fishing finds
I’m foolishly fishing in the frost
freshwater follows fondly
foreign fishing forgets funnily
finest fishing feels furiously
fair fishing falls freely
fresh fishing flies fabulously
Yet it’s so cold
In mid-November
funny fishing fails fortnightly
fat fishing finishes fatly
fast fishing flows frozen forcefully
full fishing fills finally
fine fishing finds foolishly far
9/25/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY JAMES EDWARD LEE SR. © 2020
A little garden blooms
Next to a hut of grass
As impotent clouds silently looms
Under a sky of brass
The garden is green and lush
Next to a hut of grass
And tomato cheeks fatly blush
As the scorching sun arcs past
The garden is kept moist to root
Next to a hut of grass
And every season bears its fruit
Even is the sky is brass
The care of the garden green
Next to a hut of grass
Is in the care of fingers seen
Pulling out the weeds and grass
And the seed was give – the seed will grow
Next to a hut of grass
With flowers and with fruit to show
As you’ll see when you pass
What is the Lord’s the Lord’s will stay
Next to a hut of grass
As hands that pull and hands that pray
Has a garden of the highest class
There is a wooden table
topped with granite black as night
that occupies my thoughts preversely when in sight.
It's hand crafted curves
bend and wane like the sea,
almost dancing, transmuting, engulfing me.
And in the stillness of the night,
it perplexes my eyes;
the light bouncing off the granitetop like a million fireflies.
Or maybe they are termites
feasting fatly on the kill.
spoiling my wooden table while they greedily take their fill.
The table's shape contorts alarmingly
in the black of darkness' fall.
The table wanes consumed by water and I heed it's neptune call.
In a wave, it crashes down
but I dare not look away.
Like a waxing tide it pulls me closer, closer as I lay.
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