she spends thirteen hours putting summer clothes away
gets out snow boots for it is a cooler day
the rest of the week it is ninety-two degrees
a muggy, stifling heat wave, no autumn breeze
hay fever in December, sure, because it makes no sense
our seasons are bi-polar, unsure, sporadic and dense
the Midwest is notorious for keeping three or four sets of clothes
because what our insane weather will do, we never know
Here where the hibiscus and the palm tree sway,
December wears a mask, a sun-baked day.
The air is dense, a solemn, muggy sigh;
No frosty breath to hang the winter sky.
The calendar integrates as the year grows old,
But the earth, a young bride, refuses the cold.
No white covering quells the green-clothed land,
Just ocean rumors on sun-drenched sands.
We seek where the stones stand, as assurance’s strong,
A parable of familiarity where we truly belong.
It should be brimmed with ice, a silent guard,
But the tropical heatwave makes the vigil hard.
The stone stands, a heart, unmovable and true,
Yet the absence of snow paints a sky too blue.
This December is a clock with hands reversed,
A winter’s tale delightfully dispersed.
We are the trees, confused, with leaves so bright,
Awaiting shadows that won’t take their flight.
The island dreams of silence, sharp and deep,
While the warm waves roll, a secret it must keep,
That the soul of winter is not in the flake’s soft fall,
But in the resilience of the stone standing tall.
The sun, a fiery bear, keeps the cold wolf at bay,
In this warm December, the stone still holds its sway.
he signs death like he signs autographs—
quick, proud, no eye contact.
the ink smells of burnt orange peel and sweat.
he’s got the sun behind him,
and a pen that tastes of rust.
the papers call it “justice served,”
but i see a man trying to outpace his own shadow,
killing the ghosts before they vote again.
he changes the rules—
twelve men in a room,
now only eight have to agree
that a man deserves to die.
he smiles for the cameras,
says it’s for the victims,
but the ghosts nod off in the gallery,
too tired to haunt the living anymore.
they say it’s quicker now,
no more appeals that last a lifetime—
just a warrant, a date, a needle.
a machine that hums efficiency
in the land of oranges and hurricanes.
he calls it strength.
the newspapers call it leadership.
the preachers call it divine.
but the dead call it silence.
you can’t see mercy in the muggy air,
only steam rising from asphalt
and the sound of another man’s name
being crossed off the list.
politics is a blood thirsty business,
and power drinks best from a warm vein.
I went to an art fair this morning,
The breadth of the talent immense.
Don’t know if they knew of the warning
Of some thunderstorms, maybe intense.
The day started muggy, but sunny
And all of the art was displayed,
In hopes of exchanges for money,
In booths which provided some shade.
Yet the weather prediction was fitting,
Since a storm barreled in much too fast
For the artists to do much outwitting
Before the intensity passed.
I hope all that art was protected
When the winds whipped on by, all a’howl.
With Nature, it’s not unexpected
That a fair will turn into a foul.
JULY SEARING SWELTERING
Heated hot placement boils torrid;
Desert a blazed atomic fire;
Summer hot breath balmy pungent;
Searing aromatic spiced boils;
~
Summery canicular toasty;
Seething is fervent fiery;
Heated hot placement boils torrid;
Summer hot breath balmy pungent;
~
In this muggy sizzling fervid
Scalding warm glowing July day
7/30/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2025©
He breezed in after a whirlwind tour of the local pubs.
Feeling muggy, he drifted up the stairs like a silent mist,
but was greeted with an isobar across the back of the head.
An icy stare froze him to the spot, followed by a maelstrom of words
that bounced off the walls, pounding him like giant hailstones.
Then fighting against a hurricane he slipped in a pool of hate
He glanced up to see her chest swelling, then with an avalanche
Of abuse she predicted a cold front coming in…
Lay there sinking, thinking
under the surface of sodden anxieties.
Recall you darkly
the flickering hours, the tinctured years,
as sweat-stained sheets leech.
This room may be your last gasp,
but you can’t tell,
time distorts death as it does life.
Come morning, the body
(if it is still fitfully aware),
may be rinsed by an untried light,
an embalmed mind unwrapped
as muggy dreams are moped away
for one more uncertain day.
days dripping muggy
the hot sun intense and hot . . .
birds hidden in trees
a sudden rain storm
with winds howling and screaming. . .
the g a r d e n now s
i
g
h
s
the air that we breathe –
an intricate part of survival –
reluctantly exhaled
lost in the cauldron of communal breath
we yearn for a world
hidden from troubling delusions
where dreams are cut short
aeroplanes circle in the muggy morning air
while others
for no apparent reason
fall out of the sky
souls ascending
taking their final breaths with them
lost in mid thought
as silence swallows the answer …
...to their dreams of a world
lost in the bowels of the earth
its unique, virginal ecosystem
leaving one breathless
where thoughts are entwined with the mist -
oil on troubled waters
a balm for the soul
diverse as their yearning
for a lost innocence and
as transient as the air that we breathe—
mere illusions …
The air is heavy—
like a warm, wet blanket wrapped around everything.
The sun?
Hiding behind a cloud,
like it doesn’t want to deal with the day.
The Brahmaputra flows—
slow, wide, calm.
It mirrors the dull sky,
grey and tired like it skipped breakfast.
The trees don’t move.
Not even a whisper of wind.
Just leaves, soaked with sweat,
hanging there like they’ve given up.
The cicadas sing—
a slow, sleepy song,
as June presses down on everything.
The earth lets out a long, hot breath.
Dragonflies zip past,
quick little sparks in the still air.
Then—
a moment.
Rain.
Just a sprinkle.
Just enough to tease.
And then—steam,
rising from the roads,
rolling off the fields like ghosts in the heat.
The tea plants droop,
lined up in rows,
too tired to smell sweet anymore.
But even in all this sweat,
this heat,
this heavy, breathless air—
there’s something strong here.
Something green.
Something alive.
That’s Assam.
Unshaken.
Unbothered.
Beautiful.
Along this misery coil
Dust drifting on currents ebbing in
Approaching storms, lightning
flickering is sheets along thunderheads
That builds on a hot summer evening
Along this misery coil
The humidity drips from the flesh like oil
A hot engines scream with steam
Billowing into the twilight sky
Vacant windows with odd old
yellow lights wink on
In the hot evening
Burning tonight
Along this misery coil
Shadows slide along walls
Old n odd along the hollow ground
A sliver of silver flashes into the humid
Unforgiving night, as dark clouds
Pass on to a horizon vast, a white moon comes
On a hot summer evening, shines
Humid, pale light glows softly under the
Indigo sky, streetlights flickering
Slick silver rain falling, tumbling into wells vast
Headlights slice through the murky, muggy air
Along this misery coil, shadows fail.
I am all too aware of my presence inside of this armor.
My breathing in here makes it humid and muggy, yet my spear still strikes.
They call this the ultimate sacrifice, but I'm not sacrificing anything.
A sacrifice is given.
I have been forced into the suit of metal by a man that I thought was good.
This has happened before.
A man claiming to be just and to use his knowledge for the good of the people, only to shove those people head-first into a battle.
Into a war.
This is tyranny and I am in armor that I did not choose for myself.
If my garden still remains, after such bloodshed as this, I wish to grow eggplants.
when it gets dark
it remains humid and warm
the stars are obscured
by a heavy haze
the trees are so still
as if two-dimensional
a thick silence
broken only by boy racers
revving up Willett Way
night’s muggy cloak
stills the birdsong
open windows bring
no refreshing breeze
my clammy body sags
my brain slows to a standstill
my eyes can hardly keep open
my bones feel my age
my spirit feels even older
I yearn for days
cold and wet, while
realising that our selfishness
short-sightedness and greed
mean that future summers
will be much worse
while I’ll be even
less able to cope.
Raining
Downpour Showers
Slows Drizzles Sprinkles
Misty Moisture Sticky Muggy
Splash Dribbles Droplets
Waterproved Spots
Rainbow
sun greets me warmly
extra humid this morning
air feels muggy
trees at a standstill
not a whisper of a breeze
horrible august
nothing is breathing
flowers praying for some dew
pink crepe myrtle nods
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