Joy of pleasure, a child of poor parents,
Bliss alone founts from a perpetual spring,
Joy fancies scores of fond uncles and aunts,
Never lasts long the song they choose to sing.
Being a moth made of mere moments nigh,
It sleeps all day, to wake in glare of night,
O Bliss, thou art a dancing butterfly
That spreads its beauteous wings in Nature’s light.
Perhaps I should call thee a honey bee
That gently sucks nectar from a flower
Beetle, nor ever a black bumblebee
That plums and cherries a whole would devour.
Thou art a Lark that no rain clouds would chase,
The bane of joy of pleasure’s to be blasé.
__________________________________________
Sonnet |04.10.2010| joy, pleasure, bliss
Poet’s Note: Mundane joys and pleasures are carnal and they never last long, unlike bliss that founts from deep within. As a popular poetic imagination goes, an Indian Lark, called Chatak, drinks directly from raindrops falling in its widely open beak. It prefers to go thirsty but would never appease rain clouds.
I wake up each day
without purpose.
I am neither here nor
there.
I can't cry anymore,
I can't smile anymore.
I have a blank stare
and my demeanor is
blase'.
A big mase of skin and
bones with no direction.
My dreams of a better
existence has become
a series of nightmares.
Ah!
Sleeping showerings
Hello! I have a slight humid headache
My eyes shines betrayed by the clouds
I heard a makeshift thunder lightning unbelieved instincts Fantasies of my psyche expressive
Cloak
Deity...
Who me?
Bla, blah, blah
Kingdom full of clearance
Old fashioned party lines
Realities
Bla, blag, blah
Whatever!
And my promise to the multi clover bow
in the sky there I stress
As my spirit ask WHY?
Blase
5/17/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2020
At my antique womanly age,
I have reached beyond cynicism stage,
I am quite blasé about hyperbole,
Hearsay evidence about chicks like me,
You're wasting your time, unfortunately,
Old bags like me are basically resilient, you see,
I've had 700 billion lovers, it seems,
Plus or minus 10%, is that how you deem?
Contemplation on such matters makes me giggly!
Yes, quite blase about hyperbole,
You're wasting your time, quite definitely!
Blasé
Totally proud of my achievement,
Completely understood by my friend,
Monumental progress made in no time,
When our ears to each other did bend;
Notwithstanding the usage time, long,
Of that moderate body, muscles spasming,
Irrespective of the disbelieving carers,
And complacent friends who liked tuning.
Ignoring my parents full throttle, blank,
He was faithful to my trust and love of him,
To my honesty and descriptions I’d given,
When at school I’d gone in to talk to him;
I’d got what I’d hoped for all my life,
A male OT to supervise and encourage,
My effort to make my dream come true -
And my success gave me pride, dockage.
It was indeed one of the best days of my life,
Of my passioned journey, time and career,
Because my quiet, contented knowing,
Became reality, proving that sanity was here;
I instantly became socially mobile, job,
I instantly knew i fitted in with the masses,
Who could dress themselves everyday,
Without a carer or spasmodic catches.
I've gathered you all here today,
to lament rhyming poetry's death.
Fledgling poets feel it's blasé,
regardless of its rhythm and breath.
Lyrical poetry's a cliché,
though it's been recited for years.
For now, there's a different way
of expressing your fears and tears.
Exiled to the pages of time,
Rhyme died when its critics shunned it.
And its once clear, distinctive chime;
was stripped of its rapier wit.
Beloved, and yet inked by few,
it has slipped into history.
But, when I hear what rhyme can do,
its death becomes a mystery.
Rhyme was laid to rest by freestyle,
let's lift our pens; bid it adieu!
And visit it once in a while,
perhaps, to write a line or two.
Call an end to time
And spin the coin on the balance of a dime
Heads or tails
Define my bail
And blase a trail
To the center of the sun
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