A vague face, immersed in mist
Lower lip firming, augmenting
Growing paler
Wider at one end
Like a curled up wood shaving
Mouth becoming linear
Puzzling process
Of de-existence as a face
Expression sinks away
In a cubist miasma
Embedded in a matrix
Of contorted dark vacuum
Which maintains emptiness
Despite what it contains
How many faces
Disappear into nothing
Never to be resupplied
Nor their lost words interpreted
Quickly, droplets dappled the walk,
Painting the cement a darker grey
Rain and darkening clouds usurped the sun,
Too serene in blue, ever-endless fields of azure
Thunder shook the ground
With deafening sound,
Whilst blinded by a bolt that smote of Zeus,
I felt my soul feint of fright
I saw my death, but clung to life,
I left the tea, the bagel, let the paper blow away,
And leapt inside the open patio door,
Sliding it closed, behind me, as the wind and rain pursued
I listened as each drop hurl itself against the pane
The wind augmenting their efforts in swelling waves
To break it down
They relented in drips that seemed to stagger, defeated
The wind urging them on and into futility
I sat, soaking wet at the table,
And saw a tear drop upon its glass surface
As my forearms absorbed its cold
My face stared back—old, tired
I was shaking, not from being cold
I thought of how I loved rainy days
I thought of how things can change in an instant
Others over a lifetime
The sailor goes ashore.
the night in the hallway paled into a yellowish screen
showing a black movie, 1963
A time machine of memories sent him back to the years
to meet people long since gone.
A family at the dinner table of people he knew too well
the shadow of his 125 years old father was not there
nectar drinking Colibri exotic as Christmas present never received, the one in the toy shop, a red firetruck
with wooden wheels
And he, the son of the oldest man in the world, had gone to sea, and when he returned, nothing was as remembered, differently by the people around the table
A lacuna of missed years, a distance that was unbridgeable whenever he came home, a stranger silent
augmenting the gap filled with politeness.
They had known and seen him grow to adulthood, but his character remained a mystery, sitting in the living room.
They were related to him and knew he would leave soon.
A nurse gently touched his shoulder are you awake?
Yes, mother, I'm home from the sea.
Ashore at last
The night in the hallway paled into a yellowish screen
showing a black movie, ca 1963
A time machine of memories sent him back to the years
to meet people long since gone.
A family at the dinner table of people he knew too well
the shadow of his 125-year-old father was not there
nectar drinking Colibri exotic as Christmas present never received, the one in the toy shop, a red firetruck with wooden wheels
And he, the son of the oldest man in the world, had gone to sea, and when he returned, nothing was as remembered, differently by the people around the table
an ocean of missed years, a distance that was unbridgeable whenever he came home, a stranger silent
augmenting the gap filled with politeness.
They had known and seen him grow to adulthood, but his character remained a mystery, sitting in the living. room
somehow, they were related to him
they knew he would leave soon.
A nurse gently touched his shoulder,
you are awake?
Yes, my dear, I'm home from the sea.
Ashore at last
The night in the hallway paled into a yellowish screen
showing a black movie, ca 1963
A time machine of memories sent him back to the years
to meet people long since gone.
A family at the dinner table of people he knew too well
the shadow of his 125-year-old father was not there
nectar drinking Colibri exotic as Christmas present never received, the one in the toy shop, a red firetruck with wooden wheels
And he, the son of the oldest man in the world, had gone to sea, and when he returned, nothing was as remembered, differently by the people around the table
an ocean of missed years, a distance that was unbridgeable whenever he came home, a stranger silent
augmenting the gap filled with politeness.
They had known and seen him grow to adulthood, but his character remained a mystery, sitting in the living. room
somehow, they were related to him
they knew he would leave soon.
A nurse gently touched his shoulder,
you are awake?
Yes, my dear, I'm home from the sea.
In a house, half-mad, with mother and dad,
And a labyrinth he couldn’t escape -
He trudged the maze, with a string ball, so sad.
The sky’s warm, gay orb, too, was round in shape.
So pretty was she, he dreamt as he marched,
And he constructed a bright plan in his head,
Sweating through shirts which his mother had starched,
He remembered what his father had said.
He would see his girl (the sun in the sky).
Augmenting his arms with two waxen wings,
A catapult shot him o’er clouds so high.
He burned, melted, crashed, his arms then in slings.
Dad said, “too close”, but his expounding lacks -
It was - his wings were inferior wax.
The Mariner ashore
the night in the hallway paled into a yellowish screen
showing a black&white movie ca 1963
A time machine of memories sent him back to the years
to meet people long since gone.
A family at the dinner table of people he knew too well
the shadow of his 125 years old father, was not there
nectar drinking Colibri exotic as Christmas present never received, the one in the toy shop, a red firetruck
with wooden wheels
And he, the son of the oldest man in the world, had gone to sea, and when he returned nothing was as remembered, differently by the people around the table
A lacuna of missed years, a distance that was unbridgeable whenever he came home, a stranger silent
augmenting the gap filled with politeness.
They had known and seen him grow to adulthood, but his character remained a mystery, sitting in the living. room
somehow they were related to him, they knew he would leave soon.
A nurse gently touched his shoulder, are awake?
Yes, mother, I'm home from the sea
the river bank calm
and the augmenting silence
between us.
minds enveloped in scepticism,
actions tied with strictures.
“Can we ever be the same?”,
she asked.
her eyes nostalgic.
time paralysed.
i could say nothing
but shed a tear.
-gurumali
“The silent song of the sighing breeze,”
In leafless demeanor of shuddering trees,
Whispered cries of a dismantled dream
Augmenting dissonance of broken theme,
A theme composed in the promise of yore
Avowing endearing passions evermore,
Of love eternal, enamoring core of soul,
Till its amorous glory, fate savagely stole.
Though zephyrs forlorn, still cruelly blow,
Wailing lovelorn woe of forgotten throe,
Despair is vanquished from song of sorrow,
For hymns of bliss sing of hopeful morro.
Pledges of today, foretell future of ardour,
Vying dreamscapes, musings-ecstatic adore,
Buoying tides of love to tomorrow’s shore,
Abandoning yesteryears memories abhor;
Of pensive sighs, spent-emotions decry,
Of dejection lamenting love gone awry,
Of nightmares trembling sleepless night,
Of allegories wistful, destiny’s hands write.
“The silent song of the sighing breeze,”
Now sings of love, from flowering trees,
Whispering melodies to a dulcet dream
Augmenting allure of lovesome theme.
Line #1
Fog filled mystique dawn
Fresh and Gentle breeze
Sunshine falling exquisitely
On the sparkling dew of the leaves
Kids flushed with red cheeks
Wrapped in their furs and coats
Playing with the snowballs
Cherishing the moment to its most
Snow mans all around the corner
Streets illuminated with gleaming lights
Marking the advent of christmas
Augmenting the charm to the nights
Season of Cakes and candies
City tinted with red and white
Waiting for presents from Santa
Savouring delicacies with delight
Celebrating the birth of the God of honesty
The symbol of faith and humility , Jesus
Adorning avidly the Christmas tree
Gleefully Greeting everyone , Merry Christmas
I have with concern been lamenting
With my chilly fears augmenting:
A young promising morning might soon age
And a planter close a helpless page …
My muscles are dying for a cutlass,
My strength enough to not seek a lass
My nostrils fish out odorless fertilizers;
The sparks in my eyes Advertisers
I shouldn’t ears supply with any story,
Now, I could from Ants snatch their Glory …
Through and through An Agricultural Mind
To more farm implements find;
A new day might start ageing like my father
As time further does its race farther.
Under the Constellations
David J Walker
We live under the same stars
Whose distance measured in
Years has not changed
While our favorite
Fortune teller asks about the past
And says soothes about tomorrow
Augmenting truths about the sorrows of life
And how we might find joy in them
Anyway
This old animal we call the body
Will return it’s borrow minerals in time
While the spirit takes flight
Into the nights capacity
for emptiness
And nothing will have changed except
The recycled names and people living in them
Under the constant constellations
I've always had the esthetical need to create ~
poetry, paintings, weaving, a flower garden.
Artistic endeavors capture my attention,
augmenting and enriching the world in my eyes.
A tapestry of textures, or a canvas of colors...
these are things that have become my obsession.
My walls are filled with framed works of art...
conceptions of my heart; I consider them to be.
Rose buds in a vase with lavender, I freshly cut,
or a photo of a hummingbird on my red hibiscus.
It's funny how I speak in rhyme when writing a poem,
and hours after I think it's finished, I edit another line.
A perfectionist, I am not, but I blend oils repeatedly
until shades seem to marry like sunset to moon rise.
In the elements of artistry, I am content and satisfied.
April 7, 2021
My Obsession Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Burgundy
My dear Burgundy, I heard a purple, splendid tapping
Burgundy you color my heart, my soul
You, Oh!, so you said only this you’re in trappings red
I crave the crimson, cerulean canary yellow this I dread
And the rubies never overdrawing
And the rubies always daunting
Ever so settle,
I am shorn of my bedfellow
Violet. . .
Burgundy you color my heart, my soul, you’re the water in my veins
Sweet purple haze
Remembering many colorful, striking roses
The chromatic colored cultivating
Arose so illuminating!'
And eyes have all and augmenting
As myrtles came launching invigorating
This and a beryl
I have dreamed of the stems
And so I screamed, 'Is that brown?
Burgundy you color my heart, my soul you’re my flower
Eagerly I looked for the claret the pea coat laughed
Orange bled red as brown embraced them
I stand by burgundy she’s all that…better than any fine vintage wine
8/24/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Lust is like the salt of the sea.
The artificial Ambrosia or Siren's fomented Mead.
Augmenting thirst, the more you drink.
Forgetting the drink came first. Then came a thirst.
To be unshackled to idols in idle mutiny.
Before the fermentation of idolatry. Figureheads,
flotsam and shipwrecks on the seven stormy seas.
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