A coyote howls amidst the blackscreen
of the woods as unknown silhouettes
crawl on earth's crust ,
rainstorm ramming on muddy soil.
The cry of doom threatens each being
when the monstrous hour screeches
to gather a crew of newborns
and within every vomitting breath ,
weak infants tumble over an abyss
of carnage... without resistance.
Mothers wail, yet sharp hands
blackened by thorny nails
grip the fresh bellv of kohl twilight --
Nearer and nearer
hooded spirits so humongous descend ...
their green eyes breaking the window chain,
moving closer for a more macabre feast
while babes wiggle like worms :
I turn the screen off in a dark, dark foyer
my heart throbbing in throes of angst,
hurrying to view if my young son
lays on his crib... dreamily asleep;
my mind wrapped in thrall... where is he?
Dust motes dance in the
moonlight where the rotting
porch boards moan beneath
my feet.
Thick, silver cobwebs drape
like burial shrouds over the
rotting, abandoned foyer.
A sudden, frantic squeaking
echoes from the floorboards,
followed by the scuttle of a
hundred hungry spiders.
The decrepit house breathes,
its wall pulsing with the phantom
sounds of distant, agonizing yells.
I try to retreat, but the front door
slams shut, locking me inside the
suffocating darkness.
Invisible fingers brush against
my neck, and the temperature
drops to a freezing, unnatural chill.
The screaming starts then- a chorus
of tormented souls trapped forever
within the cursed timber.
I run up the spiraling staircase,
only to find the hallway crawling
with grotesque, shifting shadows.
The walls close in as a deafening
shriek shatters the silence, and the
house claims another victim.
Now I am just another spectral
noise in the dark, forever screaming
in the spider- infested void.
Impoverished raise like farming
Owning a pig, lots of chickens, rooster, hen;
Not in the sixteen-hundreds;
Made one’s own foods from scratch,
This foyer placement in time itch;
Below the Mason-Dixon Line, 1969;
Charleston, Missouri woe to--
Tom Sawyer’s
---Black friend Jim
3/24/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
Tinged by cinnabar the spent sun sets
at the gray edge of the gloomy horizon.
As all the shadows of the extant lengthen,
the diffused light of the day they cannot sap.
Dusky dimness descends opaque and heavy,
floods the blurred spine of the pining plateau,
captures the lively tinge of the emerald trees,
until the shadows fade into obscure gloom.
Luminosity of the remnant reminiscence
glimmers in the deserted mental foyer.
Remnant rays of the drifting crescent moon,
illumine the obscure corridor of memory.
Clutching its silhouette the mystified life drifts
through the diffused array of the moonbeam,
knowing the stars shine bright in the dark sky,
the candles burn bright in the gloomy room.
She hadn't received a violet grape purple envelope,
As the invited guests had done. It was more than she could hope.
Each guest had known for ages to expect the guilt edge invitation.
The bedraggled woman knew this wedding was way above her station.
She stood in the foyer of the church, through the window to the aisle.
Her threadbare clothes hung around her form in denial.
She watched him take her arm, as they approached the groom.
A hush was heard as the organ played in the room.
How stunning the bridesmaids, four beautiful girls,
The bride exquisite, her delicate lace gown studded with pearls.
The crowd were obviously all well to do,
Men in Versace suits, women clad in Chanel and Dior too.
She listened as they said their vows and swore to be true.
She smiled as he proclaimed to his bride “I love you”.
Marriage complete, they would all soon walk out to the street.
It was time for the haggard woman to make a hasty retreat.
He glanced at her but didn’t raise an eyebrow.
She would never be recognized the way she looked now.
It was so long since she had cried, she shed just one tear.
Her dear daughter would never know that her mother was here.
What would you choose to do if out for fun?
You'd read a hundred pages of ‘Tom Sawyer?
Eat lentil soup, and hug an old sequoia?
She’s seventy next year, and she’s no nun –
the Jackson number five is called La Toya.
Perhaps you’d like to serve on a destroyer?
Attack a kindergarten with a gun?
Compete at auction, to secure a Goya?
Or are you, by your nature, an annoyer?
Trump Tower bound, to desecrate the foyer?
(Have patience, Gentle Reader: almost done!)
Beware the bear-trap, verbal hurdle, pun.
It’s not pronounced ‘La Jolla’, it’s ‘La Hoya’:
Just take my word. Just trust me. I’m a lawyer.
The wheels of the chaotic times churn for them
the sands of crushed dreams in the desert of desiccated life,
settling frenzied on the unstratified fragile structure
of the disorganized dunes of desolate existence.
The sequestered moments of distressed awareness,
drift the dust of disarray to the foyer of failed being.
The truth of trustful conviction sinks under suffering
made with mirage on the ruffled ripples of disorder.
In homeless languished life’s impoverished landscape,
sorrow-paved avenue contours convoluted uncertainty,
winds to nowhere at the fading fringe of the time future,
beyond the befuddled perception of toiling time present.
With the faceless faces smeared by the shadows of scorn
they walk on slimy Kensington Avenue of cardinal crime.
Life trampled by insolent wavering footsteps in journey
under the stupor of opoids that never ends their pain.
They seek the benevolence of the society to help them
in their search for the lighted path away from squalid environs
for their suffering souls to discern the abode of empathy,
as they strive to find the way out of the dead end avenue.
Before midnight ticks, I turn to my
interior world ,
One that cradles myrhh
of reminisces and sagas,
Allowing breaths to inhale the agony
and radiance of loved ones' trails
now beyond my physical reach--
Watching the decrepit portraits on
the foyer, July air greets the dew
on blossoms, monarchs flitting in my yard
then fading softly in the shade--
reminding me how age- torn, tattered
past seasons have turned this manor down
I am stilled by the rustle
from maples breathing as if their
whiffs understand my untold ancestry...
Perhaps, I am getting old,
or maybe wise enough
to scrape my pen amid bundled journals,
unearthed by many vintage pages
still to come. And go.
1st place
Blue Cheese and Old Pickles Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish
A dish of disappointment
mocks the kitchen chef
two anomalies sitting on his cutting board
all in their glory, dumbfounded
... and unappetizing
plated for aliens and not humans
or for a horse that doesn’t know better
this recipe’s giving him the blues and he’s seeing red
where …
his yellow brick road has two strangers today
two lost food groups
arriving earlier in hearses
a funeral procession
mythically carrying the deceased to his kitchen foyer
… some blue cheese and an old dill
that are down for an undressing
of his bitter words
like, fudge, where’s the beef
… or better yet Mars is up there
as a cloud of despair hovers over the kitchen
not a spaceship as one might think
darkness begetting light
salt, pepper and garnishes spooked
… a ready barf bag crashes this meal
the mind is open for a change
Headless embrace an easy life a lift down the seventh floor to a foyer and doors that open automatically a café serves one from cooking peeling potatoes and ready-made salads
a walk in the avenue of shops that have empty words while expensive cars drive driven by owners whose sense of beauty is a Musk truck dead steel against the greening grass
then you know there will never be dog hair on the sofa, and there will be no happy, friendly dog you're here and she is content
You plan your escape from the trivial, how fast a lift takes to ground level, but meet an obstacle called old age and the maidens have gone
Finally, you see yourself in the bathroom mirror the ultimate purveyor of truth, the loss is
absolute, but despite that dreams are bigger than you whisper and tell you of a way out
The Great Hall of the People.
After the performance
she appears above us,
stepping out from
a Chinese painting of heaven.
She descends into the foyer,
camera’s whir.
Once more
we are stunned
by the power of beauty
to command our devotion.
This is her moment,
surely no moment could out-match
this one.
Later, a reading,
tea leaves in a small cup,
dragons circle the rim.
A vision.
There are rumors, suspicions,
political purges,
Her path leads now
to blood
to Tiananmen Square.
To a final act
unseen.
Pulling out my card.
Doesn’t seem too hard.
When I’m convinced of my wealth.
Despite new books on my shelf.
Despite sunglasses that are new.
I assumed by account was tried and true.
But when the balance is none.
I find myself feeling undone.
I want to go back.
To stop myself from getting snacks.
I want to undo.
Buying a shirt that is blue.
I hear honking behind me.
At least the receipt for my balance is free.
I leave with no money in hand.
I was going to go to the beach with sand.
But with no money for a picnic lunch.
I suddenly have a hunch.
That my friend will pay what is due.
But then the sky turns a strange hue.
Which helps me remember.
I owe her from December.
I guess I’ll go home.
With no where else to roam.
I know my mom’s advice was true.
That spending too much will make me blue.
I enter the foyer.
The smell of cooking makes me wander over.
My mom is making lunch.
She seems to have a hunch.
On the hammock in the yard, I sway.
I learned my lesson on this sunny day.
She hands me an iced tea.
I start to dream.
Of my paycheck tomorrow.
Which I can spend without sorrow!
You walked through the foyer door
I saw you there and thought of more
I caught your eye from up on stage
My face went flush when we engaged
For in that look I said it all
My love for you is nothing small
Alone, my passion would transform
From calm into a big snowstorm
Several weeks in to this healing journey.
Grateful of course, there was no gurney..
Now waiting for these bones to knit.
It's challenging for me to quietly sit.
Wheeling around my condo floors,
the metal stripping's are loose once more.
My wheel chair clunks on the foyer tiles.
Some days my arms feel they've walked several miles..
I amble to my car with my walking stick, to run a few
errands lickity split.
I'm grateful for drive thru's, those places one
can just pull up to: drive thru pharmacy to pick up my meds,
drive thru star bucks to clear my head, of course the fast
food options too. May God bless the drive thru!!
Still striving hard not to succumb to my some days
emotional pendulum..
Five weeks down, five more to go, the healing process is
painfully slow.
A lifetime plays out
as you watch a movie screen,
or hang around in the foyer,
waiting for the right movie to start.
Then you realize
that it has always been your light
on that screen -
that you were, fact,
the only projector in town.,center.
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