Bill prodded his sebaceous cyst
‘Twas massive the size of his fist
It spurted green pus
His wife made a fuss
“Get treatment NOW, I must insist”
Blue lighted to the A & E
Huge spurting cyst medics could see
Bill’s livid butt boil
Made doctor’s recoil
Needs lancing now, they all agree
They bundle Bill onto a table
“Don’t sedate him” said his wife Mable
I will succinctly put
He’s a pain in the butt
I’m leaving him when I am able
The medics gave Bill’s boil a prick
Green gunky pus splurts, it’s so thick
Poor Mable was heaving
She said, “Bill I’m leaving
Because you’re an ignorant dick”
“You wouldn’t seek treatment for years
Your constant moans left me in tears
I’ll file for divorce
I’m leaving of course
I’m going to live in Algiers”!
Bills visage turned ever so pale
His final breath he did exhale
The cad passed away
There’s no more to say
I’ve finished the end of this tale!
(“The Particle In The Wave”, 2018, original encaustic)
Down to Zero
In the great equation of Life
Everything eventually cancels out
As it naturally balances
And leaves us down to zero.
From the perspective of static
The dynamic is the illusion
From the perspective of dynamic
The static is the illusion.
Buddhism with its notion of a final Nirvana
Takes the former
Taoism with its effortlessly flowing Wu-Wei
Takes the latter.
That is the East, while in the West
This paradoxical duality is expressed
Succinctly by quantum physics
As the wave and particle nature of light.
The reality is always, of course, different
Than what we think, when we’re at zero
And left with what it means to be alive;
In work or play, depending on our view.
(7/21/25)
I can be succinctly silly
Drawing diamonds willy nilly
Bothering my brother Billy
I’m a queen and he’s a dilly
Callously torn in fragile shreds,
I sheepishly snuggle in cozy threads.
Succinctly laced, the cactus leans -
Hope nestled amidst it's thorned scenes.
To bittersweet melodies, in trance,
A medley plays, with puppets dance.
Every errand, a gallop in the meadows wide,
Yet petals of mahogany dews reside.
Am I still alive, or lost in posthumous hues?
A sombre ballet, unfolding in view.
Florid banshees recoiled, neck and hankering sneer.
A succinctly exuberant suggestion when selective.
Came on, fell flat with laconic ornamentation.
A miniature jaunt, interment; glove comparted.
Pin-striped foxtails attuned tune maddening clairvoyants.
Precisely predisposed, wine-flavored latten tobaccos.
A wooden-tipped juxtaposition, stilling waisted.
Bygone midge nonguarded, slunk olive drabbing on bayou.
Thicken handkerchief lightly dabbing brow.
Darkness entrapment, fiat practice gymnastics.
Money management, coinage magnet, honored in mathematics.
Backflipping,
Backtracking,
Backpacking.
Super-Soaker moisture, quickie; quickly, socks on prickly.
Sloped incline, inside Mount Saint Helens' Slip 'n Slide.
Turn of An Unfriendly Card
(Tarot 3 of Swords)
I cannot empathize with a shattered heart.
That image of a fragile, breakable baby pink orb
Is insulting to how I feel.
The turn of an unfriendly card depicts three swords
thrust into a still beating heart
I feel the sliver blade of that first sword
plunge hard, deep and succinctly.
I gasp with the pain in my chest
I feel the second as it severs sideways
and tears my heart from side to side
and as grief overwhelms my shredded heart,
the third slides neatly, methodically
down the middle until it dismembers
the connection to keeping it all together,
and I double over, sink to the floor, rock my body
and cry.
What I avoided is staring at me
daring me
to accept the inevitable and grow from upheaval
Become something greater that the puddle I’ve collapsed into,
grow something strong from the richness
of the blood-meal soaked earth.
The sword hurts and tears again while being pulled out
in necessary preparation for the healing to begin.
My heart is not fragile.
She said that coats rabbit.
So, you know it's not Mink.
No, this time I've had It.
You're going in the drink.
He was tied to an anchor.
With her kiss and a wink.
She pushed him into the river.
Said succinctly, Mink or Sink...
Jesus Christ
Life ground to a halt
living down a dead end street
where there's no sunlight
and shadows of doubt linger...
Till your love blew them away.
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Posted on July 3, 2021,
this Tanka poem of Harry
is a blessing to me…
since it speaks of the Saviour I live for
stated succinctly in Horsman’s style
reverberating with his wit, wisdom, and winning words
I can still “hear” like his comment on my
very first posted PS poem:
“Your poetry Shouts. ... loud and clear.
Just visiting your first on soup...love it.”
June 21, 2023
1st place, "Tributes to Harry Horsman: An Uncontest" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Andrea Dietrich; judged on 6/25/2023.
Gentle as you are, you come uninvited but oh so quietly
as your floral scents permeate you arrive bipinnately
Invigorating every tree and garden full of parsley
with evening's refresh breezing in succinctly
With futuristic birth that winter could not borrow
you draw us in then gift us with tomorrow
Sprigs of blooming life grow inside your yarrows
insuring us with every shade of rainbow
Calendar favored you are the in between season
ear marked for a very good reason
renewed and refreshed you are a beacon
without treason
Gentle as you are Spring, you arrive just in time
like a rose, getting ready to consign.
Once upon an outhouse dreary, while I strained there, lank and leery
of creatures scary down beneath the privy floor--
As my veins were close to popping, suddenly there came a whopping
rush of air, but nothing dropping, dropping from my nethers sore,
“'Tis but a sputter", I then mutter, “popping like the thunder's roar--
only this and nothing more!”
Ah, succinctly I remember - a distinctly warm September;
for bath tissue I dismember - an issue from the hardware store.
Eagerly I wish for passing - that which had been amassing
in my numbles far surpassing - any grumbles heretofore
A gassing foul and shameless to deplore
Nameless here for evermore
Then, methought the air grew smelly, perfumed from my askew belly
The fumes of fish stew from the deli, like the breath of Balthazor
“Wretch,” I cried, “as God hath bent me—by what devils hath he sent thee?
Respite – respite! No more! Some forthright output, I implore!
Purge, oh purge this burning urge I'm yearning for!”
Shall I potty... Nevermore?
With apologies to EAP.
Where are the universal themes,
the parables, the parallels that might
be drawn from humdrum, quotidian
happenstance? We languish in these ruts
we live in and bear our days with resignation
(some with equanimity) -- justifying
our inaction, our failures to break free,
with feeble lame excuses -- never a real cause:
which is, succinctly, our timorous laziness.
A broadening of perspective, a striving toward the epic,
the grandiose -- with, perhaps, the universality of
civilized urbanity, or of rural natural simplicity or even
stark objectivity -- may these be what we need?
Here's the stale conclusion: be daring,
brave enough to become accustomed
to a singular (perhaps lone) existence.
When you must, be fair and listen but,
when you should, be insistently unbending
to the pressures and opinions of your peers.
And use your mind, your unique voice, and
proclaim incessantly your messages,
even to those who turn to you
their stubbornly deaf ears.
Seriously searching seldom she sees
Solitude she savours so succinctly
Spaces she searches satisfying soul
Sufficiently sating silencing storm
Slowly surfacing so specially still
Sighting ships serenely sailing seas
Sonorous sounds silenced successfully
Written 5th April 2021
Contest SAVOURING SOLITUDE IN 7 LINES
Sponsor JCB Brul
2nd Place
My neighbour, her name’s Emma Boyd
Is someone you’d want to avoid
I will succinctly put
She’s a pain in the butt
I’ve renamed this gal Emma Royd
FICTION POEM
03/25/21
Their heads superglued, smiles extend,
the spread of their deer quilt upon his lap.
They read, as if one, “Mon—ey can’t buy
hap-pi-ness but it can buy hunting gear…
which is pretty much the same thing.”
Last line succinctly added to their chime.
The deer stand, his pride, sometimes
given up to his wife, as he nervously
waits in the pickup truck. Recently
women show their trophies on media
with bowed knee and the stance of
a hunting rifle. Husband pounds chest.
2/4/2021
The catalyst of two faces, his and hers,
bookends with pleasure dais in between.
Faithfully compacted on canvas, concurs,
never turning ones back, remains clean.
Sharp brush of Chagall, floats lovers.
Their passion, a cloud in lala land, hovers.
Circus performer on ochre horse forbids
openness and honesty of their lofty eyelids.
Marc’s pallet red and black succinctly
paints an inseparable couple, for better;
worse, flower-veins glory and pain distinctly
shady, married-hair worn romantic with fetters.
Poet decides his circus lacks an idyllic affinity .
With pain, questions whether to smoke or abstain.
A satisfied artist, elongates his masculinity —
triad of instruments, hard lines against grain.
11/25/2020
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