I'm a poet
And I don't know it
My rhyme destroys
My pen is poised
To trickle out
Some tale about
A butterfly
Or sunset sky
As sweet as jam
With rhythm slam
Dunk in your tea
My soliloquy
I'm a poet
Happy to show it
So on your bike
As I drop the mic
You may have guessed
If you passed the test
As you peruse
This lyrical muse
That no comp will claim
This shot at fame
My Shakespearean blooper
Hardly 'poetry super'
When the quill is dry
Or my muse is shy
Or the peripatetic
Pen pleads "pathetic"
I turn in shame
When love's words are lame
Yet in hopeful reason
This may be the season
Of drought, no doubt
It may be a good shout
Though my lack I berate
Truth is; seasons rotate
To conclude, I am hopeful
I can re-shape the doleful
Convert all this stressin'
I'm a poet.
(no messin')
‘Turbulent Tulips’
cannot be translated to Vietnamese
Neither can
~ ‘Peripatetic Peonies’
He had pals once, he had mates,
he once, twice and many times after
had women.
He had a hat but he lost that.
Lost the girls, lost pals, lost mates.
He had to admit
that all he once knew were disappearing,
he himself, was disappearing,
bits of him
had already been cut out
to be burnt up in Hospital incinerators.
The details of those many far flung places,
(all his peripatetic wanderings),
were disappearing one by one,
one temple,
one hotel, one mountain at a time.
One day he will awake
get himself ready to go out to walk his dog,
then remember to late,
that his dog had disappeared
about the same time
they both got throat cancer.
For now, he instinctively checks his pockets
for whatever is left.
a
taxonomical
neo-geo
connoisseur
moves on again
to
a totemic
astonishment
of many
yet
stifling
in every sense
&
in it all
prosaic
inspiration
poetically described
as
dystopian reimaginings
of flotsam
a natural
detritus
embedded
yet
not belonging
littered with empty
kitsch
inlaid with
a peripatetic
identity
&
linguistic
incomprehensiblity
a
perfected
undertaking
before
disillusionment
was growing
into
an insular
mutely
societal moment
a
tormented
self-portrait
to
reflect
the days
but instead
depicted
a recognition
of
largely passing
decades
hoisted
&
seared
in
a
retrospective
survey
Fifteen years in the same apartment,
before that twenty-five years in a bungalow.
Earlier still; digs, dumps and bedsits.
Peripatetic ambulation's
traveling in circles.
Left that world, travelled
met myself coming and going.
Saw the reaper
he had the eyes of a child.
Fell in with the dangerous kind,
loved many a bold faced liar,
misused the tender-hearted
spat at the devil; he wore a mask
behind that mask was a loving God
dancing on skulls.
Took a train up to the highest mountain
that a train can reach
and no further,
but it got me here into a recliner
musing over a cold beer
and a string of dwellings
pulled now like empty carriages
behind some derailed thoughts.
Shakespeare found nothing esthetic about peripatetic
Kazantzakis and Joyce found it maudlin, bathetic
Dickens and Dickinson thought it alarmingly phrenetic
I’d use the word in my poems, frankly it’s asyndetic*
_______________________________________________
*denoting the omission of a conjunction between two parts
of a sentence.
Particularly peripatetic
penguins pursue pharmacological
possibilities perusing polar
predator proboscis predilections,
predominantly picking putrified,
phenobarbital-packed perch-piece puree
packings, provocatively presented.
----------
I wish I could have gotten a rhyme in there as well,
but that's an alliterative Pleiades with 10-syllable lines.
It's also a near summary of the latest escapades over on
the collaborative limerick thread in forums...
Come join us!
Four lines -- seven, eight, nine:*
kaleidoscopic kangaroo
leaping 'cross lagoons of blue
splashed peripatetic porcupine
who shot a quill at her behind
___________________________________
*The next 4 lines have 7, 8, or 9 syllables...
It’s impossible to stay
any length of time in the garage
without feeling lonely – which I am not,
only crowds bring me loneliness.
At one time, I had planned to drink a bottle of bourbon,
and smoke an expensive cigar in that garage,
then blow my brains out.
That was when the cancer diagnosis
dropped into my lap like a dead bird.
I wallowed in a hissy-pool of self-pity
until I sensed that even the lonely garage
begged me to shut the hell up.
We have mice, and sparrows,
the mice live quietly raising mousy pipsqueaks
that pip and squeak behind deeply piled boxes.
The sparrows are peripatetic,
coming and going at will,
don’t ask how, it’s a mystery.
The garage has this one mood
that does not change with the seasons.
It makes space for me despite the lack of room.
It sighs when I sigh,
It casts a mirroring shadow,
makes that shadow whisper into my ears.
Waits patiently
for me to say something out loud
then it gets quiet,
a sense of being found, but still lost
steals over me.
It’s then, at those times, I still wish
for a good smoke and a bottle
of Kentucky moonshine.
Revenant
Swept in a vortex of woes
a lone silhouette concede wailing
Voice distinctly stentorian
encompass to heal cerebral ailing
Mysterious entity furtively
shepherds a peripatetic revenant
Wilderness safeguard not forsake
sentient beings repentant
09/03/2016
3:52 a.m.
Aboard cruise ship:
Vision Of The Seas
AWAITING SNOWFLAKES
ALONE TAMPING BEATEN TRAIL IRREPRESSIBLY HEARTBROKEN
MENACING SKY TORMENT A PERIPATETIC DISENCHANTED SOUL
TEARY EYED SHE PONDERS FORSAKEN WISH LONG FORGOTTEN
COURAGE TRANSCEND DEFEAT AWATING SNOWFLAKES TO FALL
12/19/2013
2:54 p.m.
W.P.B Florida
My peripatetic parrot went to sea
where he met a perspicacious chickadee
He courted her a bit too parsimoniously
For this peccadillo, she ensured he couldn't pee
This vexing pencil in turgid fingers I gracelessly hold
Sorcerer's lead conjures up casuistic captions, fools' gold
My peripatetic purple pen winks at my commands
Dancing to a distant drummer on sun-scorched parchment sands
A cunning keyboard mocks me, in cast-iron briefcase locked
Contrarian bent, loaded for bear, at my Muse pointed and cocked
What with erasers missing and forever low on toner ink
It's a wonder the poetic process has not driven me to drink!
Jesus Torment - The Villanelle Of The Bible--
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
It was just so dear and energetic
Never had he known anything so royal
That morning, Jesus was shocked by the thimbles
He found himself feeling rather synthetic
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
Later, he realized that the bible was antibacterial
He thought the situation had become rather theistic
Never had he known anything so royal
Paul tried to distract him with a libel
Said his mind had become too peripatetic
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
Jesus took action like a scheible
The bible was becoming too genetic
Never had he known anything so royal
Jesus nosedived like a imperfect human
His mind became dangerously arithmetic
Jesus couldn't stop thinking about the bible
Never had he known anything so non royal
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2019©
The Rolling Stones
Gather no moss
Not with Mick Jagger
Their peripatetic boss
They travel first-class
Partake of the sauce
As the globe they crisscross
Sipping the finest liquers
~ Discarding the dross
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