Summers hosting a heated draught boil caster,
Mounted rays of sun pouring on earths soil
Abundantly temperate rises environments- brasher
Space satellite mounted orbits machines caster
The heat rays’ blast-- invisible blasters
Air conditioners hum a song boil
The third cloud on the right sets a caster
The boiling heat of summer’s burns the soil
--The temperature burns so
Environments place in time summer- blasters
8/21/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026© Triolet
I consider my hair my crowning glory
it is very very long blondish and straight
and I pamper it every single day
so, it is soft like baby hair
I have smooth and silky shampoo and conditioner
different types of scented detanglers
leave in conditioners for an extra silky feel
brushes and combs that will not break my hair
I wear very little makeup
just pink lipstick, blush, eyeliner and mascara
'cause I like a sort of natural look
I love how my hair blows in the breeze
and how it swings in dance class when I twirl
people tell me how pretty it is
even strangers will stop ask what I do
to make it so nice (I give it love)
some even say is it real
and I say just tug on it and you decide
since a little girl I have had long hair
I have pleasant memories of mom brushing it
sometimes, even braiding it
but nowadays, I just let it be long and straight
that's what I like . . .
she walks into the room
the same way she has for 40 years—
half-asleep mumbling about the price of eggs
but crap, she still makes my heart stop.
you’re the last busted payphone
that somehow still dials home.
you’re the only damn thing
that still makes sense
in a world full of unpaid bills and
broken air conditioners.
your heart’s a busted radiator
still kicking out heat when I need it most.
The cigarette burn on our old kitchen counter—
scarred in, not going anywhere.
hell, you’re a rusted-out truck that
still starts when the whole damn world’s frozen over.
we aren’t perfect but we lasted.
and that’s better than any damn valentine poem.
Time here is measured
by the lint-clogged resurrections
of air-conditioners.
All of us have had to learn
to shout past our souls.
Dulled minds are churned awake.
Fractured nights slumber on
beneath the rocky rumble
of nearby ice-machines.
The ‘Marigold’
is unmarried, divorced and abandoned,
but for those still not seeking lonely
there are midnight do-overs.
Behind the days horizon
a desert sky still thirsts
in the mouths of discarded shoes.
Firey sunsets melt
a stale residue of bedside booze.
The Marigold is mad, it was built that way,
its identical rows of doors
are designed to be portals
to yet more distant parking lots.
We internees prefer our rooms
to be dead to the daylight,
though every night
they will always revert
to storage units
for long imagined - much better times.
Home makers like the sun , I salute
Who helps me clean more or less that I can’t
giving me hand.
love lies in this needy trust
After all,I reside in my needs
than in my own home.
I survive better with these relationships
than with the provided facilities that
can't help me facilitate my self.
Life is a story of relationships
A story of survival
It is a song of selfish passions,
made possible through these
stories of relationships.
The wind , cooler than air conditioners
full of life ,make waves move through my veins.
The sun,air,water and earth and character
make survival sufficient
yet sufficiently sustaining is the greatest work.
These friends ,beyond sexuality
are not normal
and keep their own uniqueness in function.
I would rather see my own wrath
than co-operate in the corporate systems of
apathy.
Do they have souls of their own?
That break and let us perspire and moan?
I just want to leave this steaming town.
Those AC’s, such insensitive clowns.
They wait happily till it gets to be in the nineties.
They happily break and you sleep in sweaty nighties!
These devilish demons cost us plenty money.
But in hot climates, are as sweet as the best honey!
5-16-2022
For bold references
Are the fat differences
Between Women of America
And The Sun-Blackened of Africa
Who in torrents sweat
But over this not fret
In no hurry to involve air-conditioners
Rather through prayers to God Petitioners …
The Jilted-By-Her-Lover cries her head off
While The American could The Idiot’s head blow off,
Knee-low skirts only for a nice story,
The American sure in Mini as much glory,
African breasts continue to suckling duties answer,
Their American Twin strangely disposed to cancer …
Her women politicians content with The Gentry
While the American hopes to steer her country,
The lips of her women are sealed to sex styles
Non-Censored Americans pairs on this rich files
Of course, The Scholarly American often eyes degrees
While The African quits when daddy agrees …
Guess now the point I want to strike:
American and African women not alike!
Breathe easier and healthier because Autumn has arrived.
Rest O ye weary soul; relax and take a walk through golden lanes.
Easy does it, stretch at high noon; exhale and chill with the sunset.
Autumn leaves are preparing to leave, but not before their golden display.
Take it in, tell a friend, and an enemy too if you have one; all eyes open!
Heaven has no comparison, no rivals, but Autumn is running second.
Tune out the Summer; she's gone and won't be back for several months.
Air conditioners, gifts from God, life-savers, but Autumn bids them farewell.
Kites aren't just for kids; they are feeling the wind as well as anybody.
In my opinion, at least where I abode, it doesn't get better than Autumn.
Nights are coming sooner; the light is compassionate toward the darkness.
God sets the seasons, and when I see trees in Fall, I simply say, "Behold my Father, The Painter".
092821PSCtest, Autumn Acrostic Poetry, Caren Krutsinger
With less innocence in you,
You can function in any bank:
Naked words choosing very few,
Tact fully frank…
A real acting of the Real Jew,
A face not crank.
With less of our Christ
And your scruples sliced,
You would drop not every prank:
Normal deals alone to not redefine your rank;
A depositor more you thank
For future surprises from his full tank,
The bank’s air conditioners quit
That can’t the bank dank air spank
And bank cleaners not greet,
Who had skipped your flank…
It’s a half–holy, half- crafty bank
That scarcely sank
Or in banking nostrils never stank.
Sidewalk hot,
you could fry an egg.
Arizona summer heat, Phoenix roast factory.
Sweat pouring off my brow like Noah's flood.
Sky, light turquoise, tweaked into a
sun radiant reflective furnace.
Shimmering down alleyways in unison with overburdened air conditioners.
Mirage pools in the distance ethereal,
wavering on blistering roads.
Sounds are deadened by oppressive scorching.
Dogs panting with white flecks of drool,
sizzling on asphalt.
Blow dryer wind chafing my skin,
hard walking in this dry heat sauna,
cotton ball mouth and a raging thirst.
An old man sitting on a weather-beaten porch spits ocher tobacco waste on a dead lawn.
Penetrating blue eyes nestled in a wrinkled brow,
he whistles a forgotten tune in the oppressive heat.
"Hey, you!" he calls to me,
"get in the shade before you fry your brains."
He's holding a cold lemonade,
dewdrop dribbling on a crystal glass.
Ice jingling against the sides in a mesmerizing way.
I lick my chapped lips,
he pours me a cold one.
We wait on that shaded porch,
talking about life, love, and the way it goes.
As that big red ball starts to creep into the cradle of night.
The mistral cold wind blew incessantly wild,
Winding in the streets, its glacial currents in and around
The apartment blocks where all frosted windows
Were tightly secure. Still the bleak wintry chill entered
From tiny ruptured chinks and spread inside
Annihilating the miserly heat emitted
By old cranky air conditioners and gas heaters.
Occasional bursts of strong wind blew
Some soft snow up like winnowed chaff.
One hopes the homeless found some place to rest.
I don’t know that anything about me
is original – I mean, all of my atoms,
I’ve been told, once belonged to some
dimwit creature (hmm...) roaming the earth
long before air-conditioners and Mai Tais...
And talk about Sin! – now that’s an Original
I would gladly give my share away in
a heartbeat; sure as hell, not missing a
cinder of the concept – though, if not the
world itself, I have no recollection of a
bountiful garden...while readily admitting
to having dined and drank with more than
one size and specie of venomous serpent –
But of all my Non Originals, the abiding
presence of love within me is a lineage
I would gladly claim as my own, were I
asked, praying to be absolved of any penance
if untrue. And, if false...then I would claim,
even more vociferously, my uncompromising
capacity to forgive all, thus hopefully moving
existing originals into the Lord's Grace of
Transformative Light.
Looking at thee, O Tree,
O Nature's miracle maker,
To me ye offer
An amazing journey—
A journey of insight,
That in his growing disconnect with nature,
In his arrogance, nature to master,
Man has only plied his own plight.
Thou art O Tree,
An astonishing marvel of science,
O keeper of man's conscience.
O giver of so much care,
Ye let two humans breathe enough clean air.
Ye so much atmosphere cool,
Ten air-conditioners barely can,
Thou hast many a miracles so rare.
Let man reflect standing still
On the growing evil
That he has let loose.
Reflect on the path he must choose
To mitigate his evil,
Ye show, great journeys happen standing still.
_________________________________________
Ode |31.08.2020|
Miserable Midsummer
‘Tis midsummer, and we have no choice;
The thermometers have reached a peak,
Three digits creeping and sticking,
Air conditioners running full speed.
We look at heat waves out the window
We wait for dusk and something cold
Hope mama remembered popsicles,
And little bathers splash so bold.
We wait for the big weatherman
To say there’s a break, I smell fall,
Midsummer comes, but it will go,
And gold and red will cover all.
It was a hazy, hot humid evening
with the air conditioners all humming along
as the tube gave us a severe weather alert
like a vortex here came the violent thunderstorm
We heard the wild wind whistling dixie
as the gusts blew in from the southwest
so we hightailed it to the basement
our hearts rapidly beating in our chests
Our hearing senses were heightened
by straight line winds in our backyard
with the pounding rain hitting our roof
the storm downed some power lines
The tempest finally passed over
as we struggled in the dark
and turning on our flashlights
we finally ventured back on up
Looking out the back door
we noticed three fallen trees
relieved they didn't fall on any structure
as we felt the cool breeze on our cheeks
With no gizmos or gadgets to keep us entertained
like the Amish we retired to our beds
the now opened windows served as our air conditioners
as a slight cool breeze blew in
The next morning technology again thrived
as all the power in the house came back on
with my bedside clock flashing like a neon sign
with 9:17pm ingrained in my mind.
6-20-18
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