Long Ingrown Poems
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It's not a tale told by a bard,
Theadora was a gift from God:
that light gliding over vawes
at sunrise, as it showed
all its splendor on mornings
of melodic sound.
Theadora loved Mark...
that was her ingrown spark,
never ignored or put aside;
they enjoyed being one.
Was there a jealous threat
that could separate them
and wound their pride?
Was their hope gone?
The beautiful memory
of Theadora and Mark
lived on in poetry,
never forgotten
by lovers who remembered
it quite often;
somebody saw the tragedy,
how they drowned screaming
in a troubled sea colder than ice.
He didn't help at once,
all he felt was revenge increasing.
Their pain was sharper
than a shrieking lark
that lost his life
in that terrible hurricane.
Brown the color of the passive ground Autumn I'm falling leaves horizontal the waist by product the leaves leave me Brown blooms with the bloom of unemployed in clouds Grands made from scratch chocolate cake taste the golden tan Brown pancake taste like hot coffee and cocoa yum I'm in pecan much and crunch right on mushroom potato soup delicious feels like synonym of dressing being in down Brown a cloud of pollution Brown the face and skin the many races Brown is a color nurturing ingrown it's the color of Mother Earth Brown so Earthly neutral Brown colors filled and pumping iron serious down-to-earth stable bility protection and supported sense of Duty and responsibilities 5th and the listing of last names I'll be around must be own wit
BROWN
10/29/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr
Growing up I always saw these commercials for razors
Razors that will shave “extra close to the skin”
Ones that have 5 blades and ones that have 7
And an ergonomic handle that is pink just for you
Commercials showing the perfect pretty blonde model on my tv
Shaving her armpits to be impossible smooth
I know now that they were already waxed
No hair is left because hair isn’t dainty, isn't feminine, isn't appropriate
The perfect pretty blond model on my TV says
Underarm hair is a turnoff, so start worrying when you’re 11
Shaving is necessary if you want to have a husband!
Who cares if you get cuts from your razor
Who cares if you get ingrown hairs
Oh your razor is dull? Buy a new one!
Get our super handy replaceable clip-on razor heads ™!
How much are they? One replacement is only $20!
The perfect pretty blond model in the razor commercial says
With the most stupid
Serene
Irritating music in the background
You’ll never be truly pretty unless you are hairless like a newborn
So shave your pits from the womb to the tomb!
A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown throne to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of imposter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!
This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.
I always feel a twinge of anger,
a truck load of guilt,
and a dash of sorrow
whenever I think of her
But mostly nothing at all
My guess is all those year of
cuts to the bone
ingrown toenails
and broken bones
weren't quite
stitched up,
fixed up
and set -
right
She used to hit a racquetball
against those grungy, white walls
until she felt like she was going to puke
And then she'd do it all over again
She could hear the rebukes
of her own self loathing
in the echoes of those four
towering walls encasing her.
It would only make her hit harder
And I don't mean just the balls
Her screams were deafening
as they traveled roundtrip,
back into her pounding head -
but her words don't make a sound
Just like when she was a kid
I don't think she could tell you
how many times she's felt it,
smelt it,
delt with its silent cry
She says sometimes she feels like a cloud -
strolling along a fixed path in the sky
only the wind knows it's destined to go -
with no will of her own
No one to really care
Just like when she was a kid
I always feel a twinge of anger,
a truck load of guilt,
and a dash of sorrow
whenever I think of her
But mostly nothing at all
Probably because I care too much
Yes, I do care.
We're going to make it
She may have lost hope,
But I am determined
Of WHAT USE ARE FINGERS TO HANDS THAT ONLY UNDERSTAND MITTENS
I have a bunion and an ingrown toe nail;
I’m a blind man wearing glasses and I can’t find them;
My hair is so short that I am bald;
My spine so straight I am tall;
I have a four year old who keeps shaking his fist at his sister;
And it’s cold and snowing my question is;
Of what use are fingers to hands that only understand mittens;
And what’s the use in cooking dinner in the kitchen;
When we don’t know how to fry chicken livers;
12/17/22 2022©
For Of What Use Are Gloves to Fingers That Only Understand Mittens Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John lawless
A nation dies
when its ideas become slogans
nothing is deeply planted
or cultivated
just notions to be scattered around
as exposed hayseeds
that fly directionless.
When a state is oppressed
the collective impulse
is to oppress another country.
Wars are never fought
over an ideal.
In the staggered march of time
dead men become
the enemy.
Minds die
they become buried in the deaf flesh,
become as thin as the bones
of extinct songbirds.
The dead consider themselves
the finest examples of a new reality,
an existence that is the loudest shout
in the widest open mouth.
Dead letters, dead opinions,
dead ends
travel in circles together
until the land forgets its roots
becomes a basement for the sky
a place that is ingrown
like a toenail
pushed into the white tissue
of all such unkept deathbeds.
SITTING IN A QUIET LAKEFRONT PARK
LOOKING AT PICTURES OF MY MOTHER IN THE DARK
THE ILLUMINATION OF VIVID MEMORIES CREATE A SPARK
A TRUE HISTORICAL MILESTONE EXCURSION LANDMARK
SHEDDING A RARE TEAR, BUT CALMLY SANE
LOOKING AT PICTURES OF MY DAD AS IT BEGINS TO RAIN
WISHES AND REGRET CAN CAUSE SUCH IMMEASURABLE PAIN
I GET SHEDDING SNAKESKIN HANDS TRYING TO WIPE AWAY EVERY STAIN
DRIVING BACK TO A REALITY LONG SINCE RUSTED
THINKING ABOUT HAPPIER TIMES WHEN I WAS LESS DISGUSTED
MY LIFE IS BLUE BALLOON WITH AN INGROWN BOIL DOUBLE BUSTED
SO LITTLE REPLY AND REACTION HAS ALL THE FUSS DID
Tree to tree, the woods tries to hide him.
His growl and fur coat - neither slim.
His beacon ears hear all the gossip.
Before bares teeth, kindles kinship.
Apples, precious and spoiled, with hood.
She wants Gamma well, longs for baked food.
Eyes behind pines concoct a plan.
A two for one price for madman.
Stays a safe distance, reveals himself.
“I know you’ve seen me around, elf.”
“It’s lonely all alone in the woods.
Nice to chat, with someone in ‘hood”
“I mean you know harm, little girl,
I may be a beast but I’m no churl.”
Too comfortable and curious ~
this stranger’s nature, spurious.
She’ll recall those terrible teeth
as the wolf bares them out of his sheath.
She’d never love her Gamma less
with ingrown fur and her carelessness.
Someone else was watchful that day.
For he’d rear up, make some beastie pay.
Chased down the weary wolf, dressed in red.
The chastise of axeman splits bed.
The impossible happens with split.
Gamma and girl comes out of it.
How they managed to avoid wolf’s sword -
Be gulped instead, as belly roared!
Red’s grown now, has a bigger hood,
She has no stomach for beastie food.
Hides weapons in stockings. No fool
will chow down on her progeny pool.
12/30/2010
She spoke to me
about the semantics of shame,
the seduction and flame,
the name of the pain,
lunatic loop of lost meaning,
complaining of symptoms remaining
robust and teething
weighing upon me
morning through evening
like a stoney smoke stifling,
misidentifying the madness
of this sadness as inherent illness
primordial and permanent,
the face of Her wisdom
a jewel of enlightenment,
a catharsis burning on the coals
of my ingrown crown,
Her voice vouches for my vim
as she says to me with a cerulean sympathy,
The Mind must make Itself
as a heart must learn to heat the soul,
emote to promote the promise of your pulse,
you are not a puzzle
you are a powerful purpose,
emotions are the lights of your eyes
the colors of your concepts,
the verve of your values,
find no shame from your sensitivity,
make love with your intensity...
J.A.B. 2023