I wanted cafeteria food.
And a book.
The slogging.
As if there was only a garbage dump to lie down on.
And it’s comfy.
I wanted a dorm room bed.
Lofted.
College doesn’t know anything.
Books are all grammar and a stiff knock on the door from a stranger.
Cafeteria food is like dead souls.
College doesn’t know anything.
Not even where the Golden Book could be.
To the left of the old soda cans.
Soirée Des Amoureux
"Pentatonic Romantica"
By Suole Canon
I was glad you told me that
I had been thinking about
something you said
I heard you mention a
fabulous time
the details still ring in
my head
I hope it's one of those days
where we're looking forward to
being together
One of those nights
that we hope would never end
we're together let's enjoy
one another
I guess I could handled that
differently
you have every right to
feel that way
I'm just going on what
you told me
what is lofted to say
There's know else I'd rather
be with right now
I know I don't say I
Love you enough
We are gonna have
a very special evening
I don't say I appreciate
you enough
Les choses qu'un amoureux dit
Des choses qui comptent tellement
la façon dont un amoureux se sent
un sentiment qui signifie tellement
If I find one foolish for the job,
Was E Musk’s cunningly lofted lob—
A lob in no man’s ground,
Rare if such a fool's found,
And Tweeter’s stuck with a stuck-up knob!
_____________________________________
Happenings |17.12.2022| Humour
Poet’s note: Elon Musk though committed to quit Tweeter’s top job, still seems stuck there as a sore door knob. For, as he said: It won’t be easy to find one foolish enough for the job— a clever tennis lob from Musk, and as lethal as an ace!
(Cold Harbor, Virginia, May 31-June 12, 1864;
1,845 Union dead, 788 Confederate dead)
cathedrals rise,
tall arching boughs, crisscrossing limbs,
lush, leafy rooftops lofted high
and rustled by warm tender breeze;
green rooftops shimmer, reverent,
while casting shade to consecrate
this hallowed ground,
this battlefield,
topography forever scarred
by trench and earthworks dug in haste
scratched out for fear and valor's sake,
grave-deep furrows
once harbor to
depleted men far from their homes
who wept and moaned and fought, survived,
sad ditch and trench from which strong trunks
loft high the ceiling's verdant vault
while saplings bend in pensive prayer,
roots buried in brown detritus
discarded by last autumn's chill,
dark moldered leaves
now slowly melting into earth
where men once battled, suffered, died…
to ash from ash,
cathedrals rise
November 15, 2022
The Crap Shoot #2 Poetry Contest
John Lawless, sponsor
The moon had risen its light
Into my bosom taking a flight.
Lofted from pedestal, arise
from this life's caprice
so delight
still but cries.
Life's mortality lowed, renounce
Its memories; never pronounce
The blades, the grass forbade.
Yet the cup of mad,
the death, announce:
Love is bad.
If you yourself, befall;
Then you yourself, a fool.
If ever a golf ball were to be square
It would dither, neither go here nor there
Lofted shots it will resist
Putts, it may surely assist
New Golf rules too, difficult to declare.
24.4.2020
By Izunna Okafor
Beyond the shrubs of Sahara
Lifted a munt of brainy bond
Over the Mississippi of Ethiopia
Lofted a penner with his hunky thoughts
Across the bridge of a foreign land
Hovered a book of beautiful pages
Tightly enclaved yet as an Ireland
In a skull rounded in the clime of golden edges
Off the coast of Addis Ababa
Tears rang bell aloud
Beholding a star being staggered
In a nimbus of a faraway land
A heroic pen was raptly melted
As the book of many pages shattered across the ocean
A nation's pride has become ashes
Making a wave in the hist of the deadly world
Oh! he was roasted faraway
Faraway his father land
Amidst tears in the eyes his nation
A great gem was ruefully tossed
The ashes of his fecund head
The cranes of his creative fingers
The cremains of his eagle eyes
Now pose lifeless in a foreign land
He's gone
A hero is gone
Roasted in a faraway land
Oh! He's gone forever.
© Izunna Okafor, 2019.
Joseph is a blind man
Only sight is spiritual
Some say he was birth that way
Everyone’s afraid he’ll fall
Pursued endowed of spiritual sight
Helps us all even him in the dark
Left, loved and lofted
Every bit of God’s child
Even tho! He can’t see He’s spiritually sees brother Joseph Allen Lee
12/17/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
An auburn glow
of freckled comeliness
not young not old
a little thick set
like a mature cat
When we pass a book
between us
our fingertips withdraw
scalded by small print
The room is crowded
but it is far away
like a story in a closed volume
We are alone
beyond the codex of morality
We both know
that I want to lay her down
on this tiled civic floor
to imprint a passion
upon a mute press
There is an understanding
a regard
that fast birds
and slow elephants have
for mutual journeys
I envision
her creamy thighs
lofted high
her sensible skirt
pulled over her head
as we grunt sotto voce
between aisles K to Q
within this barn one has seen the hours long spent
days on end without excuse but always with much content
before the rising of the sun to end of the horizon
cattle here, cattle there and aloft is a American bison.
resting breaks are when you can, no such times
moos of the cows one by one, smother the dusty chimes
daily chores are scheduled and delayed by strolling cows
but never a scowl or lowering of the eyebrows
no able time to visit the park and feed the birds
short trip to the table for chow and dish out a few words
life was there under those lofted bales of hay
no luck for time out to picnic on any day
but seasons change and life becomes a darn
the fields will wilt when a farmer leaves the barn.
Sunlight has come, and the newest has day began
With the sweet sound of sleep lay in curls beyond
Wear limbs and rest, above heavenly skies waiting
A flurry of voices to come from little birds singing.
Lofted wings of sunlight leap into a new horizon wide,
with imagery of earth’s blue and bright turned upside.
stars dancing on ice open throbbing awakening eyes,
heat reach the chain of haze stretch along the beaches.
Bouquets of flowers marry perfectly with lush colors
Solar power with their twinkling sites makes happy hours.
When the sword blade of beauty glinted in the sunlight,
Through the atmosphere comes a spectrum of visible light.
The going down spear made a tiny window visibly appear,
miles beneath the surface where sparkling streams are rare,
Sunlight threatening to fade reflected from the mirrors
Retreating steam caught in the net with realms of stars.
At the world’s, it falls without fear into far space,
Sunlight left over long enough to linger in a shadowy place,
Now we sweetly sleep again, before the steady dawn rises
From the other side, sunlight will come back to mesmerize.
Titans tilting, tangibly human windmills
Swaying sentries, harboring haloed witness
Lofted coal mines, timber canary cages
Whispers from redwoods
Bite Size Poem no34 Poetry Contest
I found John today.
John died yesterday.
I read of John today.
I vibrate now to his pinch.
Somewhere by a poisoned river
a dead man was born...
Somewhere by a noisy airfield
a pre-writ obit finds me -
The news can still be news.
My future in writing has
been torn and reborn,
today. By George, by John!
A minced oath
of mint stuff.
John left in order to
be found and I surround
myself with his words -
Speaking aloud a baleful
cento of his wordings.
A funerary recitation
lofted into the bitter air
as I read to myself and
some phrases go
burbledy out -
smoke in the pines.
What else, who else
might next die that I
will find it?
Some Say Golf Game
Some say my golf game is really great,
And to go again I sure can hardly wait;
When balls have been hardly driving,
People are astounded and need reviving.
What the most surely would surprise me;
Badly driven ball had hit branch of a tree
Which is when whole scene I then stole,
Ball I lofted landed right into the hole.
My game became a successful campaign;
Always remember when it started to rain;
Being old heard nature and all of her calls;
She said you should never use fake balls.
Golfers must be prepared and up braced;
On score card every line had been erased,
To appear like you were a rising golf star;
Each hole you played ended up being par.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Remembering the pool
down by the port
where at times we use to swim
sometimes with friends
sometimes alone
at times beneath the moon
black and blue beautiful hues
arm in arm just me with you
the stars above ignited a light
I thought would never end
the days and nights at Gardens Place
I gladly held within
I see the mountains in the valley
where we often use to spend
rekindling the days and many a nights
we sat and reminisced
I see the diamonds in the park
from bleachers we often lofted
I see the bridge all boarded up
as once we came and left
5 days to rekindle
a heart filled with memories
5 days to rekindle
an old love from deep within me.
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