Spending all our money, on anything that kills
F.D.A.'s approving more pretty poison pills
Politicians ponder, plot with the living dead
Mass media moguls, are feeding on my head
Countries run by Stooges, most everywhere you go
All these Uncle Scrooges, who just want mo' and mo'
Polar ice caps melting, the lakes are drying up
There's oil by the gallons, common sense by the cup
With prices going up, and incomes going down
Not many can afford, a night out on the town
Cuz the "whored" is hungry, they're dining on our screams
Dripping wet with champagne covered caviar dreams
Interest rates fluctuate, determined by the FED
And how can we believe, what some Simple Simon said
When Donkey's on the left, bite Dumbo's on the right
They hate when we agree, just love it when we fight
Ol' Gram and Gramps got rooked, "checkmate" to inflation
Their benefits got cooked, COLA's on vacation
They bought and bartered schools, A.I.'s the big romance
Backhand these chartered fools, and give our kids a chance
"The Match"
Time falls like a traitor
it smiles at you through mirrors
you see all faces surrounding you
other than your own
each a voice imprinted in your memories
a part of the Word's words,
remonstrations tumbling
through your voiceless throat,
they respond hitting the walls
leaving hollow hieroglyphs
promises that slip,
some self-righteous Umpire
calls the serve landing out of bounds
and doesn’t hesitate to record a fault;
through the backhand grip
your own thoughts
are ghost written volleys
that skim without hesitation
over the net
bouncing towards
the inexperienced experienced
their hearts,
hands, eyes, and lips
the memories are lost in unplugged sockets
still,
they take they’re hit
you smash it back
full hilt;
you think you are electric
time falls like a traitor
and everyone
in their own mind
one way or another
thinks they’re in the game
a winner,
even loser’s think
they’re winners in the end,
they take their hit;
love-all
just the same
and you are lit.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Irish accents quake my female southland.
Males 'neath Newsboy Caps stimulate dreamland.
Irish yearns may want touch,
Did not seek to feel such.
Ireland trips could stimulate mate's backhand.
Icebergs floated all around me –
frozen is no place to safely flee.
I fell down on an ice crystal,
then I heard you whistle
and felt myself turn towards bold
so I could leave this place so cold.
So many crevices and cracks.
Frigid ice coated my back.
A glacier's huge backhand
flew my memories to slush land.
As my shivers began to shake,
I felt my knees tremble and quake.
Love never knows its hold on tomorrow.
Days are not warm braced against sorrow.
Your repeat, sleety emotion
will not ease glacial commotion.
Frozen mist cannot reinstall
a flaming, toasty love recall.
I bear your gifts so numb fraught
they will ever stay iceberg caught.
Bell rings
Two kings
Tap gloves
No love
Attack
Hard smack
Right hook
Well took
Left jab
Ribs stab
Backhand
Just lands
Sly one
Head spun
Elbows
Who knows
Eight round
Astounds
Heads clash
Blood splash
South paw
Breaks jaw
Crowd shout
Knockout
Countdown
Lost crown
Arm raised
God praised
A Brian Strand PREMIERE Poetry Contest
Checked how many syllables
27/05/20
Background backhand
Backdrop backbite
Pathway railways
Take-off target
Farfetch courage
Tell tail junk mail
Distant lover
Under cover
Up start breaks heart
Jilted lover
Under cover
0/23/21
Written by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
"LUX VITAE LUX"
Here you stamp
your mark of
approval or not
We meet at the point
where a Father
is the judge of what is good
and what is not.
And we try so hard
to avoid heart contact
over all the plundering words said
light and dark
yet we open minds
that chance by our trials
to believe in something bigger -
Ours
in hours
kangaroo courts
turn triggers
forgiveness
bleeds kindness
that empowers
never forgotten
never left behind
key burns the open backhand
for Heart’s gate
the golden thread
gifted you
through eye of needle
labyrinthine
smyth sewn into
the fabric of you
You,
of all people
I will bring through
with me
to the other side
Evensong -
though you don't believe,
I did all along
(ladyLabyrinth / 2021)
gvlm-scm
"Agnus Dei"/Samuel Barber
https://youtu.be/AiuC_CaObbI
lux vitae lux / latin. translation.
And suddenly, 50 was here, all the music got
louder, all the drivers for younger. My hair
was on a farewell tour, visiting the sink and the
shower more than my head. The kids got older,
some didn't grow up, but they were older, and
living on their own, visiting when lives allowed.
Then 60 snuck in the back door, kids had kids and
the house was louder, the cars were smaller,
driving themselves, and I lived in a neighborhood
populated by dumped wives, all gossipy and lonely.
Their husbands gone to younger women, or to the
grave too soon, who knew, I didn't care to listen.
70 turned the corner and caught me across the
puss with a backhand when I looked in the
mirror and saw an older person looking back.
Everything got louder with my new hearing aids,
driving became harder, too much going on. I stay
home more often, alone, reading the obits to
find friends I had lost and I wonder,
who will miss ME when I go?
I’m tempted to backhand the ones who call
us sixty-somethings old or elderly.
How dare they use such terms describing me?
Infuriating! Boy, do they have gall!
from Today's Vocabulary Word Is "Elderly," posted February 23, 2018
Date: September 21, 2020
Contest Title: Rithimus Divisa 6
Sponsor: Gregory Barden
(The song)
Her definition of a best thing
is a small man with a big thing
an extension of a blessing;
grace seeped in gaunt glory.
Not some psycho etched in malady
faces like porridge - sanity's laundry.
Gucci brain, intellect is the big thing,
hell children, what were you thinking?
she won't give me this, she won't give me that
she made me an egg, and she is the bat
she would hit me straight, and sometimes backhand
well, I don't care, I'm cool in her hands.
(The song)
'20:06:20:11:05
For the Haven’s advancement,
the Elite may extend a courteous backhand,
or a fist wrapped with opinion
that some may mistake for abuse.
Dante’s girl fell from her steeple
head first into a cauldron of pride,
now her feeble corpse twitches
trying to vomit the blackest pitch grey.
Stains her soldier’s dress blues
duty has him answer the bench’s call.
Gaveled verdicts now deleted,
appeals one site’s ambitions.
Often found in a library,
their little boy plays with
his toy box full of straw men
and overused emoticons.
Each breath billows the forge,
black smoke void of The Father,
they beat a gift’s beauty into a weapon,
the cutting edge of the Deceiver’s con.
Gave Mr. Bro’ man a couple of dollars,
with a frown gave he a backhand holla
Said my alms were light,
and my palms were tight
Man, how I hate ingrate red stop collars!
Throw it, roll it,
Bounce it, pass it
Dribble it, bobble it
Kick it, toss it, miss it
Pitch it, hurl it
Heave it, sling it
Fastball, slider
Sinker, knuckler, curve
Underhand, sidearm
Overhand, 3/4 arm
Whiffle ball, tennis ball
Forehand, backhand, serve
Baseball, basketball
Football, volleyball
Golf ball, tennis ball
Hardball, softball, swerve
Matters not what sport you do
Or what result's deserved
Just go out and do your best
And play the game with verve
Starting with the toss up
I’ve made an unforced error
I’ve only gone and followed through
Squeezed the jissom out the old fella
New balls (and pants) please – love all
I think your ace
With a backhand that’s made for passing
On top of a lovely forehand
With a lovely high toss that’s absolutely smashing
Sure you moan and groan
But I love the racquet you make
Lets have another rally
Are you sure you’re not courting
I’ve a changing room free
If you fancy finishing me off
With a serve and volley after
Lost in desolation
My mind became a prison map location
It was so very stark
When I couldn't see the light beyond the dark
I'd stumble around until I fell
And hit my head so hard it would swell
And as I was looking at the stars
I could feel the pain of every one of my scars
Like a plague I gave in to depression
And in truth I want to have a heartfelt confession
That my heart has been hurt
And I just wanted somewhere to divert
But instead my soul became bitter
And I became a quitter
Trying to find peace in being alone
When I really just wanted time to atone
But it's hard when you lose the love of your life
And your social life becomes a platform of strife
Every time I got knocked down I forced myself to stand
Bloodied I'd smile every time life gave me the backhand
I became so tired of talking to myself
That I put myself on a shelf
Where nobody could ever reach me
Creating a prison from which I may never be free
But when you look me in the eyes
You'll see a weary soul with no more lies
All I need is a chance
To show I'm ready to dance
And escape my mind that's a prison map location
So I'm no longer lost in desolation
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