.
Campfire
Wind through trees
Whisper praises, hymns
Crickets gather round
Gentle violins
Frog, keep the beat
Upon bulbs of summer moss
Crackling of the fire
A quire in the dark
Ear, amphitheater
Mind, place to play
Wind swept leaves
Scratch their parade
World full of music
To the stars, stream of spark
Throw another log upon
The quire in the dark
Sitting by the cozy fire
Waiting for my love to show
She is everything my heart desires
Not sure of the embellished mire
The rain goes away with the snow
Hiding the thorny brier
Hymns being song by a choir
Busy people travel to and fro
As I write to her on quire
My yearning for her is dire
And my love for her flows
I am trapped in mire
I watch the blaze of the fire
Burn on heat so low
Letting her know of my desire
Taking in the word of the sire
As he tells me of stories long ago
For him I shall duly hire
To bring my woman of desire
a quire or two,
or three, may be
uncharterd
uncounted
discounted, maybe
tablets
stone shards
heavy slabs of me
rain soaked reams
sloughed off of me
shoulders of clay
unweighted may be
separate from morass
the mass of me
plunged heavy and sunk
in a literary sea
of words great men
spoke to me
I look for words
so meanings i'll see
and write, and write,
and write, maybe
so inner thoughts
so quiet may be.
03/06/2017
Lacking
Lacking eloquence
Lector lacking
Bullfrogs and lemmings crooning
In the swamp of dim intellect
Spewing their haughtiness
Through their noses the spittle drops
Collecting in murky waters
Their stagnation hiding within their bubble of hate
When the swamp dries lest it be said
No one will be opening heavens gate
One can not persuade a mind painted in black
They the commoners’ collect like old dishes
On a dirty rack
Should the Cellarer ever turn his back
Plato’s will attack in their packs
Airs of allusive elegance
Slipping away into the darkness
Of extinction
For those with black hearts and feeble minds
They shall never see the ends of times
Only when the white rose comes to full bloom
Shall the meek and kind find their true home
They shall be with angels above
As those assemble in the quire
Songs melodic under the arch
Brothers plotting after songs depart
Time eternal yet as always coward’s preach
Solace coming from wisdom's speak
Their persuasion lacking sincere tone
As the sinners lay underneath cold stone
Pitter patter …pitter patter the glorious sound of the rain drops spatter.
The earth rejoices, the trees dance to the rhythm of pitter… Patter, you can see the smiling face of the white lilies by the river side singing and shouting…ho …what a beautiful quire … pitter… patter …pitter ... patter of the rain drops
The grass shouts hallelujah…hallelujah… ho, what a celebration the dry times are over the green lands are back again
It’s a picturesque view when the land turns from brown to green the mountains come alive clapping its hands joining the jubilation of the pitter …patter …beat.
The winds mixed with rain, magic to the ear. The land sings to the tempo of pitter …patte
We must all revel in this moment when nature comes to life, the beautiful sounds of …pitter …patter.
Not Realizing We Were Obamanizing
Not realizing
We were Obamanizing
Was quire surprising.
Some are disguising
Things they are sermonizing
Need new horizon.
Revitalizing
While riding on big bison
Had John been his son.
(Simple Simon)
Selectivity
May result from brevity
But an entity?
Sure was consistant
They all had been resistant
Not knowing what we meant.
Which political candidate could
any of this be referring to?
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Does the devil plant seeds in suicidle minds,or does god intervene when a soul crosses the line,feathers or horns maybe a choice,a halo in hell with such a high price,cleansing clouds or a babtismal of fire,scratching noise or soothing quire,a constant battle to do the right thing,whoever wins I shall crown king.
Going around and around
Throughout every single room,
Like a cyclone spinning out of control,
Without a single trace of visible fur,
As stripes of gray and cream
Collide into the biggest vahroom,
She come to a screeching halt.
She hops from windowsill to windowsill
Only to find the most comfortable spot;
But instead, she's determined to climb the draperies
Until they all drop.
She pounces on your feet,
Leaps in the air,
And lands so gracefully, in your seat.
She's a little ball of fire,
With so much energy
Who doesn't know how to stop.
She has developed quire a personality.
She's just a baby.
She's not even three.
That's Spaz.
Awakened through the morning sun
facing the unknowns of the day,
the night of rest now is done,
as I struggle to find my way,
Engaging in what I think is right,
in a lonelv world of sorrow and pain
often leads to a deadly, sordid fight,
when the dust settles there is no gain.
Precious moments of lingering thought
hearts become wrapped in heaven's love
true treasures that can never be bought,
a beautiful gift from the Savior above.
To light a world, beneath the sky of blue,
courage and peace spilled upon the ground,
the essence of Jesus I know.
ever so true, brings on a night quire sound.
Debbie's Jesus or Mary For Easter Contest
by nette onclaud
Nine hundred years these arches rang :
With fervent praise the people sang.
In early days the monks would chant
As from the heights bright beams would slant
Illuminating Norman stone
And soften with a pallid light,
With Benedictine monotone,
To put all worldly dark to flight.
With skill, in stone, mere men have wrought
A timeless edifice, which sought
To witness to the power eternal,
With habit, cowl and vow fraternal.
And still, today, the peoples sing,
Sweet music echoing from the walls;
The organ thunders, anthems ring
From medieval quire stalls.
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