I was raised, like many others, on the wrong side of the tracks.
Parents poor, thru generations, hopelessly, broke their backs.
The holes in our walls, patched, with mud and road kill skins.
Our roof made up from cardboard boxes and corrugated tins.
We ate old, ice cold, cockroach stew, tho pigged out on toad.
The rusty bucket, we used out back, lovingly called commode.
As a young lad, I went bad, ran with wild gangs in the streets.
But soon, found myself running, with drunks, liars, and cheats.
In time, untrusted, got busted, cuz I was the one who went in.
The Judge, graveled, quickly gaveled, got five years in the pen.
In one cage, pent up rage, every day had to fight for my life.
Dreading showers, rival powers, and a toothbrush for a knife.
Made up my mind, when I got out, to fly straight as an arrow.
Like a fool, was hard to get by, on just the straight and narrow.
My life's been no picnic, it's true, but I won't sing a sad song.
Now busted again, back in the pen, I'm sure I probably belong.
Outside the dining room window
separated by a canopy
of grape vines and a small patch
of grass, was a corrugated iron
fence weathered to a dull glaze
of rust and covered by a trellis
on which a thick profusion of roses
grew and sent their delicate perfume
into summer afternoons.
My Nan's Paul Scarlet roses
were her pride, a groaning weight
of riotous red spilling over the fence,
an eye feast of color seen
through the window as we ate
our meals. ‘It's a good show this year’,
she would proudly say as we sat
taking in the rich mix of foliage
and flower, deep green and red.
Six years old, I took it in
and shared my Nan's delight.
I would thrust my nose deep
into the centre of a bloom to get
its full scent. Even when I had
a friend around, I always
pointed out my Nan's Paul Scarlet
roses as if such an acknowledgement
was a necessary preface to play.
I was so proud.
The sapphire seas
show in seamless
turquoise spread
the perfect poise
of unique aquatic
equanimity of enormity
harmoniously sparkling
lilting luster
of cerulean sky
reflection echo
resonates with
cobalt whisper
of waltzing waves.
Platinum periphery
embroidering embellished
lustrous lattice
of drifting cloud
corrugated clumps
suffused with
silver sunrays
of cupid’s arrow
adoringly enticing
entrance overtly
the ancient mariner
to embark upon
a new voyage
of attrite atonement
for he has left
in supercilious stupor
the seventh sea
unsailed.
He drifts desolate
with disquiet trepidation
in quandary qualm
on the clarion call
of swaying uncertainty
lurking latent
in languor swells
of steamy sea
the archaic essence
of his forlorn life
anchored enamored
on senile shore
the quaint ship
sails sanguine
from antique quay
of safe sanctuary
on southern wind
blowing beguiled
with perfumed promise
the serene soul
serenades content
to the tranquil tune
of the shredded sail
silently promising
to take him
to his new home
harbored beyond
the seven seas.
In Delhi's heart, a tale untold,
Of towering shadows, harsh and cold.
Gleaming steel and vibrant lights,
Hide a stark contrast, unseen at night.
Pan across narrow, winding lanes,
Zoom in on makeshift shacks, defying rains.
Corrugated tin, a patchwork quilt,
Where dreams and desperation, subtly melt.
Close-up on faces, etched with care,
Weathered hands, a burden to bear.
Eyes that hold a flicker of hope,
Yearning for a future, out of this scope.
Tilt down to children, playing in dust,
Laughter echoing, a fleeting trust.
Barefoot innocence, in a world so harsh,
A poignant reminder, of life's uneven marsh.
A long shot captures the skyline's might,
Luxury contrasting, in the fading light.
A silent plea for a helping hand,
To bridge the gap, in this divided land.
Focus on resilience, woven in tight,
A community spirit, burning ever so bright.
For in the depths of Delhi's underbelly,
Lies the strength of the human spirit, yearning to tell me…
It is a story of struggle, yet fight,
Of hope flickering, in the darkest night.
A plea for change, a call for all,
To break the cycle, and answer the call.
The chook house
stood empty for most
of my childhood.
An enclosed corrugated iron
shed was surrounded
by a wire fence
and a wooden gate
held on by one rusty hinge.
Inside was small
and cramped, just big enough
to hold a seven year old
and keep out
the rest of the world.
Daddy long leg spiders
guarded its inner twilight,
webs were strung
like trip wires to snare
an unwary soul.
Wounded I would seek
refuge there, safe
in its dark womb. Huddled
in silence, only a thin
umbilical of light
connected me to the outside
through a nail hole
in the roof. No-one knew
I was there.
After seventy years
I still preserve the space,
keep it hidden
in a corner of my mind.
When the world
gets too much
I make myself small
and go there.
Inside this temple made of brick and clay
the many shades of your heart
are the prisms of my soul
Pinioned and shackled to your fires
we are vaulted by our own desires
two lovers breathing as one
Outside this prison of hell stands my nemesis
buried behind its boulders I am decaying
like a rotting apple de-pitted then discarded
Bitwise assaults to my soul,
I summon courage and finally break out
of this ridged corrugated pas-a-deux.
Completed desire to like delight:
Corporate classified diligence prism pilot life;
Corrugated formed indulgence;
Wondering sold bought reverent;
~
Darkened patches lights;
On your night tried strife;
Such is the way plight;
Garnish seen eyesight;
~
Delighted life indulgence reverent;
Lit lighted strife eyesight plight;
10/30/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2023
Sparkle beautiful sun
Corrugated ripple mountains run
Violent blue skies embrace
The pearl white sky in tangent winds
Blows from east to west
Bright lights dispersed the shadows crest
Translucent emeril horizontal vision quest
Somber viewed hue, such an embossed view
10/16/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2023
Truly named Acme
We fed cardboard sheets
into a machine in steady flow
corrugated boxes the result
boxes to be filled with wares
endless capitalism perpetuated
day ends in a shanty town
When crossing the bridge to the shanty town
The day was almost over, blank and tired
and due to pollution, the light on the bridge had a hue of aureate
The huts in the township were utterly miserable
consisted of bricks, stones, plywood and corrugated iron
were the roof of all the shacks
a roof that keeps out the rain but bursts your eardrums
In small spaces in the back of hovels, women were preparing the evening meals
How can people live here, washing on a line said it was possible
Children ran around playing cowboys& Indians
for them, poverty was a word that did not exist as long as they got fed.
The night came suddenly to the tune of music from a transistor radio
the night belonged to yellow cures and rats
A humid day,
mosquito clouds swarm along
a red dirt road to the farm.
There are grimy rows of pig pens,
hazed dark by humming hordes
of black fly.
Bob (an old friend), chuckles.
“Man, you picked the wrong time of year
to come visit.”
The hogs grunt and squeal.
He waves,
“be with you soon.”
It’s slop-time - the air is turgid
with the many notes of a stale miasma,
everywhere there is the splatter
of slime and muck.
He carries smeared green buckets;
a deleterious, partly consumed gunk
that reeks of that semi-solid swill
hogs grow fat upon.
On the low walls
there are slick stains, layers of grime;
a smeared feculence
corrugated into noxious layers.
Even behind the stalls
there are a heaps
of sludge and slurry.
Bob flushes surfaces down
with his long hosepipe.
He bends to his tasks whistling happily
while I explain to my new wife
that he used to work for the C.I.A.
I can see she’s surprised,
maybe impressed.
Long pause…
watching Bob wade knee deep
into his labor of love.
“Yea”, I sighed,
“he got real tired of all that."
```````````````
an edit
Unlike the Famous Five,
with capers, japes and adventures,
boats and well stocked picnics, we lived
a back street life. With a sock and masking tape ball
and mucky fat sarnies.
The Family Allowance Five.
Each one of us an extra pound.
With facsimile school photos,
in hand me down jumpers and carving knife tread pumps,
floorboard cricket bat and under the bed air rifle.
Crab apple scrumping and tresspassing for mushrooms,
rabbitting before school,
paper round before school,
milk round before school.
Everything came before school.
Sunburnt scoundrels but "never any bother"
Corrugated asbestos roof walkers.
Cinema ticket hawkers.
Unseen, inconsequential, together but apart.
No roots or football boots.
Hot pot bollocks.
One foot here one foot there.
Immigrants finding their way,
but without the ginger beer.
I have a picture of a barren land,
a moldy tree devoid of fruit and leaves.
Above the moon amid clouds rise gloomily
as no rays reaches the muddy land.
Look behind the tree, you'll see me there.
An evil stench carried on the night breeze,
sounds of horror coming from the dead
as clouds hide even the small consolation
of the rising full moon, yellow and bane.
Virulence rules, malevolence masters.
The breeze turns into a whipping wind
moans of ghouls and demons uncouth,
peace and common sense buried in the mud.
A cat named Satan walks up to a tree,
Scaly, sallow skin, corrugated and cold
evil eyes, oozing blood, look balefully at me.
Yet I am strong, I never give in.
I fought the inner demon and I won.
Tribulations come our way,
Temptations come, temptations go
for God will always care for me.
My muse is gone,
good riddance to the witch
And don’t come back,
you extraneous lil b’itch
Off to prey on others,
pour napalm on their souls
Sublimate good poetry,
burn stanzas full of holes
Infiltrate kind minds,
corrupt joyous prayer
Tear apart covenants,
seed corrugated despair
Yeah my muse is gone,
in search of new hosts
To spread vile poison,
through every new post
I’m an angel once again,
deliverance fills each line
A paragon for good,
no more evil rhymes
Champion of the soup,
clear broth I’ll deliver
Served with fava beans,
Chianti, and my muses liver
# Her name is Clarice #
By
David Kavanagh
aisles of antiques
corrugated with named streets -
cups, saucers and book bindings
…stomach’s churning. i’m paying,
booking with dog-eared treasures.
7/27/2021
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