There once was a little boy,
Whose imagination would not rest --
Cursed or blessed?~ was difficult to say.
Some journeys were only fantastic-play:
Sliding down waves, shaking tentacles
With friendly octopi – but there were those, also
Instructive, like the flying fish, who could not fly --
Sort of on the surface, would just lie~ and cry. Try as
He often did; not one scale would elevate...even
Garnered Gale’s windy' berate. Proud of her churning,
Dislodging force – with that little fish, like whipping an
Expired fish-horse.
Then a trumpet, from an angel on high:
Opened in the sky, a bright, sunny eye. No sense to
Tear, little brother – one added drip to an ocean, cannot
Not change a dip, for more of the same slop – one more salty drop will
not lift aloft a repetitious, soggy flop. Realize, from the top, a new world to see –
Now, will yourself some real wings...as did the crab his legs, and go for eternity!
In The Pantry Where Secrets Dwell
A story now I’ll softly tell.
Of moments lost to time’s embrace,
And passions found in hidden space.
A touch of hard, cool, and wet,
A memory of joy I won't forget.
With every glide, with every thrust,
It wakes the senses and stirs up lust.
On the counter top, a fiery sheen,
Reflects desires, pure and keen.
A silent partner at day and night,
Brings pleasure’s peaks, intense delight.
No judgment, just open heart,
Deeply exploring, every part.
With moans and gasps of glee,
It gets me slowly into ecstasy.
In the drawer, it might reside,
This trusty friend I do not hide.
For in its form, I find release,
A journey’s end, a moment’s peace.
So here’s to nights when shadows fall,
To moments shared, desires are small.
A wet embrace, a lover’s toy,
In a quiet room, it brings me joy.
I stood on a boulder in the Andes
And stared at an albatross flapped
Its wind vane on top a sycamore.
I don't know why it stood there
But I know it struggled to claw
In the jaws of the branches.
Today I clambered same crown
Gawking on the blue empyrean
Then glared at vultures picking entrails
Of the white quills of the cross.
Oh! I don't know the bullets in the chests
Of a black widow.
Squeaking hyenas gathered at the carrion as well.
Oceans welled the furrow of my face
And my red balloons thumped and stamped.
Is that how the sparkling stars feign from the nights?
Is that how the roaring lion whisper in feign silence
While fed upon by black ants and leeches?
Well, I guessed I have to breathe each gas
As my very last with golden wreath.
For dear life is a candle wax that glitters and feign
In the twinkle of crystal balls.
I will thread on the seas and oceans as well
With fragile toes.
Wait beside the Ocean
And listen for a splash.
Climb a top a mountain
And let your echo crash.
Tired of all the commotion,
Chaos leads to violence.
Stop and let it pass you by
Submerse yourself in silence.
Gather your entire being
Into a pin point free of doubt.
Embrace it for a moment,
Then let it ripple out.
Realize that you are the waves
That break and rise.
The echo through the air.
The mountain standing calm and still.
And the quiet everywhere.
All that you seek
All that you are.
Is woven through the whole.
The ocean, the sky
The mountain high-
The mirror to your soul.
right at the right plain
of my eyes I spy in view
with my eyes on the right side
sits a duck on the
roof sitting aloof yet still
right at the right plain
why? Is this duck here
on a second story roof
sitting still like he lights
just sitting upon
Lakeside perch sitting a top
a second story
concrete roof a duck
rests, sits, nestled ever still
concrete Lakeside roost
sitting still upon
on a second story roof
why? Is this duck here
4/23/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2024
On an early day in late spring,
as dragonflies dance and birds sing,
on top a dock where I've grown fond,
butterflies gather by the pond
Cattails sway in the morning breeze,
as do the crowns of nearby trees,
this view I see the world beyond,
butterflies gather by the pond
As ripples in the water form,
and playful fish frolic in swarm,
without words we all correspond,
butterflies gather by the pond
On an early day in late spring,
butterflies gather by the pond.
When Searching Depths Of Mind Questions Its Own Sanity
Go to the green, green blades of grass
Speak and watch the sunbeams obey
There in the mountain top, a frigid pass
What beast did brave boy David slay.
In rainbow-cast deserts wind swift blows
Its flying roses into an old silver jar
O'but nobody that tragic tale knows
Why the hell we are where we are.
What on earth do we darest to desire
Golden halls and living to ripe old age
To not gasp when others admire
Some vanishing letters on a torn page.
When spirit fights to soothes the aching soul.
Just who fired the shot from grassy knoll.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
April 27th 1974
The fire
He stood in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water
looking out of the window, he saw across the fjord on the slopes
to the blue mountain the had snow on top, a farm house burning
bright in the long spring afternoon.
Putting his glass down and when looking again the fire had stopped
by itself, instead a milk-maid came out of the barn, carrying
a stainless bucket in her strong hand and he thought of Paula Rego
the great Portuguese artist, her women were strongly built, had
strong arms with lust in faces, not so much beauty but very human
His favorite painting is of a daughter polishing her father's boots
the love in her face shines through glossy as the boots.
Mind, the art center has a cafe and sells exceedingly good cakes.
Our holiday family gatherings instill traditional values and are totally itchin’
What we do the day after Thanksgiving is give mom a break from the kitchen
We head out to our favorite spot, “The Poop Deck” a rock’n café that’s coolsville
In Dad’s flip flop, we take the 5 South Highway and over the Santa Monica, S hill
People believe the reason for the crazy name, is because it’s where seagull’s poo
Gosh, it’s a nautical term for upper deck, like a ship, on the ocean off Malibu
Don’t be square Dad, this tank goes faster than twenty, heavens to murgatroyd!
A real drag when we finally got there, I got a spanking; Dad was super annoyed
flip top - a car with a convertible top*
Murgatroyd-A humorous alteration of the idiom "heavens to Betsy"
(Poetry left out the letter B on the first line)
Souls amid vagueness
we sustain an inheritance
when affection is betrayed
the fights ratified a farewell
prior, we struck the shore
In the last spell of my life
faults are piled high on the mound
it swirls and coils into clouds
I must uncover my path; I am lost
In this swarm of torn seasons
without anything
I have sprung up to the summit
I smile when I notice...
hazy veil of the night rise
breed shivers off my handle
With one stroke, one can restore one’s life
There was on top a loss of insight and wit
Avalon-like in the Gollum
and, there is no absolute power
or fables
awaken the venerable
to the days of audacity
On clear days, honey abounds
Swathe across each space
even the downbeat ones
born from a bold hand
escaping from hives
bees flew away from the disarray
even more so now than before
they were wretched to find the blooms
If you recognize, how an artist reckons
all eyes will be on the hibiscus
through every conflict
Written: October 23, 2022
They were innocent in their wish-making today
In grandma’s attic, two young cousins, Josie and Jay.
Solemn ceremony for them, not merry or gay.
They recited a chant, hoping it was the right way.
The jack-o-lantern alter began making an odd sound.
It flung them into a corner, over and upside down.
I felt like a Halloween top, a buffoon, a clown.
Said Jay but Josie laughed and said, “I loved spinning around!”
BOYS
Moving, ever still,
Or so it seems, until
You find him
Thinking,
On top a fence,
Up in a tree,
Or grassy hill.
Dirt and grime,
It seems, until a time
You find him
Washing,
Slick down hair,
Brushing teeth,
For dollar or dime.
Strong and rough,
You’ve had enough,
Then you find him
Helping,
Carrying a bag,
Tender nurse,
When times are tough.
Copyright, Kathryn Search
One by one she climbs the stairs
At the top, a bright light awaits her there
Waiting at the top, by ones that passed her by
Their arms opened wide waiting for her to arrive
Those left behind, heavy hearted, weep and cry
A white light radiates as God opens his gate
Adorned with a halo and wings of gold
A new angel passes over Heaven's threshold
The church bells chime fifty times
The number of years we had one so dear
Living on earth amongst her peers
Giving us her love through out the years
Now, from above she resides
In Heaven, waiting for us to arrive
I gave ZZ Top a trim, my lying uncle said.
He could not say it straight. His face got all red.
We found the evidence after he was long dead.
“Look at this!” yelled my lying cousin Little Ned.
“Come on!” I said as I stared at the pick.
This has to be some kind of Uncle Tommy trick!
No way had ZZ Top come to this one-cat town.
But we still haul that stupid photograph around.
Of all the flowers God has made,
there are those cast in purple shade;
some small with petals, hug the ground
and others, bristled- slim, but sound.
But- grandest is a taller one
that stands up straight beneath the sun.
Upon its top, a purple crown
of loops and swirls so soft, like down.
It stately stands with fronds of green
that gently curve to grace the scene,
uplifting them toward the sky;
God's work of art to dignify.
Alone, or marching four abreast,
along a wall or pathway blessed,
the Iris stands so proud and tall;
this lovely flower does enthrall.
June 6, 2022
Contest: Purple Flowers
Contest: Nayda Ivette Negron Flores
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