The statue of a man is blatantly stand
Posture is evident
Oh what a man
~
Vertical virtue substance sustained
Spiritually ratified his vessel hooked on game
~
Fluently the world suggests stands a man, abreast
And yet man stands his tallest in his truest spiritural sense
~
More than I am just flesh a mere man flawed
In the truest essence, he is of himself, the image and righteousness of God
My spirit, My truest self stands strong and eternally tall
7/6/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026
They Never See
They never see the damage in their hands,
only the wreckage left in someone else’s.
They walk through broken rooms calling it fate,
while mirrors stand untouched,
gathering dust.
They paint you villain just to feel like saints,
rewrite the script so they survive the story.
Truth bends easy when you fear yourself,
and blame becomes a language
they speak fluently.
Every road they take ends the same
not by chance, not by curse,
but by footsteps that refuse to learn
the weight of where they land.
They cannot sit with silence,
cannot face the stillness
where truth waits patiently.
So they run
loud, restless, pointing outward.
Empty pockets, open hands,
spending like tomorrow owes them something.
And when the bill comes due,
they pass it round the table
like it was never theirs.
But life keeps count.
Quietly. Precisely.
No matter how they twist the tale.
And one day,
when the noise dies down
and there’s no one left to blame
they’ll meet themselves
for the first time.
One day the children
will forget the names we gave to borders
they will run barefoot
until the earth forget its edges
and in their pockets--
chalks, seeds, a small republic of insects
they will redraw the walls
as doors left ajar
they will press their ears
against the silence of guns
and hear only rust
they will bury our iron
deep enough for roots to argue with it
watch them--
how they speak fluently with stray dogs
with wind, with unfinished afternoons
how they refuse inheritance
of fear
how they say: this sky is indivisible
and mean it
one day
they will return our cities to rivers
our languages to touch
and everything we built to divide
they will make briefly useful
like a toy
left in the rain
What Is A Poet 7
As Poems Can Be Musical
With no stumbling blocks
Be true and authentic
Don’t be a cookie cutter
Write fluently like a painted picture
Eyes are like windows to the soul
Whatever you feed, it grows
Trust the process, as lighting bugs glow
Become free spirited into a wonderful manuscript
Rhythms and rhymes upon unfiltered poems
Hand written language equals meaningful sun sets
Specific words structured is called stanzas
Write your own story through whimsical dreams
You don’t need anyone's validation you see
Poetic authors write for endless hours isolated
Always with a cup of coffee indeed
Remain humble as the wind passes through unspoken trees
Barista
An Italian coffee Bartender
Making cold drinks and hot expresso’s
With shots of anxiety
With many flavors poured in your coffee
In charge of running a coffee shop
Always poetry with coffee machines
A morning ritual
Don’t forget about Cappuccino’s
Caffe’ Lattes on the go
Pouring art in my coffee cup
Barista’s prepares coffee bean rosters
With steam aromas arise fluently
Every cup is beyond cultivating
Beverages brewed to stay awake
Buoyant rhymes with melodies floating in your mind
Have is no other way
Coffee is truly therapeutic
Baristas are multitaskers and creative
Millions drink coffee by the gallons
So many flavors to choose from
What is your favorite coffee shop
Can’t live without it
Awe coffee, two cups
"The Space Between Us"
He said he still wants me,
in the quiet way a sunset wants the sea
reaching, glowing, fading,
but knowing it can’t stay.
His voice trembled between love and loss,
a bridge half-built over the years we shared.
He spoke of time
how he needs it, how it needs him,
how he must learn the language of himself
before he can speak love fluently again.
And I listened,
holding his words like wildflowers,
fragile, but still alive
because wanting isn’t enough
when the heart needs room to grow.
So I wait,
not out of weakness,
but with faith
that when his roots are steady,
he’ll find his way back home to me.
And from afar, I’ll be cheering him on
quietly, fiercely, faithfully
as he keeps his promise
to grow, to heal, to rise,
to keep making me proud
in the distance between our hearts.
I wish I could speak Shona fluently
Trace the paths of old Zimbabwe
From the ancient cliffs of Chinoyi
To Nelson Mandela Avenue’s concrete.
But wishes, like dreams
Are shooting stars across the night
Lighting the sky with fleeting grace
Yet slipping beyond reach.
So I dream still
Of the misty beauty at Victoria Falls
Of a land where children laugh and learn
Well-fed, and free to roam.
I dream of Zimbabwe
Where no hand needs greasing
Where healing is a right
And greed is but a forgotten word.
When the wellspring failed,
thirst recast the shape of longing.
For the trust it bore had deserted us.
We then knew not. if and when, its source
would ever yield to meet our needs again.
We drank from it freely, without questioning.
Without asking, doubting why it flowed so fluently,
forever trusting that it always would.
With our thirst so easily quenched,
we never had need to look at its source.
To see where and when the spring welled up from.
To unravel its purpose from intent,
belief from faith, will from fate,
hope from just riding along,
to reveal whether our well-being
in our wellness was well-sprung.
Thank You for your wise words,
I learnt to be smart in stealing,
Stealing other’s hearts with my kind-words,
Which is filled like yours with meaning.
Thank You for your warm heart,
I learnt to be worth-adoring,
And stay awake and help others,
Even when I can hear their snoring.
Thank You for your lovely look,
Now I can fluently cook,
Cook heart-warming stories for those little children,
Who have nobody to pin their cloth’s hook.
Thank You for everything,
Without you- I am nothing,
Yet you gave me many things,
By which I can now fly and also make the world fly with wings.
The clock strikes twelve, and the world exhales,
a breath held too long, now let loose in fireworks.
Here’s to beginnings wrapped in the glow of possibility,
where dreams unfurl like banners in the wind,
and hopes spark like lanterns lighting the night.
This year, I will weave stories from the threads of my soul,
binding words into pages that whisper to the world,
“Here I am—alive, striving, writing to touch hearts.”
I will stumble, perhaps, but rise again,
stronger, wiser, with ink-stained hands.
I will study the art of kindness,
learn its language and speak it fluently,
offering compassion as freely as the morning sunlight.
Each day will be a class in becoming,
not perfect, but better—a truer reflection of love.
Travel might come, or it might wait,
but journeys aren’t just of roads and planes;
I will explore within, a voyage into self-discovery,
mapping the landscapes of courage and grace.
So, here’s to you, to us, to the stories untold,
to mornings steeped in hope and evenings with peace.
May we greet the year with hearts wide open,
writing our chapters with joy and resolve.
I love beauty
It's medicine for me
Color flowers
Open up my color blind eyes
Your beautiful eyes
Cure my injured heart
The early birds song
Wakes my sighing soul
Your beautiful smile
Makes my day bright
Your fair glowing skin
Reflect a good desire
As you speak fluently
Is like a spring me talking
To a beautiful nymph
And the whole you signifies
The Venus type beauty I like.
I step into a room of people.
All are strangers,
To me.
I stand on the sideline
To afraid to talk,
Knowing that I,
Stumble with Communication
And find it hard to get a conversation to flow fluently
Communication,
It's always been my struggle,
It's always been my weakness
But I have to persevere and communicate no matter what
on a daily basis
Communication,
It's a love hate relationship.
I dream of being bold, without a want or care,
To charm the crowd with wit, and much fanfare,
A fearless soul, who plays to the crowd every night.
Never doubting, never ever wrong, ever forever right.
I’d run marathons while eating cake.
I’d climb Mount Everest thrice without a break.
I'd compose a symphony from an idle hum.
I'd speak five languages fluently, just for fun.
I dream of being cool, calm, and collected,
Always sharply focused, never misdirected,
A polished version of myself, always on the ball.
Never prone to any slip up, tumble, trip or fall.
I'd love to anticipate, to always be way ahead,
To never stumble as I scramble from my bed,
To awaken with hope fulfilled to greet the morn.
To never be bedraggled, hung-over, nor forlorn.
But, here I sit, entangled in my own unkempt hair,
Locked by procrastination’s grip, tied up, in my chair.
I plan great things ahead, but then, I simply sit and stare,
To better myself, I'd need to be, another's self, elsewhere.
As the world community
Asks Israel to stand down.
Hamas murders with impunity
Then flees underground.
Isreal lives under scrutiny
And still held to account.
While terrorists have freedom
To pass their AKs around.
Free countries need unity
Not gloomy storm clouds.
When we stand together
Evil cowers in a shroud.
Thus, let us speak fluently
Yet justly so out loud
For murder there's no Immunity
And God tolls the count.
She fluently moves across the floor as silently as dust
Every muscle in her physique is on high alert to respond
Her body is perfectly sculpted from the legs to the bust
Painlessly lifting her weight by going above and beyond
Her movements are spiritual and connect with her soul
The slim arms were in sync, blending earth with the sky
Bowing, bending, swaying to the music, still in control
Fluttering and flapping symbolizing a monarch butterfly
Working herself into a frenzy while turning and spinning
As if pleading to life to give her a reprieve from misfortune
Tired of losing to adversity that prevents her from winning
Finally, collapsing in a heap on the floor from exhaustion
A choreographed dance is a divine artistic act of expression
It has become her medicine and the purest form of therapy
The movement hopes to reduce anxiety, fear, and depression
Though wearier than ever, for there is no cure for her malady
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