(5-21-26 For "Snapshots of a Night Scene" Contest Sponsor - Nette Onclaud)
Dusk slowly approaches, as their energy finally begins to wane. Half flat soccer balls
speedily sent down a grassless, asphalt field by crooked, knobby sticks.
Stubby chunks of chalk - pink, yellow, blue, white. Hopscotch squares already fading
Frayed jump ropes swinging up, around, and down,
their satisfying soft smacks on the ground, keeping rhythm.
Delighted squeals of joy, laughter, calling out of names to friends, classmates, neighbors, siblings...
Somehow, this view left me remembering
my days of young, pondering the timeless satisfactions and yearnings of youth.
Gentle raindrops begin to splat red and orange leaves, partially painted the weed-lined pavement
Small shadows scatter and go wherever it is they go when the night sets in.
I wake in a rush~
green, fuzzy, full of purpose
until a racket smacks me
into sudden enlightenment.
I sail, spinning,
seeing the world in fast-forward:
white lines blurring,
players grunting,
the sun cheering me on
like a loud, overexcited coach.
I hear everything~
the gasp when I clip the net,
the groan when I bounce out,
the triumphant whoop
when I land exactly
where someone wanted me.
I think a lot, actually~
mostly about momentum,
destiny,
and why humans argue
so passionately
over where I land.
But what I feel
is the court beneath me~
its clay, its grass, and grit~
a brief, grounding moment
before I’m launched again
into the bright, chaotic ballet
of being a ball
with no say
in where I’m going next.
A plethora of choices, an orchard of hope.
An apple? Take a bite..
that orange purses your lips…
grapes are designed to be hand fed…
lemonade comes from sour …
tomatoes define versatility…
pineapples stay sweet and thick.
Bananas? Meant to be swallowed whole…
avocado raises a faithful toast..
strawberry dreams are the catalyst…
blueberries burst on time…
kiwi smacks you into action…
Alchemy twisting the taste…
old discipline with a new shape.
An orchard of hope, a plethora of choices.
No sarcastic smacks
lacking tact.
No egos blazing need
to attack.
Not even inferences
of senseless impact
or any need displayed
to overreact.
Lin Lane's blog invitation
is filled with shared
emotional tracks
and reading it wrapped
me in joy exact.
Then Tom Woody's blog proved
prayers do answers attract.
The Soup-Love shared there
left me Godsmacked
and that is a wonderful kind
of attack.
Lord, set me a table in Byzantium:
not the rose-colored queen of the Bosphorus,
not the city of jeweled liturgies,
but the drain where the scourings of empire collect.
Give me a rough wooden bench
and a goblet of thick southern wine
that smacks of honey and dust
in a tavern on some twisted lane away from the sea,
where a plump dancing girl of uncertain antecedents
clicks the reptilian scales of her castanets,
her gaze weighing my limbs like dubious florins,
while a one-eyed Cappadocian in the corner
thoughtfully fingers his knife.
Lord, I don’t ask for much,
only a fate I can handle.
'While stranded high and dry
unemployed skippers ate a lot of kippers'
which smacks of a red herring to me
is a tale told when we were but nippers
altho' with neither fowl nor feline
in a beautiful pea-green boat
the motley crew who put to sea
were assuredly safe and sound when afloat
but then as ocean water rose within
thereby a somewhat large hole revealing
the now woeful matelots felt dreadfully unhappy
as they smelt a strange yet serious sinking feeling
for sadly a rather bad leak had sprang in the bilge below
and their ship went down like the proverbial stone
so the jobless captains fared far better
as landlubbers secure ashore home on their own
It wasn’t until they dug it up,
and gluggy clay stuck to the road-machine,
that you understood it was thin like icing.
Until we walked the dog daily,
you never stood on it mindlessly staring
at patterns of pink-yellow tree-bark peeling.
Concrete-veneer smacks our feet,
then it’s just dirt and rock, down, down,
all the way to the centre of the earth.
The lustrous perfume bottle
avec neck spritzer and bottom caudal
With hexing brio it holds her captive
Pure rapture is sexually attractive
A woman’s torso a glass statuette
dressed in a golden chic corset
An old hippy scarf suspends on the wall
Her ‘Eau De Joy’ is kitschy after all
Shimmies into mid-calf western boots
She rifles through sequined body suits
Last touches of an aromatic scent
she deems the fragrance extravagant
Lurid lemon zest smacks of old school
Blithely vivacious leads them a drool
Juicy sweet notes from cleavage to chin
A whirlwind of hazy mist he’s in
Wild at heart with beats that throttle
A burning desire from a perfume bottle
A lot comes down..To what we value.'
Money..? Money and its power.?
I'll give here not much preamble.'
jacinta allan where lies her heart.' In
Love of money.' I'd reckon? the whole and
Not a part.' So there she is rooted..? And very
Evil.? What are the facts.? Maybe? she'll
Be put right.? When life pays her back with some (really hard smacks.!)
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
Healing
needs time
it is said~
already healed
smacks of
strangeness~
yet no time
proclaims
perfection
without process~
separation spins
tales~~
Let he who is without vanity cast the first insult
Vain to me smacks of superficialities which
in the long run prove fragile and meaningless
You can be proud of your accomplishments
without worries of being vain
Lose your hair, lose your teeth, lose your looks,
lose your vanity
Fashion statements
Youth
Dress-up make-up
Forsooth
A little vanity never hurt anybody
Until it becomes the substance of your life
Uncouth
Raison d'être
It’s not necessarily a negative asset
conceit
conceded
vain
narcissism
self-love
self-admiration
self-regard
self-absorption...
...Is self-love really considered vanity?
EyE KISS
Just a hint your scent
Sets of your essence
Thoroughly bliss
Embrace I enclose
for sweet salivated lips
I ingest your aroma
Emmmm!! smacks!
I kiss ??
5/23/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2025
Brackish lichen forms a raft upon the pond,
a low haze floats like a moored airship.
Small frogs chirrup sotto-voce
as if they were
dreaming sparrows.
Water birds dabble in their sleep.
Soon the sun
will dash across a drop of dew
bursting dams of light.
A fisherman in his truck
drinks his coffee,
rubs his eyes and smacks his lips.
He grabs rod and tackle,
hopes fat fish are lazily
rising.
Feathers shake off waterlogged shadows,
wings slap the groggy face of the pond,
ripples splash up
to rinse the air.
Coots and Plover call
until the water
awakes.
Real comedy is bold
it's straight and blunt
there's no white gloves
or polite niceties
Real comedy is harsh
without playing dirty
it smacks you in the face
and punches in the gut
Real comedy is dark
looks head on at society
points out what's wrong
and shoves it in your face
Real comedy is hot
enrages those with a soul
infuriates those who claim
to have a conscience
Real comedy is cold
sure it gets laughs
make no mistake
it's on a mission
Real comedy is brash
addresses those who
care to make a difference
and want to change the world
AP: Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
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