I am the rot beguiling the saccharine summer hue
I am the self in selfish sorrow, sullying the morning dew
Sickened with the mortal blips of emotion
To fall with the fragility of flesh hipped erosion
Hipped bone beneath browned bandage
Honed the hand hither, 'ncase fickle flesh cannot manage
T'stand aground the mortal vantage
Health t'sickness, worn to wear, not to manage, thy
Breath be dragged'n rancid acid, lipped from the dazed haze of exhaustion
She who had not a gun to brandish, but the naval blade o'self-famish
She who chose to awake, who awoke'n self-loathing
Whose body is irate with the dawned dam break of bile
T'overflow mine own organs, and hinder the words of hungered mind
Breaking the tide of the thrum drum pendulum heart
Shalt th'tounge twist rue th'bile duct of recovery
Drool the drivel of a mere reason 'why?'
And retract the bile of thy sickened mind.
I am to drool the drivel, of love from human kind
Im so tired'f this mortal mortuary
In place of mortal mind.
I am the mind that threatens to die.
And i am the mind, prepared to fight.
Desultory winds
chimera in throes of doubt
effusive, disconsolate
-clanging in hills stout-
Ductile mind bends sound.
virtuoso of the void—
sweet, zoetic, browned
My Bicycle of Imagination
The day and I are hand in hand,
brimming with a zippety-whippity-do.
I sit atop my saddle, my bicycle, my hill;
the morning mist is ragged like candy floss
on barbed wire, waggled fences.
Below a liquorice-tarmacked road
elbows through a mosaicked landscape;
churned fields sitting either side,
serrated into channels of earth;
suited and rooted in browned corduroy.
Then further on and along,
the sky sits sedately on the sea,
resting on a blue, rippled settee,
just out of close reach
of a mustard scarf of a beach.
Clouds rear - wild, white stallions;
they settle, then away at a gallop,
racing, chasing the prize in
the finishing line, the horizon.
Watch out, speedy swallow,
now, it’s my time to follow!!
I sense my bicycle’s stalled frustration,
so my body engine sets it free;
muscles tighten, pedals spin,
it’s time to fly, time to check in.
Off we go…wind pushing at my heels,
sunlight splashing off the wheels
down I swoop, a dance of balance;
the bike glides, the road slides.
Watch me come, watch me go
connecting, perfecting with nature’s flow;
sky, land and sea…………WEEEEEEEEEEE!
Yeasty with a cornmealed bottom
The sun-dried tomato's and sundried
Red bell peppers called me
The parmesaned and garlic crust
topped with olives, anchovies, and
Onions
the queint essential of elegance
refined by the knead of belonging
Bacon wrapped artichokes
With a hint of lemon
Mozzarella browned to create a
delicate longing of satisfaction.
Basil, oregano, and olive oil
Enough to tease. Just enough
to taunt. Pleasing and exciting
the palettes and taste buds!
Neon lights twinkle against the velvet, dark skies,
Ferris wheel spins like a huge ring of fireflies;
Shadows sway in the pavement, tents, booths, and crowds,
As bright bulbs bring glare to cotton candy clouds .
Iron tunes from colorful carousel
Equalize clanking ride near the dinging bell;
Laughter listens to chatter screams in delight,
As hush whispers before the ride drops from height.
Sweet smell of chocolate, popcorn, and browned dough
Blends with oil from ride's engine in hot wind's blow;
Jumbo burger melts on the tongue bathed by Coke,
While the air is mixed with words of grease and smoke.
Young ones in a dreamlike world within nighttide
Savor the spot where pain pauses and woes hide.
Written: July 24 for contest, Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
***********
A toaster is the wise old sage of the kitchen,
Fire's bread with "Plato" steadfast position.
Chrome reflects light from the cosmos' gaze,
Like "Nietzsche" on a morning haze.
The bagel slots are so deep and vital,
A metaphor for insight that is softly incisal.
It dings!—a discovery in real life,
"Kant" just sits about and talks on strife.
Toast pops! I gathered it! Fate's browned bit,
Socrates proved late in comparison to it.
So here's to logical thinking, cut and clear,
Truth provided hot, with a sputter so dear.
Tourtière, Canadian—
beef and pork browned well.
Mom always added breadcrumbs,
onions, celery,
and mashed potatoes,
spice blend too—
yum.
Good and browned, for you, a pancake round,
flipped and stacked, a joy so profound,
or perhaps, I'll share, a waffle square,
with pear for extraordinary flair.
Flair, is great for a flapjack of wheat,
square, wonderful for a Belgian treat.
Profound, indeed, is a poppy seed -
round about now, that's just what I need
sprinkled upon a lemon muffin.
speckled snow and bootprints,
French coffee sips, tire-treads,
leftover leaves like birdy wings.
upside-down pizza, for such
an occasion, slips from cast iron.
the blending of sausage balls,
pepperoni, baby bellas, onion,
jalapeno, parmesan, mozzarella,
provolone, seasoned sauce
and browned crust, unlike the classic -
a finger kiss satisfaction. drip drip
drip of icicles forming, branches
covered in powdered confection.
a snowball, formed by my honey,
in freezer, for a keepsake. realizing
the importance of commas.
in other words the snowball’s in
the freezer, not my honey.
he chats it up about work.
Grandma Teresina Cavicchio,
best pizza fritta maker
in all of Marianna, PA.
Probably the whole world!
Her fried pizza dough, dusted
with powdered sugar,
bellissima!
Lightly browned outside,
creamy in the inside,
it was the stuff
of mouth-watering dreams.
My three sisters and I
lined up in Nonna’s kitchen, chanted,
“Pizza Fritta, good to eat-a,
give me some, it is a treat-a!”
Her apron white with snowy sugar,
her ample arms coated in flour,
she never failed to please us.
Though I’ll never have Nonna’s
pizza fritta again,
I picture St. Peter and the angels,
powdered sugar moustaches,
greasy lips and beatific smiles,
gathering round Nonna.
"Pizza fritta, good to eat-a,
give us some, a heavenly treat-a."
Beneath the sunset, snug upon blue hills
are stalks of corn; a standing army gold
but long, their shadows fall like swords that stills
a weary legion cold with growing old.
Like soldiers dug in trenches they hold ground —so holy.
They hug their summer-season-dreams of youth.
The sun, their crown, now spurns them burned and browned —unholy!
Nor’easters shred what’s left with claw and tooth…
Oh, solstice rays once s w e e t as sugar maize,
the shadows short as days were long. The throng
of lazy mornings bathed in earthbound haze,
ah, leaves raised higher by the evensong.
September swans press wings in hum against the freeze;
a whisper to the rooted to concede to Autumn’s seize.
(Contemporary Sonnet)
Mellow golden browned skin
Naked no one knew then
Eyes of her Father’s
Blacken hair coarse fine
All at the same time
Washed feet
Forehead sweet
Whom a told you this
Strong neck
Walks in royalty
Statured heavenly
Ebony queen
All at the same time
Washes her feet
Bare sole never touches the streets
She’s clean brown and golden
Naked no one knew then
Eyes of her Father
She’s cleansed up to her teeth
Top of her head
Down to the soul of vessel
She measures worth more than the universe
Her feet so sweet
He forehead so sweet
Her hands so sweet
Whom told you this
2/15/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
Her wide blonde petals
once rose to the sun
now but drooping
browned 'n beiged tresses
swaying gingerly softly
contemplating the dark turf
of dirty brown carpet below.
'You had your moment in the sun,'
comforted breezy wind.
'But I so thought my beauty
would be for much longer,'
softly wept that faded rose.
So be the lament
so be for beauty all
all to meet the chill
the sad of brilliance fade
of beauty lost
in the dust decay
of yesterday.
BROWNED BEAUTIFUL BRONZE BROWN NATURAL WOMAN-
Soften tone medi
-um brown ever so her eyes
Smiled all natural
Skin fresh breast symmetric like-
-N grapefruits moisten lips speaks
~
Softly tender breathe
Arms like rubber bands chisel
Stealth ears sweet legs as
Turkey drumsticks firm moving
Melatonin golden brown
12/7/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Ekphrasis
Ms. Ogre Moose was happy to come to afternoon tea
She enjoyed Victorian Vicky who was lovely to see.
They did not speak the same language but got along fine
Laughing at their men who were silly on cranberry wine.
It’s a great day for a walk, Ms. Ogre Moose told her host.
I’d love to come along, except you have not eaten your toast.
The browned bread was handed over; they exchanged a smile.
It’s a fine day for a walk, Vicky said, walking her guest a half mile.
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