use a tuning fork
when facing a dilemma
for the two prong shape
provides two preset options
for keeping progress in tune
You cannot force somebody to love you
but by God haven't we tried to...
at least a half dozen times in our lives.
Likewise, nobody can force you to love them
but by God haven't they all tried
at least once in their lonely eyed lives.
We've all been on both sides of
the uneven love equation.
Forcing somebody to love you
is like nicely asking a plutonium tyrant
to sign a peace treaty...
or convincing a shark to become vegetarian
while tassels of meat are swinging from its teeth.
Rest assured, you don't have to chase love...
just follow that light that's always been in sight
Love will shine through the blackness
like the warm rays of a sun shower
piercing the heart of a long-cold drought.
The only thing worse than getting lost in the dark,
is getting lost in the light you’ve mistaken for your own reflection.
A window says “see through.”
A mirror says “see you.”
And this life…
It’ll getcha if you start reflecting.
The serpent?
He works in a mirror factory.
A place where every thought bounces off another,
until the original feeling can’t find its way home.
If you aren’t careful,
you’ll spend a lifetime trapped in reflection—
not memory,
not meaning,
Echo.
Thoughts chasing themselves.
Images copying images.
Like shining a laser
in a mirror house.
You’ll call it thinking.
But it’s really just refracting.
Endless distortion,
in a mind that forgot how to look out.
The eyes, they are not mirrors.
You were made for vision,
not feedback.
For clarity,
not kaleidoscopes.
Look through.
Because asking a mirror for help is like handing your wounds to a photograph, and expecting it to bleed with you.
It’s like whispering secrets to a shadow.
my husband asked if I was going on a date
Because I am not wearing a nightie or pajamas
I am going to Urgent Care, remember? I say in a snotty voice.
His brilliant idea of asking a pharmacist to prescribe something
did not work for me.
I have already gone the route of inefficiency for three days.
Time to see an expert
Even if it means wearing clothes.
“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” – Carl Sandburg.
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Stirring souls, poetry just knows,
Love, fire, boldest winds of desire,
Rains blessing, song without a choir.
Words pouring out soft, gentle prose,
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Glistening dreams, love to extremes,
Beckoning from silence that screams.
Dance of dances, fluid verses,
Poetry that grace coerces,
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Poems who don’t just tell but shows.
Rhymes and rhythms, tenderly abide,
Singing of light, sometimes wild-eyed,
Hearts might remain in the shadows,
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Pictures of babies and license plates,
are you asking a criminal to find you?
The internet is NOT benevolent.
It’s phony as hell, you better believe it;
Keep your life out of reach and private.
A cheer or criticism, neither are needed;
Less is so much more decent,
let’s practice social media modesty;
With each detail you make public
you put your life at unimaginable risk;
People will follow you stalking your life,
until they scrape enough to create a copy;
Is it you? Is it not? It doesn’t really matter.
Identity theft only needs your numbers;
Suddenly there are two of you twinning,
but one is just a parasite you’re feeding;
Less is so much more decent,
let’s practice social media modesty;
Mind your manners remain chaste,
some things really should stay closed;
Stop flaunting what matters so carelessly!
Better think twice or become a victim ;
Sudden chill down your spine in real life,
That irreparable damage was preventable;
Less is so much more decent,
let’s practice social media modesty.
I miss Saturday mornings with Soul Train,
When brothers and sisters would take a ride to release their pain.
I miss Momma's twice-baked sweet potato pie.
She didn't have a recipe; she just baked with love, so she didn't have to try.
I miss long rides with Daddy with all the windows down with some nice blues.
Just riding and nodding and Daddy telling me, "Son, whenever you try, you can never lose."
I miss the rapturous feeling of asking a pretty girl for her hand for a dance.
To feel her feminine embrace and to cherish a moment of chance.
From time to time I sit and reminisce.
Such lovely thoughts, images, and sounds I sorely miss.
Find xanthium' squeeze in a sigh
asking a righteous void, hear my entreat
hand to heart, in a beggar's sky
not just for myself,
not just for why...
Can a heart devoid of hope
seek to find salvation
from a Quentin Tarantino film
in a strange pulp voice
that sounded just like mine.
Your sin, my sins
vowed never relent..
nor let cementing cold take you
so don't despair..
Place two fingers, just beside your neck
feel it pulse?
it's you,
and you still care.
Search the world's underbelly
the meek and mild
little mouse infirm, the whooping crane strong, all us
no longer beguiled.
Roaming streets and back alleys
afraid to meet my neighbor's eye
I, the guilty
waiting a just reply.
It's a quarter past two,
last train leaves at three..
the sign at the platform's final end
stands glaring,
waiting a reprieve.
A proud primping Whooping crane calls out
'it's justice'..
All a lowly titmouse discerns,
'it's just us'.
I tried to read a favorite poem of mine for you.
Your eyes glazed over.
You could have been a lizard on a rock
sunning yourself, entirely unaware
that I felt as though I were there in front of you
reciting my words of such beauty
that an angel could have been
singing them while playing on a harp.
You may have even fallen quite to sleep.
Not once did you look up or glance at me.
You told me later, in fact, you had no use for poetry.
Another time I tried to read a poem to you.
It was a poem meticulously crafted just for you.
I could tell you liked it, for you were its centerpiece.
You pricked up your ears a little bit.
You thanked me, but no sweet words
of great appreciate did you return.
I am a stranger in your world of pure practicality.
Your love for me is steadfast and real; however,
asking if you’d love me if I were not a poet
is like asking a mother if she’d love her baby
if it were not merely there cooing in her lap.
At the time of night that men call 10:30,
I sit in a corner bar by myself,
Watching two tables---
Clusters of life and sound---
A softball team and their wives/girlfriends/lovers
Drinking softly into the evening
A child's face, released from mother's side,
Floats around the tables,
Serene and white in tavern dusk,
Asking a quarter from each adult
Until finally someone gives him one
To make him gone
And for the millionth time
I look into the mirrored tile behind the bar
And see you there beside me
You're looking down---
Digging through your purse---
And the wound that never heals
Opens just a little more---
A quarter's worth---
It's the residue from the gunshot that you aimed right for my heart. See it ricocheted, backfired, meaning another false start…
A reissue of rhetoric accost the poet's you adore, so if acceptance is temperance then uneasiness no more?...
Do you remember that time we rode across your kitchen floor, clinging to a chloroformed kleptomanic repose, yet never in danger of being fully exposed, so we dined all night on a third and fourth course....just another case of the tail wagging the horse!...
When I held you in my arms I always felt you needed more...
See, we were allinged by chance, prepackaged romance, rinse repetitive repeat, another day, another week, who the f**k is winning in this game of hide and reep?...
I'll sow the seeds and water your fledgling soul, never once asking a suture for my own sterile self control…An awareness of sorts that our haves creates holes…
Acceptance is temperance then uneasiness no more, still when I held you in my arms, I could never see past my own sores…
Please, refuse the disguised rag
That wearer still makes a hag.
Be bold to say “No, thank you”
While leaving “Later, see you!
A coat of curious color
That offers the eye pallor,
Long threadbare to soonest sag
And straight goes into a bag….
Delight not in robe you’ve got,
Last wearer had liked it not;
Underneath its arms ink blot
And on its left breast blood clot.
Choose the true wisdom or don’t:
On this talking not a lot;
In ignorance one could rot
While asking A Big Fool’s “What?”
Shall I forget my asking a brother:
“Who of The Two has A Much Taller Order?”
And Dairy Hand mishandled An Udder,
For round spinning to watch Close Adder…
Martin Luther and Nelson Mandela,
If they were Fidelis - Fidelia,
Then Stark Crudity of South Africa
Matched Mixed Decency of America
And True killers, sometimes reasonable,
Same as Searching Eyes for The Treasonable;
Or would one Some Healthy Type Writer
Praise like Zealous Breathless Writer?
More air outside The Cell for Martins,
Nelson in Dark Prison with Batons.
Martin Luther could time find for Quotes,
Nelson Mandela for The Word that floats...
And one had had A Far-Too-Funny Wife
That drew a picture of Another Strife,
The bizarre assembling for journalists;
For her Cosmetics the longest lists...
There always is some First Among Equals:
The same family but Yells aren’t Squalls…
Whimsical gnome has dreams he did not tell anyone.
Afraid if his village knew, many would make fun.
A newspaper opened, and he always wanted to write.
Instead of telling them, his shyness kept him out of sight.
He wanted to teach math, but he was afraid to get a degree.
Although he is my brother, he told no one, not even me.
Fear kept him from doing things he wanted to do all his life.
Shyness kept him from ever asking a gnomette to be his wife.
Am I good enough for you, Lord
I am made up of spirit, soul, and blood
Flesh created in your image
Out of love, you are loved
Love a child in the classroom youth
With his hands raised, raised in the air
Asking a question a simple question
Is God here
Why is a man so messed up
Bound and City's killings everywhere
Chaos and confusion my shoes don't fit anymore
To be a tuned a boy was just a boy. Now he's a man
Growing up thinking they are just toys
Food for thought for low-profit nutrition.
Devote for some and not for religion
I am made up of spirit, soul, and blood
Is there anyone in this planning on this planet
Other than you, Lord, who loves
What I believe I genuinely see
That I will one day be above it all
in the new Earth and the new heaven
Well, yes, I am good enough for you, Lord
6/4/13
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2022
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