TRIPTYCH EXPERIENCES
portrayed
surrounded
now
repotoire
recited
recalls
questioning
the formulae
to
stimulate
subjectivity
delicious
luminous
dialogue
in
bizarre
graduated
contrasts
with unbridled
shades
predominantly
prevailing
afresh
in sensitive
hesitant
scenarios
passionate
unreachable
role-play
studies
of
facial
splendour
in
lavish
concept
a
formulated
process
to
conveys
a
quiet relaxed
series
carefully
fronted
emphasis
balanced
precise
awareness
with
vital
counterparts
in
closely
occasioned
devices
In fated inclemency
leading the charge
each push
deeper into the fray
The sound of the bugle
the call of the wild
where death lies afloat
in the quay
Each choice made to question
each vow pledged in blood
with very few
seeing the dawn
But onward we push
the bold and the meek
with our swords
and our bayonets drawn
The enemy fronted
all cannons in tow
the smoke makes things
harder to gauge
As destiny waits
on top of the hill
and the battle
continues to rage
One time looking back
the bodies lay piled
like toy soldiers
once toppled and strewn
Afoot in the madness
alone in the dark
my horse lying dead
— in the dew
(Dreamsleep: December, 2025)
orange breast and tail
the cute blue-fronted redstart
so beautiful bird.
To catch a wolf
become the wolf
where tracks lead distant
to trails beyond
His nose on fire
and fangs bare fronted
to follow closely
all fear withdrawn
He marks each turning
with blood ill letted
to lure the hunter
on death’s foray
This sojourn ends
in wooded darkness
to enter once
— your fate to prey
(Beartooth Mountain: August, 2025)
In the vault of sorrows, the lights are dim,
Memories dangle stiff, stark, cold and grim.
In glass-fronted vaults of remains half-dead,
Haunting to avenge losses, regrets and dread.
Bitterness is grit, dust and rust—
Metal relics wrapped in tempered crust.
Too sharp to hold, too old to appeal,
Scars embalmed, behind bars of steel.
Fur skins and feathered bones, long dead.
Eyes once bright, are now glass instead.
Stuffed with pride, stitched in despair,
They rage within riles, gasping for air.
Old garments show arguments, long of old,
With threadbare cuffs, and buttons of gold.
They're sour of fit, and hung too tight,
To ever again leave shadows in bright sunlight.
Such bitterness belongs in museum displays.
Where you can visit it on sad, rainy rue days.
To see such hateful feeling-disheveled, dismembered.
Covered in dust, to be forgotten, not remembered.
Lock it up, behind the glass, don’t let it breathe,
Bitterness will bloom, when we fail to believe.
It should be kept under lock and key.
Where all such sour sorrows, are meant to be.
Meant to be, Meant to be-!
That's the key, That's the key!
I drank my coffee
Then jumped in the cup
To see the cool views
From inside, looking up
I imagined rowed teeth
Flanking a tongue
Pink and juicy like
Gooey bubblegum
And fronted by lips
Both lined and puckered
Smacking themselves
Like plump bloodsuckers
But fortunately
That was all made up
Except for the part
Where I jumped in the cup
The cup didn’t grow
Instead I turned teeny
The size of a tack
Like a lamped genie
I did see bright sky
Without a rainbow
That was suddenly
Dimmed by a shadow
But there was real fear
When I was picked up
For someone was going
To fill up the cup
I wanted to scream
But hadn’t a voice
So small in that cup
Of black Taster’s Choice
How could I survive
In a caffeine sea
I was to drown from
Curiosity
But then remembered
Though remained unseen
We had no more coffee
In cans nor as beans
I rejoiced with glee
But then in a blink
Was poured down a drain
And looked up from the sink
Which may seem hopeless
But it was part two
Of the next task that
I was going to do
the fins
of human
quake tremendously
spills grotesqueness while dumping
the ox cosmos in the middle of smoothly
mirrored
ocean Walls
where ones choice is fixed
at dawn stagnantly brimming
in obsolete enviable damp colours
woven in a volcanic
oasis of anguished circles embraced in
loneliness fronted
with shuttering frozen stars
moulding through a sunny cheerful darkness
reinvigorated with
strident current in
waves staring
hovering and invading through the thorns of
the barren mountains
wrapped in swings of an
encroached moonlight piercing in
the vacancy of
my enchanted soul
channeling through my so preceding exist
in steam of redolence reek
from the garden frowns
and grins
call me a piscine
but even as a sly tamed fox hereafter
I would soar on footprints of
ceaseless fogs
to unveil your gleam
leap through the reflection of
sunlight to sway you
exasperatingly siren my scales on
your prime lips
fading with a spin
submerged in a longing savory passion
It is time to get fresh America,
to be plucked wriggling out of that shining sea,
a fresh baked humanity, moon-beam buckled.
Pass no more pay-day-loans
into the purses of the pawn-shopping poor,
give no witness nor evidence
of city shame, and house crud.
America, you can do this.
I am a being from across the world
I am from the ***-end of times,
my transformation, a promise of our mutual destiny,
rampant & manifest, our fate falters
let us be unbridled from
both the prideful and the lackluster,
un-arrested and unmolested
by the land grubbing snipes
or the false-fronted back slappers.
We are better than this blare of ourselves,
and if not
we can make a wooden wagon wheel
from all our legendary days,
It’s not too late, wipe your ass America,
wipe your dirty face. the dusty empire is crumbling
yet our first day is not yet done.
I am ready, ready to soar out of a hundred landfills,
a prismatic dodo embossed upon a tarnished coin
my downy head newly scrubbed of old-time blood.
We were teens just outta school
Did we really know what was the plan
Some did I suppose and weren’t a fool
When we fronted with suitcase in hand
What is your first memory on the day
Standing in a group and waiting
Who to talk to and what to say
But there was always time for bonding
There’s a lot between then and now
And some of us have passed on
In what life’s lottery would allow
But memories linger and are never gone
When we gather together now
A group looking older and wiser still
We deserve to take a bow
A Course or Troop knowing the drill.
© Paul Warren Poetry
“I would never speak to someone like that”
But in my mind it’s definitely spat,
“I could never be so mean, so heartless”
As I’ve walked by those with far less.
“I care about the broken and neglected”
While I know I’ve had them rejected and ejected.
“I shall speak only truth, no lie will come from me!”
And the heat turned up, so a “mistruth” was spoke into being.
“I will be a shelter for all, ask nothing in return for the shade from this tree.”
But something boils up: what is this greed that I’m seeing?
For all the times I held back when I was taunted,
A thousand more trail behind, and I am haunted.
For all the things I’ve fronted and flaunted…
Becoming me is the last thing I ever wanted.
today's streamlined flying machines
would amaze the Wright brothers
and their successors I think, for they amaze me.
They are electronic and mysterious
like the secrets behind our glass fronted buildings
applied science in its most gorgeous state is mindful
Ode to Fanny
Her start in life was rather poor
with wastrel parents, ones to abhor
She avoided living in the gutter
Earning enough for her bread and butter
Her break in life came rather later
Before, bigamy and babies to underrate her
Her kids grew up in the care of another
She never took to being a mother
Her culinary skills proved rather good
She could write and critique on all kinds of food
Destined to star in sixties telly
She graced her shows in glitzy finery
Her zany persona was rather dippy
Her dress was ball gown and misplaced lippy
Shunning apron and hat that looked so drab
‘Cos cooking and baking should always look fab
The man she had met was rather fine
Ex army major, life was divine
They fronted shows as man and wife
Fanny and Johny, well matched and no strife
Her fame continued for rather a while
Overridden by others in different style
And gaffes too many, they booted her out
No telly shows, no gowns to flout
Her recipes of the past still rather great
She put pizza and prawn cocktail on our plate
She and Johny, always a couple
Poor but content to remain conjugal
Ooh rather!
The Ripe Olives and Red Wines of Florence
David J Walker
Austere is the way I remember
The convent in Florence
Perfectly white walls
And the small single bed fronted
By worn floors from daily
kneeling in prayer
A simple soup
will be served
At supper
My native guide says
Possiamo fare di meglio in città
Either way there will be
Ripe olives and red wine served with
Artisan bread dipped in garlic
Sweet basil and virgin olive oil
Rodin’s thinker felt deeply misrepresented in his pose
he had been simply doing his business in privacy but
paparazzis had caught him seemingly sitting on a rock
nothing on his mind but having a pee after a night out
too much beer with his mates in the pub and all that
was on his mind was whether there were painkillers
in the vanity unit to soothe his nauseating hangover
twitter went mad and the tabloids fronted his image
raised him onto the dubious pedestal of iconic status
attested him with clarity of thought and contemplation
he had only been looking at the bathroom mirror and
counting tiles and toothpaste stains in the marble sink
did not mind so much that he was nude in portraits
they painted because the truth must be stark naked
and he was not one to falsify events and their cause
but taking his ablutions out of context made him
feel shame rather than reason for he was abused
in nature’s call and his wife might object but he would
never again sit down on the loo when having a tinkle
10th March 2021
Love said I
the things a floridness sake
he warned me about what's at steak
and his eyes have all the pearling
I am shorn of my remake
much I marvel this slack
A flame you warmed me about
the minute humilities games
it was tame, same, aflame
You warned me about the shame
it was same, tame, lame
the ashamed
of fronted adoring of those kisses
that are ignoring the kissinger
came imploring love we have shall be adhering
2/16/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
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