A man brought
a Mockingbird
home from the park
It perched on
his mantle
from morning till dark
It chirped
the same song
again and again
To wake the
house up
at seven a.m.
A cat was
brought home
one day as a pet
To keep down
the mice
it hunted as pests
The Mockingbird sang
as the cat
plied its trade
Till one fateful
morning
knocking over its cage
And out flew
the songbird
away from its pen
To never
be seen
— or heard from again
(Rhymes From The Nursery: May, 2026)
X (formerly Twitter) now reveals the country or region where accounts are based, as part of an effort to improve the integrity of the platform
The Twitter's land swept by emotion
The revelations hit like tide
In what we call mankind’s ocean
It’s just got harder to lie and hide
Such simple step, disclose location
Of mouth shooting nonsense off
Long overdue, stops world’s fixation
On lies, deceit, coercion, scoff
It will go on, of course, forever
Just little less, protecting truth
Manipulations ceasing never
But everyone is now a sleuth
They live in Asia somewhere
Yet post the news as from New York
Inflaming passions, brightest flare
No matter wise man you’re or dork
So, no more Gaza “poor souls”
Who post from London’s noisy bar
Yes, “Texas” girl angst’s full of holes
Wouldn’t spread from Moscow very far
Some ghosts are only making money
Yet others lie, consumed by hate
They’re not benign, amusing, funny
When they impact the others’ fate
Keep down division, fear, defiance
By which the folks are so consumed
Let passions cool, no rocket science
And lift the feel of being doomed
November 25, 2025
"The fields are ripe unto harvest, but the laborers are few." John 4: 35-36
The inner cities are crumbling, crime, and murder, too
Youth are bored out of their minds with nothing to do
Where are the resources to help end the pain
Of the abundance of murders, happening over and over again
Gangs are their families and their support each day
Where are the moms ~working? or day and night play
Dads have disappeared, grandma has to fill the gap
Sometimes there is a grandpa and sometimes zap
Out on the fringes of the cities, rural life seems some better
Crime is still happening, where the law is not followed to the letter
The young mature men of today, step up and be a mentor
Give hope and encouragement that you have in store
Young women who have jobs and some time
How can you help a person to keep down crime
There has to be some kind of lessons you can teach
Maybe how to cook, garden, or sew where the lessons don't preach
On Monday, I release the beast;
I’m going to let the big dog hunt.
My excavator won’t suffice;
compared to this one, it’s a runt.
He’ll start atop our property,
point it downhill and let it go,
and give far better access to
some twenty acres down below.
I’ve got to say, I’m pretty stoked
for both my Missy girl and me.
Our access should be pretty good,
not hopping rocks on one bad knee.
The vale is full of large oak trees
that form a wondrous canopy;
It helps keep down the underbrush
and nurtures budding poetry.
She was a woman who had a little hair on her chin.
She was older, robust, called simply Old Finn.
It did not make sense that they called her this at nineteen.
Still, she was the wisest one in the local tavern, usually seen.
If we had a question about our drink or our food
We could always ask Old Finn; she was in a loud mood.
That never changed, her voice brought rats from the rafters.
She was a beer-loving-waitress, known by beer drafters.
Her manner was coarse, but she was tavern exact.
Knowing how to do every job and that is a fact!
I grew up here with my grandparents since a little tyke.
I cannot give you your car keys, honey. Borrow a bike.
She took no risks, would not let anyone drive home drunk.
Sometimes she would call the police – her nephew McFunk.
Lumberjack burley, he would take you swiftly out of danger.
You might wake up in bed, sometimes next to a stranger.
Old Finn would keep your secrets, she never spoke ill of you.
She would uplift your spirit, and help you keep down your blue.
Her funeral was the largest our village had ever seen or had.
If you don’t believe me, ask your cousins, mom or granddad.
King Harold takes shelter behind upturned barrows
The Normans approach and the gap quickly narrows
His young wife had said
Keep down your sweet head
Then begged as he left, keep an eye out for arrows
*
Sir, do you sell nuts in the shell
My mum says eat healthy and well
I know that the wealthy
Say Apples are healthy...
Not when your dad’s William Tell
*
Oops, I have run out of arrows
The old dingo, barking, just goes
An Australian man
Offers his boomerang
But I couldn't fire one of those
Death is beauty only when it’s physical and your –
Soul and spirit goes to heaven
Ugly is beauty causing you to recruiting
Beauty is just a name
For the selfish
And the immune
Beauty is beheld
And I shall not behold
~
Beauty is the newborn winkled baby
Beauty is newfound land you enable
Beauty is Lucifer Satan
For you see he was one of the most…
Beautifulness of all thee angels
~
Beauty is just a name, for the selfish
And unrighteous
To keep down the plain, normal, and quiet
For the selfish as immune
Beauty is beheld and behold
Beauty only beauty when it comes from within then goes out
When you know this then you can shout
3/4/2020
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Written for February 25, 2020 assignment
For Class assignment (WIPS) North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)
Do it
You're able to run
But still you limp.
You're able to walk
But still you crawl.
You're able to dance
But still you sit.
You're able to laugh
But still you cry.
You're able to sing
But still you moan.
You're able to live
But still you die.
You're held up in
The boundaries within you.
When do you learn to fly
And keep down that sky
Which is not too high!
Ramakrishna Chowdary Jasthi
17.07.19
Conundrum
In this sad world of pain and dark dismay;
Each sundry soul has his own price to pay.
For life's sweet favors we must pay the sum.
Both for today and all the days to come.
Winners and losers we must forever be.
How much we win or lose we soon shall see.
Some lose money or in matters of the heart.
For love and money from the fool depart.
Some lose their freedom, others lose their friends.
I in consternation find, that I lose pens.
Some lose socks, or combs or petty cash.
A careless junkie might misplace his stash.
Though I read the good-book and keep down my sins.
However hard I try, I lose my pens.
Some lose elections battle worn and sore.
Some play the market and end up very poor.
Bankers and agents give them out for free.
Yet alas there are no pens for me.
To sign a check or write some wisdom quote.
To make a list or send my love a note.
Nice ones, cheap ones, they are all the same.
They are gone as quickly as they came.
Winners and losers, we and all our kin.
I am a writer, sadly, I lose pens.
keep down trouble
for you and other
best thing to do
as lords talk to you
to see anuther day
just
WALK A WAY
There's too much for me to count
The excessive large amount
The love in my heart can't be
Contained, I'm setting it free
All across this great big land
Reaching out a caring hand
To anyone who needs a friend
To lift them back up again
Harmony and peace I give
I really just want to live
In a world with no more hate
Starting with a brand new slate
Erasing all the hateful vibes
Some people keep down inside
Coming out causing destruction
I want to form an obstruction
Blocking out the bad and pain
Flowing in the awful veins
Of the people who don't care
They're causing hurt everywhere
Banning together we can make
This whole world a safer place
Stopping mean creeps before they
Destroy the work we've done today
Slowly the world will be fine
One kind action at a time
I want to puke up my
nostalgia
and breathe in
different air.
I want to keep down
my small lunches
and take in lungfuls
of your hair.
I want to punch myself in the face
and cry myself to sleep.
I want to puke away my worries
and teach myself to breathe.
Stepping out, the smell of smoke hangs in the morning air,
plastic cones and tubes and sticks are littered everywhere.
Another Guy Fawke's night has gone, bombarding all the senses
the night sky sounds and looks just like the Moscow air defences.
All year we're told be clean and green for the environment
but every November the fifth, I don't know where that went.
Keep down the noise, respect neighbours, can't say fairer than that
but once a year under the bed I try to calm the cat.
If laws are put in place that we can ignore once each year
then maybe, come this New year's eve I can, and without fear,
( although my missus likes the fact my love for her I hog)
go find some boozy ladies for a real good drunken snog.
To read a poem is to read the writers most intimate feelings.
The gnawing pain the empty loneliness the utopian joy; dwelling on one at a time or on all of them at once as if the writer were on an emotional roller coaster.
You see the poet takes you on a ride to where you almost never go.
Into yourself: Making you pickup what you so often try to keep down.
Tempting you to touch what you sometimes deem forbidden.
So! let the poet take you on an adventure of new discoveries.
Pickup and touch those things you are afraid of and you just might find they help more than they hurt.
Walking my Tiger home, if only I had known
in the small print of the sale there was a claws
in a nutshell it was leading to instructions about feeding
if I'd have known I would have stopped to think and paws.
Fur this big cat ain't no Vegan it eats food like Becca Teagan
in fact any living creature roaming free,
which fills me with disquiet since the Tiger's fussy diet
means the only thing at home he'll eat is me.
In retrospect, methinks I should have bought a Lynx
it's much smaller and so are what it will munch
if I'd thought about it sooner I could have got a Puma
since there's cattle up the road he'd have for lunch.
And what would have been much neater is an elegant young Cheetah
since they leave us human people well alone,
much much better than a Panther, that would not have been the anther
since all there'd be of me left is my bones.
So the motion I have carried is to go off and get married
and when the Tiger's ate and belched and had his fill
get re-wed to some more wives, they'll have short but happy lives
and they'll help me to keep down my feeding bill.
For contest 'Walking my tiger home', sponsor David Lindsay
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