The only real depth a novel, short-story, or book of poems can have for me is the authenticity of the writer and his ability to accurately capture the experience. Shelton Lea’s Poems From A Peach Melba Hat do exactly that, and in the process thump the reader with the quick left hook of rhyme.

There is violence in the poet’s experience, a recklessness, and he can get away with being a buffoon the charm out weighing the effrontery. The poems would find their home equally in a Governor’s mansion or some lowly pub. The imagery is sometimes brutal, but can soften a fusillade of butterflies.