Cutting onions without tears
I need diving goggles
Clothespin on the nose
Meters of Kleenex tissues
Stinging tears come quickly
Should drop the mascara
Drops in the flood,
makes black river lines
Suffering for the onion
Kinda crazy, kinda wild
So much useful advice,
without giving you tears
Bread in your mouth
Stick your tongue out
Peel under running water
Sugar between your lips
Snow-white blood runs through
the branches to be activated
by the Sun's synthesea.
White Oaks in burn of bled-wood,
to turn to the Parapet blossom of infancy,
Peaking curious tops that summit the icy eaves;
ready to be born again after
heart of Mother lion sustains within-
through pregnant Winter grieve.
A Resurrection
from the dark of the forest,
embracing the holes in the thicket
there.
Banking on a show of images
peaking curious props of light
that summit the abyss of seasoned blight, showing through pierced darkness;
like nail holes of Death in reversal;
conqueror, Life.
The sign of the cross,
buds on its boughs,
outstretched to the sky.
Showing how the wind blows.
Limbs giving homage, to the Son,
the one, honorary blossom,
Holy a scent sion blessing, right on the nose.
He who would use it's kin's body in the way
of Universal Salvation.
They show, that they know.
He is the Tree of Life.
He is it's rose.
The great bird feathered harpoon
Flung from one shore to the other
Soaring over the Caribbean green of Torch Lake
Flies at the bow of my speeding boat
Or should I say more accurately
I race on the morning frill of waves
At the Blue Heron’s pointing wing
20 miles per hour
On the nose
Skipping stones lake to sky to lake
How to explain why flowers trees and birds
And even man with her pyramids
Are driven upward?
The sun’s draw more powerful than the iron grave of gravity
Behold Goethe
The doomed mathematics of the boat beneath me
Opposed to this bird
Born free to fly in one with majesty
How I wish to be all of thee
The rising slopes stop my boat
Heron looks back
Glides atop and over the hills to Central Lake
As if he was but a trick of the wind
And me a sleight of hand.
let the magic live
july sunset peach revel -
twinkle in your eye
redemptive poppies
swaying lace leaves flare softly -
an invitation
evening's last rays
bride in orange velvet veil -
freckles on the nose
It's raining from the third heaven
does it mean
the angels are crying tears
falling from there
I on the mountain
cheek on the nose of the valley peaks
oh! but how can that be
such a reality
and how can that be true
when God allows not no tears
in heaven for there's no crying in heaven
but yet did He not create the clouds
the rivers
the rain so I guess
I must dwell in the pain
there is rain
that so flows
falls down from heaven
It's raining from the third heaven
7/7/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2023
I’ve never been to Sicily, and yet
it’s always felt a part of me. Who knows?
Another life, another alphabet?
Alongside Archimedes, jotting prose
in Agrigentum I, with each vignette,
imbibing wine, as bitter as regret,
harangued the hellene farmers, stoning crows.
That Greek me – did I tend (as now) to get
frustrated when my verse was ‘on the nose’,
all too transparently in Homer’s debt?
But Italy’s a credible coquette,
more winning in her ways than we suppose.
Like Rhapsody in Blue’s smooth clarinet,
she captures us. We victims, in love’s throes,
admire her steely claws, as black as jet.
Written October 11, 2022
I was in Trieste
It was in 1962, a revolution attempt that failed
roads had been churned; the American CIA tried to blend in
not successfully wearing Hawaii shirts to hide the guns.
I met her at the railway station, a small woman with a big suitcase
which I offered to carry at her lodging.
I was a polite young man, thanks to my communist mother.
It was a long road, a cobblestone road, was heavy going
I have come to think Federico Fellini was hiding in the case.
Arriving at her lodging, I was not invited to her room
she gave me a peck on the nose.
Later I learned she was a famous actress, but I wondered
why is she, in Trieste?
With
summer
breeze gently
blowing, its blue
wings flutter, as it dances in the air
trying to find the perfect landing spot
the cat never
knew it would
be its
nose!
9-13-2020
Double Tetractys 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Photo 3
morality
sits on the nose
of a bitter young man
she
picks up the phone
and dials
that call, that lure
from a feral hunter
to a wounded prey
soliciting capture
as I reach
for the ignoble
the knees, the elbows
the betwixt, the between
a door
to an orifice opens
revealing
our imminent doom
If flowers could speak,
I would put my words
in the mouth of roses,
so they whisper to your ears
"I love you".
If...
I would put my whole,
in lavender nosegays
so they can kiss you on the nose
and tell you how much I care.
@Stranja depoet
mergence of thoughts, look into that mirror,
one that begins underneath your child’s eyes —
slip a look, or like Alice
should your son or daughter slip into nonexistence...
do you see their head as a wastebucket
where you wad up lined paper
throw it into their basket...
could that you see the wrinkles that form
the worry lines like rivulets
all over her...his….non-discriminant face.
the jewel that dreams a longing
like the Nile belonging, hugging the coast.
don’t tower over a youth
like a strong babbling brawn.
look into the clear waters of their mind,
they become clearer all the time
at eye level with their thoughts,
strands behind the ears,
even the pimples on the nose —
suppose you love all of their apropos refrain.
suppose you dream their dreams too…
2/7/2020
i turns the quiet ex's into the exquisite
dying words on the page
losing definition as the ages past
Think you can work me out
Why do black bags open at the opposite side you rip you them from
I follow no from
morph the form
lines you don't realise move into an
otherwise watts the ewes
Same letters
old news
Stood before the burning fuse
The silence before the silence
Read or blew
If the one only knew
Looking for any cause
lost without
just be cause because
Raven beaks caws
Perfect are my flaws
Maent to brake the laws
Sew tell me what i am
No son of adam
west brings man to bat
No dream ushered
No hope of hope
No
nope
hide behind the verses
the other me has wrote
as the other me inside
dangles from a rope
see the toes twitching
as you boop me on the nose
looking for the right words
to finally
A Monotetra
You may see a fluttering bee,
in the forest, or on a leaf,
of some sweet and gummy tree;
leave him be, leave him be.
Perhaps he’ll hum around a flower,
in some green and mossy bower;
that little bee has oh, such power;
leave him be, leave him be.
He may alight upon a clover,
on the nose of your dog, Rover,
truly he will fly all over;
leave him be, leave him be.
Bees produce some wondrous honey,
thrilling to palate and tummy,
ever so deliciously yummy;
leave him be, leave him be.
Fuzzy little wuzzy things,
make honey that’s mouth-watering,
with tiny little ambitious wings;
leave him be, leave him be.
Little hexagonal houses, where they live,
cone for chewing, sweet treats to give;
distribute pollen, like a sieve;
leave him be, leave him be.
Honey is the healthy food,
sweetener that doesn’t change the mood,
it even makes great glue;
a friend is bee, a friend is bee.
Paddle hard in youths whirling foam
waiting for the perfect wave
on the nose of a silken board
sipping a glass of sweet champagne..
It's in the blood to ride fast and smooth
in the sweet-salty sun rise of our youth.
Enter the rogue, striking from beneath
nudging naivety from sun into valleys of cold teeth.
Upon the beach, the broken foam of youth's dream...
When the sun sets who'll be by our quartered side?
To read plastic eulogies when the champagne runs dry.
I was in a cafe the other day when a young woman came in,
with a seeing eye dog, she sat down close to where I was;
and I could not help but hear her talking to her dog,
in a loud and hateful way and then she hit him with the leash.
I was shocked and thought maybe the dog did something.
but she continued to hit him on the nose several times;
as an animal lover I was seething and could not stand it,
so I said to her, "STOP hitting your dog or I call the police!"
She responded, "mind your own business lady!"
so, I did call the police because I hated what was happening;
you would think she would be thankful to have this gift.
of a seeing eye dog . . . I hope the dog is taken away from her.
________________________________
May 23, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Sight Dog Abuse
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1146-449-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
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