God dispatches two angels
for each missile sent in war
to recover the souls of those perished
He then lets nature clean up the blood
with insects and bacteria
so the war-torn scenario is blessed
It’s too common a sight
men, women and children
dying in war zones
Heavens gates are swayed open
with a constant line of new souls
carried by the angels
When will the killing stop
when will the world heal
when will the angels get to break
Thank the good lord that you get to
sip your tea and watch family feud
while others are less fortunate
Let’s pray for them
perhaps the rosary
they do not deserve to die
Freely flowing favor is friendship
Respect, mutually felt and granted
It is a blessed treasure
Everyone should have and be a friend
Never to be taken for granted
Distance and time need not disturb
Space and barriers create no barriers to friendship
Heaven dispatches True friends
I and you must befriend the friendless
Priceless best defines friendship
In the realm of self-interest, a curious soul,
Could not adhere stamps, sans wit owning a role.
His tongue, like a rover in arid terrain,
Lingered on whimsy, a scoffing refrain.
Precision eluded, in blindfolded dance,
Tongue franking an effort, missing each chance.
The stamp, a library of lore unbespoke,
His tongue still meandered, lost in each stroke.
Like giraffes when they strain ~ reaching treetops,
His sealing endeavor was a clumsy hopscotch.
The stamp lay there mocking, a coaxed witticism,
Tongue still missed the mark, a terrible tourism!
Metaphors clung, but not on the letter,
A longing unfilled, his tongue never got wetter.
The envelope sighed, craved wit's lifting brew,
Yet his tongue frolicked, having wandered no clue.
He licked and he slurped, as though miming delight,
A grand postal crime, a federal plight!
Metaphors piled up, unsent missives distressed,
His sense of himself was a bewildering behest.
In the spirit of levity, a story confided,
A stamp unadhered, a metaphor provided.
When engaging with mail, overcome by caprice of,
Just leave the attempt and go buy self-adhesive.
"A Spoonful of Sugar"
Upon waking
the green hangover
hangs low waiting
for the weeding
the alarm sounds
like thunder
the cats on the prowl
they’re hungry
the words
spill out of my mouth
like a spoonful of sugar
stirred into a deep cup
of strong black coffee
my cup runneth over
anything for a new world
me thinks the pen
not a play thing
swords are dealt
like cards through the keys
the mind reeling in the
fishes like words
flapping in dewdrops
like swimming in tears
the stories like leaves
miracles ever falling
like loaves multiplying
for the toasting
the story begins
like a bullet being loaded
into a chamber
the trigger pulled
the capsule swallowed
dispatches the chapters
into
another world
a new world
a new story
sentences for weeding
wild gardens nourished
all the murderous little darlings
seeded,
unfurling
unfolding
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Army officer.
His name was Jones, was not Welsh
perhaps his grandfather was
He spoke a peculiar upper-class English
sounded like a monologue directed
at people with low intelligence.
Jones was depressed his career had stalled
usually, a lieutenant was in charge
of a platoon, but he had gotten the order
His wife had a lover he could not divorce her
since she came from a military family
and it would hinder his prospects.
The Argentinians had a machine gun nest
On top of a knoll, stopping them, they had
to take it out.
They had tried to go around but got under
the fire, he had lost two men, took a decision
ran up the hill with his light machine gun
straight at the enemy and cleared the nest.
When the rest of the platoon got up
Jones was dead, but the nest was clear.
Jones was now a hero mentioned in
the dispatches and stories were told
of the dashing officer sacrificing his life
for the war effort on the Falkland
Ps. His wife married her lover.
Dear wife when I leave my red-light-lit
war room behind me
can you tidy up my love.
Sorry about the mess,
I was a befuddled general,
I led far too many
into my own dark fears.
Can you put way my cluttered
battle maps, dire dispatches
and unbroken codes,
then please take my desk and chair
into the sunlight
where in time they might become
mossy and ornamental
for your small garden?
The abandoned room
should be turned into a nursery
for green and yellow plantings.
The war chest is open and empty,
make it a crib
for all the infants who can now live
forever peacefully with themselves.
Anticipation of heaven gives me satisfaction to wait.
Night or day, I have no personal interest in seeing an Angel.
God may choose and I will obey; but I would rather wait.
Encounters with an angel in Scripture usually caused fear.
Longings for audible voices and ANGEL sightings are not on my list.
So often, the first three words of an ANGEL to mortals are, "Do not fear".
I believe that visible angelic encounters are real as in Biblical times.
Gently and with great respect, is the approach of the angels in the Bible.
Heaven often dispatches the ANGEL to give aid, assistance, and protection.
There was a rebelling ANGEL name Lucifer whom God cast out of heaven.
Into the wilderness, the angels came to strengthen Jesus after his long fast.
Not once will we find in Scripture an ANGEL who dares to accept worship.
Going reverently from one assignment to the next, the angel pleases only God.
Such is the life of the ANGEL whom God has given a will to serve and obey.
120821PSCtest,''A'' Forms,NewPoemsPoetryContest,ConstanceLaFrance.3P
Gramercy of this aroint,
doth she come?
Sirrah crown cries well met,
doth she come?
Ye wast in a hurry.
Aroint! Thy heads were seel.
Aye, thou art nay dispatches.
Aye, thou art woe.
Thou wouldst be dead.
Hark now hie!
Hark now hie!
Foggy mists slither through the highlands
As downdrafts force them to the riverbanks
To the naked eye ethereal warm icicles
Among tow’ring long-needle pines piercing sky
From the other side near the rustic cabin
The yawning night watchman waits the 7:30
Preparing to hand off the latest dispatches in
A leather satchel, the hook catching its strap
The silent river valley comes alive screeching
Then wanes to deadly silence, the fog lifting
As he prepares to hand over to the day shift
Driving the winding road home, sleepy-eyed
written October 29, 2021
There is something crawling inside my mind;
Words are burning ink-wells in my frontal lobe;
Evil identities come visits me kind;
Caresses cloudy dispatches negating hope's hold;
Cruel pleasures fond memories;
Hard distilleries embrace me;
Evils communions chase me;
Voices become muttered;
Letters spell out tasteful words;
~pleasures cruel fond memories;
6/18/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
VETERANS, ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH!
Onward, elderly soldiers,
against Covid19 waging war,
with the trump of victory
taking all before.
We don't want to lose you,
but we think you ought to go.
The virtue of self-sacrifice
to us survivors show!
In other ages heroes fought
and gave their very best
in the cause of liberty,
not for the best way to invest.
Then Grandpa to the trenches!
Then Grandma to the front!
You'll be mentioned in dispatches
for taking the full brunt.
wild things dance in my head
wild things
dark imaginings
0 dark hundred
they come out to play
to torture me
with their endless games
monsters from the deepest depths of hell
they surround me
taunt me, mock me
until at last
the dawn’s early light
and my wife’s love
dispatches them
back to hell
I want to cry sometimes
Because the world has grown cold
No amount of sunshine dispatches the growth of shade
The tears of mine eyes won’t even touch the pain.
Outside mouths gift expensive lies
Selling young when so old
I attend to the truth of my mind
Chaining up my mouth so emotions won’t escape.
I’ve stood so close to the threshold of insanity
Drawn to be a fool because circles are born verbally
All I want to do is love unconditionally
Yet I just keep finding myself in the arms of mine own misery
I need to cry sometimes
Because I can’t seem to wake my soul
It’s not that I don’t try
I feel my morals have gotten so old
I don’t think I have much time to undress my brain
I try not to speak falsely
Quietly my tongue folds
Holding onto the hurt that’s from the past and it refuses to denounce its reign
Should I close my eyes
Only to watch my dreams deflate
Darkness is before the Dawn
I pray the sun will rise again
So I will cry
It makes me not less a man
Yet the child trapped inside
Is still afraid of the rain
A single stroke
dispatches emptiness,
in one ambitious line
gives backbone to
my limp attention.
Rigid fingers tighten
on the brush.
The bristles slash again
and incorruptible reality
is neatly tailored
to my artifice.
Leaning on my arm,
I glance behind me
at the letters
inching down the page.
There's no return,
no second chance.
The brush no longer
mediates between
intention and accomplishment.
It races on ahead of me,
guided by the incidental
pattern of its progress.
Independent of endeavor,
indifferent to what I am
or what I hoped to be,
it brushes my design aside
and draws its own conclusions.
First version published in Poet, India
Beauty, splendrously attractive,
Ravishing and radiant,
Engages all my senses
As I open garden gate.
Trees, vying for attention,
Have resplendent, springtime wear
That dispatches sweet perfumery,
Attracting bees to everywhere.
Knowing I must mind my manners, since
I have entered Paradise,
Noting all the fresh spring greenery
Giving thanks for world so nice.
Written: 3/10/16
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