The delights of strolling through green parks,
to observe pristine lawn and serene pool,
interact or mingle with fellow ramblers,
share the joy of radiant sunshine,
and warm cheer induced by conversation,
sparked by kind stranger one never dreamed of,
nor imagined at the onset of a morning,
whose divine agenda set by vivid sky,
one might eschew whilst awash with visual,
scenic trees, shrubs, hedges, beget relish,
but without human contact and shared slant,
adornment on footpath, green pond insert,
quaint but charming cafe whose gourmet fare,
espresso sip and muffin tinted natter,
recall of vintage episode now whetted,
with zeal, zest, and zigzag zip,
a textured fabric of city grandeur,
bookstore whose friendly staff ooze warmth,
that well nigh impossible work one seeks,
or some shrewd advice from chance encounter,
Oh the joy I feel when I mingle
Had I not gotten into your chasm
The blissful fancy of mine would be-
Would be the gentle sailing by the kingdom sea
Rather I'd see the shadow of hyacinth be phantasm
Or rather I'd choose to blind my sight
And see starry soul be day or be night
And would burn my wistful heart more or less
Than to be seen burning your throng of loveliness
I called you in there,there a tapping ivories
Imbibing the mead and sipping berries
For how merrily the throstle sings by-
And how the rustling wind sync well-nigh
These dream within the pulp of Oleandear
It get be adornment of mine own thought
The springest bulb into falls and naught
This with a swore of two life's; my dear
In dream last night when I talked to AI,
Our dialogue went on back and forth like this:
I said, look, we see what we like well nigh,
Hope, you’re not held with such human disease.
We can read misspelt words as fair and right,
I hope, you’ve acquired this ability--
To ignore what might fail to conform quite,
We can mute what distorts the harmony.
Wait, you see no more than twenty percent,
AI claimed, and make up from memory.
Is that so bad? I asked unrepentant
And this round ended to no one’s glory.
I woke with muezzin’s call at masjid gate,
The dream ended awaiting next date.
______________________________
Sonnet |16.07.2025| dream, technology
Note: AI= artificial intelligence, HI= human intelligence
Art’s going bananas well nigh--
Apple still of many an eye
And an object of art
Winning no mean a heart,
Why a banana taped for millions vie--
A fruit best in ape’s hand,
In lewd limerick’s land,
Is out today all logic to defy.
Food has long been an art,
Art as food my sense thwart,
Why I hear Ecuador’s desperate sigh.
___________________
Happenings |18.11.2024|humour, art
Poet’s note: Banana has the art world in a tizzy. Maurizio Catalan’s work, Comedian (a single banana taped to wall) has sold for over six million dollars at Sotheby’s auction. The same thing, when put up at Art Basel Miami Beach in 2019, had left people in shock. But don’t we live in a topsy-turvy world? Ecuador is the biggest exporter of bananas in the world.
What with vainglory, vanity’s wan pride,
I once asked my ego what makes it go:
He said: I’m not on a vainglorious ride,
Nor does hollow arrogance make me blow,
Vanity’s just the vehicle for my use,
Me and mine’s not my true identity,
To be suffused with pride is no abuse,
Nor is soaring on one’s wings, vanity.
Me think soul boasts as big daddy behind,
My claim’s nigh humble, pretty down to earth,
Unlike soul, I am my own unique kind,
Discerning few get to know my true worth,
I stand for reason, sanity well nigh,
Confuse me not with id, nor super I.
______________________________________
Sonnet |01.09.2005| Self, ego
Poet’s note: Ego is one’s orientation with body, mind and intellect, as against with soul, the true Self. Yet, without a bit of ego orientation, one is as good as dead. Freud gave the terms id, ego, and super ego, which someone interpreted as ‘it’, the ‘I’, and ‘beyond I’. Here in this light-hearted piece, ego points an accusing finger at id, and super ego, while pulling soul’s leg. The mood of the poem is tongue-in-cheek.
I dreamed my way here
I’ve had my cringe moments
I feel pressure, I lose perspective
I’ve wholeheartedly failed
I misspeak, underthink, overreact
I try to do the right thing
the right thing isn’t always clear
I’ve tried to hold on
I’ve let go with grace
I’ve charged ahead
I’ve stepped aside
I self-sabotage, then try to do better
I’ve self-consciously retreated
I’ve stood up for others
I’ve backed down and apologized
I’ve rinsed and repeated
I’m a chameleon, but I’ve never been perfect
I’ve under-reacted to challenges
I’ve overreacted to the ordinary
I devalue likeability
I indulge the language of play
I share my human experience
I don’t know what else to say.
Head-hardened dead rocks dare to block the way—
The stumbling blocks of poesy well-nigh,
The rules of grammar gathered yesterday,
And those of prosody pose how and why.
Still, let a poem’s river flow ahead,
Let melody gets born from natural noise,
Let things get ruled by heart, the least by head
And music arise from poem’s own voice.
In purest form, in its simplest so far,
Ceaseless does flow river of a poem
That shines like starry strings, not a lone star
Whose brilliance blinds like a studded gem.
So said and done, if a poem gets made,
A product be of heart much as of head!
________________________________________
Sonnet | 10.08.2014 | poem
Poet’s note: Flow of a river, and that of a poem…. Intellect contributed by head, dos and don’ts and the like, seem like rocks and stones blocking the flow of a river. When the river flows ahead over and aside these obstacles, music starts with the flow. A poem is always a product of heart to start with. The heart may have reasons unknown to head, but a stage comes when the later comes in to play some role. Yet, creativity comes from the chaos created by heart as the Gangotri, the womb of all poems.
Igba Irunmole,
These armies in bright blinding splendour,
Arrayed in unfathomable beauties,
Winged being from beyond the galaxies’
Tracking the blues skies unnoticed,
They walk this earth, unseen by mortal eyes,
Igba Irumole,
Sparkling in beauty, I marked their glowing gaze,
In radiance beyond sunlight,
Watching the sons of men day and night,
Though as servants attending,
Yet as warriors in readiness,
They weary themselves unseen by mortals,
Igba Irunmole
They cover the winds in clouds,
Sprinting through sunlight unhurt,
They mingle in lights with glorious enthusiasm,
Constrained by frequent grandeur
Parading this widening landscape
Igba Irunmole
Is this His beauty? a delightful sunbeam,
Buries my gaze in a blindfold of horror
Well nigh to the end of life,
This frame so frail mingled with pains
A strength not mine imbued within,
There I saw my fickle frame.
footnote . Igba Irunmole translated into English Are myriads of Angels
Igba is number count in Yoruba Language,
Irumole, Iru awon oni Imole, the bearers of Light
A Christmas Prayer for Ukraine
God for Christmas on Ukraine bestow hope
For those folk in dire need of hope to cope
Solace to console the soulful hearted
Doleful since the day Putin’s war started.
Many tears have been sorrowfully cried
For those wounded or no longer alive
Homes and buildings repeatedly attacked
Down to a madman’s lies slyly amassed.
I Pray for safety of Ukraine’s brave men
Retaliating again and again
For women and children who cannot rest
Fearing the worst and hoping for the best.
Praying for those who for safety have fled
To countries where they sleep safely in bed
For the kindly souls who settle them down
For recovery well-nigh to abound.
I pray Lord seek out Ukrainian lambs
Touch them with thy gentle, powerful hands
Shine your light o’er everyone here on earth
As we commemorate the holy birth.
*+*+*
24th December 2022
Moonstruck Josette
There's a sad tale told of moonstruck Josette
Who's love turned into ashes of regret
She found romance when only sweet sixteen
With the most handsome man she'd ever seen.
Though he treated her unkindly at times
Josette overlooked those menacing signs
She adored him despite his cruel trait
Then came the day he decided her fate.
He took her to a wood where no one goes
Josette felt he was well nigh to propose
He said to close her eyes and count to ten
Poor Josette never opened them again.
Down in the woods lies a silent Josette
Her demise so tragic one can't forget.
*+*
13th November 2022
Leaping, nay dancing, the brook moved ahead
But blocking way stood there a dour desert.
Gingerly it took a step, mighty dread,
And found it fade in sandy sea of dirt.
A few more and I’d disappear
And it felt like a wingless bird,
Poor thing, engulfed in mortal fear,
And a voice from nearby it heard—
It was very desert ready to hurt:
It said: You know, wind can cross me well-nigh,
You also can if you really assert,
Look here, if you can’t flow, well, you can fly.
Wind well can, but I cannot fly
No matter how so hard I try,
If it is so, then take a helping hand
Of wind that would lift you from desert land,
Oh what a silly thing to say!
If not desert wind devours me.
Yes, yes, but look at it another way
Think, think, and then begin the point to see:
This wind, let it absorb you, let it gain,
Let go of your life as a brook,
The clouds so formed shall soon be rain,
Get born again a brook with a new look.
Ah crossing dry desert as rain,
Born-again brook flowed once again.
___________________________________
Musings |01.12.2020|
Topic: water, brook, sea, river
Poet’s Note: Is not death a new look at life?
Our separation was measured, genteel,
it gave us time to explore
these strange planets we had come
to be for each other.
At that time
I took a lot of photographs of you
I wanted evidence
of having walked in your landscape,
In your eyes
I could see hurt and kindness
well-nigh and close,
conjoined twins, together
yet always displaced.
Remember how you found me
walking your shoreline,
how you spoke to me
as if I were a transmitting seashell?
We tried so hard
to speak the same language
above the roar of that alien sea.
Shhh! quietly I nodded off nearly sleeping;
Hush!! Dogs barking outside reeling;
While I nodded nearly napping;
Mom looks at me as I’m breathing heavily;
While I nodded nearly sleeping;
While I nodded well-nigh sleeping;
Fell, fallen off the chair yet still sleeping;
Sleeping while I nodded nearly;
While I nodded nearly sleeping;
So I nodded still well-nigh sleeping;
As I am falling to the floor intimately sleeping;
1/7/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2020
SHE
She sat at bank of brook when Sun was down
I stepped close to her and she made a frown.
She sat sad in brink of brook, night to merge.
Just to talk face to face, I felt deep urge.
Moon played hide and seek through white cloud, seemed shy.
Could not help but fell in rash love well-nigh.
Charmed, whelmed: Feet got stuck: Next? I could not think.
She cast a glance and my eyes stopped to blink.
My heart whirled to lose sense: Moon shone bold bright.
She came close, crossed me and went out of sight.
Time paused, I stood dumb: Stars sighed with Moon beam.
Stream to flow, Moon to glow, I lost my dream.
No one was near, she sat on the stream side.
I had wished to show my love not to hide.
09/21/19
Checked in Syllable Counter.
'Because It's A Tuesday 140-140 Sonnet' Contest by William Kekaula
My pet mouse Louie is a connoisseur of exotic cheese,
But when it comes to gratifying him, he's mighty hard to please!
I have my own choice of cheese, therefor, 'tis an ongoing clash,
Between me and Louie at which he has become somewhat brash!
If I set a snack of limburger before him, he'll turn up his nose,
And I learned mighty quick to no longer on him that crud impose!
I happen to like a simple cheddar but Louie will clearly voice,
His desire for an expensive gouda if he had to make the choice!
We both abhor cottage cheese on that we can readily agree,
But he savors bizarre cheeses such as Greek feta and French brie!
The latter two I can barely tolerate and well-nigh cause me to retch!
I hate to divulge this but Louie is becoming a bothersome kvetch!
Lately he insists on me catering ricotta, swiss and mozzarella.
(Ain't gonna happen, you can bet your life on that, little fella!)
Alas, my dilemma was solved by my cat who relishes tasty mice;
Louie was devoured by ravenous Jeff the cat which wasn't very nice!
Entry for Barry Stebbins' "Poem About Cheese" Contest
(15 November 2018)
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