Best Diplomats Poems
We the People
Will disagree
On taxation and prosperity
On liberty and duty
We the People
Are every color of Christianity
Every Jewish prayer, every song of Islam
The puritans, the atheists and the Amish
Are neighbors here
We the People
Are Jamaican and Japanese
Swedish and Samoan
Cuban and Cherokee
Moroccan and Mexican
The Irish and the Inuit
And all shades of Africa
We are country hills and cityscapes
Suburban parks and downtown fire escapes
We are singers and stutterers
Daredevils and diplomats
Renegades and redeemers
The leaders and the lone wolves
The suits and the sarongs
We are the gun owners for gun control
The justice for unjust loopholes
We are the hands that struck the iron
And the backs that laid the tracks
Of trails of rails connecting
Sea to shining Sea
We are protesters and poets
The soldiers without peace
The nurses without sleep
We are the straight arrows and the skeptics
The gay and the god-fearing
We are Black Lives Matter
And we are the badges in blue
We the People
Are complicit and complicated
No freedom gave
To chains of slaves
We have conquered and colonized
Sacrificed and stolen
Pillaged and planted
To naturalize a nation
We are teachers of tenacity
Prophicies of pioneers
And the children of second chances
We the People
Speak for our land’s legacy
In every tongue, from every rung
On each stumbled stair, each crumbled chair
We demand democracy.
8/21/20
Poem of the Day
August 23, 2020
The Party
Everyone is festive
All the ladies in pretty dresses
Champagne in flutes
Flirts in Armani suits
Waiters and penguins
Serving wine and cheeses
Musicians playing tango delights
Diplomats avoiding land mines and devastated sites
I toast them, one and all
Vodka and Russians can not dance
I can drink you all, under and over
Tossing empty bottles over me shoulder
Pretty ladies and purple purses
Drunken observations as the poet muses
Who would bed me now?
So drunk and wise with broken fuses
No one, can see the poetic disguise
Of the lonely man seeking only lies
The tenderness of the Spanish kiss
Hold me, dear dream, caress me inside
The floor is full of empty plates
The party is over, so it seems is my fate
I fall asleep under a street lit lamp
The richest of bums in an old cul du sac
If only before that fateful day
I could suckle upon the breast once more
We are all infants no matter the shore
Love should never have parted out that door
Sanity was broken and tossed away like lore
I mumbled the petty desires of the broken man
I tore out my heart, bloody and beating in my hands
Laid it bare upon the sands
Coupled with crabs
The universe re-created
Eaten raw, love was consumed
New beasts shall roam
Sunken eyes and empty chest
I, am the one who is no more
Tall tails and party hats
The forgotten are never fancy cats
Until one day you meet the maker
Of your story, cooked by the baker
Ovens shall burn and choirs sing
The devil you see, had the last ring
my attempt at a simplistic limerick suite
thank you
"cats and hats"
I once went to the beach with hats
and noticed in the back seat were my cats
I couldn't leave them in the car
so we ended up sitting at the bar
later I placed them on cool mats
we stayed until the sun went down
in between they managed to be a clown
they nestled and played with my hats
in style as true diplomats
now for all it was a showdown
as our day was nearing end
we were happy and could not pretend
my cats were never alone
my love and patience had grown
but now my hats I need to mend
SkyWatcher
06-17-23
alcoholic actors age artificially
frustrated feminists fornicate fiendishly
clever cops cripple conspiracies
nervous nannies neglect nurseries
morbid ministers murder martyrs
jealous judges justify junkies
lazy lawyers liberate lunatics
paranoid pimps pacify prostitutes
emotional eccentrics execute evangelists
gullible gangsters glorify graveyards
horny hypocrites horrify humanists
impotent invalids inspire incest
scorned schizophrenics sabotage sanity
disgraced diplomats destroy democracy
tormented terrorists terminate treason
reformed revolutionaries regret redemption
smiling dolphins play
frolic there beyond the froth...
deep sea diplomats
for pd's contest "any haiku will do"
Good Christmases never come with chipped teacups.
Good Christmases don't kick,
bite,
suck,
tease,
wheeze,
pain,
complain,
but pack woolies for chilly bodies, familiar carols tickle hearts.
Good Christmases present gifts under a tree, lit and tinseled and capped.
~
Better Christmases have prized porcelain.
Better Christmases are toasted by chalices porting posh pink wines.
Better Christmases, jumbo stockings fill so carelessly, each could be a single Santa sack.
~
Best Christmases require us two for steaming chocolate.
Best Christmases outlast seasonal cadences - when Spring fires back and snows arrest, you and I’ll be swaying in Summer, fiddling leaves around Fall.
Best Christmases, we share like flirty diplomats talking in turns,
between laughter,
through gazes;
in narrow words,
immense phrases,
sincerely hopeful,
all together.
ROAD TO DAMASCUS
Granite faith exfoliated by superguns and sanctions whirls,
on this earth succumbing into dry spell of peace,
War-crats and confidantes skinning freedom from its people
Kofi drinking coffee with revolutionaries and revolutionaries in
Aleppo cafe on his way to Damascus
Daughters eating NGOs, GMOs, condoms and twitter
Bullet scorching the feet of super diplomats and mediators
Wiki leaks castrating the reputation of this state
Opportunists and oppositionists eating asparagus and liver in candle light dinners
Selfish pseudo prophets calculating political matrixes, salmonella laced sugar tongued
Democrats cooking autocratic beetroot and propaganda pizza for media rituals and puppets initiation.
____________________________________________________________
The question posed by a politician to Jesus after his arrest
It was Pontius Pilate Governor of Judea from A.D. 26-36.
To this day the answer still eludes politicians
The politician and the diplomat
Two different tools used to make ugly truths palatable
And beautiful truths unrecognizable
Politicians and diplomats never say No
Their Yes means maybe and their Maybe means No
I've read it three times and it still makes no sense
What's this all about I'm so frustrated I just want
to throw the bloody thing out. Who is she and
what is he? All these forms, Haiku, Tanka, Senury
Who are they? I don't have a clue, sounds
like foreign diplomats that's the rue.
Metaphors that are really hard to figure out,
makes my head hurt that's what I'm
talking about.
Just shoot it to me straight that would sure
be great.
For Judy Konos contest
Put yourself in the readers shoes
deadline September 4, 2011
Palimpsests of smoky cone-rolled pages charred black from the lead of hatred laced pencils,
Assemblages rewriting peaceful philosophies from behind the blindness of fire-flooded eyes;
Nourished underground rivers of stiff minds that hang coarse like dried laundry on the line,
Demolition derbies of personal agendas colliding like sticks of dynamite beneath a cool bath;
Endowed schools of thought mindlessly led back into troves of blood soaked barren lands,
Mellifluously singing the cash register's melody for drunken bankers and bankrupt diplomats;
Once upon a time our minds only pregnant think-boxes of shooting stars with no prison bars,
Now palpable petals wilting beneath the graffiti drenched petrichor that chokes our senses;
In years smarter tonic will pierce our hearts with the healing strike of medicine tipped darts,
Until that time we can work to smolder beneath the sun-kissed rituals of knowledge and love,
Making our futures bright and golden, leaving this pandemonium as history, for our children;
August 2, 2016
Unsullied by the world, with conscience free,
He sits in contemplation, hour on hour,
Of one small point on his anatomy
From which he gathers strength and mystic power.
Not for him the hero’s wide acclaim,
The soldier’s glory, nor the merchant’s prize;
Deaf is he to trumpetings of fame,
Blind to the promise in a woman’s eyes.
For him no cleaving to ephemeral things—
No ties to trap his feet in tangled ways
That snare the steps of diplomats and kings—
No fear of blame, and no desire for praise.
Supremely blessed, the holy Lama sits,
Heedless of bombs that blast the world to bits.
War
dirty, bloody
fighting, destroying, killing
weapons, solders, diplomats, trade
understanding, helping, sharing
clean, lasting
peace
The sun drenchs and heat soaks the air.
It throbbs with fumes.
The drivers of the three wheeled, canvas covered
taxi’s curse, beep, and press
their way between motor cycles
with garishly clad riders.
Males in western-style helmets
drive women, dressed in peacock-colored saris,
down the main boulevards between
the Mercedes of diplomats and
the Range rovers of the wealthy Western usurpers.
Upon the cracked concrete edged sidewalks
lined in a herringbone pattern of bricks walk bird venders,
whose baskets of finches, parrots, and macaws tweet wildly.
The baskets upon their shoulders swing.
The noxious fumes of the traffic apparently insufficient
to quell the beating of their small hearts.
Shop keepers hawk fly covered, freshly butchered chickens
from dirty white porcelain surfaces;
as tomorrows dinner pecks seeds through
the floors of their wire cages.
Through and amongst the plethora of colors and noise
military and police in mundane blue with rifles mounted
on the rear of their vehicles pass by.
Ordinary citizens hack up spittle from raw throats and congested lungs
while horns blare continuously;
blending with the barks of hundreds of stray dogs.
The Fast Stranger At Barker's Cake and Pastries Shop- A Narrative Poem
One day at a cake shop,
I met a man selling cats,
For money he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some diplomats.
"Got any diplomats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No diplomats here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.
"We've got some lovely chips,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some onion thrips."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.
The man seemed exceptionally impatient,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call abortifacient,
Great disdain he noticeably oozed.
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit fast.
Still he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty overcast.
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the cake shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."
"Cats, diplomats, you shall find.
Chips, onion thrips, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to Barker's Market.
So to Barker's Market I decided to go,
In search of the diplomats I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But I felt that the day could be saved.
There were stalls selling cats,
Crisps in many shades.
There were even stalls selling bats
People were scattered from many trades
I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather fast
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady.
I wondered if she was at all overcast.
Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some diplomats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some chips and cats.
"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the diplomats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.
As I walked away I hard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?
3/5/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
Americans lifted their picket
When Cuba proved they can't lick it
The bureaucrats came
And went back home lame
The Yanks just can't tolerate cricket!*
*Research concluded American diplomats
were assaulted by Cuban crickets rather than a sonic
bombardment.