Long Anvils Poems
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FOR THE UNSUNG MAIMED AND DEAD—2015
On the ragged edge of brittle time, the paddle of life
Plays ping pong minuets of war and peace.
Yesterdays’ enemies have now become today’s allies;
And old war buddies are now the worst of new enemies.
In the crucible of chaos, deception brews its frothing tease,
Intoxicating self-claimed martyrs drunk on the flowing blood
Of self and that of the collateral innocent—demonized martyrs,
Screaming cries of sacrilege of God’s name and all that is good.
Smiling despotic power mongers spit into the faces of the discontent;
And slowly snips away at the knotted net of the morality of humanity.
How much longer will the world watch in the distance,
merely crying shame?
Indeed, ‘how much longer…before we heed the plaintive pleas
of the unnumbered dead and maimed…?’
Let this world not be mocked by procrastination’s scythe of time; nor
by the silent anvils of despair; or
by the silent fatigue of apathy.
Rather, let renewed hammers of love, justice and righteousness ring down
a new world order of the fatherhood of God;
a new world order of the brotherhood of man;
a new world order of the motherhood of peace.
Thin petals shine like rubies on a radiant plain,
solar flares are congregated in votive candles.
Vowed to gleam, regardless of the morning rain,
ambiguity was minimized by sunrise anvils.
In the gloom, the mist vanishes, executing a sane.
As the roots expand, the sprouts grow in kind,
we will apply a dome to secure it from rainfall.
We admire them when they finally grow up and bind,
perceiving our trees naked, we bear the sprawl,
returning to the ancient oak, they are to remind.
Oh, Moon, relax as you quietly fade out of sight,
an Arc of vivid sapphire hues, an Airy-haven Edenic.
The stars vowed to keep the night sky bright,
nature, your brushwork is vibrant and scenic.
Venus nodded as the moon flickered at her site.
Written: October 08, 2022
THREE STANZA POEM IN QUINTAIN (SICILIAN) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
I woke at 8:45
Stretched and yawned
Smiled. All gaiety.
Potty first. Face splashed
Skipped teeth, shower, hair
Pajamas wrinkled
week-long underwear
Rushed down the steps
Threw open the fridge—
Friday’s meatloaf, cold brick.
Just Me & Capt’n Crunch—
sugar gravel
still in a Scooby-dish bowl
9am flipped on the boob-tube
Saturday morn cartoons
Mystery van
Spinach
Spiders
Anvils dropping
White cowl
Bull’s-eye dog
Sugar Sugar
Ah…Honey Honey
Daniel—
Cliff edge
The long fall.
I laughed until I wept, until I cried.
All gaiety—
gone.
The sweet milk gone warm.
Chirp.
Screen lit—
three little dots
then—
“You up yet Papa? XOXO”
What is appropriate to say about the changes
in your life. At 23 I was confused
about a girl, under the sculpted pines.
Quietly, my friends and I contemplate death.
A subject, until recently, unknown
to us in such a variety of forms. Nuclear flash
to exploding blood vessel in the brain, control
eludes us. Heirs to a society adept with numbers,
we run in the park and eat whole grains,
increasing survival odds.
The city and the mountain are two hard anvils
against which our hot lives are shaped. Love
is the fire, and the need for love. To be shaped
by the lover's warm hands, like clay.
Alive, almost sure of it.
Come with me.
I’m telling you child,
In midsummer along the canal,
Industrial waters run still.
Tread softly and you may just hear
A hammering on tiny anvils -
A guild of workshops cut in miniature,
The secret unseen labour of the woodland jewellery quarter.
Child! Here, wrought iron branches of the hawthorn
Line the towpaths with clasps, hooks, and buckles,
Burnished by the soot-black beak of the raven.
Come child! Go peek under the bramble -
Seek the woodlouse in his apron of gunmetal leather
Polishing a cluster of cabochon blackberries
With his apprentice, the buff-tailed bumble.
Come with me, child!
See field mice fashion acorn cups into chalices,
Plated and silvered by moonlit splashes.
Hunched, eye huge through his jeweller’s loupe,
The toad crafts and cuts knots of amethyst lavender,
Heavy in the scent of summer.
Come child, come further along!
A short-clawed otter is panning for gold,
Glimmered reflections of the melting sun
To be passed to the badger for smelting,
And forging signet rings for the kings of old.
Child, be dazzled as the glazier dragonfly flashes by!
She snips fragments of light,
Soldering them into stained-glass windows for fairy cathedrals.
Come look, child!
Below in the hollow of a stump -
A loveliness of ladybirds enamel tin boxes
To hold trinkets of hope, and lockets for treasured memories.
Now listen, child,
For the frogs in their pearl-buttoned waistcoats,
Record a precision of pocket watch orders,
Fragile timepieces of dandelion clocks,
Worked by the blind mole in his escapement under the soil.
Child, I’m telling ya,
Here there are neither tickets nor tabs.
For in this workshop of this tiny world,
Everything is priceless.
Torrid pride consorts the wishing tree so swine and vines galoring vapid pines does bring recalcitrant openings for lurid cross-patternicities like ferns imploring for goes-a-dowsing the drowsy wolf sheepishly grins a piecemeal quilt now hereafter wins, and won a goodly row and the cause unslept in a tattered curtain wishes evergrain forest were smaller and spent. To make anew the wishing star, aglow the pew of solemn arts, the four-poster bed leeches the ceilings shadows now night is bifurcated and sunlight prances, the hasty parade of dismal greetings, swiss-chocolatiers readied for so-cast dearlings, and so the collar is abreast with fending cries that torture poets like sickly scythes pouring mock-endearment into the lover's crest a merry wake-up a darling chest. The wishbone has curved the day to the beat of the storming east, whereupon the western sun has created easts, so back-and-forth we turn the sounds away I guessed at mysticism and the mystic rays, so vetted foxes of fire sojourn, and free the reddish birds from empyreal homes. The wishing well has cared so deeply but honorable and well-fought are disparate seeds, so planted next to the wishing well in a garden of evil, is the flowers cast for all for anvils, that craft for wishes spent, the wishing well, the wishing star, the wishbone and the wishing tree, quail is a soft catch.
Salamander
Eating samples
of steak
Standing tall
While the owl on the branches chewing grapes
coffee mongrel shopping pit bull
dancing straight
Standing tall
Always wondered whose on first base
television my religion
has nothing to do with your hate
must be plastic because you're so dramatic
I can't relate
Standing tall
something bothering you
your chewing on your shoe
if you were an animal I would be you
Standing tall
even handed thrown baseballs
writing novels, spitting anvils at the walls
who an I to alter
Standing tall
Salamander
writing novels, spitting marbles in the hall
no encouragement just resentment
after all
standing tall
still coffee mongrels, shopping pit-bulls
dancing straight, still can't relate
all you wanna be is great
Mutual of Omaha, Woodman Tower, 30 Rockerfellow, Eiffel Tower
mirrors on the floors and walls...still
Standing Tall
03/05/15
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
*Image of Child Sad Suffering provided by Pixabay.
Not Of This Earth
Poetic Form: Narrative
Asymmetric mistrals warp speckled vaporous pallidness toward rhythmless voids. Obviates an evacuating azure as a midday star pivots to a twilight qualm. Numinous absent souls of supine prying pupils, yon ethers sinister obscurities, caught in stained oblique ocular whites. Drunken sanguineous veins to gluttony as impish tinkers sporadic doubts riveting telltale images. Metallic aerials ousted the clouds to unperceived iniquity.
Exhausting times since the alien armada infested Earth in a furrow of carnage. Abominable hordes disembarked, eviscerated whole metropolises. Hideous beings, an abysmal sight, smothered the remote vestiges of our civilized world. Cities ere their decimation had numbers reduced in fleeing desperation. The annihilation of life on Earth engrossed thoughts upon the scraps of humanity left. Ravenous creatures generating utter rampage to and abroad, slighting none to decay. Be they mortals or breathing existences of our lesser kingdom, perished in the bloodletting. Some kept as breeders for the succession of consuming time.
A cohort strung of plain folks, thrust as one in a nameless realm, sought ephemeral refuge in a subterranean hollow expanse. Bestill for the scarcity of fragile credence as the intrepid one, espy a grotesque glistening of crimson blood, secreting from the sheathed hoariness of fangs. Sentient rouses heedful footfalls per monstrosity exposed jawbone, that swapped shrill for snorts, neath laden eyes that had shrewdly scowling luminous orbs. Creepy anvils pierced hairline, afeared incus, sensitively measures close octaves, spurs the labyrinth's nerves. Alas, its vulgar pelt of bulky fur stretch hither and fro, bars clamors reach.
Cavernous chambered partitions mimic as trepidation ebbs nevertheless. Unceasing progress to that bemused destiny, as anonymous atrocities, plague each within their shells, e'er crucifying the last semblance of their true selves. Ardent impulses seeping via their lithe ruby channels, crossing neath the bits of their betraying skins, as they escape the nebulous sepulchral. Beasts at 6 o'clock, tho' what unknown lurks yon pits facade, save a future yet to be titled.
2021 May 12
Ok, I'm not paid to think (like the TV shouting heads), I have no real voice (vote), and certainly no credentials—but I'm as invested in America as any high-school citizen can be—I've pledged allegiance 3,000 times (hhmmm ... do they doubt our loyalty?) and when it comes to loving America I'd have to say my classmates and I are at the center of the spell.
I'm afraid we're growing up in the age of hate ... the age of phony outrage where each position large or small is high noon and violence is afoot even when policing ordinary citizens.
We won't address the multitude of old problems in this new age ... we'll just unleash a marquetry of half truths to dispute the proven until unreasoned arguments reach their paranoid fullness. The real world is alarming enough—let's just push that away and ignore it—and while we're at it let's $lut shame the poor, the old, the sick, the unemployed, the hungry and the hand of mercy.
I realize America was never one moral atom bonded for the better—but those anvils that forged us appear neglected or forsaken. I'm afraid what's happening now, what we're seeing and hearing now, is a symphony of erosion—that by the time I have any say at all, the middle class will be gone—
America turned slum—where even the voice of despair will be termed traitor.
We'll only be able to see our greatness in museum souvenir shops where nothing is affordable and everything is made elsewhere.
i ought to be having fun
here i am in a pile named bill
i wish i was relaxing in the sun
here i am banging my head and getting ill
there is a Room that i go to
where Prayer is The Ultimate Trip
there is a Wonderful Person that i Throw To
He is just the Hippest of The Hip
i ought to be enjoying the view
here i am drowning in more cold stress that will soon be the death of me
i wish i was taking in skies with the perfect hue of blue
here i am allowing more heavily weighted ice cold anvils to take what is left of the breath of me
there is a Room that i go to
where Prayer Provides The Perfectly Adequate Space
there is a Wonderful Person that i Throw To
MAN DO I FULLY WELCOME HIS EVERY EMBRACE!