Long Bungling Poems
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A big conclusion by tomorrow I must hurry up and reach.
It's about what I am to ‘do’ with my doggy “boy, Billy ‘Blue’.”
Half-wittingly I just keep vacillating between two notions.
My mind is ‘churning’; my thoughts ‘turning’ like a tsunami.
A bouncy cute but "crazy critter" is making me feel so daft.
'He' may ‘BE’ in control of ‘ME’, a “bungling fur baby’s” Mama.
Do I give him back this Monday? Oh, I need to decide by then.
No ‘napping' for all his ‘yapping,’ but “his eyes” are "so sweet!"
Sept. 25, 2022
for Joseph May's The A's Have It Poetry Contest
(I sure hope I did this right!)
He had a disorderly mind.
She had an ordered one.
She had cerebral files,
binders,
alphabetized answers
for every occasion.
He would come to her
with questions
like - what-do-you-call-it
and who’s-his-face
and whatever was the name of
some thingamajig or other.
She would calmly dig into her mental
folders, data banks and dossiers
and supply him the correct
precise response or comment.
He would hurry away
holding her answer tightly \
in his loose
fumbling, bungling
and forgetful mind.
Then she would happily turn
to her main purpose in life
which was torturing little animals
and laughing maniacally as she
listened to their screams.
Laminate
Plastic covered up definitions lip with profound mastic.
Layered lamella formed single filed lines separating life from death;
Held onto by paper thin adhesions.
Besides bungling up a perfectly fine bollix,
Laminate single handedly took arms up touching innocency.
Scrolls of past things are looked less upon;
By inclinations vestal eye, seen glimpsing beyond chaste.
Blind alley virtual figment reality innocuously engulfed—
Suppressed complimentary service accepts multiplied donators;
Final offers pickled debacle is utter intrinsic debasement.
One lamination, under God, with liberty and justice; For all…
| Laminate | IrOniC ZiNc 12-13-15 12:59am (ct)
Angel’s songbirds awoke and flung the deal
Anisette chirps, sounds of reels
On that day my soul grew lyric
My heart couldn’t see it
Angels songbirds sing with me
And the harmonies never waiting
The sound singer souls singing
The song craft smiled
Ah, distinctly I was lullabying
And the hand claps never hymning yet rhyming
Death shall bring bass riffs
The sonic songwriting singsong smiths
Angels songbirds sing with me
I crave the lyrical, lyric leaf
From off my chest, my breath
Expressivity - expressivity - expressivity!
Somewhat louder than my debrief
I am shore of my golden voiced leaf
you warned me about the high relief
I crave the song-like, songful soundtrack
I feel my spirit leaving my back
Angels songbirds sing with me
That moment my soul grew analytic
The musical smiled
To warn me about the vibrato
And so you came gently jingling
Of duets that are bungling
Chirping metals yawn iron robins
My passion is the cuckoo lullaby, laugh angel laugh
Once I sat engaged and dancing, fly angel fly
Angels songbirds sing with me
When I thought of the song, sing angel sing
Deep into that darkness scoring, fly angel fly
In a kingdom full of shields, shield angel shield
On that day my soul grew lyric, fly angel fly
I awoke and flung the tenorist, high up to the skies
Much I marveled this overload alto, high angel high
Much I marveled the atonal hymn, sing angel sing
I have dreamed of the tempos, Hallelujah
Angels songbirds sing with me
Deep into that darkness interviewing, Hallelujah
That moment my soul grew singable, come sing with me
overloud alto, high angel high
Marveled the atonal hymn praises above all men, sing angel sing
Angels songbirds sing with me
10/29/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
10/29/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
I heard a ‘dillo muttering,
a-traipsing and a-bungling.
I could not make out what he said,
a-chattering, a-sputtering.
He started rooting in the bed,
a-grubbing and a-burgling.
Then all at once, he up and fled,
a-prancing and a-scuttling.
Was glad to see him go.
Again! my pillow, rustling,
a-chattering, a-sputtering.
It filled me with a sense of dread,
a-shaking and a-shuddering.
And now he’s underneath my bed,
a-grubbing and a-burgling.
I woke, my heart a-fluttering,
a-racing and a-thundering.
I think I’ll read a book instead,
These dreams are weird, you know?
Every Christmas season, I hear them,
those folks from the Salvation Army,
their constant ring-a-ling-a-ling-ing
sticking in my brain as I near the entrance
to some big store or another.
Often in a hurry, sometimes knowing
there’s little or no change inside my purse,
I scurry past, avert my eyes,
and walk the farthest from them that I can.
Other times, I stop, hoist my typically large handbag,
and sift through odds and ends,
the proof of my modern, hectic life:
my scribbled-on notes and envelops,
lipsticks that have spilled out from my old cosmetic bag,
movie ticket stubs not yet thrown away, keys receipts, candies.
Fumbling through the mess like a bungling Mrs. Santa,
I finally retrieve my small coin purse,
and relieved, I produce dimes, nickels, quarters,
and perhaps a dollar bill,
for that ever-ringing army of Salvation.
But even in those times I have given something,
I still am left knowing. . .
Can any little something ever be enough?
I reflect;
In too many places on this ever-spinning globe
are far too many people
sadly unfamiliar with the simple nuisance
of sorting through a handbag or a wallet
often filled with coins.
For Tracie-Indigo Dreamweaver's
the GiMmI.. WhAt I wAnT.. wHaT I rEaLlY rEaLlY WaNt..... Poetry Contest
Misstep Paradise
by Odin Roark
Like the ocean’s waves repeating themselves,
mistakes love to revisit their beginnings,
gloat about their undertow power,
and patiently prepare the next towering breaker.
As if squawking gulls lining the landfall weren’t enough,
joining the prattle is the wind’s ever-repeatable,
“I told you so” oratory.
With ebb and tide behind them,
anxious errors reach progress once alive,
now but mazes of mischance,
ghost towns replete with obligatory tumbleweeds
scurrying past longevity’s sentinels of roaches and rodents
forever faithful to new arrivals.
Even as stored images of ethereal struggle
stay ensconced in supernatural satellites,
reality’s citadel of dust-caked walls and web-laced doorways
display shattered daguerreotypes,
torn photographs,
corrupted digital projections,
3D wanderings,
and holographic ghosts
of perfection’s folly,
holding fast to historical hubris,
mastery’s habitual bungling of headway.
At one end of actuality’s ghost town,
a dangling speaker bellows forth its ceaseless maxim:
“Misstep Paradise is all that matters,
as living life void of errors is to exist
without learning the monstrous reason for it all.”
Welcome to your personal shadow zone,
mind’s inner kingdom of fortuity,
where infinity’s turn-around sign of truth,
remains your chance to finally learn…
mene tekel peres - calligraphic prescience.
global village voice - a dialect of babel
the poetry slam - pen viva voce
inherent bloodline - curdle into nepotism
Atlanta's Oliver Hardy
so pretentious and somewhat lardy,
had a sidekick,bungling,but thin
both silently,still bring a grin
The talented Christina Rossetti
wrote carols and much poetry.
Married love elluded her,I'm afraid,
the poor lass dying as a spinster maid
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
a Victorian pre - raphelite ,you see,
with his true love,buried his poetry
but later ....could not let them be.
Playwright Wiliam Shakespeare
held rhyme & cadence ,so dear.
Plays in verse were his thing
making our English lingo sing.
There once was a composer named Cage
whose compositions caused 'listener' rage.
His music,was too radically new,
it gave the orchestra so little to do
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
wrote poetry everso gently.
His greatest claim to fame
immortalised his mother's maiden name
For the lovely Adelaide Crapsey
a long life was not to be.
In syllable,two,four,six &eight
she created the cinquain anew!
Scottish poet Wiliam Soutar
is now well known wide and far,
for a his diary of a dying man-
Do read his whigmaleeries, if you can
Last good days of innocence
He did came
with no trace
with no chain no fame
no frame or mark of true repentance
In skeletons of liquid pawns
carved in satirical steer
Streets bubbling
enchanted in silence
men wailing,
choking, bundled like sardine
strong drink is a mocker
loneliness is a gradual death
hunger is a conquerer
of this earth
men quarantined
Khaki with arms walking
watching and searching to fight
disobedience
but men can't eat air,
hunger In the street lurks.
At night
men Of the underground
with silence they scatter
they ransack every nooks
and crannies women wrapper
opened lock wildly
from her Can of safe
are cowries bugle
she screams in pain
but to nobody
Innocence is to innocent
boys gone to obtain
for the belly
pockets must open
sachets
must be broken
with the matches
"Good she "gone bad"
Hunger don't taste nice
innocence is a title
men locked inside
with chains of fear
can't decide
what this tide wears
they stretch run with their eyes
while standing here with their feet
looking like a lion on a pouncing game
preying an antelope to eat
loud streets wraps in pretence
mosques sits quite
Churches gone with God in trance
clubs eat boredom as diet
Cono!! what have you done
to men of the west
confidence in them is gone
to den
conscience has fallen from
thier pockets
Innocence is a title
they tear the streets
from house to house
bungling every safe to feed
feed from the ruins of
the skeleton of the liquid pawn
23/4/2020
Pick -A- Title , Volume 16-free verse 2
Last good days of innocence
Edward Ibeh
It was a time when we were troubled
Work shifts had to be doubled
We didn’t earn enough to take a wife
We protested a worthless war
Cried over the Ohio four
Watched newscasts full of strife
Our innocence had died
Our President had lied
And … it was the best time of my life
Our hair, we didn’t cut
Free love, cost us too much
We separated seeds with a broken kitchen knife
We hitchhiked to Yasgurs’ farm
Got tattoos on our arms
And laughed at the bungling Barney Fife
We were hungry and we were thin
Too young to know it then
But … these were the best times of my life
Now, most of us are gone
Radio stations don’t own a Joplin song
Another obit sends a friend off to the afterlife
My head now holds no hair
Once again, I have no buck to spare
Another worthless war adds to our daily strife
But, as we near the end
I still think of you my friend
And how you shared the best times of my life