Still a child at heart
tho' older are some other parts
and only for a lark
back to my childhood here I hark
I remember a rhyme
in the far reaches of my mind
hickory dickory dock
the mice ran up the clock
the clock struck one
the mouse fell down
luckily the plucky other ducked
shucked and jived
escaped survived
got out alive
and ran away
to live another day
with relief and laughter
happily ever after
hickory dickory dock
21/2cups of flour( self rising)
2 tablespoons of cornstarch
2 whole eggs+ 1 yolk
2 Tablespoons of lemon juice
1 Tablespoon of Gin
1/2 Teaspoon of lemon zest
1 cup of bread crumbs
1 &1/2 cup of buttermilk
1 Tablespoon of cayenne pepper
2 tablespoon of dried chives
1 Teaspoon of salt
1 Table spoon of dehydrated onion
1 Tablespoon of garlic powder
1 Tablespoon of Paresean Cheese
3 cups of shucked Manoes
6 cups of oil for deep frying
mix all ingredeints
minus the clams
create a batter
add more or less to
create a sticky consistant batter
smooth
dip Manoes in the batte
and deep fry until golden brown
serve from a bed of watercrest
small cunks of deseed watermelon
crumbled feta
and fried onions with crumbled bacon
lettuce, fried green tomatos
and a vinagerette
serve with tartar sauce
Enjoy!
I’ve lived up
till now
with my thumb
in life’s eye
In reckless
abandon
I shucked
and I jived
No virgin
was safe
no harlot
denied
The wages
of sin
my fortune
— allied
(Dreamsleep: October, 2024)
It was just lying there on the floor
like a poem I had abandoned,
left for dead, considered trash
Not a breath did it take
No thrashing to behold
I'd not witnessed its death
in the making, truth be told
but I knew with every instinct
so I hung my head this morning
in respectful mourning
Its eyes, I'd only imagined
winked at me while I stared in shock
wondering where was its winged flock
to have left it here all alone
to have its feathers plucked
like an oyster that'd been shucked
eaten by a hungry mouth
left to decay were its tiny bones
when it should've been flying south
I knelt to whisper of my sorrow
for this stiff fallen sparrow
who would never see another morrow
and grieved for its remains until
I was aghast but relieved to see
its outstretched wings
had deceived my blurry eyes
What joy it brought me to realize
this bird was not of flesh and blood
but an Origami work of art
While I was riding across the sagebrush
I happened upon this soft running creek
My face and neck were burning just a bit
my stomach was getting a little weak
Seemed like a decent place to rest a spell
and from my mare I jumped down to the ground
I pulled the saddle from Jilly Gal's back
so she could take a drink and graze around
I wet my bandanna in the water
it was as cool as the mountains in snow
So I shucked off my dusty cowboy boots
and let that water run across my toes
While sitting there I started a thinking
when was the last time a bath I had seen
So I stripped right on down to my long john's
and I decided I would plunge right in
Now my old bones are feeling much better
as I spread across the grass in the sun
If ever a time I've been happier
I am not sure I can come up with one
Do your dance across the rocks you ripples
and gurgle for me a jolly old tune
I'm pretty darn sure I won't be riding
away from this spot anytime too soon
Here Lies The Body of Old Man Peas…
“A merry heart does good like a medicine..” – Proverbs 17:22
A woman went to the funeral of a deceased friend and heard a poem that she absolutely loved. It went like this: “Here lies the body of old man peas, buried beneath the flowers and trees, but peas ain’t here, just the pod, peas shucked out and went to God.” When her husband of 50 years passed, she thought that it would be the perfect poem to recite at his funeral. She stood up and began the poem but as she looked out at the crowd she began to get nervous and it came out like this: “Here lies the body of old man peas, buried beneath the flowers and trees, but peas ain’t here, just the shell……..”and then came the awkward silence.
Copied from the internet. I do not know who is the author.
County country corn
Grown naturally from the farm
Picked and stock, shucked and plucked
Crop has been givin up
There’s a new plow spaced aged somehow
I’m sure hungry now farmers come git mi corn plowed
10/23/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2021©
Idyll (Idyl)
Rachel took an apple
And held it in her hand.
She beckoned to me sweetly
Saying, “Wouldn’t it be grand
To find ourselves in Eden
In a fig leaf wonderland?"
Rachel ate a grapefruit
And made herself a mess.
I watched and got excited
As it dribbled down her chest.
She licked her lips and giggled,
“Darlin’, you can have the rest.”
Rachel peeled a carrot
Held firmly in her grip,
And told me as she stroked it
From its base down to its tip,
“Some creamy Caesar dressing
Makes a mighty tasty dip.”
Rachel shucked an oyster,
With a swift and graceful swirl,
Its tender pink flesh glistened
Wet around its precious pearl.
Said, “This is how to do it
If you want to please your girl.”
We placed a pine box casket on a sawhorse table.
There weren’t but little notice, did as best we able.
I watched the flowers wilting in the heat of August.
It seemed a shameful squander given what they cost us.
She was a stoic widow, though a might diminished.
She clutched a carved wood angel, one he never finished.
Then came a stovepipe preacher, smelled of hair slick tonic.
He kept his manner formal and his speech laconic.
It was a simple service in a smoke wood setting,
Another taproot sermon I’d be soon forgetting.
He hammered nail to cross the way the Good Book reckon,
“All sinners need God’s mercy when The Judgment beckon.”
He spoke some other hoo-ha ‘bout “The Lord's forgiveness,”
And I just shucked it off to get about my business.
I might be pissin’ sawdust when it come to prayer,
But when they toss on vittles, count me first hoss there.
It was one stop on the highway
along a long desert road.
Billy said, “wake up”.
I thought it was some kind of code.
I stumbled out
into the sun's glare;
if there was an answer
I didn't see it out there.
I shucked down my trousers
and pissed in the sink
all the while thinkin'
I could sure use a drink.
A lizard was climbing
the wall to my right
and I almost remembered
a scene from last night...
but then Billy knocked
on that cheap paneled door
and that sweet memory
wasn't there any more.
I walked back outside...
collapsed in my seat...
Joe pushed the pedal
and I fell back to sleep.
When a battery corrodes it leaks
but life, life slow burns,
nothing leaks out
until the energy explodes.
Peaceful and violent death may come
but inner death is a birthing
it cycles and recycles many times
a slow burn
until that womb you hide and carry
from one dark node to another
that too explodes.
Then the light shovels you out
one smoldering organ at a time
until you are full of a hollow grace,
then you can take your leave,
and die in the world shucked
from flesh-stealing time,
but the surprise is in the fuse
(it always is),
that will bring you wide-eyed
to an afterlife as if its length
had not stuttered or spluttered
for one instant
since the thought of you existed.
Yesterday’s sweet corn
now rests among the shucked,
where norms’ victims lay.
Side-by-side in rusty silos,
awaiting the gristmill;
dull substance feeds the masses.
Look at us, Mr. Kipling.
What became of “The Man Who Would Be King”?
Laugh at us.
Anesthetized aspirations
embalmed by mediocrity,
hacks without hopes rest in a garden of low expectations.
Individuality sacrificed,
we are the dull fruit
carried in coffins created by conformity.
What is left to feed the next generation,
but the seeds of monotony
without a kernel of creativity?
*May 26, 2018
Daffodils are here.
Lilacs are whispering.
The earthworms rule.
Tomatoes are green.
Tulips are having tea.
The earthworms rule.
The green peas need shucked.
The marigolds are splashing.
The earthworms rule.
Garden is alive.
There is buzzing of the bees
The earthworms rule.
Garden is greening
But Papa is going fishing.
Earthworms are now gruel.
If Mama’s Glider Could Talk
Cold days, hot days, in between days,
The red glider rocked on the gingerbread porch;
Where Mama shucked beans, or mended seams,
And visited with comers all.
She was quiet, my Mama was
And would never repeat a tale,
Kept her opinions to herself,
And rocked the red glider well.
There was Dickie, the paper boy,
He told her of his girl,
And how his daddy abused him,
And Mama rocked the red glider well.
The young and lonely bride from across the street,
Came to visit, ‘til hubby finished his work day;
He wouldn’t take her out or help;
The little red glider rocked away.
Her own daughter and her intended,
Kissed there their first time in the fall,
Life lived and loved and grew on it,
And the little red glider rocked for it all.
Little children did “tricks” on the grass,
Daisies bloomed against the wall,
It was just old-time psychiatry,
And the little red glider heard it all.
I swept the floor, but it's dirty again...pretty much what I expected.
The accumulation of dirt and grim is something safe to have projected.
If cleanliness is a thing which one truly desires
Then cleaning is an act that never can expire.
Objects long to air exposed become receptacles of dust disposed.
Dirt of itself does indeed deface, yet everything has it's own place.
Emptiness seeks to fill it's space; cleanliness seems imposed by our human race.
Yet it's kind to the eye, I can't deny: a shiny floor scrubbed soundly with lye.
Reflection glimpsed, a sweaty smile; arms crossed tiredly on broom over tile.
Floor been swept, job now done, I think one deserves a break.
Tools shucked, apron undone, now's the time for leave-taking take.
But while you're gone, worry not, for the floor dirty once again becomes.
So, rest assured, my dear friend, for the job will always need be done.
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