Stepping to the plate, he stood at four foot eight.
Sixty-seven pounds, that was the batter's weight.
You probably wouldn't think to look at this punk,
that his club held a punch, as to bat, he slunk.
Mister Monninger shouted a curious phrase -
"powder river." To the hitter, it conveys
a sense of fearsome confidence and power.
Cocking the bat, he knew he'd be man of the hour.
First pitch, and that ball sailed o'er the grass of green.
No lie. It was the furthest anyone had seen.
Yes, I was that batter boy, who played in tattered jeans,
but I still don't know what "powder river" even means.
A lake,
landmark to
locate easily
my nest like
home, a center
to ever widening
concentric city,
lies without life,
no fishes, no ducks,
no mosquitoes,
not even microbes
exist within.
Like a frozen body
intact, lake is
kept as a
keep-sake, for
there will be no
other places to
dump such waste;
chemicals flowing
from a few hundred
factories, slush, sewage,
garbage reaches her
in hushed silence.
When people
flock to see
with curious
eyes the fire
and froth issuing
from the lake,
taking pictures,
striking unison
notes-aw’s, wow’s,
as if it is all
of the lake’s doing,
my ears hurt-ache-burn.
I see a crow
sitting on
electric pole
cocking its head,
looking restlessly
at people or
mourning the
death of lake,
I can’t say, but,
with as expressionless
face as that of the crow
I turn with heavy steps,
ruffled, helpless,
towards my home.
Poor Fido is last in the queue
For cocking his leg on the yew
He hopes the other dogs
Don’t produce poopy logs
He’s bursting to pee and then poo!
Oh if I were a true poet
one that could write a good rhyme
I would compose a few ones
and earn myself a dime.
Why, I'd write about man's folly,
as the robin said to the sparrow:
"Why are men so stupid
their minds so clouded and narrow?"
The sparrow cocking his head replied:
"They accumulate facts and lies,
Little caring about their true intent,
Alas, they are not really very wise."
The robin looked at his red breast,
remembering a Man on a cross,
how He bled, and sighed and suffered
all because of man's grace loss.
The sparrow nodded and smiled.
"Wisdom is not acquired by knowledge, my friend.
It comes when in our lives we've failed
and when we truly try to comprehend."
The Eagle
An
eagle
in a tree
cocking its head
scans its surroundings
searching for meat to eat
amid the torridity
under a cloudless summer sky
while the sun’s rays reflect from the lake
on a windless day in the wilderness.
that day
the policeman was in a jolly mood
he sang on the job as he gunned people down
listen to his out of tune song while
cocking aiming firing his machine pistol
emptying the clip into running screaming people
reloading doing it again for he had ten clips
each of thirty two nine millimetre slugs
zipping zapping into people thud thud
the roar of his sub gun echoing about
quick call the cops there’s a mad man here!
oh he is a cop who’s just robbed a bank
plugged the teller thru the heart stone cold dead
studded the manager across the chest
all for a bag of gold sovereigns in his shirt
look how he stops to light a joint
deeply inhaling the weed with a smile
then opening fire into store windows
at terrified people hiding inside
who if they live will never forget
the mad singing shooting cop
who broke a dozen laws that day
I was blessed to have been adopted at age thirteen.
When hunting after a torrential rain I slipped into the Potomac river and by holding onto my pellet gun, when it slapped the mud, the cocking mechanism sprang open, locking onto a stump allowing me to pull myself free from certain death in that wild rushing chocolate brown Potomac river.
Blessed to have survived a heavy weapon-laden military aircraft engine loss and fell five hundred feet before regaining our altitude, a truly horrific experience.
Blessed to have a bullet aimed at me pass through an open passenger window of a car, passed right in front of my nose, and smashed the driver's side window instead of passing through my head.
After being wrongly accused and facing twenty years in prison I was blessed by a man who saved me from committing suicide, and all charges were dropped.
After all of this and that, there must be a good reason for me still remaining among the living, for I am blessed and highly favored.
Every day I wake up to the cacophony
Of a murder of crows cawing on tree tops
As the sun emerges from behind the hills
They take to the skies in one and two,
Sometimes together in unison they fly
Cruise out in air like small boats
Though dark, they are the emissaries of light!
Never in the sky for long,
They land down and glide up shrieking
Flying from hedge to fence
Hopping from mound to plane
These noisy folks remind me
Of the haggling fisher women never silent
Cocking their heads to and fro,
They keep a watchful eye
Everything falls in their eyeshot
Picking up scraps and crumbs
And tit bits from garbage piles
They thrive in gregarious company
With dusk fall, they come back homes
Full of gossip and tales of travel
These ubiquitous birds of all seasons
Are the unpaid scavengers of the Earth!
Sept. 25.2022
A Flock of Birds Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Julia Ward
A bird is a wonder
flying in the air
hopping on the ground
or warbling a song
Pure entertainment all day long
A bird is a curiosity
cocking his head this way and that
sucking a worm from the ground
so juicy, so fat
An aerial and arboreal acrobat
A bird is a parent too
in the grand scheme of things
building a nest for babies
until they take wing
Gently nurturing, fiercely protecting
Ten days afloat in a very small boat
Since watching their aeroplane sink
When one of them died the rest took a vote
There was nothing to eat or to drink
One said we should eat him to keep us alive
There should be sufficient to fill us
If some bits are poison we may not survive
How do we know which bits won’t kill us
Harry said frankly I haven’t a clue
Perhaps this will do for a start
The town of my birth hints at what I should do
It’s Hertford so I’ll eat his heart
Len said there’s logic in your line of reason
So maybe I’ll sample a sliver
My home football team won the trophy this season
It’s Liverpool, I’ll eat his liver
What about you Tom, you look a bit sick
And Tom said I know that you’re mocking
I don’t like your system so how can I pick
When I live in a village called Cocking
*
[Cocking is a village near Chichester, England]
'Bunnies!', 'Yes, bunnies!'
a lonely pooch
sniffing the mound of dirt
Sniff, sniff flung the Yorkie
'Bunnies!', 'Yes, bunnies!'
'Bunnies!' curl up cute and cuddly
while across the way
a kingdom full of gophers
a mound of dirt
I sat engaged and skunking
amazed I'm watching
I saw the fantails
Cute little cottontails
When I thought of the bunnies
That proud speculum - that proud
And so you came gently fluttering
the wrigglers never rabbiting
must be their cute cousins
The marl laughed
'Bunnies!''Yes, bunnies!'
So cute soft and cuddly
So, distinctly I was pea-cocking
And my eyes have all the plumbing
While listening to the robins
Remembering many initiated, silent bunnies
so cute and cuddly
7/5/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Villanelle : Merchants of the Word make Writers write for Prizes
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Does not the failed writer pose as house editor
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
Prized-writers in our midst make all kinds of noises
Matters little so long as till fills publisher
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Lope de Vega scorned long-suff'ring Cervantes
His plight mattered only to French Ambassador
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
Prized-writers need not fear e'en wise connaisseurs
Don't they write with flourish cocking-eye on reader
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Does the Nobel go to some who serve lost causes
Or to some who serve publishers like the Booker
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
True, ancient poets sang under patronages
Yet those we love most lived life under the jailor
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
© T. Wignesan - Paris, May 4, 2018
Intruding the evening and throbbing like pain
there's a gathering contusion of purple and blue
that fills the horizon, and rattles the plains
With a change in the air, and foreboding, it weighs
turning the sky into gun-metal gray
There are birds I can see, that have bent every limb,
hovering high in the cottonwoods, while cocking their heads..
A hawk circles low over fields growing grain,
scanning for shelter, sensing the rain
Bold, unafraid, something shatters the bones
of an earth that is weary, .. thirsty, and worn
It scatters the birds as we look up the road
where the sun has retreated and troops have composed
There is pathos, confusion, in wind driven clouds
swept in from the rim of darkness, and now
the tongue of a serpent has severed the sky
bleaching the landscape, and blinding the eye.
Earth trembles in pain, dueling swords will collide
Count to ten, as they say, sparks will fly once again
The war isn't over……… Take cover and run!
______________________________________________________
2/23/18
Contest: "Describe a thunder storm without the sense of sound"
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri
With the cocking of his gun
I squeezed my eye lids all so narrow
And considered how big a gun can look
When looking down its barrel
But instead of being shot
The Doc ordered me once more
To hop down in the shallow grave
And start digging up the ore
He threw me down a pick axe
And as I grab it with my hands
Saying "Don't get no ideas
Or I'll shoot you where you stand"
So I plunged it in the rock
And as the pieces fell away
I saw that it was gold
And the Doc's plan plain as day
He would seem to rescue strangers
From the crowd, back in the town
And take them here to mine for him
Then shoot the wrangler down
With a coffin filled with ore
Then back to town he'd make his way
"He let the fella go"
At least that is what he'd say
This way Doc could keep the gold
And the secret of his find
And as for missing strangers
no one payed any mind
To be continued in Vol 6 Page 9 soon
Something Shocking
Something had happened quite shocking;
After directly on target I now am locking;
Well trained;
Energy drained;
Shot someone after weapon was cocking.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
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