The cruel laughter of the soul
Laments its flagellation by time,
Ebbed on the flattened stones of
A raped river.
Sorrow, an amanuensis of silence,
Reads the minutes of the last meeting
Held within dying doors, between
Mind and soul, two warring nations
Of a proud heart,
Now asleep with bloodshot eyes.
~ Beloved Woman of God I am your journalist Scribe;
A professional copyist I shall;
My duties theologian, a jurist,
May I verse hardcopy speaks life?
What you say, you speak life too;
A scribe in term, inspired words;
Gleaning those of Father’s lessons;
You have learned, inspirational;
I be your journalist scribe transpose record ;
That of what’s in the inside out;
~ In the name of Jesus Christ;
Be your personal, clerk, transcriber;
Your amanuensis, recorder;
You’re in season record-keeper;
May I be your personal professional theologian?
Penman jurist documenting mallam, Hallelujah and Amen!
Scribe recording dictated you and Our Father’s verse;
History present tense impressions, for now and always;
I am your journalist Scribe;
-------I shall be your Scribe;
9/21/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
(Person Taking Dictation Part Time)
Compile the hours you have spent
pondering verse and rhyme,
your sole reward harsh discontent;
Perhaps it's all a waste of time.
With rhyme a muse should fill the soul;
Isn’t that the learned consensus?
Instead I’m forced to play the role
of itinerant amanuensis.
He called one day to say goodbye—
off to foreign destinations.
What illness made me hire a guy,
addicted to prolonged vacations?
So here I sit with vacant stare—
idle digits, silent keys.
Might you offer silent prayer,
they’ll find a cure for this disease.
She Stole My Thunder!
My wretched Amanuensis
Has turned my nemesis.
By her scribbling kit
Cribbed my entire writ!
What a wretched cheat
She has stolen all my heat!
07th Oct’ 2013