you broke rule 162, he said
Too many rules to fit inside his wife’s head
she went limp on his tight-fisted chain
trying to please him again, in spite of the pain
stop pouting, you know that is rule 292
She wished she had the nerve to say they were through
Why don’t you just leave that idiot? asked her cousin Cat
But she was terrified he would kill her for that.
Mystic matters,
Don't drink the waters;
Polluted in poisons;
Covered in moisture;
From the overt,
Dirty cemented oceans;
Polluted in passions;
Raping the dry lands;
Covered with mittens;
Closed fisted, screams and yells,
Yet no one hears nor listens;
Hush! quiet you're 2 loud ;
Overture, over140 decibels;
~
Caustic highs,
Don't eat the dandelions suns;
May be enough just for heart burn;
Open letters un word;
From overture,
Clean linen washed in mud
Polluted in passions;
Raping the dry lands;
Covered with mittens;
Closed fisted, screams and yells;
No one sees the metaphors;
Leading against the doors;
```All things matters!
4/19/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
1st Poem written @ Omaha's Central Library @ 1:00PM
7205 Dodge St
Omaha, Ne 68114
Grand Opening
April 19 2026
death isn’t some grand doorway,
no velvet curtain pulled back
to reveal a fresh, pink-fisted miracle
screaming its way into being.
no—
death is the bar at 2 a.m.,
the bartender wiping the same glass
for the hundredth time,
waiting for you to realize
there’s nothing left to drink
and nowhere left to go.
people talk like it’s a rebirth,
a clean slate, a cosmic joke—
but I’ve seen too many bodies cooling
and too many hearts going quiet
to believe in any of that.
life bursts in like a drunk lover,
slaps you awake,
hands you a good cigarette,
tells you to run or stay
but at least keep breathing.
death is quieter,
a landlord who finally changes the locks.
no warmth.
no promise.
no infant light crawling through the blinds.
just the slow extinguishing
of the last good flame
you managed to keep alive
in this busted, beautiful world.
and maybe that’s enough—
that we burned at all,
that we kicked and cursed
and came into this place screaming,
because death,
for all its cold discipline,
has never known
the wild, impossible promise
of a single live birth.
Words tingle when held in my hand.
Alphabet playing makes me high.
The why I do not understand
but feel with words, I might touch sky.
Fisted letters sharpen my sight.
Words tingle when held in my hand.
I feel dark’s mark, the joy in light
and know simple living is grand.
Poetry forms give depth to bland.
Ardent ink excites with each flow.
Words tingle when held in my hand.
My depths do imagery bestow.
Prose, free verse and rhyme words align
when heartfelt words touchingly land
an emotive wrapped, zinging line.
Words tingle when held in my hand.
Cold morning light of misty haze.
Ground section, three dimensional rectangular gaze.
Sharp thorns on rose dead red misty tears.
Cracked leather from fisted gloves of black weaponised might.
Shine glistened leathered shoes dulled in this dead light.
Long coat warmth hanging off soulless cold.
Dark glasses cloaked glass eyes shone in glee.
Box lowered slowly.
Oh, but so, so exquisitely.
Standing witness for the joyful final act of the murdered end of thee.
Tiptoe the finest, fine twine, needle-eyed thread
and a glitzy sequined clasp, tiny
tweezer-tie it finger-tip fast with a nuanced knot -
my, my, the pedantic perfection of the master jeweller.
I have the servile subtlety of thick thumbs,
all clumbsy carpals, my fudging finesse
better suited to a beanie'd stevedore, loud lugging
heavy-haired harbour rope to ship-secure
a brutish lump in the line.
Tongue tied up, spun on my own silver yarn
like a crystal jeweller, giddy with champagne giggles,
dizzy on a spinning chandelier high strung from the pressed ceiling.
Oh non, pas moi! Mine is more an oiled elegance,
heavy handed, ham-fisted like a scabby wharf rat,
chased and unchaste.
Dextrous in the strangest ways -
gutsy and glamourous,
ours is a nuanced life of grunting grime
with the briefest flashes of bedazzled dance.
Desperation, draw me not like magnets pull
But once again let saneness possess me in full
Do not ravage me like a loin upon its prey
Block not the seeds of thoughts that come to save the day
Like limbs of a tree in the presence of a gale force wind
The heavy weight of thy encumbrance makes me bend
As a cookie being crushed underneath a fisted hand
Sapping my power, I become a broken man
Hope beyond my greatest self, suddenly appears
Dashing all desperate thoughts, releasing all my fears
Focused like a camera’s lens, my eyes see a way
Attitude and mindful thought, must have their say
Ideals forming one by one, possibilities
Desperation lost this time, healed is my choice of realities
A strange autumn this, with its closed fisted,
hollow fruitfulness.
Ashen drapes shroud listless maples, a sky
reluctant to color its face.
A hostile pestilence has worn out
the pith of those who still survive.
War has beat itself upon our shores,
and the dragons of earth and sky
have allied themselves
to the hidden worms.
The unripe fall far too soon.
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
falling rain, droplet by droplet
pane pain pane
sipping on leaves
fall falling
failing to see
leaves livestock
lumbering, conceited
between the pages
their veins throbbing
as a moppet scribbles
over their bones
with primary colors
heavy-fisted, fat crayons
that melt
into the whirligig
cheek flames
and bright eyes
follow the track
jump into the raked
leaves piled high
aww, rains leaking
inside…pane…pain
child leaves it all behind
the grown kid rounds
Louisiana, not impressed
until Autumn leaves
remind and reminisce
stopping the automobile
in real time…real smooth
New Orleans beckons
but the scenic view
having said, howdy-do
is left behind with the pain
of slippery rain
In memory of John Farmer, a man so bold,
An ironworker’s tale, in stories retold.
From Local 46, his strength did shine,
In New York’s skyline, his work divine.
A skydiver brave, he soared the skies,
Twice he faced death, but still did rise.
With a heart full of courage, he took the leap,
In the clouds, his spirit, forever to keep.
He loved to cook, with a chef’s delight,
At barbecues, he’d ignite the night.
With spatula in hand, and a grin so wide,
He’d serve up joy, with friends by his side.
A two-fisted drinker, who loved his beer,
In his local pub, he’d bring good cheer.
Known by all, with a laugh so hearty,
He’d light up the room, making everyone jolly.
For John, retirement was just a fancy word for more time to play,
With friends everyday, in whatever came his way.
On April 10th, 2024, he bid us farewell,
But his stories and laughter, forever we’ll tell.
His retirement brief, yet full of zest,
John Farmer, you truly were one of the best.
Rest in peace, dear John, your legacy grand,
In our hearts and memories, you’ll always stand.
In the hollows of power’s grip,
where shadows twist the heart’s cry,
there—mights build thrones on backs bent,
where abuse wears the mask of guidance,
control, a cloak woven with the thread of fear.
Power thrives in silence, feeding on the unspoken.
Manipulation, subtle as the serpent’s whisper,
curls around dreams, tightening,
threats drip, venomous, eroding hope,
indifference, a cold moon, shuns the warmth
of a shared sun, selfishness seizes, tight-fisted,
squelching the laughter of the young, the joy of the old.
The beauty of a soul, effaced,
a canvas scrubbed too raw,
bearing the brutal strokes of unkindness—
yet, beneath this, a pulse, a flicker:
resilience, a defiance against the night,
rising, always rising, despite the crush of the dark.
The branch lays across the brook
blocking the water's flow
Some things in life happen this way
A conflict, a blockage, things to say
So much verbalized, but nothing heard
Trying to help, facing each stubborn word
Bring you in circles, trapped in this place
Where is the welcome, open space?
What makes things backwards, tangled, twisted?
Brewing in what feels double fisted
Bottom line is, it's not worth it, times like these
So, be that branch underneath the trees
Sometimes, silent is the best to be
Listen, care, but let the advice flee
To somewhere else in the water's flow
One of so many lessons to learn, this I know
Heidi Sands
1/20/24
(C)opyright
Waterways, red cliffs,
ancient underwater caves,
back to the Pangea age,
continents fused as one.
I stand in the stardust
of a million-year-old memory,
a flutter of songbirds,
a bouquet of warblers,
the wild swoop of blue jays.
Hummingbirds check me out.
My breath hovers over crimson wildflowers.
Long before the idea of a kiss,
when love was mystery,
the earth entered it’s quaternary period,
the age of humans.
A time of gestation, anticipation,
the Great Lakes birthing,
hawks soaring, the first migration.
All we see of that coded mapping
are faint skeletal imprints,
visible in glacial rock formations.
The stone I cradle, a mountain remnant,
honors the ancestral presence
and my encounter with raw existence
The lake shivers as falcons dive,
beaks and talons fisted and footed.
A drop of water touches my face.
Profound. As much as a human caress.
I read the news today the headlines said, " arming is the best way "
if only Presidents and Governments would realize, " its not the way"
Tight fisted words and nuclear explosions erode humanity's soul
we don't want to live in a world of war savants we got heart & soul,
I read the news today they got it wrong, "arming is not the way"
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