Scorched
moss
remnant
speck of dust,
dainty dot matchbox
plume ex tiny chaser light chain,
dried out moist field, drought a wretched blight, habitat woe,
as wide sweep venal mindsets purge swathe after swathe of candle fly inbred impish glint,
they feeble bugs, leaf strewn dwellers whose twinkle once power charmed tree tops, lush pastures, putrid logs, harmless to the touch, dodging worldly brass nerve,
warm-hearted watchers for the environment who pose not the remotest threat of even miniscule proportions, now diminishing landscape feature, they atrophy, sag, shrivel, wither, languish, a pointless premature death
They Say, "Your destiny may not always be what you dreamt of".
I've always struggled to accept that, Maybe because I've been stubborn believer in stoicism, In the idea that a person can write his own destiny with discipline, Intent & Relentless efforts.
But then comes the inevitable question,
"If I believed that so deeply then why wasn't I able to Destine Myself to NLS/NALSAR Or any top 5 for that matter?
Why did I make peace with CNLU Patna?
Answer sits in blurred multifaceted dilemmas of efforts, Distractions, fate & Fairness.
Some answers I do know infact but they are really hard to accept,
Some are burried deeper in the question of fate and fairness
I may never fully know that was it the ink that spilled writing my destiny or it was the pen that dried out at the wrong moment.
But atleast I realised that life isn't a page but a book and now I have flipped the page again from CLAT (1126) to AILET (674) to CBSE Boards (90.8%)
It took me time to realise it's always reading the book even after the page doesn't turn out the way you imagined.
-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
When I come face to face with death
And feel its hands, dried out and bloody,
I count myself the most blessed
For simply this: that I have loved you.
When I see I-am-that-I-am
Sprinkling the starlit mists around you,
I give to him a helping hand
With gratitude that I have loved you.
When the spring flowers are out in bloom
And sun is shining bright above you
I hope it's not much to presume
To thank the light that I have loved you.
As I examine in my head
The splendor with which life endowed you,
I know of nothing else; instead
I do know this: that I have loved you.
And as I move through space and time,
I no more hope to astound you,
I only thank the light divine
Simply for this: that I have loved you.
Who am I ?
A burning sensation to some,
For others, a cube of cold ice,
A tasteless element in someone’s life,
Perhaps, for others a rare spice.
I ruin their mood, they say,
For some, I fill colours in their palette of grey,
someone who appears out of nowhere,
a soul shaped by fear.
But who am I ?
I really want to know,
Am I a flower to preserve ?
or maybe a thorn to throw.
People here,
They have put me in the state of confusion,
One moment I hate myself,
The next moment, I sink into complete delusion,
But who am I ?
Many say that I have a kind heart,
But these same humans,
hate me and push me apart,
Who am I ?
That final stroke that makes the painting incredible,
Or the dried out, forgotten paint in the colour tray,
That is replaceable.
But who am I, really ?
Perhaps, someone forced to grow up before her age,
A childhood buried in silence,
still echoing within her as rage.
Pills.
Like a dried out lawn.
With weeds and a broken birdbath.
Growling.
With hands or without.
Needing medication.
Like teetering on a snowbank.
Avalanche.
Pills.
A shopping cart filled with broken chairs.
There’s no one except a lawnmower.
No one lives here.
Pills.
Tugging at my sleep.
With a broken birdbath in my sleep.
Pills.
They aren’t the spidery kind.
They’re the gracious sight
My own hands.
The year when breathes breaths its last but few,
No time to plan the new based on the past
Wishes and worn memories’ dying cue,
The coming year seems an empty canvas
Or a collage of a few stray patches
From yesterdays-- mere graves of lost out dreams,
Raw choices, feelings fixed with few stitches,
Expectations gone wrong like dried out streams.
Taking a bag filled for the past travel,
We scarce can take off on a new journey,
What the New Year for you tend to foretell?
Based on the past memories, naught any,
So, leave aside what so leaves you alone,
The year’s left you in lurch and all but gone.
____________________________
Sonnet | 09.01.2026 | dreams, memories, New Year
My umbrella was wet,
So they gave me a bag.
A wet floor at the gym
Would be kind of a drag.
It was still coming down
When I left, so I tugged
My umbrella from where
In my bag it was snugged.
Once at home, it dried out,
But the cover was lost,
Leading me on a search
Of the streets I had crossed.
It was there on the walk,
Looking wet and forlorn,
But it didn’t look dirty
Or muddy or torn.
It’s now hanging to dry,
Reunited, I’m glad,
With my favorite umbrella
That I’ve ever had.
WISE WET WAVING WAVES
With high or low tides,
We splash upon dried-out shores:
Frothing with relief:-
sandy wooden slats
coconut covered lights
dried out palms
an assortment of bottles
lively bartender who knows my name
I spend Saturday nights here
meeting friends who aren’t really
pretending excitement that I do not feel
I am a bit of a lush,
here is Charlie now
The violin vanquished
The cello said hello
The piano languished
The tears would only flow
The audience entranced
The notes rang out so clear
They giggled and they danced
Their hearts were full of cheer
The oboe took the stage
Still mourning love that died
His anguish mixed with rage
Blurred every eye that cried
The violin rang out
Tho cut them like a knife
And every eye dried out
Sweet notes that sang of life
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.
(“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.
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