Come, come before me, hold me, embrace me, Pray for my soul. As you hold me,
I'm whole, just being received.
I am just being believed
I am cherished. I am encase in the breath of life. I'm seasoned, I'm not contrite
Been kiss favored full just cass, beautiful
Twilight disposition dark innovation.
I whose been deemed controversial
Engraved in submission
Come, come before me, hold me, embrace me
--I whom am envision
2/2/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2026
Me – Irish catlick working class:
mantillas, martyrs, Maynooth, Mass.
You – a literal Lutheran lass,
all pretzels, prenups, Mama Cass.
It never could have ever worked:
those ambiguities that lurked
were knees that, one day, would have jerked,
and we’d have wound up Douglas Sirked.
Your Nancy Clutter beats my Holden
(less Marlon Brando, more Karl Malden).
The pond we’re on was never golden –
winter white-out wiped out Walden.
I would have wearied of your sermons,
short Sheridans and shallow Shermans,
your Sophie Tuckers, Ethel Mermans,
poe-faced Pennsylvania Germans.
Ignore the stranger on the shore,
by Stan and Stella set no store.
Don’t give a damn what Della wore,
or Mary Tyler any more.
there was an older lass named Cass
who liked to brag about her rowdy past
she said with a sigh
why should I lie
those good times didn’t last
Uh-oh the upsy-downsy-queen is on a tear
Her flowered skirt is blowing in the northern air
Standing on an oak limb, on maniacal cousin’s dare
She forces a regal decree into a queen’s avid declare.
Is she on meds or off? Asks the spotted dotted clown.
Don’t make her mad I say, you don’t want to see her jump down.
Gemini queen on meds is laughing with a crazed hyena’s frown
Squirrel practices “shut up” as she paints her acorns a glorious brown.
Frankly says a boring subject, the young queen’s exuberance is the glue
That keeps the sedate king from running home to his mama in Kalamazoo.
Queen mis-yells a Mama Cass Song, entertaining us as only she can do.
I am so glad he went north for his bride says my looney cousin, Little Lou
You know you are like a music beat in a silent night on the Shore,
where Only the sound of the waves is heard.
You are so amazing beautifully,
like the sunrise in the morning that colour the world after a Dark night.
And you are so balance like the rain,
that give life to everything.
And your scent is thousand flowers of Buckingham palace gardens,
and your thoughts are like the billion stars in the sky, so different, so unregular, but so Magic,
when you understand that life explode thanks to them in the universe.
Your eyes are oceans, and seas,
and lakes and rivers,
and your body the perfect mixture between green fields and white mountain.
And your voice is so sensual like the warm wind of the morning,
that warms hearts and caress thoughts.
You are so shiny, so amazing and so faboulous,
that the universe even if it want cannot create another identical you.
You are all the forces of the universe together in one person.
You are amazingly YOU, Cass!
there in plymouth, where the land kisses the ocean,
there is a sun, a sun that never sets, a sun called Cass.
a sun that shines on the free spirits of the Waterfronts,
in thousands of meetings between two worlds,
where the sea and the sun fall in love,
under the rain of stars that fall from the sky for people like us,
for the ships that with sailing wounds find rest in your rays,
there under the Smeaton Tower,
you are the light of hope
for the promised land,
for the stairways to heaven,
towards dreams and stars,
to touch the sun that never sets.
in the small port of Barbican,
you are the spirit of the night
after every drink,
after every dance,
after every smile of people,
Shine your rays,
the real treasury of the Treasury Bar,
the sleeping beauty of a city,
without sunrise and sunset,
under a sun that never sets
a sun named Cass.
Cass,
the night is silent,
only dry wood burns in the fireplace,
and your naked body breaks the darkness,
your shadow is the rhythm of the blues,
my spiritual outburst,
sensual note, a pain that cry, and in between a dance of bodies
some blues, some slow-burning wood, two bodies in lust, and a penetration of souls.
The night is silent, silent with blues.
you are my blues Cass.
tonight I leaned on the pillow of tears,
of memories, of your blue gaze,
I leaned on the same pillow of yours for years,
I gathered your tears inside me,
and I converted them to happiness,
and then I cried too,
I cried so you can hug happiness, when you rest your head on the pillow again.
Your hairs are grey,
and too are mines,
with the same scent,
they still remain divines,
We had a life,
a really great one,
enjoyed together
the rain and the sun,
we laughed a lot,
we were like a wot,
our stong connection,
we never forgot
And since we are in bed,
in our last breathes,
let me make love with you,
embraced like the flowers in wreathes
The body of yours,
is for mine like cures,
still at this age,
it give me allures
So my dear Cass,
I never wanted less,
that being with you,
all my life through
Bill Dyer
Here lies the crisp remains of Chef Bill Dyer
Tumbled head first into a deep fat fryer.
Carlos De Rava
The statue on this grave is of Carlos De Rava
Fell in taking pictures of fast flowing lava.
Alfred. J. Clark
Buried in this grave is the left foot of Alfred. J. Clark
It was all they could find when they cut open a shark.
Joe
In this grave lies poor Joe who was very short sighted
Stick of dynamite instead of a cigar was what he ignited.
David. T. Murrey
In this crypt is just the head of David. T. Murrey
No one attended his funeral because he had no-body.
Jonathan Cass
The mirth you can hear in this grave is of Jonathan Cass
Was smoking a cigarette whilst making laughing gas.
Written on 20th November 2022
My purse is sheer seventies, with sassy swinging fringe.
Cut from flowered leather straps – pink and yellow on white leather.
I feel seventeen when I wear it.
Listen to seventies music – Beach Boys, Beatles, Mama Cass.
I am sassy too, driving over ninety miles an hour now.
Putting the pedal to the metal.
Getting my groove on.
Uh-oh.
Watch me run from the Fuzz!
bright blue sky with cotton ball clouds guides my road trip
Armed with tapes of folk songs from the seventies
I am uplifted by the scenery and Mama Cass.
Montana land is greening on all sides, proof of April showers
Songs are bursting out of my heart
I am out-singing the professionals!
Many discouraged me from taking this trip;
I felt an obsessive need; no idea where it originated.
Stranger along the highway waves as I fly past him.
I actually slow down and give him a human wave.
I am feeling charitable and generous. Should I give him a ride?
Maybe. I look back. What was his reaction?
He looks resigned. Maybe he needs some uplifting.
And I could use company.
I slam on my brakes and he comes running forward.
He leans in. “Peter Paul and Mary!” He exclaims.
My kind of guy.
The day just got better.
The concert of my dreams would include Cher and Tina Turner.
Throw in Andy Williams, Perry Como and the Glen Miller Orchestra
Adam Lambert, Jessie Blaze Snider and Lady Gaga will be doing solos.
We will have Roger Taylor of Queen on the drums, naturally.
Bette Midler is dressed in style as our guest conductor,
she breaks into song and Whoopie takes the maestro hat.
The Beatles have come back to life, to round us out.
Willie and Johnny Cash have just arrived to get this party started.
Is that Mama Cass I see? And Helen Reddy?
Oh, yes, this concert rocks!
I close my eyes, optimistic they know what to do, and well!
The concert of my dreams!
Sixty-eight! What the heck. I look in the mirror and see another me.
I am twelve inside. Can’t anyone else see?
My sense of humor is hilarious just like it always was.
I am young at heart; I still run from the fuzz.
I am a giant cuddly peace-loving hippie, who did not make it to Woodstock.
I would have but my parents would not allow it; which I think was a crock.
I was in high school then. I should have gone to Berkley.
But I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, so stayed home. Was still perky.
I want to tiptoe through the tulips, catch a ride with a communal VW van.
Painted with yellow happy faces, bubbly daisies and a peace-sign hand.
I will play a ukulele and sing folk songs louder and happier than Mama Cass.
Look at my face, my friend. Sixty-eight. Come on! I am a 17-year-old lass!
I see my eyes are fading. Arthritis makes me limp a bit when I walk.
But inside I am 19, a real beauty, with a heart that doesn’t squawk.
Sixty-eight. You’re kidding! At the most I am twenty-two or twenty-five.
I lived through assassinations, bombings, Viet Nam. It’s amazing I’m alive!
So yesterday I was at speech, and Cassidy says to me,
"Hey Keri, it's me Cassie.
Don't let that boy walk past me!
Go get his number or his
@ so we can get to snapping."
"'Why not yourself,' you ask me?
Talking to boys is ghastly.
But don't wait up 'cause I look great,
and Hannah's looking classy."
So I say, "Fine, if you say so," so I go down there and I start talking, and I say,
"Hey guys, my name is Keri.
Cass says strangers are scary,
But you should call her now so
Both of you can soon be married."
"And Hannah is a true friend.
You both should know just 2 things:
She's the cutest blonde in town, and
she wants you to move in."
And they're like,
"I'm Will, and this is Ben.
We think they're both a ten,
And doing this for them
Just shows that you're a real good friend."
And I say, "I know, I am such a great friend to them, aren't I?"
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