Best Hearthstone Poems
Afghan, around shoulders,
crocheted winter-white.
Mama’s getting older.
Love her in hindsight.
Quiet, pretty, charming —
wise with snowflake hair.
Little sisters arming
her with loving care.
Forgives couple’s absence,*
our shamed shoulders bent.
Mama’s hearthstone immense,
with violet scent.
Grumpy, petty couple
has no right to frown.
Mama’s silver supple
knees, deserve a crown.
1/11/2018
Joseph May’s 88 syllables
*line is 6 syllables not 5 (error on howmanysyllables)
FICTION
The bedroom hearthstone
breathes black ice cream
into our shell.
I scuttle on the floes of insomnia
like a conch shell
knocked into the jealous waters.
You sleep soundly.
Maybe we’ll crack open the mudroom door tomorrow
and comb the yard for your mittens.
My yellowed knee
will crawl out of its cast in fourteen days.
The house mumbles something about abandonment.
this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
A pen to scribble, upon thou texture of nature’s art,
Thrashing about, men’s minds of nomenclature prose,
His mind’s turn to rotate with sequential prowess,
Lines of truth within thou heart of endowments,
To depart from former figures, all alleged from necromancy
Was a mirthful hearthstone within a hapless man.
“Writing is the gateway to inkblots of towering intellect, misery and mystery, along with the denial of all humanity that there is such a thing as ascertain expression. However, realize that writing created language, thus the catalyst for such denial in the first place.”
May Fifth, 2019, A Personal Tribute
Known as Bubba and,
she hapt tubby renown
to savor livingsocial
to five grandchildren, (now grown),
my late mother fourteen
journeys around nearest star died,
nonetheless fought tooth, nail and bone
years presence christened and known
since November 13th, 1935,
though last few years transformed
her into a crone,
yes Harriet Harris chose cremation,
versus purchasing costly plot,
plus an inert headstone
departed realm of the living, her ashes
long since scattered,
linkedin, determined, foregone
within conclave among wind deities,
analogous to mourning doves doleful drone
whipped urning's contents, sans cyclone,
where remains got blown
dispersed along favorite hiking trail
adjacent to Revolutionary War Cider Mill
ghosts of militia long since flown
(situated within Arcola, Pennsylvania),
this sole son January 13 mcmlix,
whom ye birthed, forever alone
within my emotional wilderness
puberty, yours truly tried to postpone
belated gratuity maternal nursing skills
deployed to thwart anorexia,
yet these latter days getting older prone
to reckon eyes, how deathly frightened
ye and papa felt, where grim reaper
got called from me on his telephone
mother intervened ghastly stentorian tone
now, reminiscing tender loving care qualities,
proffered, while warmed by hearthstone,
though I always remained a stranger to thee
as this Norwegian bachelor
signs off from Lake Woebegone.
(Sanatoga, Pennsylvania location)
I luxuriated as inkling of spring 2021
offered sneak preview today
March third as temperatures
reached low fifties Fahrenheit.
Yours truly began reading
one paperback book
(I purchased three),
and absorbed daily dose of Vitamin D
while secretly ensconced
within favorite nook.
This middle aged rue stirring bummer
favors warmth, boot haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal enfold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold,
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19473 current zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs ne'er frozen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, I still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excitement (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching
from the lizard king
who entered and did break on thru
doors of fame and fortune
becoming out of this world legendary
rock and roll icon,
nevertheless, he joined twenty seven club
for permanent fling.
Nested like treasures priceless, eagle parents watch over the brood
On an island far away from the city, I beheld in a vision of azure blue
A rural settlement in waste laying, arid with black bile
A desolate, decaying riverine pride
Above sunken war canoes and ores only dead men mine
Tricked and deprived of life,
Numb but not from the rum they had drunk while on Earth
Now with the blood drained from their faces and their skins ashen
I saw nearly all their sinews rot away in split seconds
And their peaceful joy was pillaged
Yet unerring, inert, and grave quiet
In abundance of wealth they stayed barren
Cold, and stalled
Never had I seen such looping stagnancy,
Their fire had no warmth or vigor
Never had I seen such perfection made otiose by life's rigor
I asked the meaning of the spirit who carried me and one vocalized
Your ancestors require light they cite
The blood of brothers and virgins recite
Tears that never dry until honor is given to their sacrifice
And their bones are brought up to rest through rites
Shall there be feasting made to honor these who fought for heritage?
They knew not Christ
Gutty in the face of drowning deepness
With none to cheer them on with sweetness
If their lives become a graceful adage
Shall they also be examples to our young?
Shall their stories not be told around great bonfires?
Shall their odes not be sung at evenings?
As they dine with the gods by whom they're sired
Who shall reverse their unworthy demise?
Who shall carry them to sleep in the warmth of the land they sunk for?
They who stood to hold the bows for their hearthstone
And suffered the ravaging of foes, even reptilian fate
Possessing virtues in excess yet killed like beings worthless
Dying with seeds unplanted, and many wrested
Their houses are like deserts, their fields are barren and corrupted
Their spirits are rejected for the paths they travelled
Who shall lift their curses of hell and squander?
Who shall reach them now?
Who shall heal their broken spirits in the world after?
— — — — — — — — — —
Children’s hands stained with fruit color in spring water,
right next to the old mill
where the yellow sand is sprinkled into rocks.
Moss and blueberries
on lumps of discarded illusions, they grow
up in the oak forest.
A wolf’s face with a mouth full of acorns
hungrily looks at the city with hot eyes,
and into the river light
between stone monoliths.
*
Like fugitives from the past
In the new year beginning,
at the window above the narrow passage
we have begun new countings.
Nights in the Old Town
with a quiet fire to welcome life
they reveal all the secrets
flowing in torrents to the water
waiting down there
at the end of a paved alley
and turns west
towards the dormant canals.
*
The river carries stones within its bed
been paid in gold millet.
Absorbs Eastern prayers,
they sprinkle the roofs asleep
and falls on the water
drunk with the holy words
of the hearts lost
in languages and names.
We are looking for an old book nest
created by mysterious visitors from the south
that let forgetfulness walk
and guards the shadows in deep sleep
under our hearthstone.
*
At night, you caress me on your lap,
and deep joy is awakened,
you bring peace by praying for us.
Ice cubes flow down the chest
melts on the thighs,
but the flow of kisses is down the back
unpredictable to the very end.
I hug you tired in my nest
while the smell of your hair on my face
whispers that it is unimportant
Are the city streets
covered with a gold
or with stone gray.
— -# — -
She was plum perfect
Sweet as apple pie
A lavender rose
Hearthstone
Boiling warm glow
Dew drop Olive garden
Warm Glow tulips in the spring
Such a sugary woman
Soul so very sweet
Her very essence chocolatey
Chanterelle strawberries
Sea anemone oceans breath
That woman that girl cotton in a candy
So sweet chocolatey sweet
She's yum, plum perfect
2/4/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
In melancholy moments
Tinkering with the past
What would have happened
If a letter was read?
A question asked?
Something not left unsaid?
I have run all those
Thoughts through
It is wonderful to do
A sweet dream askew
Of reality’s pose
But no matter these
Thought experiments
I just can’t get past Her
And what She meant
Even in reveries
The peak none can surmount
My one thing with no doubt
God smiled, again I found love
Not just because of my kids
But because of who She is
It is hard to think about Her and others
Without comparisons, which isn’t
Fair to any, nor wise to do
But it comes down to a few
Reasons it makes sense
She is like the ocean or a glacier
The planet’s movement
Irresistible with time
She entwined herself in me
Like the roots of an ancient oak
Over years and moments
Strong like hearthstone
She is growth, long, patient, pressing
She is decades of shared experience
Joy, adversity, family, and sentiments
She has never faltered in love
She was always steady in Us
Even when She threatens
I know She won’t do it
Because I see the deep abiding
Love in Her eyes, hear it hiding
In Her sighs. She’s mine.
And that is how it is with me too.
I exhaust Her with my desires
I get to make Her show feelings
Send Her pinwheeling
I get to stoke Her deep fires.
So let me say it plain and true
No matter what love may do
Or what may come through
I married The One, She is my wife
I married The One
She is my life
I say unto you, when the olive branch is brought to the tax collector, let not those who are without mercy be sent forth from the well to offer comfort to the thirst of the brethren who linger by the hearthstone of the humble shepherd. Do not fill old wineskins with a new vintage without first giving thought to the psalms and parables from which they derive. In order to heal the sick and bring sight to the blind, the first harvest must be dedicated to the Great Whatever.
Therefore, do not leaven your bread earnestly while you bury your talents beneath a bushel. When the faithful servant of the rich master attends the wedding feast of the ten virgins, should he not first forgive his debtors and replace the barren fig tree of the elders with fruit of the prodigal womb? Pharisees and Samaritans have a greater chance of threading the eye of the needle than does he who labors in the vineyard of an unjust steward.
Know ye that all manner of men may seek to sow their seed in fertile soil, but the seed that grows secretly will remain unknown though it multiplies a hundredfold. Therefore, take the beam from your own eye for the sake of the grieving widow. The alpha and omega shall follow you days without number. Loaves and fishes shall multiply in the net of the fisherman and he who proves deserving will be granted admission to the first ward of the Temple.
On this occasion then, let us remember that not even the least of God's creatures shall be excluded from the eternal bliss of perpetual salvation in the unending glory of the guiding light as the world turns from the edge of night in the search for tomorrow and the Lord exclaims, “All my children shall be forever free from the dark shadows of the secret storm." We have but one life to live. The days of our lives are numbered. The young and the restless must not allow their love of life to lead them to another world where false prophets are not abominations in the eyes of the most righteous. Praise be to the Lord of Hosts, the great MC in the neon sky. Amen.
"Perfect Couple"
He was the fire from distant skies,
With storm-born soul and ancient eyes.
A sailor turned sage, bold and wise,
Who walked with gods and heard their cries.
She came like twilight on the sea,
A hush of grace, serenity.
Soft in her step, strong in her gaze,
A healer wrapped in lunar haze.
They met not once, but long before,
Beyond the veil, through lifetimes’ door.
Two halves of truths the stars concealed,
Now drawn to earth, their fate revealed.
He, with hands that shaped the storm,
And heart that kept the hearthstone warm.
She, with whispers in her breath,
That stilled the winds and nurtured depth.
In Cyprus where the olives sway,
They built a life of sacred play.
With incense, tea, and candle’s light,
They danced beneath the wings of night.
He teaches stillness, strength, and flame,
She weaves her dreams into the same.
Their bond, a spell, both wild and kind,
No chains, no lies, no ties that bind.
For love like theirs does not decay,
It blooms through night and lights the day.
A sacred fire, still and true,
Forever old, forever new.
L&A
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*Note:
This poem speaks of a deep, mystical union between two soulmates who have walked together across lifetimes. Rooted in stillness and strength, nurtured by warmth and grace, their love blossoms like a sacred fire under the Cyprus sky, forever in rhythm, forever divine.
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