Long Adobe Poems
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If asked..but no one ever will
What I miss most
I am torn
Is it the champagne of your skin? The silken purity
Or your Love in its rawest most vulnerable desperate clinging clutching beauty
Or is it the avacadoness of your voice?
Your rolling...Har
you spoke my name...over and over
But perhaps it is your avid wandering searching ever learning mind? Did you say HTML...or was it Adobe...or a theoretical mathematical three dimensional formulation of angles and curves...bacon strips or drops theory
Did I love you?
Dropped to knees
Fallen to floor
Pulled over as not to hurt others with my car
You ask for an answer that the entire universe knows all too too well
But somehow...you missed the memo
No one sends memos anymore
Its all group text
and conference calls..and video chattings
Will there be remnant markings in the geologic strata that show the remnants of cell phones and laptops
like Dinasuar bones today...will they say ...they lived in the
Facebookian era...or the twiterian...or instagramian...or the lostmindian
Just saying...we have all gone completely mad and we are soon to be dust from dust...bone from bone
and fast worthy of deep reflective and historical folly
study
Area 51 reruns itself.
Tube-fed alien hitchhikers
hideout in paper suits and
sweat mercury.
Mothers in desert tan caravans
bleach breakfast,
call skinny kids in,
mid-century ray guns
glitter in sparking hands.
Comical signs
on shimming roads to nowhere
direct and redirect at will.
New Mexico keeps its spells
While headlines change minds.
Local Maps are 10 dollars further.
We want to stay cool
with a low maintenance blond
in an adobe dabbed motel
but there are silver balloons out there
they are made of desert dreams.
Tequila stained shotguns
hunt aluminum tracks.
In government condo’s
workers pack for a ride
to an unnamed airport
No name tags please,
no indications of culpability,
just load your life
point it between two trailing stars
shoot the gawking rumors
wherever they appear to fly from.
Little adobe house on 160 acres
She grows flowers. I grow corn
Tomatoes, watermelon, etc.
Peace, love, hope, and joy
Grow themselves
Porch faces orange blazes
Draped over the rugged Mules
And a barn owl hoovers over
An old water tank with a bunny
In her talons for her
So-ugly-they're-cute hatchlings
Ladder leaned on it
to climb up and see 'em
Brothers and sisters drive from town
For Bible Study
Every Friday night...
After the Word there's coffee and treats
And men load up the truck
Armed rabbit assassins
Patrol Charlie's alfalfa fields
While back at the house
Women laugh and
Children play
Extra rooms
For friends who want to
Spend the night
Saturday mornings
Coffee and bacon waffles
In Charlie's pond across the road
Bass to catch
Beautiful, glorious days
Last night I dreamed
That in this economy
Where shelter's scarce
I was back at the ranch
With a hundred millenials
All of whom, knew me
The adobe house was remodeled
Terracotta with green and red
Lots of black wrought iron
Railings, fences, and gates
Rooms added onto
Big as a mansion
Dirk came to weld more iron
With his crew
And I was trying to make everyone leave
Then I went out towards the pond
And got lost in a huge coal field
A stranger appeared and I asked
How to go back to the road
And a sheriff stopped me with his gun
We, (well it felt like you)
Took his gun from him
But you wouldn't let me shoot him
And I didn't
I woke up... missing all that we had
Your home-made bread
Love by the fire
After kids went to bed
It was incredible
What we did
What we made
What we grew
Our little boys in their cowboy hats
Playing under the giant cottonwood
Our big sprawling porch every evening
Watching the orange purple fire
Spread itself over the valley
And fade into embers
Sparkling the big black night
Like those sunsets, we raged and died
Time after time after time after time
Until we didn't
My dear, sweet,
Warm, loving,
Beautiful
Ex-
You're still so good to me after all
Praying for your family
In that little old church
Where I lost my faith so long ago
Quit being the man you used to know
Something I still believe in though
And always will
The Mission in Milton Creek, I’ve acquisitioned
Converted into the town’s culinary mecca
Aptly designed and scenically positioned
Inspired from ancient recipes revived Azteca
An enchanting bistro tastes of old Mexicana
To lift spirits, share and warm the hearts
Paintings by Frida Kahlo the valiant Chicana
Every Sunday, an Institute of Culinary Arts
Christened ~ Saint Milt's in his memory
On the adobe walls his poems will be hung
Milt will live on here with love and glory
Mariachi folksong praises shall be sung
Welcome to St. Milt's Culinary Mission
You R my holy
You’re my Glory
You R my story
My solely, Hallelujah
Once thought myself lowly
Unholy
But Jesus in my life He role He,
Bestow me, uphold me
He’s mine Ghetto homie
None controls me
He’s mostly Love, Mercies, Grace from above;
My Father although he
Sent His Son down to die for you and I
Through Him we shall not die
Know we the Father Jesus Son He adobe
Abodes on the right hand of the Father, (Hallelujah)
Hope he
He does
Knows me
He does
Homie
He is
Ago He is
Now past, present and future
He loves me unconditional
Once thought myself lowly
Unholy
But Jesus in my life He role He,
Bestow me, uphold me
He’s mine Ghetto homie
None controls me
He’s mostly Love, Mercies, Grace from above;
You R my holy
You’re my Glory
You R my story
My solely, Hallelujah
1/9/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Summit Times Ja Just Gotta Walk Away...
Excusing yourself as if...
going to the bidet,
an immense water closet
(perhaps the size of
Mar A Lago type getup),
sans human waste
(after flushing)
empties into prez Donald's bay,
where one bum wrapped aforementioned
toilet finely (and finally) enthrones
derriere exquisitely, and, delicately
intricately, chiseled wrought with cloisonne
ah...enjoying simple pleasure ass I say
sipping one after another Red Bull, whence
with one final trumpet of the rump -
(as acknowledgment to angry 1%),
though quite reluctantly did pay -
hitting the custom built in combination
handsome replica Taj Mahal fountainhead golf
course made from clay
baked Adobe bathroom links
(whew...long Atlas) shrugging off
responsibilities, escorted
by migrant compadre
Russian Putin lookalike uncannily
also resembles plucked Kernel Sanders
advocating consuming buttered Thomas
English muffins with oreos can delay,
tending to government, who successfully
playfully, melodiously preaches, sermonizes
and absolute zero values benefits burning
off calories, where couples sashay,
asper square and/or contra dancing,
where the caller hollers hip hip hooray
barely audible above
noisy fracas and fray
of crowded house,
avast throng of village people stomp
louder than a quiet
riot global military foray
anathema to dogma,
karma, persona... of
Jacques Cousteau, or like
minded millennials and/or gray
bearded whelk homed by elasmobranchii.
“Blizzard”
Thundering down the valleys
Tearing across the plains
Ten thousand steel horses
Their nostrils spitting steam
Bodies tense with anger
The bastard Boreas
Coming to claim his script
A monstrous armada
Assembled in the Dakotas
Let loose its cannons
In the Nebraska hills
Raining yellow dust
From hell in the early
Morning light.
Huge nightmarish clouds
Filled the sky
Mother cows braying
Horses stomping
Jack rabbits scurrying
Black birds fleeing
Weather man says
Storm on the rise
Laden with dynamite
Screaming and howling
Whipping and pounding
Bashing and thrashing
The ten thousand came
Their hatred brewing
Their ears laid back
The demons raged
The man ran inside
His adobe home
The door refused to close
The shutters shook
The tar papered roof
Began to tear
A mother feared
The trees bent
The angry winds raged
Tearing them apart
Limb by limb
A blinding “Blizzard”
The brown dirt turned white
As mountainous drifts grew
The insanity of it all
Off to school
Nineteen children went
In old Chevy bus
Card boarded windows
Lost in a ditch
That bastard Boreas
Claimed his script
A monument now sits
Frozen in time
It was 1931
Towner, Colorado
Inspired by
Towner Bus Tragedy “Lost in a Blizzard” (March 26, 1931)
What if Amadeus Mozart had a gameboy?
Would his concerto have come to mind?
What if Ludwig van Beethoven had a PS3?
Would his ears be okay and his eyes gone blind?
What if Vincent van Gogh had a digital camera?
Would he have been a great photographer?
What if Claude Monet had an PSP?
Would his vision have still start to blur?
What if Shakespeare had a computer?
Would he write more plays with Word?
What if Emily Dickinson had a Laptop?
Would more than 7 poems have been heard?
What if T. C. Cannon had Adobe Photoshop?
Would he still create native history?
What if I lived in their times?
Would I still write my poetry?
So strange this land, old and yet young.
Where is this place of tall green trees,
and grey-haired men in unknown tongue?
they must have traveled summer's breeze.
Adobe brick quonset "chalets"
mud-soaked roadways in all the blocks.
WACs and wives and waifs everyday
midst hollyhocks and four o'clocks.
Los Alamos*, this place must be.
A land of Oz 'neath bluest sky.
Where science dealt humanity
a fatal blow, then watched it die.
A perfect paradox is this.
How splendid to contrast the two--
a lovely place/a devil's kiss,
and wisdom sprinkled like the dew.
I left quite soon but still recall
the secrets hidden on each page.
The lilac mountains looming tall,
their perfume of fission and sage.
August 5, 2022
"Terra Incognita"
for This or That, Vol. 13, poetry contest
by Edward Ibeth
*Los Alamos Laboratories, New Mexico, are where the atomic bombs were
created then dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan in WWII.
Summit Times Ja Just Gotta Walk Away...
Excusing yourself as if...
going to the bidet,
an immense water closet
(perhaps the size of
Mar A Lago type getup),
sans human waste
(after flushing hearing
heavenly suctioned whoosh)
empties into prez Donald's bay,
where one bum wrapped aforementioned
toilet finely (and finally) enthrones
derriere exquisitely, and, delicately
intricately, chiseled wrought with cloisonné
ah...enjoying simple pleasure a$$ I say
sipping one after another Red Bull, whence
with one final trumpet of the rump -
(as acknowledgment to angry 1%),
though quite reluctantly did pay -
hitting the custom built in combination
handsome replica Taj Mahal fountainhead golf
course made from clay
baked Adobe bathroom links
(whew...long Atlas) shrugging off
responsibilities, escorted
by migrant compadre
Russian Putin lookalike uncannily
also resembles plucked Kernel Sanders
advocating consuming buttered Thomas
English muffins with oreos can delay,
tending to government, who successfully
playfully, melodiously preaches, sermonizes
and absolute zero values benefits burning
off calories, where couples sashay,
asper square and/or contra dancing,
where the caller hollers hip hip hooray
barely audible above
noisy fracas and fray
of crowded house,
avast throng of village people stomp
louder than a quiet
riot global military foray
anathema to dogma,
karma, persona... of
Jacques Cousteau, or green like
minded millennials and/or gray
bearded whelk homed by elasmobranchii.