scrolling
pantomine
alienated
messaging
if I ever meet myself
I probably wouldn't recognise me
I've changed a lot since then
the day I died
was a rainy one
but the sun came out
in the nick of time
I can laugh about it now
but it was a worry
let's escape tonight
leave this drum behind
without packing
without our phones
just take our scars
and sculptured bones
we notched upon each other
We will be together once again;
Lining mongst heaven’s host;
Meet in the spirit;
Presently future tense terrific;
Hallelujah;
Eventually in a little while;
Meet in the spirit;
In a short, short while;
While all the while in a twinkling of an eye;
Meet in the spirit;
We’re be together again ;
Meet in the spirit;
8/3/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2022©
Why do I write poetry?
It is something that helps me relax, like painting and cartooning.
Most of what I have written probably isn’t poetry at all
Just really short short short stories
When people ask for a specific type of poem I look it up
I can do a few things without researching them now
Ninette, nonette and sonnet are easy for me.
I do check the syllable count with howmanysyllables.com
Tanka I always have to look up, and it makes me feel silly.
Because it is only five lines. Why can’t I remember it?
Quintain and English quintain and quatrain are something I have to research.
I can do personalization, acronym and rhyme without research.
Free verse and light verse are easy.
Sometimes I know it is a narrative, not a poem at all.
A list poem is fun. I like doing them.
An abecedarian poem is a kick; it keeps my writing fresh.
Rhyme Royal I always have to look up. That’s okay.
Sometimes it is worth the research to create something new.
Short short story
Wit not whimsy
Very short takes
Crisp tale you make
Brisk word count here
Watch magic steer
Choice in brisk strokes
Mint poignant yoke
Think in warm feel
Wordplay now will
Flow in swift strides
Watch story glide
Finesse works zest
Micro tale quest
In a few lines
Panache works fine
Sketch not a lot
Ply precise plot
Tell in quick shot
More than a lot
Time in brisk poke
Unleash deep yoke
Textures spark mint
Reflect buzz tint
So here we go
Catch set glimpse lo!
Leon Enriquez
16 August 2018
Singapore
the road travelled like a momentous mountain,
the end game on its peak of distant shores.
a matrix of bubblegum ready to drop with coins
or a complex crazy quilt with lazy and diligent dyes.
a wheatfield that traverses the plains and hushes
introspection in its youth and snatches heads
in its short short time left on earth, breaking bread.
the fruit like vines hang onto the wrinkled cliffs.
a small boat in the waxing ocean waves, alone at last,
neither lauded nor drowned...what is is...salt on tongue,
the port on the silvered horizon. An anchor and rope leans
like a sailor approaching home with a resurrected smile.
6/17/2018
The Sitter
Nothing disturbed the tranquil air,
The tick, tick of the time-worn clock.
The sitter in the wooden chair
Not hearing the gentle, gentle knock.
An old, old man by the broken door,
Breathed in the still, still air.
The sitter looked but did know
The man who entered there.
‘Who are you?’ the sitter asked,
‘I am Memory?’ the man replied
As the quiet, quiet sitter gazed
Upon a face once recognised.
Memory, seeing no thought to share,
Lingered a short, short while
And the sitter in the wooden chair
Smiled a faint, faint smile
And the clock measured the stillness
As the man left the calm, calm room.
And the sitter sat in silence,
Alone in the still, still room.
Barry Stebbings
22/04/2016
BEETHOVEN'S FIFTH BY THE BOSONS
All the particles tune to play,
but in their quantum noted way.
They modulate a vibration,
in harmony with creation.
They will hit each note along the staff,
in vectored space they choreograph.
Joyous song together or apart,
they sketch for CERN their abstract art.
They dance in the lights of off or on,
and vibrate in a resonate song.
They have no care for an Orthogonal pair,
or in complex congegates performed with flair.
Instead they know just what is wrong,
and they compose, in short, short, long.
They voice the motif in notes of four,
It's a Symphony of Mass in score.
When Bosons play Beethoven's Fifth,
and though it's just CERN's Four One myth.
Bosons pretend with fun to hum,
that what they sing is Di-Di-Di-Dumm
rhythmic structure of a verse
study of metre prosody
patterns of syllables of types
stressed syllables at regular interval
qualitative
long short short dactyl
long long spondee in dead classics
alexandrine twelve syllables in french
five characters in chinese all rules then
people had lot of time to spare
sequence of feet is a metre too
stressed and unstressed like people
five iambic feet are iambic pentameter
paradise lost and sonnets
trochee is stressed unstressed reverse of iamb then
spondee anapest dactyl amphibrach pyrrhic
metric cousins
iamb in two anapest in three common modern english
unrhymed iambic penta is blank verse
bill and milton liked it rhymed pair of lines in
iambic is heroic couplet now for humor
you would have turned 31 today
and today i feel so sad
because you was only with us
such a short short time
then you went away
i remember the day you was born
and as we watched you grew
but your life here on earth cut short
devasting those you knew
you was the sweetest person
and your heart was generous and kind
although you,ve gone to be with our loved ones
your always in our hearts
and on our minds
so happy birthday scotty
it,s a day we,ll never forget
we wish we,d had more time with you
thats something we.ll always regret
thunder crashes. . . .
near the fireplace I inhale
rain’s scent in your hair
you snuggle
warmly in my arms. . . .
I taste your mouth
For Charles Henderson's
Short Short Haiku Poetry Contest
I’ve scraped together peace where I could find it
When sorrowed, I no longer feel the need to hide it
I’ve played the role again
Of a child’s favorite toy
Cherished for a short, short while
Then forgotten and cast away
Well, i no longer care...
Life will ever be unfair
But it goes on, so I should too,
and I’ll have to play this game
without you.
sorrylittlesharky.com
Here where there`s reason to mourn
Here where the rivers sob at all times,
Who would enter the day with a song?
Who would look at the glancing sun?
Who would dance where misery`s the beat?
Who would laugh where sorrow`s the joker?
In this place of ours
where the fear of the unknown
rages without end,
where misfortune pours upon our heads
her lover`s oil,
where all we do is die in short-short slices;
Who would rest?
Who would slumber?
Who is able to drink of sleep`s cup/
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