Long Cocking Poems
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A lake,
landmark to
locate easily
my nest like
home, a center
to ever widening
concentric city,
lies without life,
no fishes, no ducks,
no mosquitoes,
not even microbes
exist within.
Like a frozen body
intact, lake is
kept as a
keep-sake, for
there will be no
other places to
dump such waste;
chemicals flowing
from a few hundred
factories, slush, sewage,
garbage reaches her
in hushed silence.
When people
flock to see
with curious
eyes the fire
and froth issuing
from the lake,
taking pictures,
striking unison
notes-aw’s, wow’s,
as if it is all
of the lake’s doing,
my ears hurt-ache-burn.
I see a crow
sitting on
electric pole
cocking its head,
looking restlessly
at people or
mourning the
death of lake,
I can’t say, but,
with as expressionless
face as that of the crow
I turn with heavy steps,
ruffled, helpless,
towards my home.
Oh if I were a true poet
one that could write a good rhyme
I would compose a few ones
and earn myself a dime.
Why, I'd write about man's folly,
as the robin said to the sparrow:
"Why are men so stupid
their minds so clouded and narrow?"
The sparrow cocking his head replied:
"They accumulate facts and lies,
Little caring about their true intent,
Alas, they are not really very wise."
The robin looked at his red breast,
remembering a Man on a cross,
how He bled, and sighed and suffered
all because of man's grace loss.
The sparrow nodded and smiled.
"Wisdom is not acquired by knowledge, my friend.
It comes when in our lives we've failed
and when we truly try to comprehend."
Behind, left in dust, of the old gravel road
is a faint trace of Marlboro and a soft summer wind
Skies burn orange and amber, and a blazing red sun,
that is filtered by a windshield, that's never been groomed
A radio station, has more static than tunes
and the song of the work day are tires, worn thin
The sun's going down, where the road never ends
There's a bend near the hill, where a windmill spins slow
and where dozens of blackbirds create ebb and flow
They dapple the rain clouds, like bats out of hell
then will perch pole to pole, plucking heartstrings, as well
Headin' home there are doves, that will bend every limb,
sittin' high in the cottonwoods, while cocking their heads...
Where a hawk circles low over fields, leveled plain
waiting for thunder to bring home the rain
She waits by the door, beneath light from the porch
It halos her hair, like a torch that she's carried
from the day they were married, in a little white church
that has baptized a newborn, asleep in the crib
He drives an old pickup, with a paycheck so slim
He has sweat on his brow, and grit on his chin
He is bringing home flowers, his heart and his grin
There is smoke in the horizon, from a fire within...
Not far, there is heaven where all reason begins
______________________________________________
"Sing Me A Country Song" Contest:
Resubmitted for Skat's Contest: Premiere Contest: #9
Written : 10/12/13
____________________________________________________________
With the cocking of his gun
I squeezed my eye lids all so narrow
And considered how big a gun can look
When looking down its barrel
But instead of being shot
The Doc ordered me once more
To hop down in the shallow grave
And start digging up the ore
He threw me down a pick axe
And as I grab it with my hands
Saying "Don't get no ideas
Or I'll shoot you where you stand"
So I plunged it in the rock
And as the pieces fell away
I saw that it was gold
And the Doc's plan plain as day
He would seem to rescue strangers
From the crowd, back in the town
And take them here to mine for him
Then shoot the wrangler down
With a coffin filled with ore
Then back to town he'd make his way
"He let the fella go"
At least that is what he'd say
This way Doc could keep the gold
And the secret of his find
And as for missing strangers
no one payed any mind
To be continued in Vol 6 Page 9 soon
Stepping to the plate, he stood at four foot eight.
Sixty-seven pounds, that was the batter's weight.
You probably wouldn't think to look at this punk,
that his club held a punch, as to bat, he slunk.
Mister Monninger shouted a curious phrase -
"powder river." To the hitter, it conveys
a sense of fearsome confidence and power.
Cocking the bat, he knew he'd be man of the hour.
First pitch, and that ball sailed o'er the grass of green.
No lie. It was the furthest anyone had seen.
Yes, I was that batter boy, who played in tattered jeans,
but I still don't know what "powder river" even means.
'Bunnies!', 'Yes, bunnies!'
a lonely pooch
sniffing the mound of dirt
Sniff, sniff flung the Yorkie
'Bunnies!', 'Yes, bunnies!'
'Bunnies!' curl up cute and cuddly
while across the way
a kingdom full of gophers
a mound of dirt
I sat engaged and skunking
amazed I'm watching
I saw the fantails
Cute little cottontails
When I thought of the bunnies
That proud speculum - that proud
And so you came gently fluttering
the wrigglers never rabbiting
must be their cute cousins
The marl laughed
'Bunnies!''Yes, bunnies!'
So cute soft and cuddly
So, distinctly I was pea-cocking
And my eyes have all the plumbing
While listening to the robins
Remembering many initiated, silent bunnies
so cute and cuddly
7/5/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
With eyes closed,
particularly after never
mine lips ne'er touching drink
I experience replete surreal visualizations
vividly pronounced heightened, augmented
mental journey virtual realistic brink
particularly the following link
https://www.youtube.com/
watch?v=1ZYbU82GVz4
yours truly (i.e. me)
enters sweeping dream state,
whose (ahem this modest) great human
experienced way after hundredth wink
no mean feet recherché special effects
haint no rinky dink
trick the average kindergartener could think,
quite the contrary skeptical reader!
Impossible mission yours truly,
could never describe for dogness sake
no,... NOT even after I make
transition back into webbed
oft times trumpeted as "fake"
wide world of consciousness
mere seconds eyes of mine ache...
dumbfoundedly blink awake,
yet cerebral impact analogous
exiting hypothetical dark cave
eyes painfully adjust to light
no mutter me noggin I soberly shake
Socratic dialogue - described
even today (across swaths,
where silently occur
metaphorical tectonic Earthquake)
of college/university students far and wide
with mooch hoopla and rave
communicated, viz out fancy schmancy
rhyme nor reason courtesy
one cereal lactose intolerant flake
courtesy within Plato's Republic
(worth rereading even
non political science majors ought
to give revered literature fair shake.
'Course aye haint here to lecture
but moostly strive to enlighten
hmm... methinks most likely bore
extemporaneously spewing pablum
also aiming to appeal toward
self accomplishment less or more
before tonight April 23rd, 2020
becombs tomb morrow,
with unbeknownst notion I explore
which aspiration to craft daily poem
constitutes what endeavors apt (guaranteed)
to find thee into deep sleep
cocking mine ear to hear ye snore,
no matter bajillion miles away your
respective dwelling from mine -
now (at long last), similar to the night before,
(Christmas), I hightail out - with minor confession
where Matthew Scott Harris doth
strive to become substance of legendary folklore
(hence no need to utter vamoose)
with cheery bonjour!
Every day I wake up to the cacophony
Of a murder of crows cawing on tree tops
As the sun emerges from behind the hills
They take to the skies in one and two,
Sometimes together in unison they fly
Cruise out in air like small boats
Though dark, they are the emissaries of light!
Never in the sky for long,
They land down and glide up shrieking
Flying from hedge to fence
Hopping from mound to plane
These noisy folks remind me
Of the haggling fisher women never silent
Cocking their heads to and fro,
They keep a watchful eye
Everything falls in their eyeshot
Picking up scraps and crumbs
And tit bits from garbage piles
They thrive in gregarious company
With dusk fall, they come back homes
Full of gossip and tales of travel
These ubiquitous birds of all seasons
Are the unpaid scavengers of the Earth!
Sept. 25.2022
A Flock of Birds Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Julia Ward
Far as my eyes can see, 'till lake touches sky,
Earth beats as one; Poplar, Jack Pine & Birch all
Sing with the White Throated Sparrow, our Planet's
Love songs.
Sloping (5'canopy) an ancient Deer trail along the
Baptism River (flowing into Lake Superior) I startle a
Buck during his midday Nap. Soundlessly lifting up,
He elegantly bounces away.
From above, a dark object swoops in, Brother
Raven is curious, (always a sentinel for Hawks
And Bald Eagles). I stand motionless, willing my
Neo-Cortex to flood my aura with peace; as I
Extend my arm and gently imitate the Raven's
Welcome call, a double-beat "Caw caw"...I am
Here Raven, I am me". My heart quickens as
He alights on my arm, talons gripping my
Forearm gently, but firmly. Cocking my head,
I look deeply into his obsidian eyes to his
Soul...he imitates me, tilting his head in unison,
letting my gaze enter. Images from high race
Thru my mind...the rushing river...undulating
Tree tops...in an instant, we have become
Brothers of the wild, as I softly shake my arm
To set him free.
"I am me, Brother Raven, I am me"
05/30/15
© All Rights Reserved
Carpe diem.
Life can turn on a dime.
One moment you may be engrossed in a book and the next,
it's as though time...Time slips away, taking with it your imagination and civility.
Time steals your identity.
It fractures under the daily stresses.
Life....., OH life! It totally depresses.
You stand on an icy pond, frozen... sub zero temperatures.
Then suddenly it cracks beneath your feet, it ruptures.
You try to hold on, before long..... you're gone!
The cold, inviting-biting all the way to your very core.
All of your memories good and bad begin to soar.
Your last breath, your lungs filled with filthy pond water.
You sink down deeper and deeper, nothing else matters.
The last thoughts you pondered.
-What could I have done differently?
-What other options were there?... taking all precautions.
I have tried to see it through others eyes.
But linger the questions; what, where and why?
Carpe diem is a word many say.
When karma decides to have her own way.
Like a serpent, in the night!
Large enough to devour you, she may strike.
It is time that enslaves us all.
Good or bad, big or small.
Each decision made. Each word spoken.
A gift, a journey, a trial, lives stolen.
We may feel as though we are protected.
But the system is set, your minds redirected.
We live in the matrix. A maze, just like mice.
Derived, deprived. A roll of the dice.
Have you ever Russian Roulette?
One bullet in the chamber, cocking the gun. Life's regret.
With each and every breath you take.
Remember and know what's at stake.
Do on to others as you wish done to you.
Because the frozen pond is your life, it can crack too.
With all seriousness set aside.
Life and time, a wild ride.
Always remember karma may come.
Do on to others as you want done!
~mp (copyright protected )