I’m ordering a pack of seeds
For planting near my house.
Some flowers near a home is
An idea that I espouse.
If I plant black-eyed Susans
And, with luck, they really sprout,
I’ll surely smile each time
I’m coming home or going out.
Their color pops with happiness
And with their middle dot,
Or so-called “eye,” they paint a picture
I like quite a lot.
My thumb’s the opposite of green
So I won’t be surprised
If the seeds I plant don’t give me
Blooms the packets advertised.
Still, it’s not a big investment
To procure and plant some seeds,
For a dash or rain and sun and hope
Is all somebody needs.
2025.1.31
Third and final formal celebration day.
Three main days of CNY,
Have peacefully enjoyed by many Chinese.
The affluent people will continue
Celebrate upto 14 days.
The red packets, AngPao or lixi
Will be given out to friends and distance relatives.
I had given two to BB,
I believe he is single and still available.
This Sunday, the Lions dances
Will be demonstrated in the Melbourne CBD.
The Fortune tellers, palm readers, caligraphor,
And many others will be there,
The traditional New Year Chinese songs and dances
Are the entertainments of the event.
Arts and Crafts, food and drinks
Will be available for people to gain energy.
Happy Chinese New Year.
May everyone be safe, happy, healthy and has lot of money in the year of Snake.
In the bottom of a drawer,
where rusted nails and screws gather dust,
never used to mend the house
we swore we’d build together,
my dreams lie waiting.
In the back,
with the dried-up ketchup packets
we thought would stretch the hard days,
but never opened—
you’ll find remnants of hope
wrapped in crinkled edges.
Tossed in an overfilled closet,
crushed beneath the weight
of your unpacked clothes—
the pieces I kept
after you left—
they’re hidden there too.
And in the basement,
where clutter grows like ivy,
where portraits we barely recall
prop up the cobwebs—
those fragile threads of time—
don’t let them fall.
I think I left part of me
down there as well.
Scattered like puzzle pieces
from a hurried Christmas morning,
left unfinished as we rushed
to places we never wanted to go.
Or maybe they’re like the tire tracks
carved into the mud from journeys
that never mattered,
etched into the earth
and fading into memory.
This is the Kingdom of Forgotten Things.
It's a soup that's made to order never from a store
A little bouillon treat that's filled with herbs galore
Not the kind you get from packets, no not that kind !
with itty bitty chicken bits it has onions you can find.
I start with chicken base then add a clove of garlic,
turmeric and salt with a dash of home made magic.
I simmer for an hour while the veggies steam & swim,
singing in a playful voice, "a little blessed hymn".
I start with a clean counter then tuck my hair right in
wearing pinafore of white, with little ducks that swim
I stew it then I stir it, with a large wooden spoon
telling funny stories to a soup that cooks til' noon
Made with love and kindness, it really hits the spot,
I cook it just like mama did, when I was just a tot.
It's a soup that's made to order, never from a store,
this little bouillon treat is filled with herbs galore.
Enjoy !
junk drawer clean-up is scheduled today
tape
ribbons
rubber bands
pencils
pens
rulers
small notebooks
matches
candles
bungee cords
dog collar
flashlight
wrench
pliers
scissors
maple syrup packets
I need all of these things I think
as I shut the drawer.
I like my soup fresh.
Not that stuff from cans or dried-up in packets.
Soup needs time to simmer ...
Releasing savory ingredients from around the world
That recipes intend to convey.
Impossible to replicate, exactly,
As the Chef would want or hope.
But sharing is essential. We do the best we can.
Expressing our inner selves
With a little more of this or a little less of that.
Each creation a bit different or something completely new.
My taste buds love surprises!
So many flavors from every edge of the globe.
An Art that will never be extinguished or fade away.
You and I are a rare commodity.
Thank you for letting me sit at your round table.
And you'll always be welcome at mine.
Sat writing this, in memory of my pal Danny K
Just a few pints and a couple packets crisps, is what we used to say
I just wanted you to know, ill be forever grateful that we met
Ill hold on to the memories we made, all too good to forget
So much left to say, now there just words left unspoken
Hard to believe your really gone, many hearts left broken
You changed my life in ways you'll never know
Absolutely devastated it was your time to go
Off up to paradise pal, where they only take the best
May you be at peace, may you be at rest
if the rain were to fall
and the sky were to bubble in clouds
would you return to me
would you clean the wounds of my life
and sacrifice some of your soul for my own
what is it in this world
that hardens our hearts and strangles love
we have died every day among the beauty
yet, we are drawn to the ugliness of sin
to willingly burn in the candle's flame
if i had lived pure
would you give in and carry
me to places i've only dreamed of
caress me as a child and
love me as a lover from your past
bring forth the packets of pain, gather among us
in a reunion of regret, in a sea of solitudes
as the rain begins to fall from the bubbling clouds
washing the dust from our spirits as we rise
forever and forever free
C2023 Thomas Lee Rhymes - April 21, 2023
The Drawer
In the drawer in the kitchen,
there is a bit of this,
some of that,
and everything else!
Well, nearly so.
There is tape, and string,
and a funny thing...
there is no name at all to describe.
It came with the pizza and never left in the trash.
There is a screw, a nut... no bolts for now,
several nails,
a nail file,
and pieces of a broken fingernail too.
"Why not throw it out?" I shout.
No one listens.
I made rolls this morning.
They came in a can.
There was frosting included too.
Another... small plastic "perfect" dish
I will include with the fish sauce packets
from last week...
and together they will join
the membership of the drawer...
to be included in the chaos
that is our lives.
arriving thirty two minutes early
opportunity to sit in the sun without apology
I observe people waddle in and out
this is a restaurant with unhealthy food
my favorite kind
I have written eight poems so far
my friend has fourteen minutes left
I could probably build a haunted house out of sugar packets
if I sat at a booth and waited
I choose to sit here in the sun
soaking up rays like a happy cat as I write
We used to label our Iowa garden at the end of the rows with seed packets.
We would plant the row first, sprinkiing the teensy seeds and covering them.
Then we would nail the seed packet to the stake at the end of the row.
Like little soldiers we saw peas packets, carrot packets, radish packets.
Lettuice packets, potato packets, green bean packets, rows and rows of them.
Mom always threw in two rows of flowers - usually marigolds and zinnias.
Dad rolled his eyes, but I think he liked them too; we kids did also.
Our table always had fresh vegetables, berries and mushrooms from nature.
The rest of the field next to the garden was left to plant corn. Big juicy corn.
We lived in Iowa, so we never had to label corn; everyone recognized it.
Suppression ..
cracking open the flesh.
Never suppress the
Feeling of the soul
This inner oppression
Is not just foam
It is a fine thread
You need a needle
To sow close packets of regrets
And mistakes you have buttoned up
Looking through what
You had to do.
Those hole's ..
Have control over you.
Suppression
Stabs and tears you..
Gash you on the inside..
The hole's suppressed
Stitch and heal them
Ditch or seal them
Beat suppression
Defeat it's fierce force
Eliminate repression
Before pieces i become
Don't waste time
It's too precious..
And precious can become ..
Previous.
Previous will become
Sadly.
Sadly such as ..
If I only had ..
Like you had to do.
Suppression
It has expired
it is finished
gone.
Hush hush little heart
No more deal's
Merry merry go round
Lovely lively times ahead.
I knew when I was pulling on my turquoise boots that Skunk would appear.
she is my semi-pet bunny; thinking herself feral, but I feed her kibble.
perfect gardening weather today; I till rows, mark them with seed packets.
peas, beans, carrots, radishes, lettuce, and one row of zinnias and sunflowers.
Mom always planted at least two rows of flowers in her garden.
fuchsia cone flowers, hollyhocks, bluebells, which came up “renegade.” Laugh.
by the time I returned to the potting shed, my autumn scarecrow was waving.
he does that on a breezy day. Tomorrow I told Skunk, seeing a fox yonder.
Smoke without fire
attention held in packets of time
each quanta a hypnotic trance
to live in it fully by immersion
thus choosing drop in awareness
why for should we not delight
upon waking up in the void
sans attachment, as a bliss mist
dwelling in but not of the world
ephemeral life is but smoke
19-January-2023
Santa's thrashing around in acute pain
No gifts due to bottlenecked supply chain
What was Santa to do
To achieve a breakthrough
He'd snap up packets of Chinese Chow Mein
Related Poems