Best Ee Poems

  E.E.CUMMINGS AND I


I remember a beautiful, Spring
day in Chicago.
Sitting on my lover's lap.
His eyes as lovely as the spring-
green trees tapping gently on my
living room windows.
His lips velvety as the roses on
Montrose Avenue, that day in May

And, I, reading him, E.E. Cummings
poem, "Since...

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believe you me sirandmiss
a country made of this
youIItthem(a blended cocktail conspiracy)

you, Land of Calvin
Klein peacoat peacocks and Maybelline
Girl with cryproof mascara dripping(fashion
-first step lacking substance(of you
I sing: land of Oliver North and Ellen Degenerous
land of malcontent:singing(quietly)humming
cooking cuisine in add-one-minute-microwave

fashion.  Shaving with grandfathers
dull razors: regifted...

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"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go . . . )"

                       ...

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Sul-li-ee-van, yes mom
Where is my CD-ROM?
Meenie knows
She once paws
Dorothea's sitcom...

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edward
      estlin
      cummings
      hurled syntax
      m
      i
      l
      e
 ...

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No way!
am I a
pessimist,
a realist,is what
I say-
I am
not an ass,
donkey maybe
definitely,male not
a lass-
I talk
very slow,
but this I know
fresh sweet carrots help my
words flow-
slowly
one by one,
this pleasing drawl
holds all my many fans,
in thrall

Brian Strand...

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Forgot what this verse was supposed to be
Honey or sugar for a cup of tea
Captivated by the heavens afar                          ...

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Freezing Monday, your fingers are numb
Hurry on home to the fire and Mum.
Walk in the back and sniff the air,
The smell of lovely Cottage Pie is there.
Come home on Tuesday,stomach rumbling,
Mum's made a pan of Stew n Dumpling.
Is there an onion in there for me?
Go...

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  WARHOL studied serigraphic sequences simultaneously...

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how can I write of love

                  when I know it not

     the want          

...

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               10/7/2023



A classical poet, indeed, you are not.
An intellectual poet, spare me the lot!!

Fingers that knew well,humanity’s heart .
Poetry that freed me from, dead stoic art .

Freedom to be, who we...

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Get your knees up, Mother Brown,
For tonight we're going to town.
Under the table, you might go
It won't be knees up though
It will be from the pints swigged down....

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a pencil, slender and sleek,
whispers secrets on the page,
its graphite tip, a dancer's toe,
tracing lines of thought, unencumbered.

it dances across the paper's stage,
twirling and swirling in graceful arcs,
a silent symphony of words and shapes,
unfolding the mysteries of the mind.

its lead, a conductor's baton,
conducting the orchestra...

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emotions are coursing over gnarled Travertine rocks 
surreal 
tears are my broken dream’s shards 
scattered on a barren soil

as my beloved rests in eternal sleep 
I opine
the lizard should have waited with his message 
cursed be the chameleon
may his slumbers forever 
be haunted 
 
my tears...

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since writing is being,
who the hell am I, 
measuring meter,
caring about perfect rhyme,
an attention seeker
trying to impress

writing is being
breathing
unreeling 
unraveling
unearthing
seeing 
hearing 
smelling
touching
feeling
e.e. 
        ("since feeling is first
         he who pays...

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