on crenshaw
carousing in cavernous cafes
slicing into earthen skin
the meat dancers bring it to a boil
they murder the rug
they scrounge for earth worms
the fish head girls bob like sea birds
telephoning purple mermaids for a date
they have no name tags and no flowers
they sing sad madrigals to the starfish
they know this is the last pavane
the final curtsy before night goes down
before morning arises under white sheets
loosening the brain screws
burning the instruction manuals
imbibing the nylon remonstrations
on crenshaw
a lonely woman croons
an oozing torch song to the dirt people
they sit erect in a dark morgue
chittering like insects
singing cool blues music to the meat dancers
they bring it to a boil
with burgers bullets and beef cake
genius guitar freak vivisects clawing time
he twangs his axe with a searing solo
he plays psychedelic lullabies to the dead
his music torturing the earth worms
Categories:
twangs, america, memory,
Form: Free verse
"Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from an autumn tree."
Quote by _ Emily Bronte
All the trees are changing their summer gowns,
the winds whispers- trees it is time to fall;
and stained glass leaves drop in golds, reds, and browns,
taking their time to fly they often crawl.
And drifting are sweet bird rhapsody songs,
the tweets, the chirps, twittering and the twangs;
all of autumn is quiet and mellow,
I am holding a leaf veined and yellow.
The rain falls in a pitter-patter dance,
there is a splendor in the scenery;
and the leaves with a madness spin and prance,
a beauty where once there was greenery.
The wind is wailings like a violin,
oh God has painted his beautiful art;
all around painted leaves whirl, swirl and spin,
his voice whispers in the trees and my heart.
Categories:
twangs, autumn,
Form: Rhyme
Clattering coins
forcefully flung
inside a fragmented glass jar,
doleful howls full of misery, woe
nocturnal creatures arise,
rapid rotations,
continual tornados
tedious echos beneath
a derelict railway tunnel,
nefarious lightning
strikes the thunder,
rolling immensely enraged
she roars fighter jets in fury,
disturbed bees, swarming their hive
stalking, terrorising, pestering
a solo stone plunges
down a bottomless well,
belligerent twangs
upon a jilted ukulele,
these were her hunger pangs,
which fed her insomnia at night.
Categories:
twangs, abuse, child abuse, poverty,
Form: Free verse
A Villanelle Tra La La
Tra la la-I couldn't stop thinking bout this song
Twas just so minuscule and kind
This I could never forget this verse twangs bings-bongs
That morn, hearing this new verse encounters so long a song
The song so calming settling each and every line
This musical verse couldn't stop thinking about the song
Later, ringing singing tra-la-la
I tried to focus on angelic ringing bells
I can't, could never forget the twang
tried to distract sounds with a versed-line
Tra la la it was time to start thinking about this line
Tra la la couldn't stop ringing it's bells-bongs
This I could never forget this verse twangs bings-bongs
Twas just so minuscule and kind
Tra la la-I couldn't stop thinking bout this song
I can't, could never forget the twang
I tried to focus on angelic ringing bells
Later, ringing singing tra-la-la
Tra la la-I couldn't stop thinking bout this song
8/8/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
Categories:
twangs, analogy, metaphor, song, word
Form: Villanelle
Las Vegas, Pigeon’s Paradise!
At the Angel Park Golf and Country Club
The pigeons sported neck scarves
Of iridescent iris, white and blue
As they hoped with expectations
Around divots in the turf,
Now filled with sand and seed
By a golfer's hand
And side-eyed morsels with
Tilting beaks in obvious delight
Seemingly in agreement
That heaven had dropped
Here.
Pigeon’s paradise!
At the Golden Nugget Hotel and Casino
The people sported lewd t-shirts
Of sexual slangs or comic twangs
As they hoped and smoked with expectations
That gurgled and beeped
As neon lights flashed numbers,
Slots filled with flashing icons
By a tycoon’s hand
Yanked and cranked handles
Seemingly in agreement
That heaven had to drop
Here.
People’s price!
Categories:
twangs, fun, funny, games, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Snapped down shirts, scuffed up boots
Puffing larger than life chests
Dime-store pokes, showing colors
Peacock struts and sailor jokes
Twangs from the jukebox
Begging for two-steps
Cheap draws flowing
Cue sticks chalked and
Propped on end.
Balls on the felt waiting to roll in corners
A quick spit, one more shot of Crow
Then eyeing, sizing, and circling like
Brigands in the woods,
Angling the bank, then with a bend
And swift slide of stick-
One stripe in the pocket
Quick tilt of hat, a strut and swell
Another snap-click and cue ball falls
Side glance and a snort
One quick shove and the gloves are off
Suds, fists, and blood
Well hell... Another good night ends with
"Last call for alcohol!"
Categories:
twangs, conflict, humorous,
Form: Free verse
These four walls mean freedom,
From the rain, suffrage and the stains,
Liberty from oppression and religion,
To make other songs and trains.
No austere twangs or cold voice,
No dais glutes or traditional figure;
My structure has form and choice,
In my bedroom, my configure.
Free will is in-built and innate,
No-one can deprive you of it,
That i exist with actions which state,
However small, gives me interdict.
My arms act, and my legs move too,
And my opinions can act to prohibit,
Sadness in someone’s eyes in lieu,
Or capitalism’s theft and unfair sit.
I was wrought by conversations,
With my brother inside four walls,
And there can be no revisions,
Or bargaining situation stalls.
You can take back deeds by words,
But words can’t be retracted,
And even though they can be swords,
They can still be propitiated.
What was said in that room was said,
Truth bloomed as a daffodil shines,
So if your culture’s just wrong, red,
You have your four wall enshrines.
Categories:
twangs, brother, character, childhood, children,
Form: Quatrain
To be forever bent in a lack of better term
To lie still in darkness like a sad, blind worm
To eat your words as a form of grainy nourishment
To smell the dampness of your tempered encouragement
It is a blessing like no other
To be speechless but so full of color
And to feel the good digest to the mass
No matter how blind we have come to pass
There are beings that long to comfort us
As we lie still in the gloom of lush
There is a presence that may appear obscure
Blank faces that are captured in a blur
They are the observers and they are so still
They absorb what they can and eat what they will
There is nothing to fear for they are our benediction
Out in the sidelines trading gravity for friction
They are not angels I am told
They are not demons, dark and bold
They are quiet spirits that are attracting our minds
They choose many—all various kinds
It is inspiring to know that the following beings
Engorge on our souls—such nurturing feedings!
Eyes are opening in blissful imagination
As they cultivate the grounds with twangs of inspiration
The observers will watch us all until the conclusion
What they see is what we imagine—and the rest is an illusion
Categories:
twangs, dedication, inspirational,
Form: Rhyme
in sadness
i gaze upon your beautiful picture
wondering what it is like over there
with you
in laughter
i see your animated face
wondering what it feels like to feel an embrace
with you
in envy
i watch you laugh and smile
wondering who’s in the background to share this moment
with you
though these feelings embrace me
with twangs of despondency and despair
i can’t help but stare at this picture
and wish I was there
it’s like being with you but…
not liking it
never thought that was possible
until this photo was taken
Categories:
twangs, lost love
Form: Free verse
The tattoos, the body and the moonlit shine.
Lusting shadows, the winds of change;
Busting seams, subdued passions as they soar.
Tremors in the voice, the fascination of her moulds.
Swaying tides the occults, the mesmerism of her lips.
Churning frolics of her wears, the innocence in the eyes.
Lost, were these flowing forms on the sands of time;
Yellow blossoms the astrophytum in the wilderness.
It is the dragon, on your back that woos.
The sawan-ki-ghata, that coils to the fore;
And the pendent loops, that entice you to him.
Free flow like silks are your contours of love.
Sparkling gold as whites the dryness, the dews;
On highs, like the virgin flower It’s sheen.
Touches, from the mascara and the eyebrow shrouds,
Entwined lashes daring your mystics your charms.
It is he that alights fires in you;
Burning are the two, in the clouds and the rain.
Though the monster shrinks to the tattooed back,
Strong are his bonds as the fountain flows;
With the crusts and the troughs like the ocean wide.
Silent are the twangs, the sinews of love
And you in your deepened harmony;
Blossom and bloom to his magical flute.
Categories:
twangs, love
Form: Free verse