hurled hoagie explodes
ICE’s meaty Molotiv —>
Bansky’s graffiti
The smallest of seeds falls and amalgamates with the earth.
Amidst dust to dust, mist, manure, and moisture gain rebirth.
Leaf evolution, stem elongation, and florescence
With sun-lit yellow blooms, it reaches its adolescence.
Like a vulture, it spreads its wings of bold bushy branches.
Towards giving rest to birds of all kinds, it advances.
From a wheatish tone, the colour of seeds slowly turns brown.
Into globular black painite granule finds its renown.
All these were hidden within these as a seed when it fell.
As a seed yielding shrub, it has many tales to tell.
Adding taste to the food and serving as herbs to good health
Is not a mustard seed a gem of herbaceous wealth?
Divine kingdom, though humble in stature, is marvellous.
To seek this, yet, you asked them, shouldn't each one be righteous?
Tiny! Chocolate grain! Medicine for the mind and heart!
In nature's senses of flavours, doesn't this play a part?
Didn't it look granule-like when you the Trinity sowed?
It grew like your kingdom, sheltering the humble and proud.
Calming the heartache, stilling the mind, strengthening the bones
The shrub grown out of the mustard seed withstands all cyclones.
Dead in summer! Rose in trains! Shy in the shades of winter!
Though its leaves fall in the fall, who could its spring-growth hinder?
Doesn’t the mustard bear the wrath of the shines and showers?
Till seedness is stilled as a seed, fate, like a fog, hovers.
Is the metamorphosis monopoly of the flies?
Into each of its thick and thin, it looks towards the skies.
Who was an ignorant who couldn't understand the fact?
What else, except the fact, here on this earth, remains in tact?
This sandwich is destitute
And the dijon has expired
A miraculous vision appeared to me, a gentle lady
One who gloriously gazed on my face
What is the life of but Art and Science?
The Shepherd's Dream?
When there are no living to remember the dead.
God knew of the culpability
The rearrangement of kitchen condiments
The kitchen being a cathedral of failure
Church of pie
I am the balcony in the balcony scene
And I'm exploring mental health through poetry
Hoggish, empty, splod.
a Mustard Seed
I want to be like a mustard seed
Not a mustard seed
But what it grows up to be
I want to be the smallest
That grows up to the be the biggest
The one no one sees
Until I sprout my leaves
I want to be a mustard seed
Not the seed
But what it grows up to be
I can only hope I am not thrown into vines
With spiky thorned lines
I can only hope my leaves don’t get mistaken for weeds
When people see me, I want them to remember
I was just like them, just a couple of seeds.
But I broke away
to become something less gray
When they see my yellow leaves
I want them to inspired by us trees
But when in need
I want them to remember I was once just
A mustard seed.
Canada is afire and I’m confused, shouldn’t the snow put that out?
The Boston sky is an interesting shade of mustard yellow,
and there’s a pale orange haze where the sun should be.
Lisa, drowsily asleep-walked into the kitchen for her morning coffee.
“So this is Mars,” I observed, “Elon Musk will be so jealous.”
“Good,” Lisa said, “I was afraid it was nuclear winter.”
“There’ll be no breathing today.” I updogged.
We could almost hear the slow, delicate pitter-patter fall of micro-ash.
“*There’s aaaa bright golden haze over Boston..*” Lisa began to sing softly.
Lisa knows every Broadway score and can easily interpolate a song into every conversation.
.
.
*Webster: Interpolate: inserting something, like music into a conversation
red mountain
stands still
black ribbon
cuts between
you aren't always
still
not if by faith
I can cast you into the sea
still
is never
forever
but still we are
not so long
have I
not been the traffic
cutting between
still
to know something
I would cast you into
the sea
but these problems
I need
red mountain
big rough ugly
barren pile of rocks
you comfort me
vultures, ravens, and crows
soar up your slopes
roost on your ridges
nest in your
craggy clefts
don't worry
stone mamma
I command you to be
still
forever
poor scavengers and
I need you
this ceaseless stream
of fud
dividing us
I cast
into the sea
with my little mustard seed
red mountain
lie still with me
Songs of eternity
poets romance
Words of sagacity
—lyrical dance
(Dreamsleep: March, 2023)
Yes you are lacking in basic culinary skills
your cooking is wanting for a flavor thrill
And heaven knows you'll never make a savory dish
so close your eyes and use the chefs last wish
Food too plain and bland what do you do
get that jar of mustard and ketchup too
Don't be shy tastebuds counting on you
open that jar of mustard and ketchup too
Slather it, smear it, pour it on strong
the more you use the less it taste wrong
The vigor of mustard on your tongue
that sweetness of ketchup sings a song
Disguise that flavorless gunk on your plate
pile high those condiments for goodness sake
Make it bearable and a eatable chow
with sky high food prices can't be wasteful now
So be grateful and thankful that you are able to chew
your mediocre insipid rather mild boring cooked food
By simply adding to the table what you must do
a jar of mustard and ketchup too.
It is not just a mustard seed,
It is associated with smell, sights, people and memories,
Crackling mustard seeds and curry leaves,
In the pan filled with hot-oil,
Mother shouting to keep the tin back in place,
In the rack where it belonged,
Memories of time spent with my mother in the kitchen,
Food was always a way to the heart,
Mustard was a key ingredient in almost all the dishes,
A pinch or tablespoon was enough to do the wonders.
Small, brown and round.
Dancing in the oil,
Spicing up our lives,
Jesus said, "Kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds on earth. Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade."
I remember the cold evenings spent in Northern India,
Mother used to tell us to apply mustard oil,
It was thick and yellowish.
Helped us fight against cold winters.
Many memories attached with it.
I saw a little tree today,
from mustard tree did grow.
For when i was but a toddler,
I stood three feet below.
And by the little tree today,
two squirrels chasing tails.
And as I stepped by closer, they
ran up it's wooden scales.
Above the little tree today,
a large bright feathered bird.
With wingspan of a tennis court,
colour of lemon curd.
Inside the little tree today,
natures cooing owl.
Napping in its small hidey hole,
till it's time to prowl.
inscribed upon the tree, I see,
from many moons ago.
Initials of my first sweetheart,
my wife, my loving doe.
I will not see this tree again,
as death's dark crow is near.
So lay I do beside the tree,
till heaven's hand appears.
04.03.2021
FAITH
Oh boundless faith
You are a gift
How do we get it?
Less it's too late.
Oh help not far
The fall of man
Or a woman,
God is so near.
Ode to Sling Blade
Mustard and biscuits
sleeping alone in the shed
what is family
GINSU - KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
Once relished was ketchup married;
He liked mustard so he married;
It was rather new;
But not very Yahoo;
Condiment life so unwarried;
10/4/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
O, rats. I've been assigned to write a serious poem
As if a boy can snap his fingers and grow 'em
What's worse, I hear it has to be a sonnet
I'll just throw 'Teach' a curveball with a dollop
of mustard on it
Romance and yucky kissing, just not in my wheelhouse
Better to write about Tom Sawyer's latest treehouse
Or adventure with pirates, buried treasure, and alligators
Hey, think she'd like verses about wrestling gladiators
Why's she watching me with those beady eyes of hers
Is she worried I'll pen cuss words or racial slurs
She needn't bother: I'm as pure as the driven snow
I've got it -- I'll write a sonnet 'bout Santa: Ho, Ho, Ho!
Well, the class is nearly over; my sonnet is due
Hope 'Teach' likes my Santa and Merry Christmas to you!
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