honking expletives
an irate driver
aggressively gestures
at my patient attitude
and the gaggle of geese
crossing in single file…
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Limerick Syllables : 9,9,7,7,9.
Now there once was a Scotsman named Milt,
And he tripped on a stair with a tilt.
Bounced on each step single file.
He jumped up wearing a smile.
Now we all know what is under his kilt.
Gray Blue, by Lisa Norton
Gray skies. Gray cement walls. Gray gravel. Gray emotion as I lead myself single file into the long line that yet again stands before me.
Yellow shirts. Yellow skin. Yellow anxiety within the veins. How can it be so lonely in a place so full?
White pads. White eyes. White teeth. Nothing is so white as when remembered. Purity lost. The white cloud has long since passed.
Brown plastic. Brown squares. Brown rectangles. Their corners are soft. The delivery of process is rude, yet the sentiment is understood.
Pink Polish. Pink nail. Pink singing on the neighbor’s radio. There is never silence. Silence offends the slightest offender.
Black print. Black boots. Blackened hearts. At least I pretend. No point when all advantage is taken of remote beauty here.
Red eyes. Red sun. Red uniform. Everyone face the wall. Don’t look. Do not make waves in this red sea of animosity.
Blue spirit. Blue thoughts. Blue as LeAnn Rymes sang. But he told me, “the skies are bluer”. Ahead, the clarity is awash. Blue days.
infant shoots grass dew
red ants single file march bold
april first mow day
The most recognizable album cover in history, the photo of the
Beatles crossing Abbey Road, taken in the summer of sixty nine,
fifteen minutes before noon on August eight to be précised.
An iconic album cover for the image resonated with the fans.
There are wall posters of this photo and it seems men, my age,
in music industry have one in their living rooms or studios.
The photograph of the most influential band in the world walking
on a zebra crossing became one of the most imitated of all time.
I am one of those who imitated it five months ago, 19 of October
at eleven fifty in the morning, when we had photos taken crossing
Abbey Road, amidst a busy road in northwest London in St. John’s Wood
in the city of Westminster, outside Abbey Road Studios, formerly EMI.
We crossed Abbey Road in single file with me leading, followed by my
daughter and my granddaughter with our fourth person, my grandson
taking the pictures so he was not included, kind of disappointing.
How I wish we were there on October 9, John Lennon and my birthday.
The Fab Four crossing Abbey Road in single file, led by John in white suit
and shoes, followed by Ringo in black suit and shoes, bare footed Paul
in gray suit and George in denim and white shoes, all in synced with left
foot forward, except Paul and their short shadows inside the crossing.
Tree and parked car lined road under a clear blue sky, brown flats
peeking or towering the green trees and a bystander on the right
side and cars in both lanes a long way off, no traffic, no pedestrians
on a sunny, midday, based on the shadows in Abbey Road in London.
No album title, no band’s name and no artist name, just an image so
simple and memorable, the band casually crossing Abbey Road in a
moment of stillness that became one of the famous artworks in
history and album cover of all time and one of the most imitated.
Silence pierced through the thick blanket
Of his thoughts, heretofore plagued
By a quaff of exhaled tobacco,
Spiralling and somersaulting in the air,
Like a fierce missile
Sent on a sinister mission,
Before mercilessly, ricocheting
Against the backdrop of his unassuming ceiling
There he stood
Imagining the gigantic impact
Of a tiny veil of vapor
As it burst forth from his nostrils
In a single file, before spreading it's renegade black wings,
Intimidatingly traversing every corner of the room;
He googled as the vapor ascended in a frenzy,
Like a gush of morning Dew,
Swaddling the orbit,
Before being subdued by a battalion of torrential rain,
Descending from the sky defiantly;
To proclaim the Cacophony and preponderance
Of the generic nature of life.
Night Whispers hearing it's own tune
subjected to the light the switch
is turned on while people are living in the room
cordial circumstance light and reprimand
everyone single file leading out the house
as they do a dance impeccable unexplainable
is the march of life
before you close your eyes this night
you better think twice
for the blemish that is in your soul
is the shame you won't let go
1/13/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2024
(A lone voice speaks to a crowd of poets)
You do know everyone has their own magical style
A style filled with such wild illustrious promises and kaleidoscope's of such deep vivid depths
For in poetry
No stone is left uncovered,
Ranging from life to death
Whispers of love’s wild explosive adrenaline filled triumphs
Everlasting hope or altarpieces of self-fulfillment
Descents into darkness
Opening portals to dimensions of festive destruction
And at the core for the inquisitive
The Red Flag
The smiling frown
Up or down
The fire to ignite a curious reader's eyes to the soul
That really matters
Is the what
Why and guile
It's quite simple
It's why everyone has their own magical style
For there is no guide to the labyrinth of the mind
When you enter poetry's smiling black and white turnstiles
And line up to read or write
With so many other groups of people who are still walking or standing still in history
In single file
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Swans steam across the lake.
Streaming in, heads held high.
Strung out in single file.
Stippling surface with wakes.
Signaling flock to join.
Sensing storm clouds brewing,
Shuddering storm ahead.
The One who made this Earth
llooks upon my devices with a flavorful derision.
A reaction I perceived to be fear,
which could very well be an illusion
just like the remainder of all physical truths.
The structure itself is impressive in it's design,
but lacks any real stability or constant.
And so it falls into a domino chain that spans from the bitter end of time,
to the temptress folds of a deep, warm nothing
I will not fall pray to such abstractions.
I shall jump through this shrinking circle
this agent of death and disorder
that drags me from agonal season to fleeting episode, to second, and second, in a single file line,
and leave this petty game.
Here we go, all start with a left grand.
Apples in pies and peaches are canned.
Lost my partner waddle I do?
Single file promenade they’ll be back to you.
Flies in the buttermilk shoo fly shoo.
Sashay back to your darlin waitin for you.
Don’t hold her too tight she might be frail.
Allemande left, don’t be slow like a snail.
Now do-si-do here we go, keep on the trail.
And never tie a knot in a Guinea Pig‘s tail.
Swing your partner, where’s she gone?
Most fun you can have with all ya clothes on.
Now all join hands and circle wide.
Don’t tread on his boots they are his pride.
Swing your honey, swing her round.
Lift her feet right off the ground.
Lilies of lucent light,
single file walking along
the cloudless pathway of
the songbirds' garden kingdom.
How fair the child lilies,
a gathering of the guiltless,
in snow-white
First Holy Communion dresses
with lacy veils.
Seven year old springtime
girls with pearly rosaries,
betrothed to the benevolent
Lord in spirit.
They receive the purity of
the Communion wafer
representing His covenant,
they are His lilies of lucent light. ~
There was a meeting of the “gods”
The “real” ones and the “frauds”
The one’s that shaved their heads
The one’s with “wicked” bods
Each one convinced “they are the One”
You must choose - ya can’t have none
Or else concede a one celled amoeba
Somehow spawned and then conceived ya
At lunch they served a “stoic” stew
Topped off with a Pagan brew
A sweet dessert of humble pie
Beneath a dark skeptical sky
The gods of men are snowflake thin
Hidden beneath the distant din
Of times and hopes and promised lands
An hourglass of endless sand
The “gods” of men are running wild
While the “men of God” walk single file
I think they doth protest too much
Though they say nothing
For fear the noxious, noisy wind
Will leave its fetid stench on them
For perfume is but a piglet’s bath
A cloak o’er bloodied flags
That bid them “go and do your worst”
Your life is over, you are cursed
They protest those that protest them
A beggared chant verse sainted hymn
Defend the throne of gods unknown
That somehow they have voted in
For truth is hard and lies defile
The sweetest talk the demon’s guile
That leads us to the tipping point
Of corpses marching single file
Yet still they doth protest too much
With blue-lit, cardboard voices
Unable to accept the fact
Somehow these were their choices
Related Poems