He wasn’t supposed to jump.
He only wanted the peanuts.
But one curious sniff near the open door
and suddenly~
there he was,
parachute blooming behind him
like a startled balloon animal.
His goggles fogged with fear,
his tail doing interpretive dance,
he squeaked something that sounded
very much like
“I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS.”
Yet as the wind carried him downward,
he began to relax~
realizing that even accidental heroes
get a pretty spectacular view.
“Let this chicken remind you: linger too long in August heat, and you’ll end up feather-frazzled and fried in spirit.”
This chicken looks as though the sun itself
has grabbed it by the feathers and declared,
“You shall be my cautionary tale.”
Its crest shoots skyward—an exclamation mark
of poultry panic—while its eyes, wide as
two over-boiled eggs, broadcast pure despair.
August has wrung it out like a damp rag
forgotten on a porch rail. Every plume
is standing in protest, muttering,
“I did not sign up for this climate.”
It is the portrait of a creature fried
not by oil, nor skillet, nor recipe~
but by the merciless heat that turns
even the proudest barnyard citizen
into a frazzled, feathered tragedy.
Call it fried chicken if you must,
but note the truth behind the joke:
this one’s been sautéed by the sun itself,
and it is absolutely done.
Everything was turning green.
The trees had started budding.
Tulips just now breaking ground,
New life through topsoil flooding.
Then it happened, light at first,
Flurries drifting down.
Then heavier, blowing sideways,
Covering the streets of town.
The wind so fierce near blew me down.
The snow was at my ankles.
It's Spring gol-durn-it, what is this!
This insult really rankles.
It was warm with singing birds,
And budding trees and flowers.
We shouldn't have this blizzard now.
We should have gentle showers.
Then one thing came to my mind,
Pro-Vin-Chee-Ul E-Ner-Sha !
The sign up on the highway says,
Welcome To Alberta.
From the early days of your inclusion
in the ranks,
marching in formation.
Some of you fighter pilots, clerical,
galley workers, medics, nurses,
doctors, mechanics.
When fear met courage,
some of you died with your
brothers,
a duty of sacrifice,
sisters in arms.
It takes such bravery to sign up-
women in uniform be proud,
labors of the soul and body,
sweat, determination, grit.
When your career peaks,
you’ll carry your legacy wherever
you are,
as you age in grace,
sisters in arms.
Someday buried with your brethren,
the taps will play for all of you,
in the revered resting place of
rolling lawns.
Sisters and brothers in arms.
although I love to say that word.
It feels as satisfying
in the mouth
as shampoo,
ostentatious ostrich,
and titillatingly,
or crestfallen.
Language is
limitless
and so is a
persnickety woman
in the morning (me)
cleaning up the kitchen
after her husband starts work
and her preteen goes to school.
My men stomp
around the house
like a herd of
unwashed elephants!
Green dishes go together.
Coffee cups should be
arranged
on the same shelf!
Doesn’t anyone
clean the counters
anymore?!
Or is this house
becoming a
collection of scattered
crumbs and dirt?!
I’ll put a sign up:
“All ants welcome”
I wear the same shoes,
Every single freaking day,
They probably smell...
I want to sign up,
I talked to a recruiter,
I might just wash out...
Talking to old friends,
Is NOT a good idea,
Jojo was the worst...
I spent time in jail,
It was a pain in the ass,
I did get out though...
I have a few friends,
They probably are liars,
I have to move on...
He was there standing at the corner on a medium. He held a sign up, he was dressed
ragged, as his sign said, I'm hungry.
Give anything, anything appreciated.
He didn't have a dime yet and his reflection.
The Sun shone on him.His shoes were clean, not dirty.They looked new
Yet he didn't have a dime, a shopping cart beside him, turned upside down from Target, he embellished his eyes glared, and stared as I approached him, I stopped at the stoplight, I rolled the window down, he said. God bless you, sir.His shoes better than mine.His shoes
AND YET HE DIDN'T HAVE A DIME
His mouth formed sounds of pleas urpolled out from his lips.\nThe shopping cart he had upside down.He used as a seat
Those sincere and not deemed vulgar.\nI had no cash , no change on me
I too smile in reply, God's grace and blessings to you sir
I too do not have a dime?
2/22/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2026
Each day is the same; we all sit here and wait,
listening for the sound of the chains on the gate.
You see, that’s our signal; that’s our cue;
that’s how we know what we're to do.
We all soon learn what each sound is for,
even before someone's open the door.
We get excited when the laundry is clean,
the high point of our week is the day we get canteen!
For an hour of TV, we all rush to line up;
even to take a shower we have to sign up.
Everyone gets quiet when they're doing mail call,
maybe good news for some, but not for all.
Yes, each day is the same, we all sit here and wait;
listening for that sound of the chains on the gate.
One day soon, they'll be sounding for me,
and I'll walk out these doors, finally free!
I had to change
email addresses.
I couldn't keep up
with the alt accounts—
ten helpings
of the same subject.
you know they're automatic?
after you sign up
you have to go to settings,
unenroll—
seems like too much.
I'd miss
dopamine's dinner bell—
notifications.
Only to remember:
I was the commenter.
It's a rush
worth the risk—
a chance,
to re-visit myself,
dressed
in your jumper.
We left our Nation's sign up on the Moon,
with footprints clear, and flag still standing tall.
A stepping stone to future times in space?
Or wars to claim the Moon- never to share?
Our footprints live- these years have not erased
the glory of that day we etched its sand.
Some have placed flags- but not by human hands,
and woe the day they fight to seize the Moon;
to change it from the Earth's celestial scene-
to victory, they'd seize through cosmic wars.
Now, this framed poem I would send up there
as my heartfelt memento on the Moon-
pray that my words inspire countries to share
its vantage point to leap from and explore!
Ambience
Ambience wants to
sign up garden plants with collections of
not big white flowers to
work for
free as
ATM security guards. But it’s too shy to
do it.
You’re taking a stroll (more like speed walking) down the street,
And if you’re anything like me,
You’ll most likely trip on thin air
And bam, you’ve fractured your leg
(No, I’n not an anorexic with osteoporosis)
As it is with accidents, so it is with love.
Just as you may fall and hurt yourself on a run,
Getting hurt is part of the deal when you sign up for intimacy.
You’ll hurt people you love, and they’ll hurt you too.
And before you know it,
They become a language you are no longer fluent in, but still remember how to read.
(I’m talking about you Sanskrit)
It doesn’t take being a doctor to know, that wounds take time to heal.
Broken bones and broken hearts are akin.
In the meantime, how do you hold on to the hope that you’ll run again after a fractured leg?
What if you’re left with a permanent limp instead?
A haunting reminder of only what was, every time you take a step.
Some call it courage, and others a fool’s venture,
The cycle of rupture and repair ensues,
Time begins to work its magic,
Limp as you may,
You’ll muster strength to take a stroll once again.
Life goes quickly growing up from the use of a commodore 65.
Perforated print paper
Really takes your energy.
Fold and Tear!
Fold and Tear!
Every so often the edges
With the holes placed every millimeter amuse me for atleast five minutes.
Jump to ten years later as I sign up for my first email through AOL.
Still my main for sure contact or solid way for anyone to reach me, I stand firm in its support.
Life trickles down into o the earth’s core where warmth and safety from the information super highway can be found.
Wait, so what happens if polarity introverts?
Oh the earth shoots a bunny
In seventh grade I should have known better
Than to sign up for dissecting in this kind of weather
It was stormy and dark, the sky was gloom and doom.
In the lab, I fished my frog out of his box-like tom.
I poked him with my knife to make a little slice.
His eyes popped open, which was not incredibly nice.
He stuck out his tongue and ran around the table.
Whose frog is that? Asked the teacher, named Mable.
The chase was on. He was quicker than light.
I grabbed him again and tried to hold on tight.
I ended up letting him go, that Halloween day.
Frog who refused to die on a day that was gray.
If you want to sign up for the Jupiter mission
Here is the catch: you have to be serious.
And you have to have $100,000 you are willing to lose
Because if the space ship blows up,
Or if the expedition is cancelled,
Of if the sponsor takes the money,
There are no refunds.
Only two people signed up.
A mother and son.
Who could not read the small print
Where all of this stupidity was printed.
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