My aunt Pat sewed one for me
She loved my aunt Louise
Neither of them were aunts to me
The frog full of corn still dangles
over a trophy for a marathon of mine
I didn’t win or remember,
but I hope she is remembered more
than what she left me
when I was too young
to see that frogs
and being
are more than uncooked corn
This heart keeps beating
even when I tell it to stop
You deserve more than corn
I cannot count your kernels
to match your character
but I will try for longevity here
while lines match
the strenuous longevity
of my limited kernels;
vocabulary
You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
dancing corncob wearing hot sunglasses
pinches the maize, making lewd Epstein passes
try to ignore him, we tell the pumpkins and crow
corncob wiggles and jiggles past them, to and fro
I can but the pigs cannot, the scarecrow says
they are smitten by the corncob, easily led
I tried to speak to the sows who laughed me down
who is this joker? Who is this bossy clown?
The corncob is waving his seductive kernels around
a bigger personality is rarely anywhere found
I grab his glasses and run off to tear them up
The pigs carry him off, to their den, to sup.
The kernels desires to expand and pop.
If you make it in too much water, it gets cooked and boggy.
In too much sticky butter, it gets grounded to the bottom of the pan.
In too much flame, it gets the undesired smokey flavor.
In too much spray of oil, it becomes an unhealthy snack.
So pop well and rise and transform to a beautify popcorn.
Then again I see you acting as a co-star in a song.
Shall I call it touché or well-done?
December rains have dragged last, lingering leaves
down into litter. Sodden almond-casks
that once bore kernels, strewn discarded masks,
repose redundant. Thoughts are threadbare sleeves
devoid of comfort. Like a lonely cello,
the wind whips fitfully about its tasks.
A chaffinch flicks a fruitless shell, and asks:
the year must disappear to sere, to yellow?
Expecting legible patterns in dispersal,
she wishes worldwide winter worked for her,
have secret feelings yield the universal.
The nutshell, now inert, helps her infer
that life must die, but strangely, must prevail.
December’s just the belly of the whale.
metal beads dropped in
a great jar of liquid glass
will anything grow—
from inorganic kernels
tucked within a sunless hall?
rainbow branches rise
as brittle flames pierce the seas
crystal cores blooming
art and science harmonize
in a forest made of glass
this everyone knows:
plants grow green under the sun
nature teaches still
primordial elements
are mysteries yet unearthed
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.
The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.
Corn couple lies in beach with bodies bare,
smooth skin soaks in midday sun’s scorching glare.
His lewd stare makes Miss Cob groan,
heat bakes anger in her bone,
kernels of sizzling words pop up in air.
#1
wild eyed pancakes
invented by grandma
two kernels of corn for eyes
delighting her grandchildren
sometimes a mistake makes the best memory
The two Cobs at the beach made a stop
Each then laid out their blanket to plop!
But they somehow forgot
That day's sun was too hot-
Quickly, Madam Cob's kernels did pop!
Lounging on the beach supine
With Rayban sunglasses on.
At last, summertime is here;
A hot one at that!
The heat could roast a chicken;
A sun too hot to handle!
I am a corn on a cob;
My kernels popping!
Hey, friend, aren't you feeling this?
You're a corn on the cob, too.
I don't see you popping off!
What's going on here?
Hiking Hannah wondered about hundreds of hikes in her wonder journals.
She's been to Kansas to see sunflowers and Iowa to see corn kernels.
Her cousin asked. Are you going to Europe- namely Italy any time soon?
Hannah's laborious notes said Saturn, Pluto,and maybe the moon.
She had the boots, the canned foods, the can opener, and the walking stick.
The heels of her boots were heavy, because they were incredibly thick.
She had seen so many marvelous things and tasted cookies, Chips Ahoy.
Next, she might concentrate on the Midwest, Maybe Omaha or Illinois.
I thought you were going to outer space, her sister Sally said to Hannah.
Hannah was fixing herself a sandwich of peanut butter, lettuce and banana.
Possibly, or maybe Canada or Mexico, she said with a little bit of sass.
First she had to get a waitress job, down at the Derby Bass.
For money is important if you want to be a hiker.
Or an astronaut or doctor or even a kerchief-wearing biker.
Kernels popped in olive oil,
Butter-drizzled and
tossed with salt or Parmesan
or candied as balls!
Versatile delight
in puffs of
white!
I journey in thoughts in breathless strolls
every turn straightened, and bumps made smooth
my life whose trust in God, faith controls
pass sparked eyes, climbed smiles, the wealth of souls
perks in life that gift my heart and soothe
Be the stills of the night that shades day
the noontime of Spring and Summer Eve
and Autumn colors having their weigh
to impress snowflakes, window display
roam throughout my blest years I achieve
At work, everything is play by play
but I shake and bake, easy as pie
friends for lunch at a sidewalk cafe
at the church, had communion and pray
then trekked home, smiling that satisfy
The internal spirit externals
the facts of my life great from the start
each passing day juices my kernels
joy jogged entries, my daily journals
when my life part, find me in your heart.
People in glass houses shouldn’t throw bricks
Thirsty a) that’s a green house
Lee lea secondly
It doesn’t sayKant
Lee Lee Lea 3rd lee
What kinda maniac is making glass houses
Don’t run with scissors
Well unless you want a deeper cut
First is a strange word
Was the first street fir st
I stop at every pit
Let’s start with art street
What do I want put in my coffin before cremation
Personally I want popcorn kernels
Water
A space suit might as well get your money’s worth
We have a weird one in Scotland Beggars belief
That mean unbelievable
But is that not a bit condescending I mean why shouldn’t they have belief surely them more than others
Anywhys gotta go
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