My aunt Pat sewed one for me
She loved my aunt Louise
Neither of them were aunts to me
The frog full of corn still dangles
over a trophy for a marathon of mine
I didn’t win or remember,
but I hope she is remembered more
than what she left me
when I was too young
to see that frogs
and being
are more than uncooked corn
This heart keeps beating
even when I tell it to stop
You deserve more than corn
I cannot count your kernels
to match your character
but I will try for longevity here
while lines match
the strenuous longevity
of my limited kernels;
vocabulary
Bright midsummer heat
ignites the vibrant
kaleidoscope, blending
cerulean cascades and
magenta splendors beneath
incandescent skies.
THE CHROMATIC SOLSTICE
Beneath the resplendent
architecture of July,
We unfurl the convoluted
fabric of our dreams,
Immersed in an effervescent
alchemy,
Where cerulean cascades
and magenta splendors
gleam.
With meticulous constriction
and chromatic grace,
We subjugate the pristine
cotton's stark expanse,
Applying pigment in a
labyrinthine embrace,
A kaleidoscopic,
psychedelic, sunlit trance.
The solar zenith acts as our
alchemical fire,
Fixating hues within the
cellulose domain,
A symphony of shades, a
visual choir,
Untied and resurrected from
the dye- bath's stain.
A cook never goes into the kitchen without wearing her apron. (quote by my Mother)
scent of hearth
stitched in morning light
apron’s cloth~
sewn with pride
fabric keeps the memories~
threads hold dreams of home
sturdy cloth
worn by gentle hands
drapes the waist
soft as lace~
each fold a prayerful whisper
faith sewn into seams
daily grace
inside apron’s seams
hands knead hope
truth rises
kitchen hearth, gentle chapel
apron lifts the soul
a related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/talking_aprons_13664
They police the cloth,
the music, the ride,
measuring freedom
by inches of fabric
and silence of streets.
But ideas slip past checkpoints,
songs travel without permits,
and youth dreams louder
than any decree.
For no rule can chain
the restless rhythm of people
who know that tomorrow
must be wider than yesterday.
And freedom, like wind,
cannot be banned.
the little cloth scarecrow was bullied by some
you aren’t a real scarecrow, made him feel glum
He was not made of straw, so they truly made fun.
They were not very nice, these crows out in the sun
It’s always a man like me
In the mind of donors
Because of my punctured tyre.
My name has become a title
To many charity works
And organisations.
My face is an old cloth
In the eyes of many doctors
And nurses.
I am ever tipsy on the road,
Always looking drunk
Without sipping.
This is why I can’t meet
My future dreams—
Because I am still chasing
My yesterday’s dream.
I can hear in my mind
The voice of a beautiful woman
Calling me for a dance.
The children too are begging me
To teach them soccer,
While my friends are waiting
At the foot of Mt. Rwenzori.
If morning sun comes
With God’s blessing,
Then I pray I receive mine
Before anyone could,
So that my punctured tyre
Can be glued and pumped
Back to its once-hidden path.
the
green
dragontail
moth
with
her
wings
that
flutters
through
the
air
yet
made of cloth
is
God's creation
She wore nothing but herself;
Her crown was flowing radiant black;
Electrifying was her mind sweet as roses;
And she hears with ears of velvet clovers;
And she sees with the eyes of a cat beams;
And she's naked her vessel skin hue;
Like a flowing water pouring down streams;
Graced in beauty of visaged view;
Carmel is her angles;
She sings amidst the angels;
Birds join in;
Such a beauty a wife for David, Solomon great Kings;
Pure as the color gold, streams the waters whole;
Out of her mouth from down into her belly;
She harvest the rhythms souls;
She wore nothing but herself barely;
Her Father looks at her knowing knowledge so;
And He says who told you were naked?
07/14/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2025©
We were born in the crack of an egg
fragile and empty
with a whip of thunder
and tongues of fire
tasting the earth.
We were born with a gram of cry
and several stretches,
wrapped in cloth like caterpillars
and waiting for our wings...
We keep our shells
as a reminder of
how far we have come
and how fragile our cradle is.
We were born in a crack and
a crack, we shall return.
They welcome us in cloth and
cloth we are bidden farewell.
Just one of us shall get their wings.
Oh, to live the life of a fashion faux pas
Cursed by the anathema of dress codes
Choosing blindly the closest hanger
The shirt on top of the pile
That lonely pair of shoes
Hidden amid
Those “too comfortable” to toss
Ratty sneakers and feral boots
Jeans that had holes
Before it became fashionable
T-shirts that mumble comments
In a far corner a shirt with a collar
A lonely pair of pants with a crease
A tie that has been in and out several times
A quiet sports fan he wears no logos
Although he roots loudly
Alone in a drawer somewhere
Are the many attempts at “conversion”
Sweaters, pullovers, and a few
Extremely “elegant” Christmas monstrosities
He wears jackets older than his children
Believing that fraying is the fashion statement
Of the flannel nation
Everyone knows that if he takes the children out
They are coming back dirty
With a new bruise or band-aid to brag about
His granddaughter once asked:
“Papa, why’d you wear that!”
He replied: “cuz it was on top”
Embroidery cloth
Expensive, fashionable
Takes hours to have one.
tired river flowing
slowly between the two banks
fog laying a cloth
October 11, 2023
How many lies have you extolled
How many commandments have you broken
How many futures have you stole
How many people have you made to suffer
How many pennies have you pinched
In order to cast wishes down a well
How much untold damage have you inflicted
And worst most criminal of all
You still are unrepentant
And actually believe and think
You are the good guy
Well hopefully one day you
to as well will eventually meet
your maker
And unless he is the devil incarnate
him very self
You should surely be in for
A hell of a lot of rude reprisals
And untold unpleasant surprises
A man called Jesus, worked and taught hated for no
Reason, gives me thought? Betrayed by those He was
To save, the men of cloth spat in his face, He was tortured killed and placed in a rich mans grave.'
A squad of roman soldiers made, security sure
That Truth be known to me and you' with temple guards
And a seal affixed, once the stone was rolled, to halt
Any tricks, despite their measures The Lord arose upon
The third He placed His old clothes; neatly folded the job
Was done, the dead awoke to walk, and the gaurds did run
He met His followers, He taught anew; such messages
Have travelled over many a pew, He's calling still He builds
In grace, indeed, no' He was not of the cloth.' Yet He owns
This place.'
God carved him from his finest cloth.
He gave and gave.
They drank his broth.
Most unaware of what was given,
with blinders on they kept on living.
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