Written: September 28, 2026
**********
Not by deed or name we claim the earth,
but by the weight of seasons spent under its sky—
the furrow brows that learned its sun and thirst,
the roots that reached where other roots drift dry.
I carried seeds in pockets, words in folds,
a language etched in wind and light and rain,
while foreign soil remained aloof, then cold,
and whispered through my veins a refrain:
You are guest. The ledger does not bend—
for those who walk with careful, borrowed tread.
But in the end, when journeys find their end,
the ground accepts both living and the dead.
So let me sleep where sun and shadow meet,
where grass recalls footprints, deep and small.
Not by the name I gave or roads I greet—
but by the dust that answers to my fall.
For earth remembers not what flags we flew,
but how we knelt to plant a single shoot—
how wounds we bled became the morning dew,
and how our silence learned the root's salute.
Inspiration:
Inspired by the “Footprints in the Sand” tradition—the enduring idea that when only one set of footprints remains, it is because the Divine is carrying us through our darkest hour.
—The Weight of Mercy—
I turned my years back down the seaward strand,
where joy had once impressed its double trace;
But when the dark unloosed me from its hand,
one print alone lay solemn in its place.
I deemed that single furrow spoke of doom,
and read Heaven’s silence as a sealed decree;
Yet grief, self-crowned, within my inward gloom,
arraigned the unseen for what mine eyes could see.
Then came one night when one brief sentence fell
through all the citadels I built so strong,
and where my failing breath could scarcely dwell,
I felt a strength that bore my soul along;
till, looking back, the furrows seemed to shine:
My feet were mine—the strength that bore me, Thine.
Oh, how my eyebrows seem to bow,
To mark where life has got me now.
Each furrow etched across my brows
Defies what my well-swept hair allows.
My brow is bossy, yet will not kowtow,
It tells the world what's here and now.
Before I've spoken, it's clear somehow!
With the truth written on my brow.
It arches high when dreams take wing,
Then droops down low, when doubt sink in.
It charts each worry, joy, and vow—
In life's diary written on a brow.
Some call me highbrow, some say not.
Some a lobrow, all tied in a knot.
Such labels rise, and fall to new lows.
My brow wears none — it simply shows.
Alas, my brow will never ever lie;
It speaks before I can wonder why.
My eyebrows rise, my forehead pleads,
Confessing more than my face concedes.
So I don't beat my brow in vain,
Or wear it smooth, with needless strain.
It lifts with hope, it softens with care,
I trace the lines onto where I dare.
So my brow-beaten brow of mine
That traces all my worries, line by line
Your furrows are not my fault, somehow—
But the quirk of eyebrows on the plough.
Some sixty million years back from today,
An asteroid, way lost, hit the Earth hard,
Devastating saurian reign caught un-guard--
Event that in the cosmic past might lay
As blink of tiny yesterday’s shadow
That left poor dinosaurs no chance well worth
But get wiped out with little trace of birth
Whilst it changed humankind’s chequered morrow.
Humans might hail saviour asteroid
That let them a new chapter to borrow
From Fate and dig a gigantic furrow
On future rule, pen a new page from void
And proved to be far poignant pain to Earth,
Come Death Stone, maul the manosaurs in mirth.
_______________________________
Happenings | 11.04.2004, revised June 2026 | Earth, environment, fate, men, Sonnet
Note: To dinosaurs it happened once. What they could not have done, man has done in devastating Earth (can we call him manosaur?) The asteroid that destroyed dinosaurs I think need to visit close enough to at least scare men out of their mirth. Or let another asteroid have a close encounter with planet Earth. of the Earth, and if it has to go the dinosaurs’ way, it is perhaps good for the Earth.
When warmed by inspiration's sun,
I take my favorite tool, my pen,
and plough a careful furrow through
the rich, deep soil of thought.
With eagerness I plant a row
of words, and watch them bud and grow,
then marvel at the miracle
that God and I have wrought!
Written: May 31, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Sara Kendrick
Quote: "Longevity is not just the accumulation of shadows, but the slow, relentless design of light—where the soul learns to admire the skies." By Poet
8th place contest winner
Years of silence drift in shadow’s hold,
yet life’s glow cuts a furrow bold.
Ascetic patience mollifies time’s tide,
stringent suns succumb, shadows subside.
From a thick nucleus of recall, lyric streams,
etiology carved in incarnate dreams.
Furious storms rage, but sagacious roots remain,
visceral awe gleams through longevity’s pain.
A lingering oracle, sanctuary of grace,
fading walls surrender a sobbing face.
Even barren sand yields to mettle’s rule,
velvet dusk relieves the waning fuel.
And yet the human heart, steadfast and wide,
bears its banner forth—unswayed stride.
Nocturnal eyes, rainbow bronze, black fluffy tail.
So bright the eyes they stare in this spring gail
I forth challenge myself
Any engaging with the animal
Chestnut brown thorough furrow
You think the atom cover I am Lord.Overall the animal kingdom
No fear.Shall I dread?I call unto them.
Cluck-cluck-click-click-click
Cluck-cluck-click-click-click
Cluck-cluck-click-click-click
Prior upon your arrival
Still i be still, throwing out peanuts
In a wooded area parking lot
You scamper you trot
Pick up with prayer, hands you sit on your buttOcks
Your tail reminiscent of a cat-and-dog,
Back- N -Forth swing contentment and happiness.
As you place, the peanut in both hands in prayer position you nibble. You chew continually until it's eaten.
This is REAL me feeding the brown squirrel at my job on the parking lot.
4/16/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026(c)
(Poulterer's Distraction)
Every day I hear them cackle
When the church bells ring at noon
Near the barnyard by the truck patch
Where the chicken feed is strewn.
I observe them in the cornfield
As they peck among the stalks.
Makes me think that Mother Nature
Has a thing for chicks and cocks.
Chicks and cocks and broken locks.
Best watch out for Mr. Fox.
It’s so hard to plow a furrow
When the field is full of rocks
And you’re easily distracted
By the thought of chicks and cocks.
The kitchen clock, it ticks and tocks,
But time stands still for chicks and cocks.
I'm a furry Aussie wombat
I'd like to ask you for a date
And if it all works out
you could become my best mate
Together we'd go bush
where we'd scratch a little furrow
The start of a conjugal home
we could extend and build a mighty burrow
We could feed upon the Aussie native grass
to that menu add some leaves and roots and moss
And if we become a couple
I'd always let you be the boss
I'm regarded as a cuddly kind of chap
who knows we might eventually elope
I would send you birthday cards
communicate by post, in a brightly, coloured envelope
The spent year sinks in the captivating cauldron of history,
traces a fading furrow on traversed time by the setting sun,
etched on the realm of remote remembrance weary,
the new year comes blooming buds of promise one by one.
Janus opens routinely for me the door to the new beginning,
after my time crosses the corridor of the worn-out year,
I’ll weave unseen dreams in the tapestry of future ensuing,
unsung songs I’ll sing for the seasons as they will appear.
Along the path God paves for me I’ll begin the new journey
with cornucopia of resolute resolutions to make me wise,
reach amused the edge of the time plateau I don’t see,
yearning to greet 2026 with a joyous sunrise in my skies.
Maybe I’ll make naive the old mistakes many more time,
but resolve to commit them the way they won’t repeat.
I’ll swathe life with some fun, make jokes of me in rhyme,
and laugh my heart out as seemingly senseless stupid feat.
I’ll express profuse gratitude to those close to me I’ll see,
even if they don’t take me as I am with imprudence inbred.
For my muse my pen will be re-filled with ink in glee,
I’ll keep on writing poems that may not disappear unread.
Today her silks scatter crackling arabesques in the shimmering air
today she’ll dazzle the casual eye with her sweet metallic gleam
today she waddles, awkward as a cow
today she packs a punch like a fresh shot arrow
today she reverses polarity
today she groans in a furrow, slick with sweat
today she daintily steps through a violet mist
today she sloughs off gummy stuff
today her laughter is quicksilver
today she’s a clammy grey rubbery stone with bristles
today her waterfall hair sheds intoxicating unguents
today she dances without knowing it
today the beauty peels from her face to reveal a hatchet
----------------------------------------
Not Anne, But Gabrielle
by Gabrielle Munslow
If you want me to take you to another time,
take my hand.
Don’t furrow your brow.
Slick with storylines,
my tongue twists
like an adder.
Poetry spills—
some good, some bad,
but always real.
I write of suffering.
I write of death.
I write of want.
No pretty, prophetic prose.
But I can still
slip a ditty off my toes.
I am Anne with an E.
No bird.
No net ensnares me.
Still, I rest,
and language thrills my bones.
Time stills—
or quickens.
Language isn’t luxury;
it’s necessity.
Down rabbit holes I go,
deep and twisted.
I braid my breath into roots.
I speak to the dirt,
and it answers.
Once a girl.
Now a woman,
retelling her youth.
I
am not Anne with an E.
I am Gabrielle—
with poems for sale.
?
© 2025 Gabrielle Munslow. All rights reserved.
This poem may not be reproduced, distributed, or performed without the author’s permission.
Your cheeks are tending to the ground
And I’m so slow today
Look at the memory I’ve found
Before it flies away
The lifeline furrow on your palm
Runs through the hills and dales
Inside the storm it could be calm
Despite the blowing gales
My glasses gleam with gold and brown
I have to go again
I cannot see what time is now
Could be the same as then
No winds, its stillness here today
Along the waters green
I’m following your shady way
To let you know I’m in.
Although
it’s a hard row to hoe
a rough furrow to harrow
and a tough trench to plough
there’s many a meadow to mow
I hereby avow
and tho' it may be news to you
farmers have the need
to sow their seeds
where milkmaids milk the cows
swineherds feed their sows
and shepherds have their pie
and eat it too
in Slough now
Unmet expectations strike hard,
hurting where they languish long.
Unkept promises are blows earned,
hitting where they find no resistance.
Unkind words are slashes harsh,
ripping through the calm conscience.
The dormant volcano within the soul
then gets the upsurge of melted psychic mantle
in the crust of brittle tolerance,
that collapses in the caldera cradling the vent,
reaching the magma chamber in the core.
The soul erupts the lava in the wild,
burns the gentle patience as it flows.
Uncontrolled, it blazes the heart,
undowsed, it singes the sane senses.
The smoke billows up thick and intense,
clouds the deranged essence.
Words rise like Sphinx from the toxic ashes,
perish the patient face of mental restraint.
The flame surges in the stream of neurons,
no longer the carrier of conformist signals.
From the volcanic inferno of the soul
the erupted fiery lava called anger flows
in the torrents of blistering words,
scalding whatever comes in the way,
blazing a furrow for the reticent life.
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