Inserts Poems

MY YELLOW BUTTERFLY

[Note : For FINISH MY POEM CONTEST
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Tuesday 15/4/25
1st two verses by Mystic Rose Rose ]

(3rd Placing in Contest)

As she drinks nectar from a flower, sweetness from heaven falls like dew  
anointed with a gentle rain amidst sun showers she appears as if on cue
 
Lifting her wings she lands on a Zinnia beneath a tinted sky of April blue 
flight of fancy fanning fast, fabulous marvel, she is beauty true on true 

Two papyrus thin wings of buttercup yellow 
she flutters in and out of my garden Heart
it is freedom she brings, cares not for bellow
I crave to join her, finish my art, baking tarts

Her proboscis deliciously delicately long
into a lonely red rose she inserts it so precise 
inspiring me to dance to a super Spring song
her wings like my breath dissipates every vice  

Oh Butterfly ! Take me with on your fanciful flight
daisy fields, mountain streams to desired Eden
let’s go where no cares air, just serene sights 
fairies composing tunes for whispering women !

Gone

I like to eat.
The hungry sidewalk under my feet. 
Give me a swirl of changing latitude. 
Just try not to be rude.

As long as my howling stays in the tv. 
There is nothing in my luggage with me. 
I thought I had packed enough shirts. 
But all I have are a hundred shoe inserts. 

I wish that I could give you that bow tie. 
That I left out to dry. 
In a town in Indiana, somewhere. 
I remember I disappeared.

There’s that guy who lives under the venue. 
I don’t remember how I got to this avenue.
I think this sky is simply a sheer lining. 
I eat an ice cream cone while driving.

Being away or feeling far gone. 
I have nothing to do but drink coffee at dawn. 
What do you mean, I’m not in my home?
I flew to California and ignored my phone.

I went around the country and didn’t even know. 
I survived by eating pizza and snow. 
I am captivated. 
Maybe elated.

I enjoyed my trip across the states. 
I lost my job, but those were the stakes. 
I like steak, and ice cream too.
I live in the sky and nothing is true.

Thou Word He Has Not Hidden

He opens his small round mouth and words spout
The problem is he inserts his foot and not trout
His spouting isn't funny at all
He is headed for a big fall
Donald, the nation is tired of your tout

REVIVED

walking around dead as the rest
encountered trauma throughout
learning true lessons of self love
every incident was a compression
to revive my heart for true healing
more peace more breathe more light
it became easier knowing love for
myself was an epitome of life itself
understanding forgiveness was key
dancing around alive like a few
encompassing peace wholeheartedly
accepting myself flaws and scars
laughing at old journal inserts now
admiring the strength I embody
crystal clear vision about my life
looking and feeling more confident
using my voice to speak my truth
working on new projects coming soon

Toroidal heart

Toroidal heart inserts a spinal implant,
wherefrom soul observes bliss ascend and descend,
following the cue of kundalini’s chant,
elixir of heaven, on which we depend.
No meanings assigned, with the current aligned, 
truth of Self automatically divined,
we simply meld with the flow, in stillness slow,
awash with love and light, countenance aglow.

Progress

A lot lies asleep
Man inserts his concrete seed
A building is birthed 
Empty rooms reach the heavens 
Below, homeless live in hell

Sucked In Sun

Midsummer vehemence stows heat for later
        Solar film ominously watch hot arc
        Tilt tracks trajectory, power cater
        Stashes post sizzle to supply light dark


        Socket slit subservient incubates
        Arrow of assurance inserts cable
        Voltage their pairing impressive creates
        Self derived to electric capable


       Autonomy admonished with a switch
       Loins bearing in luxury breed evil
       Informed about squalid impoverished
       Ignore affluent vantage for reprieval
     
       
       Overloaded homes groan under panels
       Tainted rich roads tune rigid channels




                 
                      16th January 
                Wealth rotten wattage

Samantha Has a Fashion Knack

Samantha can take blue jeans and turn them into a work of art.
I can try to do the same thing, and it looks botched, not at all smart.
She had on jeans today with lace inserts that were darling and cute.
If I tried it, mine would be a disaster. People would make fun and hoot.

South, East, West, North

News comes from four directions
In between these four are inserts
Men and women of all actions
Everyday, everyone has something like desserts

In food we eat or anything we drink
All comes in, everything will shrink
Different stomachs with different tastes
Different moods with different wastes

North is where the Greats calm down
From the East the Sun rises, people bow down
In the West where the sun sets down
To the South fools fall down

Good tidings come from everywhere
Good results scatter anywhere
Good people rise and fall
But good people seek only good and justice for all

Post Hoc Palava

A thousand words later
we’re still talking.
I know I’m being reflexive,
this banter a transparent way
to paint clowns on speech bubbles;
ripostes that ricochet off any real wit.

Later still, alone in my head - the replay,
the should have said and the unsaid.
Witty repartee are invented,
not only as late additions
but as inserts, addendums, and edits
in an ongoing discourse.

Some words still hang in the air,
digitized like finger bones.
A back and forth exchange
of words ping-ponging along
as afterthoughts.

Next time we chin-wag
my comebacks and rejoinders
will be better timed and scripted,
unless of course you also
have been rehearsing yet more
retorts and asides.

Party Folk

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea -- forget their appetite.
See with cross'd arms they sit -- ah! happy crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot -- must he die
By a humane society?
No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Arise! take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;
Where may your tailor live?' 'I may not tell.
O pardon me -- I'm absent now and then.
Where might my tailor live? I say again
I cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd --
He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.'

Old Crow

The black crow, a stunning bird
A closer look witness colorful inserts
A loyal bird with only one lifetime partner
Play hard, but work harder
Constant construction of the nest
Collecting grub while chicks rest
Spending a lifetime in one residence
I wonder if they have different accents
Meeting the rest of the community
Making sky patterns, cackling in unity
Intelligent species, that's how they thrive
Craftiness helps keep them alive
If a crow dies they gather from all around
A large scale funeral with a massive crowd
I give the old crow massive respect
But my chimney stacks a right mess

A Man Called Poet Ron-

A Man Called Poet Ron-


Ole, to woe unto us there was a poet Called Ron
There once was a man who liked paper.
He said, "the different wallpaper "
It was rather recent,
But not quite tasty dessert

~

He couldn't say no to the inserts.
Once he was writing on the paper.
He said, "See the lovely picture!"
It was quite, polished


But not very unpublished,
And he couldn't resist the  out blurts .

12/11/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©

A Thousand Words Later

A thousand words later,
we were still talking.

I know I’m being reflexive,
this humor is a transparent way 
to paint clowns on speech bubbles.
Ripostes that ricochet
off any real wit. 

"I must be going."

One thousand and forty.

Later --- 
the replay,
witty repartee are invented,
not only as late additions
but as inserts, edits
in an ongoing discourse.

Some words still hang in the air,
digitalized like finger bones.
I try to swat them with a rolled-up script,
but they dance away,
electric and blinking.

(I wish there was a big red plug I could pull.
A cut-off switch maybe,
or lips that folded words into origami birds,
each one so perfect that it would defy
misinterpretation).

One thousand and ninety-two.

I begin to cough up these inner dialogues, 
to give up on mind-talk.

My only remedy is to count more numbers,
instead of words – 
words not spoken.

Mozzie

Clad in black white strips,
Herald of muggy summers arrive.

With alert feathery antennae,
She begins hovering around.
I was literally dumbfound!
I mean! how dare she enter unannounced!
Even the cop needs cause and justification.
How come she has no reservations!
She just says, “Mozzie is here to stay!”
Hey! What is this way?

Without any warning she inserts her proboscis.
Doesn’t ever bother, it might make me sick.
In my breath she found her favourite CO2.
She blushed and said, “O dear, I love you!”
She gave me a deadly bite on my neck,
For my blood is now her delight.
Hell! Why I can’t smack her flight?

For She wasn’t a loyal lover,
To locate her next feast, she again began to hover!


06/03/2019

• Short Inserts Poems
• Famous Inserts Poems
• Best Inserts Poems
• Read Inserts Poems
• Long Inserts Poems
• Inserts Quotes