That complete lack of moisturizer
as the wind blew out of control.
Pummeled down to the ground,
chapped chaos kissed my lips.
Supple skin dried out
with one swift gust.
Left starving
to get
soft.
She might have painted the sea—
or a golden field of wheat
beneath a hazy summer sky—
but he took her brushes,
left the bristles splayed,
the paints dried out,
and the turpentine cloudy.
And though she said nothing,
her easel disappeared one day
like a wispy cloud no one missed.
After that,
she painted nothing but dinner.
They had imagined themselves
sharing a studio but
he needed all the mirrors,
so she became one—
reflecting his genius,
and tilting her angles
to catch his best light—
sitting quiet in the corners,
while her palette faded slowly
beneath his brilliance.
She never called it giving up—
just life, unfolding.
Maybe she took comfort
in recipes, in the hush
of rising dough,
in setting the table just so.
But I wonder if sometimes,
she’d pass the studio
and something nameless would
tighten in her throat—
not quite regret,
not quite peace.
Perhaps both.
(“Creation Myth Merit Badge”, 2016, original oil)
Global Intifada
Everywhere you look today the world is burning
Or is a dried out husk waiting to spark.
It’s a self proclaimed global intifada after all,
Sweeping like a plague across hearts and minds.
But what exactly is this resistance all about anyway?
Inquiring minds want to know.
In a nutshell; change, as the world continues,
As it always has, to spin beyond our control.
The irony being those calling for a revolution
Really just want the world to stop being out of their control.
Stop and go back on track
To some idealized path, to some idealized goal.
While meanwhile the world just continues
To turn and burn in endless creative destruction.
Each of us a bit of tinder to fuel the fires
To temper the steel with which to forge our future.
(6/12/25)
I was drenched in black water,
Yet, it looked as though I were dried out.
I stood before a lighthouse,
Yet, remained unseen.
Gazing into the sea’s blackness,
The highest tides forever circled me.
My eyes could find no anchor,
As my dark hands sailed towards the farthest shore.
My home, too, was cloaked in shadow;
Something unseen, yet present, walked with me there.
The map and the wanderer within me never agreed.
Colours were but drifting sailors in my life’s vast sea.
Different souls sail different paths,
Tides come and go.
Memoirs float like driftwood.
Something vast yet fragile appears near the stones.
My grave is smaller than the stones,
Its epitaph; empty and black.
I performed on countless beaches,
Yet, nothing remains visible on this blackest shore.
Skin pores poured out stored water from within,
Light shadows of the sunshine were laid bare,
Previous rainfall drought dried out the skin.
Many beg God for new rains to begin,
That long-lost comfort flies 'bove in the air.
The next day thunderclap shattered the peace,
Heavy rainfall fully emptied the streets,
The weather, once again, became so nice.
Tearful sky pleads to let raindrops release.
Many joyously dance to the rain beats.
Heavy rainfall fully emptied the streets,
A thunderclap shattered the loud silence,
Frightened animals made some quiet noise,
Smiling cries from the sky mocked the city,
Farm crops sadly rejoiced to the warm cold.
That day, rain was their friendly enemy.
The next day, dried wetness was everywhere.
Light shadows of the sunshine were laid bare,
Skin pores poured out stored water from within.
Previous rainfall drought dried out the skin.
Many beg the sky to release more rains,
Cold waves of heat from yesterday just fled.
That long-lost comfort can't just be so brief.
The dried tears of the sky just have to stop.
In the silence of shadows over the lea,
where daisies journey unhindered all around,
is buried a sweetheart that dearly loved me,
stop by me in contemplation, make no sound!
Who can ever bring back loved ones who are gone?
what gesture or move can turn back marching time?
happiness, laughter and all the cheer when born,
are now replaced by rings of sepulchral chime.
I stay on and on till long shadows creep in,
what place is good for me when my heart is here?
hopes have dried out and my life’s purpose is thin,
I live on lost thoughts and some dreams that bring cheer!
Sleep, dear love, sleep on peacefully for ever,
let not my sorrow hold you to this domain,
sweetheart, we shall meet under heaven’s bower,
I shall ride times chariot, love to regain!
Death is reality of each life there is,
every bright candle meets darkness in the end,
beyond the mourning there is promise of bliss,
to loved ones in God’s heaven, our prayers we send.
At dawn and dusk the birdsongs busk;
The highlights of my day.
I'd gladly waste out every hour,
as they sing out our their hearts for no pay
I'd go without food or water
Until my eyes dried out
My ears bled from the tones
And I'd happily pass away
I want to do all so I don't do anything at all.
My heart is beating fast and I don't know why.
I am not attending at tutoring every monday because I am scared people in my class are going to laugh about me,
He was getting along with her but it didn't hurted me that much,
participating I was,
mistakes making now I am okay with,
I've got my physics test but I am happy that I didn't failed completely,
some were cheating but the teacher didn't look out,
I was happy with my little Orange dress and the jeans beneath.
It was kinda fresh today.
I am sorry mom I didn't told you,
but I am scared to fail class,
because it is most likely,
since I only have one A, in sports,
were my arms feel already numb,
and I find myself asking people which is much more easy.
Mom, I fell on the matrass yesterday,
my shoulders hurt a little too.
Mom, I am sorry,
but my mind thinks of the worst.
No wonder
It is most likely to happen.
Mom? I was about to cry but now they are already dried out without letting go.
Because I know,
nothing's going to change after I posted this poem.
Mom?
I am sorry I don't know if I am having fun,
writing poets of bullets running through my head of gun.
But blood there is none..
Maybe I have already bleed some.
Dried out the wounds had become.
Big ass of blood plumb.
Dead ones.
Sunrise and already the water
is being seared with a glow
as if under a grill.
You can feel the heat building
in the morning air, the sand
still warm from yesterday.
The tide has left the creature
stranded on the beach,
its frilled sail glistening
and rigged with blue tentacles
clumped menacingly beside
its motionless body.
The sun will soon cook it
to a dried out bladder.
This drifting marvel of murder
is now no more than sea phlegm
coughed up on the crest
of a wave. It looks so pitiful.
And yet it still
has the power to inflict
a painful sting. Venom
waits for one last desperate
chance to snare some poor
careless prey.
My fingers seem possessed
with a will to pick it up
to see how it feels without
being stung. I hover somewhere
between head and hand,
stranded by indecision.
Footnote
This is one of a series of poems
that have the shoreline as the
backdrop for the exploration
of meaning in things washed up
on the beach or in the experience
of being in the moment.
Paul
They are trying to get rid of the "original"
Woman. [For that old Serpent hath enmity with the Woman].
They have recently judged in favor of
non biological mind induced femality over you.
While in dressing room and child scared in a corner.
I will show documents, later proving that they know full well what they are doing.
Thank Barack Obama, (he is into more than you think),
for understanding that a Woman is the rock and cornerstone of the family.
That society cannot be controlled if you have
the nuclear family.
Take the woman away from being a true woman and take her role and you have a dried out shell and empty family.
They know about false feminism, because that is what they tricked everyone with, the documents admit.
They want to mute your former self from society.
Talk about fear.
They do not want society to have anything to do with a whole Woman.
What I will show is their own words
they thought would not be found
Grateful for your love
Ratchet old cottonwood tree looks dried out and dead to me
Winters temperatures scavenger cold long Robin perched above
O' behold what a wonderful God who provides for them and us
--Always
So thankful
I AM soul grateful for His love
2/11/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2024
Unseasonal rain has kept
the small pond
half full of water.
More than a hundred tadpoles
crowd its weedy shallows
which, by now, would normally
be a dried out bed
of sludge cracking
under a hot sun.
They take refuge
in the brown shadows
of their diminishing world,
plump prey for birds.
Still infants and at least
a month away
from becoming frogs,
they are running
out of time.
Their world is shrinking
fast and one by one
they are being taken.
I look on.
‘ Help us. Help us.
Take pity on our innocence ‘.
I can almost hear them cry,
gathered under their flimsy cover
like children
trying to hide from death
falling from the sky.
flowers all gone now
grasses dried out color brown
seasons autumn fall
cool cold brisk blank air
below fifty degrees so
season change winter
after autumn falls
everything’s not dead just brown
dormant is the grounds
12/13/2023
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
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