Long Basting Poems
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The Leonard Quilting Ladies
" The Quilt " *
By: Tom Wright
3/6/02
With tedious work at last completed,
mature ladies may stretch and groan.
They've no hand stitches to be repeated,
and no appliqué's yet to be sewn.
Eyesight now, has begun to hinder,
needle threading, is at times a chore.
Arthritic fingers make hands tender,
yet in love, they stitch one more.
A work of art is each quilt finished,
basting done leisurely, at a balanced pace.
Though years, their desire is not diminished,
a labor of love, done through God's grace.
These neighborhood ladies can't be beat,
for in each hemstitch, God's love is shown.
Each day's endeavor leaves them replete,
to the one, satisfied, with what they've sewn.
I heard humanistic, lonely tapping;
You warned me about the kidnapping;
I discovered the people must have them;
The public planet populating;
I was a blessedness and you an inexorability;
Git on Satan!
The demoniac doxology digging,
my indivisibility, I could not awaken;
It was unshaken, I crave the paramount public;
My salvation doubled;
I was a loyal host;
Had Satan on the ropes;
Git back son;
Somewhat louder than the republic;
warning me about the casting,
With such a passion for fasting;
I was ever basting in the protection of Christ;
Now that He’s here I shall never lose, I’ll have no lost;
My salvation doubled;
I was a loyal host;
Had Satan on the ropes;
Git back son, Git back Satan;
Release the populations,
Get your hands off God’s people;
8/28/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
(cheeky p*ss take remake of Whitesnake)
So here we go again.. we all moan
Bazball mode is all this lot have ever known
Like a grifter now our Ashes chances blown
So we've made up our mind just stop wasting all our time
So here they go again…we all groan
Goad only on a road has Bazball ever flown
Need a bifter after tone of what they've shown
So far behind…the Aussies did easily find
Our boys got a pasting one more time
So here they go again.. we all moan
Seeds sowed but seems this team’s never grown
Need a snifter after Bazball so injury prone
Must be unkind coz you basting in your slime
So here we go again…we all groan
Bazball did implode time we forever did disown
Like a drifter seems born to walk alone
Bullsh*t been mined tasting something sublime?
So here we go again…we all moan
Going down like a load of convicts hasting their crime
As snows gently coat the land
Breezes softly brush it into peaks.
Candles glitter and flutter in windows
Deep shadows flicker in their light.
Enchanting dazzling gems sparkling
Frosty branches dress the clearing
Garnishing the white landscape
Hark! hear the sleigh bells tinkering
It's Santa delivering the presents
Jolly Ho-Ho's ring out as he passes
Kicking the reindeer speed onwards
Leaving a sparkling trail behind them
Maples trees majestically line the path
Nightingale's sweet tones ring out
Over the snowy valley echoing
Partridges plump and fat basting
Quail are turning on the spit
Roast potatoes crisp and golden brown
Simmering vegetables steaming
Toasted marshmallows all gooey
Utterly delicious as they melt on tongue
Victoriously the bells peel out
With great Joy announcing the birth
Xylophones cheerfully join in
Yearning hearts beating in tandem
Zeal fully they meet and mingle
”Oh! Man, these golden rods
Hot and full of butter lots
Salted just rightly
I hold ever so tightly
Even Butch and Bailey my dogs
Licks their lips for the flavor
Wishing I’d just drop one
No! Boy, ain’t gonna happen this I’m gonna savor
Grands Munz is holding 5 more
I’m hoping I’ve gotten room for them boy…
Yum…Each kernel of these cobs are sweet and spicy so
Blend butter with honey and cayenne and spread it loosely
WoW! Did I also say there’re juicy?
These corn cobs before grilling it Grands with pulled back on the husks made it so tender....
Grands also got Parmesan butter and a little cheese, this I’ll always remember
a mixture of olive oil, basting it with a garlicky Parmesan butter as it grills
Some with some lemon juice hot cobs
The Parmesan melts and clings while the olive oil
And lemon dribble “Hot cobs” stomach full to my neck I’m sure
Butch and Bailey panting com’on drop one already
Fish. Corn on the cob has an earthy, natural taste that pairs well with fish. ...
Corn then gets submerged in melted butter. “Hot Cobs”
Generous pinch of salt and a pinch of black pepper it’s just glorious
Keep’em comin Grands Munz this here corn on the cob simply marvelous
“Hot cobs” ooh, boy
Grands what’s the milk for?”
10/6/19
Contest Placement #2
For Realism Art Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Picked Picture # 3
Yesterday,
the rustic multicolored foliage was scattered about the ground; basting and glistening beneath the tamed fall sun, taking their rest.
The long days of summer had been harsh on them. For they had entered it, green and lavish; Chorographically dangling from the branches of enormous oaks and maples...and birches, too, perhaps.
But time and temperature had tapered them.
Today, they are motionless.
Dismantled from the spotlight of summer's stage. The ground is cool.
Soon, comes their burial blanket.
And above, jubilant souls shall shuffle about, oblivious of the dancers stilled beneath them, from which their winter wonderlands
were conceived.
The smell of turkey fills the house
and the mind and tongue are consumed
with memories and scents of holidays passed.
The aroma is so familiar with images of Gramma in the kitchen
basting that succulent bird and all the sides
as it tingles taste buds with unbearable anticipation.
The feast most promising with recaptured pictures, football games
and stuffing, biscuits, cranberries, and mashed potatoes
made with tender care and love to await family gathering.
Those days seem long gone now, lost to past celebrations
but the mind and heart remain full forever
with laughter, joy, love and those heartfelt memories
at Thanksgiving.
A few things you should know about the things I love
like the magic of watching asteroids above
the fact that I was born on Easter Day
the joy of buying a summertime bouquet
off-hours where I quietly sit at a café
talks about our Thousand Islands get-away
matinees at home or at the cinema
chunky fruit in a pitcher full of sangria
the caress of sunshine on my face
success when uncluttering my place
curls of waves unfurling on the sand
the perfect treasure found second hand
long walks along the riverbank
discussions had both deep and frank
bullseye shots that hit the mark
sugar kisses in the dark
a glass of wine to enhance dinner
games where there need not be a winner
coming first and acing all my tests
faeries who live deep in wild oak forests
biting into a big luscious peach
seaglass gathered on the beach
poppies and peonies growing in a garden
maple walnut ice cream begs your pardon
new york cheesecake that's real yummy
brownies that wind up in my tummy
incandescent hummingbirds in flight
nighttime bubblebaths by candlelight
the mystery of butterflies and dragonflies
perfume of lilacs assailing passerbys
glowing moon hanging low up in the sky
a delicious plateful that's exotic thai
a virtuoso playing the piano
the starry night painted by van gogh
hot french pressed coffee shared at dawn
the surge of nostalgia when I hear Elton John
carefree runs across wild meadows
telephone wires lined up with crows
aromas of basting turkey in the afternoon
hotdogs over campfire in the month of june
sunrise burning mist across the lake
wishes blowing candles off a birthday cake
strokes of vibrant greens in watercolour
luscious textiles that utterly feel like fur
christmas tree decorations hung
mango juice upon my tongue
a classy outfit that fits me like a glove
these are just a few of the very many things I love.
AP: 2nd place 2025
The waves’
little licks,
muss piles of sand;
chalk blue horizons,
bathe crystal-glass land.
Wet basting breezes,
Salted pink baby knees,
oiled baby bottoms
cool in the seas.
Oceans reflect,
the blue of turquoise;
beneath candy striped umbrella’s
toddle tikes playing with toys.
I can tell you of the waves;
the push and pull,
the ceaseless tide,
the tiny tumbled treasures
of pebbles by my side.
I can tell you of the waves;
the sinking surface of sea and sand,
joining all the clay of man;
as he sinks into the Mother
and melts into land.
But the paper pages end
and why should you sit here?
The waves are calling to you
with birds, boats and dreams.
"Idling"
Cool cold froth
slides across their pages
they whirl their congratulatory comments
like pucks across ice crystal cut sharp and precise
waiting for return compliments
basting their words with oily accomplishment
slick and to strict recipe
baking like fat turkeys
with temperatures
mild and appetites easily
assuaged
How does a person come to this?
They think of words and throw them
to the wolves like sticks
for return
Wolves will take their words
strip all bones ragged of stories
bury them
and then silently,
without a backward glance
never return
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
“Their pooled emotions wouldn’t fill a teaspoon.”
“They sicken of the calm who know the storm.”
“That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone:
Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.”
Dot Parker
"What Fresh Hell is This?"
"xanny"/Billie Eilish
https://youtu.be/OYyyce8K_c0
"Purgatory is a Poem"/ LadyLabyrinth