Long Wring out Poems
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HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Shall glass behold your countenance, my prince?
Appears your smile whilst shining shoes on feet.
My honesty and faithfulness convince - - - - - -
Your heart to trust…our hearts concede to beat.
One day does not a week make, dear. Let’s tell!
A Friday makes a lifetime wife! Oh yes!
This lonely man, like diamonds in the well,
becomes a shooting star to shine, to bless.
Get well within a hospital ~ not bliss.
Each argument, we bleed, we cry and die.
After so many years – we bond, we kiss.
No closer pair on line - our eyes drip-dry.
My Prince and his gal Friday calm, at rest.
We wring out tears, renew our vows ~ we’re blest.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Globalism dreams itself a hegemon, a giant upon a throne of glass, ephemeral,
And can only live through brief stints, sporadic in time and deed,
Through the harshest force of terror, its heart locked within shadow;
It silently prepares to rule through fear, for such is its path to ascend.
"Children of the world, unite!" is the cry, but it's a cry muffled by deeply implanted fears,
They hammer nails of "justice" into half-informed minds as into hard, thick wood,
To steal away the thought of self, to wring out reason to the last drop,
And to build within them a clean conscience for the dirty game they are doomed to play.
Crumbling on stage, this globalism cloaks words in noble masks of care and well-being,
But beneath them, the whisper of ancient chains lays upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting.
A world that rolls towards unity, yet breaks into pieces of ice and silence,
In their play, we become unsuspecting pawns, in a game that pawns its future for naught.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder,
But Whiskey makes you frisky.
Clerihews and epigrams are fine but
Do not tell these to one lost in love
Except when you mean to cheer up one
Fevered with temporary amourous setbacks.
Gift them the gift prized by one and all
Humour - evoking laughter or perhaps a smile
Inviting a participation in the balm laced with
Jokes, both ribald and a bit of the plain
Killing the gloom of mindless regret and remorse.
Laughter is the best medicine, they say,
Mightily potent to dissipate every whiff of gloom
Nostrum for broken hearts and the flings and arrows of life.
Ophidian ilk are friends that are wry, shirking a shoulder
Pretending with masks to smile away misfortune yet
Questing to wring out sweet savor from other's calamity.
Roar unto the wind a bit louder than the storm
Spoiling what they seek with your tuppence attitude.
Take what is yours, let no one deny you your share
Under any circumstance do not relent for what is your due.
Verity is a virtue that'll stand in good stead,
Warmth towards your fellows won't ever waste.
X-factor's something natural not something you fake,
Yearning for glory like a harlot who'll sell.
Zing is the thing with this homily, my friend.
~27 May 2016~
In the 50's mom and grand
Had that old Maytag™ drum washer
It would twist and dance
~
Wiggle N turn
Like a baby wobble
That old washing machine
~
had a motor almost as big
as a Volkswagen
Boy, did love to wash them clothes
In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -
~
shaped shaped like a barrel
on top of it a wringer
with a handle place in the clothes
~
Too wring out put it in a wicker basket
And then take to the clothesline
and hang up too dry outside
That task was a job., was a shore
In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -
In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer
12/8/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
My eyelid clings to a nebulous newspaper.
The breakfast table, like a silent stranger.
in black and white ink
on which page i’ll never know
the drowning ink speaks
I’m a cashier, my first real job, and
a high school student. I immerse myself
into the day, yawning with wake-up tears.
Monica bears news
she has dark hair and glasses
a fortune to spill
My coworker and peer, begins with
“Did you hear about…”
And her words, like high tide roll in…
the night sea splashes
against the serrated edge
~ clean cut of forehead
Tragic news for my best friend, former teacher, peers, and neighbors. This young man, at the top of his senior class, was taken down by whirlpool hands.
graduation boon
celebration of their lives
~ flotsam in the lake
My biology teacher’s eyes, red and sore with tears, wrestle with mine. His son,
nearby, in a treasure chest. I hold my teacher’s hand, wanting to wring-out his pain.
no difference in age
all boundaries slip away
in whirlpool of pain
But, lest you think this the only tragedy, a newspaper article was written containing the names of several more friends, neighbors, classmates
who died that year. A serial killer it was not, but strange all the same.
newspapers in wait
contain the weight of our lives
facts not yet revealed
10/27/2017
Dust Off A Memory Contest
She’ll trumpet a mid-summer’s lilac revolution
To smash and grab and take your affection
A twinkled-eyed assault of sweet-toothed pleasure
On half-composed clarity’s measure
She’ll launch a pillow-cannoned war
On every certainty of beauty you had before
She throws light around like a star in the sky
Even her sleepy exhaust is a heavenly sigh
She gilds the clouds on drizzling days
She makes hope smile by her vibrant ways
If her lover embraced her in all her truth
She would be her lover’s fountain of youth
In moonshine night of wine and song
With gypsy-like fever she’ll wring out the wrong
She’ll dance and in dancing burlesque
Ideals of woman and grace painted picturesque –
By the moralistic mentors of caged-bird blues.
How this bluebird’s a phoenix by night’s fiery hues!
In hangover mornings of tangled heart-strings
Within the houses of healing you’ll hear she still sings
Of undesired responsibilities in a shaky jilted voice
A dew-soaked ballad to sunrise to which your only choice
Is to cater to her jazzy Simone-like disposition
To every her wiled whim, to her warmth, to her lilac revolution
I think I'll open a tragedy club
where people can come to weep
I'll tell the saddest stories around
admission will be cheap
I'll call the venue Tragic Relief
where heartache is the norm
and "open mike night" amateurs
can mournfully perform
To be a standup tragedian
has been a lifelong dream
No longer caring to cry alone
I might even form a team
We'll bill ourselves as "Wailing & Tears"
and tour throughout the land
We'll have them bawling in the aisles
til they can hardly stand
They'll cry a mighty river
at our films from year to year
We'll throw in fresh cut onions
just to wring out every tear
Appearing at my club some time
to do a special show
the hottest new tragedians
will tell their tales of woe
No matter if your background is
from denim or fine silk
we'll gather round and cry all over
puddles of spilled milk
So take a break and come on down
and turn your joy to grief
Just keep your eyes peeled for the sign
that says Tragic Relief