Isn’t my talent.
Her singing, she is talented.
Me, stilted, weary.
I don’t have stuff like abilities.
Washed all that potential off.
But hers.
She could fill a soft pillow case with her voice.
Or even an air mattress.
My core.
Is rough as compacted trash cubes.
My inner voice is made of gargling.
I was talented that one time.
Fixed the toilet somehow.
But flushed my earring away.
Sometimes life feels insipid,
like a meal cooked in a hurry__
no spice, no warmth, nothing to hold on to.
Maybe that’s when we get stuck
inside the straight lines of prose.
Sometimes life tastes heavenly
as the nectar of god in the paradise__
sweetness, fragrance, vitality, purity,
radiance all wisely compacted.
Yes, a poem is the nectar;
It slips into the heart quietly.
And for a moment,
we forget the noise, the weight__
we remember we’re alive.
Prose fills the stage of the universe
with the curtain fallen,
characters talking without words,
no emotion, no variety, darkness prevailed.
Those who love the fragile beginning of a verse
know how a single line can open a door.
Poetry grows like the way trees do—
not all at once, but constancy;
It bends with its own fruit,
it pleases, it heals,
and somehow becomes sweeter.
It is kindness in thought and diction__
a small drop of honey
that keeps the wandering heart from leaving.
On October the 7th, the precarious peace
of the disputed ancient lands began to cease.
The enraged avengers brought the Al-Aqsa flood
that deluged the Re'im music festival with blood.
Then very swiftly came the lopsided response
that decimated women and children at once.
The zionists' war machine sweeps the Gazan land,
rendering its closely compacted earth to flatland.
The Mosques, churches, schools, and hospitals are all gone.
Scores wail uncontrollably aloud as they mourn.
Having no point of refuge, refugees take flight
as they seek for bombshelters with no hopes in sight.
Hamas belligerents their explosive arrows throw
at overwhelmed defenses of an ageold foe.
Zionists with torrential explosives respond
with offensive operations within and beyond.
Oh that the Gaza strip might tranquility know!
Oh that the blood in the West bank would cease to flow!
Oh that Israel would flourish and as a nation grow!
Oh that the warring factions would the seed of peace sow!
Oh that the two warring factions would merry and dance!
Oh that the two state solution was given a chance!
Oh how I yearn yet words remain compacted
within my chest, a heavy silence lies;
through tender touch, through gaze, our
souls aligned
in soft embrace, love whispers "never dies."
I've read the secrets written in your eyes
I can't help but wonder if you've read my eyes
speak to me; let silence not disguise the love
we have for each other, the dreams we both believe
For days I've waited, longing for your voice
the sound that flutters my heart and brings me peace
if your voice could grace the air I breathe, I'd evermore rejoice
Oh my angel, with your melodic voice, heal this broken soul.
through distance, love took roots within my soul
hands can't reach you, yet my chest bust of good memories
Forced diversity has led to a compacted social sedimentation.
Another flavor of oppression...for everybody... this time around.
There's a heavy undercurrent of resentment and hatefulness.
Tugging souls down to where there's no air-no light -no honor.
A few well-intended veins are attempting to traverse the compaction.
But they're thin- fragile- guilt-ridden- unsustainable.
Destined to a slow wither or quickly bleed out.
If compacted for a prolonged period
There'll be a blending, but only via explosion.
Make no mistake:
This movement isn't about unity, equality, or putting balm to a wound.
It's about resentment, entitlement, and payback.
Choking people out with their mental scar tissue.
One may not possess garden space
dwelling in a compacted place
But there’s something all can embrace
that’s the sky in glorious grace.
Look at clouds as they’re drifting by
painting their pictures way up high
Thrill to dance of birds on the wing
hark their melodic twittering.
There’s beauty in the rising sun
or sunset as the night’s begun
So do not fret o’er what was missed
for the sky is a wondrous gift.
It was a dark hole
into an Aladdin's cave of old tools.
A small window
gave the only light and fell
on a rough sawn bench wearing
scars inflicted by years of use.
Saw cuts, drill holes
and the miscued gouges
of chisels had crusted to
dark scabs. Oil stains blotched
the surface like age spots.
Reclaimed tin beaten flat
on an anvil length of railway line
covered the walls in a mosaic
of odd shapes glazed
in powdery rust. The floor
was hardened clay compacted
over decades by a pair
of shuffling boots.
It seemed almost a holy place,
a grotto cut into a life to house
precious things a man valued
back then. Tools bore a sanctity,
a purity of purpose,
the blessed instruments
of a craftsman kept
and looked after for life.
Some were venerated relics
passed down by generations.
I closed the door,
leaving the cobweb draped
silence intact.
Soon to be demolished,
its contents will be thrown
into bargain boxes
at the local trash and treasure.
Sad how the age bundles up
and dumps the holy
to feed an empty core.
Mind and heart get wedded; physiques get attracted;
Love, bond, and affection hold hands in one accord;
Infatuation and romance are compacted,
Intimacy, passion, and commitment concord...!
Building bridges of fidelity they proceed,
Bathing in streams of fondness and admiration,
Positive perspectives and forgiveness accede,
In physical psychic charm, they find elation...!
Wedding bells, for lives of merged minds, peal endlessly,
Moments spent together become celebrations:
Physical touch and gentle kiss go zealously,
In mutual help and keep there's no negation...!
Marriage, when heart and soul are one, is paradise,
Though it seeks from each, a bit of self-sacrifice...!!!
VIRTUOSITY
in a
compacted
reverence
a naturalistic
virtuoso
of
dazzling artistry
such
childhoid delights
simulationg
the
sensitive touch
tactile
visible
in the
art of
articulation
the making
of space
an
intricate
record
of
recognituon
in the
of aptness
of stress
in
a
transient
threshold
of order
traced in
a
random
pattern
placenemt
of
method
of
apparent
ingenuity
of
patience
I am MY TRUE SELF GOD PARTICLES- ENERGY
I was in my true self
Energy
Compiled, compacted amazingly
power composed of God particles
Energy
just such as Him
power composed of God particles
self power composed of God particles
just such as Him
Compiled, compacted amazingly
self power composed of God particles
I was in my true self power composed of God particles
3/3/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2023
snowballs compacted
rolled up, stacked, frozen in place
man’s jewels, a carrot and coal
flurries cling to fur
and shaken loose, tail wagging
snowball’s freshly unfurling
1/9/2023
Winter Sedoka
Sponsor: Charles Messina
I should be thinking about snow, it’s December.
But leaves, like glue, stick to windshield and doors,
and saturated piles of brown shaped November
flood my yard, its uphill and down. In need of oars,
or hands and rakes, bags that shack the waste.
Pretty when it was early fall, cool and ornamental.
But now, the drill is to sweep the sogginess in haste.
Shovel out the debris - I’m over being sentimental.
I should be thinking about snow before that gets old
too…newfallen, fresh, powdery or compacted, gold.
12/7/2022
With just a heart;
Turned to gold, yet nothing left;
Rotten flesh;
I can now see that without you Lord, I truly have nothing else;
For there's nothing left;
when the world says nothing wrong
Even yet so stubborn to resists the truth even at one's last breath;
Lord you've warn me you've make me
Wholesome
Compacted within your image
You mad me mind, body and soul;
Lord you've warn me, you've make me
Wholesome
With just a heart
Turned to gold, yet nothing left;
Rotten flesh;
I can now see that without you Lord I can't be done;
Without you Lord I'm not
Wholesome;
A moral right, a wrong not confusion of a good conduct
Whom to trust
Without you Lord God I am not Wholesome
02/26/08
written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2008
My life was found in pain
I was ransomed for a pen
Never will I permit my soul to ache
I won't construct the same mistake
I was throbbing everyday
My grief was unheard anyway
Now I will stand compacted
My aplomb will be contracted
It appears the deeper we dig in the soil,
The foundation becomes clear about deceit.
As reinforcing rods look to be twisted,
Around all this compromised concrete.
Can the true nature be found in the footings,
That support this structure, constitutional?
While the layers have been crushed & compacted,
Leaving partisan levels to the judicial.
This search involves difficult fact-finding,
Tearing down walls with its demolition.
Where multiple efforts have progressed,
Seeking any fault to unearth by prosecution.
The finished product can hopefully resolve,
Massive tensions that are seen above ground.
While these cracks in our legal foundation,
Can be repaired to keep democracy sound.
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