I was just trying to save face
When I tripped on my own shoe lace
To the floor face first
Then up with a burst
Break dancing was born from my grace
under foot a pebble, no
opposite toe scrapes it off
crimson sole and toe
shard of glass missed the dust bin
and both feet caught the action
spouse to the rescue
bandaids and antiseptic
blood dripping on floor
socking up; putting on shoes
standing for the next three hours
One woman's glass ceiling is another man's wood floor
but there's no such thing for a second-class citizen
of a third world country
as
there's no moving up gender is against her
sexual orientation too considered 'half a witness'
in testimony
with
neither voice nor choice can't vote
or
leave home alone
unless
with consent
can't emigrate (passport permission required)
and
as for caste if she were a Dalit
(lowest of the low)
there's nowhere to go
so
between me and you, flee, be a refugee,
what's a poor girl to do?
Lord, let the flowers grow again
Quench the world with much needed rain
Feed the earth with your tender touch
Send forth the blooms we love so much.
Let the roses fragrance romance
Enrapture lover's dreams, perchance
Lay waterlily on each pond
Find how the wildlife will respond.
Let the daffodils bop away
They always brighten up one's day
And elegant irises too
Their peace and charm abides, it's true.
Let the daisies keep fields ornate
They’re so pretty and commonplace
Bluebells too give grace to woodlands
Made with love from magical hands.
Many flowers, the list goes on
Endless gifts sent for everyone
May the flowers sway evermore
On the earths eternal dance floor.
One, two,
I think I'm through;
Three, four,
under the floor;
Five, six,
I'm in a fix;
Seven, eight,
he met his fate;
Nine, ten,
I'm in the pen;
Eleven, twelve,
my hopes to shelve;
Thirteen, fourteen,
clean with chlorine;
Fifteen, sixteen,
bloody crime scene;
Seventeen, eighteen,
murder unforeseen;
Nineteen, twenty,
stole my Good & Plenty.
In the depths of silence, on the cold floor of memories,
I wander through old thoughts, in the shadow of lost dependencies.
I return to the same illusions, to those forgotten pills,
One after another, the days slip by in a deep sleep.
I cannot get over the reasons that abruptly broke our connection,
I cannot understand how our destinies intertwined this way.
For on every chosen path, we meet again, inevitably,
Regardless of our attempts to part ways.
I've heard you're no longer yourself, that you've succumbed to silence,
You spend your time in solitude, far from the nights out with the girls.
Without makeup, a storm of thoughts, with no reason to dress up,
I, back to my dependencies, have nothing to fight for.
Our ending isn't right, for our souls are entwined.
Our ending isn't right, for I falter without you, day and night.
In this melancholic incantation, we search for lost meaning,
In the chaos of existence, where the invisible universe calls us.
On the thread of time, we seek light in the ancient darkness,
Embracing the mystery of life as an eternal dance of stars.
Neighborhood Gossip
He walks all alone and does evil things,
quietly making puppets walk without strings.
He's the only one who emerged from the wreck.
When you sleep, he'll stab you in the neck.
Am I Wiser Now?
I wanted to know what it all meant
so I visited the Asian continent.
Am I wiser now, back in my hometown?
I have jet lag and walk upside down.
Life Mission
The doctor gave me a slap and shook my head,
until he had fully scrambled my brain.
The nurse gave me a diaper and the doctor said,
"You've got eighty years to unscramble it again."
Unimpressed
He's well known and he's well read,
but I wouldn't be misled.
Even lettuce has a head.
Bee Orientation
Welcome, friend, to the hive
It's true, no one gets out alive,
but, before you're done,
you'll have lots of fun.
It's three o'clock in the morning,
and I'm sitting here on the bathroom floor,
reliving that day—
reliving your death.
If only crying could ease the pain...
maybe I could live my life again.
But instead,
I close my eyes and hear my voice
blubbering to 911.
Dad is at work—he's safe.
I try to call Jaime,
but he hangs up
because I can't speak.
I'm trying to say you're dead
and Jacob's been shot,
but all that comes out
are tears and snot.
I think about Javier and Mom,
still outside,
still in danger,
unsure if they’re surviving
or joining you.
I'm trying—
trying to be calm,
to be collected,
but I hear each gunshot
as if it just happened.
I open my eyes
and look around.
I'm not at Mom and Dad's house.
I'm two hours away,
at my new place
where no one knows our story,
where no one knows about *that day*.
I should be happy.
I should take each moment
and make it great—
that’s what you would say to do.
But instead,
I’m here,
sitting on the bathroom floor,
wishing I could escape.
I cannot write what I do not feel.
I cannot feel what I do not know.
To write without passion
is to kneel at the nameless grave and weep,
to mourn the soil and not the dead,
to beg meaning from dust
and call it poetry.
I lie on the floor of my bathroom
just to feel the weight of my bones.
Cool tile against warm flesh,
as if the divide between body and ground
might spark something
some rebellion of thought
against the white noise of nothing.
I scroll the blank screen,
cursor blinking like a flatline.
There is no pulse,
no poem.
And still I return
no better than the hand
that finds comfort in the bottle,
each stanza a swig,
each line a confession.
I only write when I’m bleeding.
I only bleed when I’m empty.
When walking on a wet floor,
Prints are left up to the door.
For the leopard to follow,
Deep in a line.
A layer of water,
Becomes quite slick.
Pick up a broom,
Becomes a hockey stick.
Momma said," Don't walk on my floor!
I just washed the kitchen up to the door!"
Gliding too the living room,
In super soaked socks.
Become ice shoes,
Each foot goes, " Ker plop!"
The floor is drying too fast!
Can't get my skis to travel at last.
Now the floor is dry.
Use my slippers to scuttle right by.
Momma said, "At last you can buff the floors,
As you sail on by!"
She didn't see what the floor is too me.
A glowing pond,
Too ice skate upon.
The discarded dead find an unused beauty,
an afterlife that curls, re births,
tunnels and reshapes -
a mulching of a former season's thin bones.
Mortality buds from an emptiness
long before the seed encloses it,
a mottled mold unwinds death to life.
See the genetics of the unseen,
see the shedding and replenishing,
a branching polymorphic architecture
that constantly furrows and gardens
the grave.
A self-determined choreography
of stemless minds, the unseen labor
before the upsurge, before the foundation
and the root.
Gravity makes things go down,
to the ground like a funny clown.
Missing the trash can,
now on the floor plan.
Gravity will always be around.
Floor Mirrors
The way free standing floor mirrors use colour is
very close to
the way traffic lights use
colour.
The cat was on the dance floor
He didn’t meow, anymore;
Because his rhythm from his paws
He stops, stares and stands on hind two paws
Cat stands dance not he jest, praise the Lord
11/24/24
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
I like to write poetry sitting on the floor.
Even when my body is sore.
From feeling panic throughout the night.
So I am tense and tight.
When I wake in the morning, I could eat breakfast.
But before that, I write a poem really fast.
I like to write poetry sitting on the floor.
Pages that I tore.
Crumpled as my hands feel.
I should probably have a quick meal.
I like to take a nap on the floor.
Scattered pages that I tore.
Scattered thoughts that are tumbling out.
Making a mess like the way blood could spout.
I like to wake up on the floor.
The day is no more.
But at least I got out of bed to sit.
On the floor beside it.
I tell myself…
I like to sit by my bedroom shelf.
I’m at ground level.
Next to a grave dug by a shovel.
What I wrote today.
Is beside me, as I pray.
When I write.
The floor, I fight.
Until night.
When I might,
Die next to my pages.
That I’ve been working on for ages.
I should really clean my floor.
From the pain that I tore.
Or I could just,
Lie on the pages to get some rest.
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