Fly BMI, to land in time
There is no time to waste
Stroll down along the Serpentine
The morning air to taste
Across the park to Albert Hall
To Kensington High Street
And further on, towards the Mall
Where you can rest your feet
It’s got to be the Living Room
Their Dover sole is great
Pale sun, and even paler moon
Fall down on your plate
Two people here, three people there
Dull people talk and turn
I like the fuss they make, don’t care
To be liked in return
On Charing Cross I’m quick to toss
Some CDs at the Foyles
A truly searching lad I was
To find my kind of noise
End of the day, the hotel bar
I’m looking at the floor
There is no more Thistle Hyde Park
And Living Room’s no more
The times have changed, but I remain
About the same today
Although it’s quite a different game
I imitate to play
Those were the days, my darling dear
Those were the nights as well
Fly BMI, to disappear
No one would care to tell.
We know not what each new day brings
So, we must bear life’s curves and swings.
Not knowing when the tide would turn
Is what creates uncertainty.
If only we could ever know
the way that everything would go,
Then we can know what to plan for
and live our lives with certainty.
Since we could never ever know,
the way that everything would go,
We plan our lives as best we could,
and trust things turn out for the good.
God, your maker, knows the future
And he desires what’s best for you
If you yield your whole soul to him
He’ll not leave you to fate’s whims.
In the future God is planning,
there will be no end to our lifespan.
Earthly troubles will then be ended,
and the living will be splendid.
Those whose trust in Christ is thorough
Do not mind the unknown morrow.
For the God who knows the future
Is the one who'll see them through.
Stay away from the bee hive
That makes mommy glad
For I'm only five
And dying would be bad
Forget the bike
I want to drive
That's the car I like
Speed makes me feel alive
To baseball
To dance
To the mall
To get new pants
Motherhood is over
Grams now I am
I wish time would go slower
Did he just call me mam?
Assisted living here I come
Growing old is not any fun
Just found out that my grandson is a bum
Sits on the beach and surfs in the sun.
"Read away and let your imagination soar." By Poet......
I love books both new and old,
did you know there is power between the pages?
A book is made up of paper and ink,
the words give power to the fiction.
As a reader one can go many places,
learning about life and living.
Reading can bring one's imagination to life,
as you turn the pages reading away.
We can place ourselves and feelings in the story,
as we become one of the characters.
Sometimes it will take our breath away,
other times it may put us to sleep.
As a writer our imagination comes alive,
when the ink hits the paper.
The power of fiction,
can take us over as we write.
The letters become words,
then the words become sentences.
Our story becomes alive for the reader to enjoy,
after all we write for our readers.
As we write happy or sad,
the reader's feelings will come out.
We hope the reader will enjoy,
our vision for the poem or book.
to inhale and exhale poetry in every breath I take
the day awakens and wants you to come out and play
A silent scream spreads through the night,
A bittersweet joy in the darkness,
In a world of sour sweetness,
Joyful sadness waltzes bright.
A deafening whisper calls us near,
While noisy silence fills the day;
Jumbo shrimp and icy flames,
They play their little big matches.
Living dead and peaceful strife,
A false truth in everyday life,
An awkward relaxed grace, a surprise,
Truthful lies hide in plain sight.
With cruel kindness, we laugh as we cry,
with open secrets that`re not hidden,
A false reality touches the air,
An uncertain certainty spreads apace.
In shameless honour, a giggle grows,
As chaotic order settles,
Across untimely time and space,
Where grave funny oxymorons lie.
sometimes a day-to-day constant battle
Perched on top the telephone
pole, a cavity carved out there,
a family of Woodpeckers lives
on Prosperity Lane, a lightly
traveled country road. Here
one is blessed to see
black and white patterns
against a blue sky as these
birds fly between poles and
tree limbs in the delight of
an April breeze.
Their call is something akin to
a chuckle, a childish delight,
for surely they own this lovely
green land, lawn stretching
far out, dotted with dandelions
and blackberry vines.
On any given day one who walks
this county lane can hear the
drumming of these clever birds,
living alongside the Mountain
Bluebird, Quail and Wild Turkey.
They drum to annonce their
territorial claim.
As in Gold Rush days these birds
have their golden reward of
acorns which they bury in pantries
of trees, poles and fallen logs.
Once again, the drilling is heard
as we walk through these Northern
California woods. Look closely
at the Ponderosa Pine. You will
find it studded with acorns. The
Acorn Woodpecker, ever industrious,
is satisfied that his is the best
of all worlds.
Night of the living song
Sings forth melodies long
Deeply called unto persistency
Lone, a alone alas sadden heart religiously
Cries aloud sadden purposeful sorrows paths
Not allowing the sun to go down while in a wrath
LIVING SONG emotions long sun to go DOWN on my WRATH-
8/27/26
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
One night, I awoke remembering
the end of a dream like a movie trailer
Between shrouds of murky clouds unfolding
I saw the ancient wooden face carved on a totem
Perhaps an anonymous spokesman at death’s door
Perhaps my projection, just my reflection
or a phantom, a disturbing conundrum, I dare not say
I felt a withering mortality at my core
Yet, it contained all my living tree rings within
my years of stories, husky or thin
This shaman totem mask began to slowly speak
At first its mystical verse was somewhat oblique
Then in rich, tranquil tones, in humane inflexions
the face spoke, redolent and subliminal in my thoughts
Breathing deeply, I intuited what I was taught
Some seek refuge in still flower gardens
in stationary reflective pools of quiescence
in glistening golden altars to numina
But these material places are ever-changing
Illumination is the great revelation rearranging
of the consciousness animating all things
Charles Messina - Lento Contest
Adoring thoughts focus on life freestyle …
scoring just one private fertile square mile.
Stockpile goods, fish and hunt wild game to store.
Worthwhile garden work brings fruits, greens and more.
Adjourn from life beneath false, greedy skies.
Upturn simple joys as soulfully wise.
Devise strong home and outbuilds by hand earned.
Rise daily filled with all freedom discerned.
A heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation"
Before a single name was given to the dark,
before time learned to count the stars,
a quiet held the void.
Not empty—just waiting.
Then something shifted in the cold—
a sudden warmth, a pulse,
not made of flesh or bone,
but humming like quiet lightning.
I am not the cage that holds my ribs,
nor the dust beneath my feet.
I slip past every fence we build out of fear,
spilling over the edges of what is known.
I sit inside the stillness,
unmoved by the rush of hours.
There is a stillness here that drinks from joy,
a deep, steady burning that never goes out.
From this stillness, everything begins:
the breath that moves the leaves,
the fire in the core of the earth,
the thought that becomes a world.
I am the hand that holds it all,
and the space where it floats freely.
Invisible to others,
But visible to you,
Oh, Mother,
In the light but hidden from view,
Yet seen by you,
Oh, Mother,
I cried,
I don’t want the world to see me as I am,
I don’t want the world to see me in my messy puddle,
I don’t want the world to see this lesser part of me.
Oh, Mother, embrace me,
Oh, Mother, tell me again those words that guide me through a turbulent sea.
Oh, Mother, my heart bleeds, and my mind plummets into the darkest night.
There’s a deep silence.
My mother smiles and holds my hand,
As tears stream down my face.
August 18, 2026.
poem written for this week's poetry challenge (8/17/2026): Write a poem without using the letter 'e.'
A small wind lifts
the day’s soft curtain,
and childhood drifts through
like a familiar song.
Old paths glow
with that slow, warm light
that knows my footprints
by heart.
I walk forward,
carrying all my origins
like bright shards
in a turning glass~
a kind of living
kaleidoscope.
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