As the Sun begins to set
Darkness creeps in, and yet
There remains a magical feeling
About which at present nature is dealing
The blue Sky gradually disappearing
As the night is patiently gearing
To bring in the black dark night
And surround us all until daylight
The white puffball clouds now disintegrate
Before our eyes the dark will infiltrate
Our minds our souls for a brief while
As in, the field, disappears the Stile
Covered now beneath the shroud
Of night now coming in calling out loud
In the foreground proudly standing still
The bushes whispering in the gentle winds chill
They will still be there tomorrow morn
Are they bushes or ears of corn?
Hard to tell in the sad dim light
As nature settles down for the night
Eventually when all the blue Sky has gone
The sound of night Owls will linger on
A silent solitude will reign
Until morning comes again
There is a spectrum.
For old tin roofs.
For lawnmowers.
I’m a measure.
And whatever brains can be counted.
There is a spectrum.
It casts a menacing shame.
I am not a piece of a piece.
Just a-
Tin roof that breaks all the time.
And lawnmowers are so loud they cover anything.
I am a spectrum.
And I would rather disintegrate.
Than complain about wretched creaking.
I am a spectrum of mental clouds.
Whatever brains are leftover?
Slither.
I watch flecks of stubble sadly float.
They have no hope. They have no boat.
Their chances are remote.
So, it provides them no cheer, I think,
that they'll drain down a slow sink.
I look down with a hint of fear
to see my feet, then legs, disappear.
This must be quicksand. I say "Oh dear";
and my form begins to shrink
as into the earth, I slowly sink.
I watch the sun set in the West
and ask, "Should I be depressed
or be glad that my life's been blessed?"
It replies by turning the sky pink,
and begins to slowly sink.
I watch my body disintegrate
as I only gradually meet a fate
that doctors try to mitigate.
In a word, I'd say, it "stinks",
this somber, sunless, sad slow sink.
An iridescent streak
bifurcates the obsidian
dome,
A incandescent voyager
accelerating through the
obscurity,
Relinquishing its grand,
celestial habitation,
To dissolve into a ephemeral,
luminous fragment.
Conflagrating magnificently
across the absolute infinity,
It manifests with fierce,
unadulterated dedication,
Exchanging its permanent,
prehistoric illumination,
To bestow an instantaneous
warmth upon our souls.
For what is preservation
within the remote cosmos,
Juxtaposed against this
singular encounter in your
presence?
I would joyfully witness the
ancient firmament
disintegrate,
To participate in this fleeting,
majestic trajectory.
Like that radiant anomaly, I
surrender my entirety,
Content to completely
dissipate, if our devotion
remains absolute.
Yet another vestige of love lost
whetted cheeks and swollen eyes
life's cruel moments wreak havoc
within the softness of one's heart.
A heart stops beating with malice
the breath gone in a rattle and hum
final whispers and the brain quivers
dormant pulse and a bluish pallor.
The tempest roars insatiably loud
a body can be lost, never to be found
great ships disintegrate upon granite
lives are left, penned on parchment.
The Reaper stares jubilant from rocks
as a grand lighthouse loses once more.
Clothing and splintered wood float by
as rubble and rabble left on the shore.
In a stormy gale, glows a freakish orb
slapped by the tail of a golden stingray
harbinger doomed in a soulless sky
tears in the torrent beget a dark night.
-On the pedestrian island on intersection of, Papilion.Parkway.On the corner of the street. For days, for weeks, so many months lies a full Ice cream cone, unbroken, untouched, and there's a white lava dried out puddle. The Vanilla Ice cream still yet white and coloring has not dissipated. Doesn't didn't disintegrate no evaporate ? Ice cream cone must have came from across the street from "Mcdonald's" where they sell real food?????.
Written words by James Edward Lee 2026
4/28/26
It forever holds its flavor
One is all you’ll ever need
One can savor it for later
Or share it with a lover
Your brother if you’re onto that
A friend who’s a bestie
Or a stranger who’s in need
I’ve repurposed a pill box
To dispense my favorite flavor of the day
It will never disintegrate
And is guaranteed
Or your money back
If this gum just happened
To fall into the ocean
It would surely float
Be gobbled up by some random fish
Or get caught up
In the net of a fishing boat
And the Captain will surely gloat,
“Yum, cherry apple red.”
But like most trash
Gum ends up in the dump
Where it remains forever flavorful
For the ants and bums
Who rummage for just one
I try to hold
The glass jar of life
But it shatters
At the slightest brush
Of my fingertips
One minute we say
"Hello"
And the next
"Goodbye."
How is our measly flesh
Made to handle grief?
How are our sinews and bones
So fragile
As to be crushed
By the faintest impact
Yet expected to carry
The weight of loss?
Love cowers
In the presence of death
For I can't bear to embrace something
That can disintegrate
As quickly as I can say
"I love you."
I try to gather
The glass shards of life
But they scatter
At the gentlest breath
One minute we say
"Goodbye"
And I can only hope
The next
We say
"Hello."
The World Approaches.
Swarming waves of cyclones swell to unfathomable heights, unfathomable depths,
Walls of sea and blasting winds tower like angered and frosty alps,
And I cower in its shadow,
Unable to decipher if I survive even the first crash of water,
The first crackle of thunder,
If I should step out of my quiet cave,
I wonder, would there be anywhere left to run,
Would I disintegrate in that quaking, burning sun,
Collapsed in its shadowy, unknowable force,
Crushed beyond the feeling of remorse,
Would I live in that fire, that razed hellscape,
Among lustrous gleam and sharp steel,
Prickled by nails and progress,
Pinched by paper and persona,
Flourishing and dying,
Reforming, reaching, and being torn away,
Flames licking the pages,
Flames lingering on our minds,
Flames watching from the walls,
Flames digging under our fingernails,
Flames placing money in hands,
Flames pulling bones and twisting lips,
Flames intertwined with us,
Burning through canvas,
Burning through pages, and pages,
‘The History of flames’ in flames,
The stage is staged,
The stage is set,
The World Approaches.
209.
Do Not!
Do not deceive me
Because I am loyal to thee
Do not frustrate me
Because I trust thee
Do not cut me
Because I'm here to heal thee
Do not mock me
Because I praise thee
Do not disintegrate me
Because I am here to complete thee
Do not sadden me
Because I gladden thee
Do not confuse me
Because I am sincere to thee
Do not frighten me
Because I braven thee
Do not leave me
Because I'm always here for thee
Do not disown me
Because I accept thee
Do not misunderstood me
Because I'm trying to be frank to thee
Do not trash me
Because I value thee
Do not destroy me
Because I use to repair thee
Do not hate me
Because I love thee!
-05/19/2013
(Dumarao)
*My Stormy Morning Poems Collection
It’s never still.
Like a clicking jaw.
Thoughts get relayed.
Sometimes replayed with a new cover song.
It’s not just what could exist.
It’s like a cradling feeling, unreal.
In real time or unfunctional.
They claim.
It’s never still.
It’s whooshing with no sound.
It’s gracious imagination which nods to me.
I saw a jaw.
Disintegrate as if it was my own.
And I closed my eyes as if eyes can hold still.
Please believe me when I say:
Thoughts can’t be stilled.
Try to crack them with a hammer.
And get another vision.
Try to forget the crackling.
And another candy wrapper falls from the sky.
It’s never still.
My thoughts are ribbons.
Got overshadowed by:
The typical earth.
My mind runs behind an empty space,
Where it tries to find peace and grace.
It is an extremely unstable zone,
Where everything disintegrate.
There is no way out to escape,
Even if the Sun and the Moon lose the case.
My idea of shapes becomes fuzzy,
Everyone is running busy.
The days linger to night,
The night goes to higher heights.
My barriers are completely mine,
And I feel comfortably fine.
Death seizing me one day, mourn me no more,
Let me leave this vain world free from all woes,
Let me go seasons as have from this shore,
And bid goodbye to my soul as it goes.
Quiet a leaf gets born, gets yellowed gray,
No reason why man be so noisiest--
Aloud when born one uneventful day…
Loud again when goes, what a grumbling guest!
And so if ye happen to read these lines,
Life-less when I lie to disintegrate,
Let me leave ‘pon this place no telltale signs,
Let all of my memories dissipate.
Fains if one so chooses to love my pen,
O love the labour of my love if can.
____________________
Sonnet | 12.11.2008 | death, love, memories, pen, poet
Note: This sonnet talks about how a poet wants to be remembered when he dies— like a passing season that goes, no fuss. If at all, love and remember ‘my poems’, more than me.
I'm an is-be
I have witnessed the creation
I'm an is-be
I'm a piece of divine consciousness
living a lie in this mental universe
where even spacetime is illusory
As human, as pleiadian
As male or female
Incarnating a fleeting character
till its death where i pass to another
believing each of those characters is me
while they are roles fictional, ephemeral
which i play like a kind of amnesic actor
I'm an is-be
I come from base reality
the truth most fundamental
away from this virtual world
this dream that we call cosmos
I'm an is-be
In essense supernatural
pure conscious existence
My body will disintegrate
My soul is eternal.
Mental ants.
Sleepy, creepy, all trembling.
They are like tickling.
Or manifestations.
Ants are alive sometimes.
They take turns being alive.
Sometimes they eat.
So they’re weird.
My mental ants.
Make me as antsy as an apple pie.
Splattering on the ground.
Manifestations.
Sometimes I have dreams about puffs of light air.
They hurry away.
Mental screaming.
If I were broken into pieces:
Each piece of me would grow little antsy legs and antennae.
But also disintegrate at the same time.
That’s all that’s left.
Specks that are resilient.
Training my ants to be helpful.
It makes it worse.
They tell me it’s not possible.
To grow.
Like things that grow.
Mental screaming.
Nothing splatters like it used to.
They don’t try.
Ants on my mind.
Are more than riddles.
But less than real.
Next time I’ll manifest something useful.
Mental ants.
They are more resilient than I’ll ever be.
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