sweet is the nectar
chosen you are a flower
milkweed and aster
~
favorite blossom
preference "bee" popular
pollinated plants
~
borage bee come in
inside me lick access my
nectar juices source
~
daisies water me
my patient honey bee year
round my coneflower
~
provide juice for me
ahh! the butterfly and bee
my Blackeye Susan
~
sweet is your nectar
I love beyond your juices
I suck flavor juice
~
preference blossom
chosen you are a flower
milkweed and aster
9/26/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
The electric daffodils have dimmed now
Orange tulips back their guest arrival,
mechanical stem's,how they glisten
The arcane Robina tree is stet
no leaves this spring
Autumn is a long way off
Borage fills in the gaps
from corner to corner
they cover the ground
The dead eyed roses
grasp for sunlight
like mad mayhem
they last, in disordered array
Rattling like Skittle packets in my hand,
seeds so miniscule will become so grand.
Bull's Blood Beets and Brandywine Tomato
begin the extensive garden rainbow.
Scarlet Nantes Carrots hide in the earth,
while Cronus Pumpkins expand showy girth.
Honeygold Corn boasts a barbecue treat.
Sweet Banana Peppers reach for the heat.
Green abounds in salad varieties
and fresh-off-the-vine, crisp Sugar Snap Peas.
Blue Vantage Cabbage leaves will soon enfold.
Borage attracts bees, periwinkle bold.
Purple Queen Bush Beans will lean together
while eggplant shines in dry August weather.
Like candy dreams, my mouth starts to water
with consumption hopes when days get hotter.
5-1-2021
Rhyming Couplets Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
From cosmic source, creative force.
A solar blaze brings summer days.
Garden scene: red, blue and green.
Fragrant air from floral flare.
Bees forage in blue borage,
Seeking sugar, sipping nectar,
Spreading wider, pollen powder.
Birds singing, sweet rejoicing.
Gentle breeze, a balm to ease.
Soon sun sets low, end of show.
Precious planet, we must protect
From mankind's course, destructive force.
an orange is an
orange it says
what it is
but i'm being
led on by
blinder covered
eyes trying to
catch my own
kind of
orange
i'm not a
rib cage
showing future
smelling
of glue
horse
or
a borage leaf
long earred
mule
nor an donkey
correctly
i am an
ass
but
still only trying
to catch that
which dangles
before
me
though not
knowing if
i go around
in circles the
same stomping
grounds as a child
but now older but what
if it's that myth the grand
if of all ifs that no longer can
sit
it needs to
be propped
up but can
no longer
prosper
as once
the
great
american
dream
To mill pond at dawn's new day
rippling sunbeams over the calm surface play
freely amongst the stately swans gliding there
in contented pairings, turning sees' a hare
and leveret munching on borage and honeycombs
breakfasting, as a polluted tributory stream foams
with poisonous effluence five hundred yards away
to mill pond at dawn's new day
Grow garden
wild and free
neat and tidy rows
do not define thee.
Borage and cornflowers
feed my bees
while butterflies
rest in the parsley.
Catnip for my feline friends
next to my basil and thyme
Ignore the weeds
if you please
I think my garden is sublime
for the My Own Little Garden contest
you need a place
on matter race
just in case
have to put it away
this is where it stay
in room
not borage
call
STORAGE
Country Squire that owns this estate
Surrounding land and many lakes
No longer comes on scheduled time
In the village he mostly awaits
On his white steed he often climbs
To the estate he comes anytime
Brings a lady by his carriage
Wants a soulmate's love that's sublime
On estate he has advantage
Where he can put in her beverage
A potion of borage love potion
Hopes this will lead to a marriage
For this woman he wants for wife
To live and love him all his life
In his castle there will be no strife
In his castle there will be no strife
In this place I passed today
Were the many faces unknown to me
From the corner of my eye I spied
A man of strangest seemingly so out of place
He walked with his head drawn down as though he meagerly disgraced
Out of smiles sternly wearing a frown
He wears a long black coat with a candy cane scarf
A dark cowboy hat with a destination amongst the breezes
With his hands in his pocket hunting for keys
Plumes of dried street salt sailed into the air
All over the buildings and cars, all over his hair
Late winter days pass so slowly
Waiting for the endless borage of last minute snow
Cars coated with dirty city street grime
The harshness of this winter victims of time
And time as such will pass over this season
Bringing along the vernal equinox with a view far more pleasing
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