Long Gregarious Poems
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(earlier this January 18th, 2019 belatedly
to acknowledge my LX birthday.)
Mine eldest sister
as I continue in the circle game
of life, (ye dear Amelie
McGeehan) darling dame
a modestly lofty poem I aim
to dash off (while riding away
high in the sky - belay
ying at Macht shnel blazing
saddles laser optic speed
in a white horse open sleigh),
and plaudits of course
without moment's delay,
your husband Richard,
one hunger re
chap, who wolfed
down his entree
(who introduced me
to fictitious song
titled Richard, Cory),
plus Harris patriarch Boyce aye
aver as gregarious soon tub be
a nonagenarian papa,
also one grand dad dee
glad this sole son did see
our father (thou wart tin...)
maintains sharp mental
a cue witty,
which does not mean he
willoughby immortal
till et tern knit tee
since the gradual
onset of death I bee
leave actually begins at
birth, but whee
ving and bobbing
(like a sponge at sea)
waves each person
closer to thee
cosmic creator, or re:
incarnate tid (three
times a day) tis key
unless otherwise specified
(if questionable issue at stake,
sans not so ease zee
as apple pie with gray vee),
hence power of attorney
in demand, cuz
this brother-hood
generated bupkis, and made prithee
coon fuse, nary a whit,
asper executor signed...
yours True Lee!
Nowadays I'm a semi-recluse.
often, I feel the need to retreat,
reverse yet further
into a temporary nest
of a woolgathering and
imprecise brain.
It is feather-fluffing time,
time to watch squirrel's scamper
over a slack jawed presence,
to ogle thoughts from afar
as they fuzzily forage
after each other.
A wide Walnut tree,
spreads out of my imagination,
furry paws toy with cracked visions
in their nutshells.
Nobody here, nobody phoning or
knocking,
Just a crow cawing on a branch
which might be (in truth) my right arm.
That limb always was the most
social
and gregarious part of me -
I often talk to myself with it.
many blue jays call the trees
around my neighborhood home
yes, they can be found in forests
but, nowadays in residential areas they reside
I love their blue colors
both male and female are almost the same
I cram my bird feeder with seeds, peanuts, and berries
did you realize that though delightful they can be aggressive
noisy gregarious curious bold
they are intelligent and can mimic other bird calls
when threatened they scream comparable to a crow
and they talk to each other with sweet tweets
their nests are cup-shaped and made of
twigs roots bark moss plants feathers mud
safe high up in trees they lay eggs
and the babies stay with the parents
for one to two months
then, leave one by one . . .
They crest the white foam in perfect formation,
With purpose and strength they flap as they glide,
Fixated ahead in assured navigation,
Each trailing the other with nowhere to hide.
Then all of a sudden with no clear command,
They veer on some path and head for the sky,
Soaring the waves like a mischievous band,
Riding the thermals with a predatory eye.
No longer a pod but single torpedoes,
Spotting their quarry they launch with intent,
Diving at speed like rapacious mosquitoes,
To feast on that glimmering shoal now hell bent.
Again and again they dive to then surface,
Their sacks full of loot hidden from sight.
Transfixing, majestic, nature's true circus,
The curtain then falling as they once more take flight.
Florida's Pelicans, a marvelous sight,
Gregarious and cheeky with us so entwined,
Once hunted and culled as merely a blight,
Now in our hearts so fully enshrined.
Missing
I saw the the solitary people of my generation destroyed,
the wind wind has gone, my breathing stop;
How I mourned the lost;
Are you upset by how non-gregarious it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the lost so unaccompanied?
the populace has departed, alone broken hearten;
I cannot help but stop and look at the ants gone;
Cool, cold, crisp windy air, traveling from the North;
Does the bare naked trees and cooling breeze make you shiver?
Does it?
I saw the the cunning person of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the deceased;
Now wily is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the deceased is foxy, my spirit soul is proxy;
Are you upset by how non-gregarious it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the lost so unaccompanied?
the populace has departed, alone broken hearten;
Alas, something here is;
MISSING...
10/29/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
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
Continued From:
7. Catherine McCarty
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195847
****************************************************************************
No one knows anything about the boys' father or whether they shared the same one.
Did he/they die or abandon the family? Your guess is as good as anyone's.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods to customers she had amassed
and by also doing much of the neighborhood's dirty laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate, purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
It was clearly shown that she could take on the responsibility alone,
as far as providing and caring for her boys.
When she wasn't earning employment, she'd occasionally indulge in the enjoyment
that every good, loving mother enjoys.
After schooling her children, she'd take them to local dances
where she was known to be one of the grandest dancers on the dance floor,
but of all the dance partners she'd dance with
there was always one she could never resist
and he'd want to dance with her more and more.
"Of all my dance partners," she told him one night, "you are my favorite one."
To see her lovingly gaze into his eyes, it certainly would come as no surprise
to learn that William Henry was Catherine McCarty's favored son.
To Be Continued.
****************************************************************************
To Continue Go To:
9. BTK Coming Attractions
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195845
Before golden opportunity
(goes no argh hue mint
the way of Long John Silver)
doth fade and dwindle
not necessarily cuz the missus
did (NOT) bribe and swindle
an ambition (for nor rhyme nor reason)
arose to kindle...
Affectionate communication
employing (figurative) gambol
probably testing your patience
to decrypt me trademark ramble
essential crux of matter after
ye prune thorny verbiage,
metaphorical berry good bramble.
Methinks yar psyche slid into funk
cuz usual upbeat gregarious disposition
of late (June 26th, 2020)
analogous to reclusive monk
whose nonverbal body language
shrieks "LEAVE ME THE ƒµ©* ALONE"
lest recipient (in this case yours truly)
receives judicious suckerpunch
finding him landing - ouch
on his buttucks - kerplunk!
Nevertheless as one
mister misanthrope to another
who could pretend cavorting
as asinine make bull heave brother,
(or undergoing extreme makeover,
and stretching imagination voila
one garden variety generic beastie boy
rendered into... yup, your grandmother.
Hoop fully no unpleasant memory
doth suddenly unfold
linkedin to said very old
boot (moost likely)
long deceased family member
turned to dust commingled with auld
Lang syne amidst weathered tombstones,
markedly intact skeletons absent
any flesh o'the rear
some etched with hands folded in prayer
mausoleum enshrining even in death near
(think grim reaper kingly leer)
still provoking jeer
profligate (yet prolific) paperback writer heir
housing generations ghostly forebear
comprising your family tree, once... dear
father, mother, sister, brother, et cetera
who profusely guzzled beer.
No intent to induce fury if playful banter
loosed psychological trip wire
merely harmless ambition to deliver mirth
lobs strike out as decided
by just now summoned umpire
on the ball punning away without tire
greatly flattered if literary antics inspire
ye to pen memoirs,
which become New York Times
bestseller, thus countless clamoring demands
to serve as ghostwriter hire
prompt ye with fame and fortune
before thee doth exhale last breath and expire
when moments prior,
I while impersonating a squire
wished ye a cheery bon voyage.
The river
still finds its brown way
through the city's glass
and concrete canyons
until finally reaching
the bay. Its tidal breath
has become my own.
I live near its mouth.
I was not born here
but have spent more
than half my life
a citizen of its urban sprawl.
The roots I've sunk
hang off a sense of home.
There is an ease
in living here where the old
and the new, the familiar
and strange exist
in counterpoint and house
the needs of the gregarious
and the chafed nerves
of the recluse. Cafes
serve good coffee.
In the shadows
of apartment towers,
old men can shuffle easily
down the gentle slope
of asphalt paths,
carrying words or a rod
and sit quietly
at the water's edge
with their thoughts,
fishing for bream or God.
When I catch a glimpse of you
in the corner of my eye
acting somewhat silly:
I can't help but smile.
I'm instantly transported
back in time
to the moment we first met.
In my heart, I picture you as you were
at that precise moment;
a playful, gregarious,
fun-loving soul: I felt I had to meet.
When I saw you strutting around the bar
with plastic swivel sticks stuck in your hair
and a huge smile lighting up your face,
I laughed, and in that moment, I fell in love.
And although it's been over fifty years
I’ve never forgotten that night,
for it changed my life.
Your personality was magnetic:
drawing me to you
with such a compelling force
that it can only be described as love at first sight.
And the years have only strengthened
that initial feeling:
locking it into my memory
where it continues to make me smile,
and always will.