Long Barrow Poems
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Step where I have stepped,
tread where I have trod,
weep what I have wept
and crawl where I have clawed.
Then, and only then,
may you judge what I've selected -
only then have you earned my yen,
to abandon the gashes I've collected.
Retreat not, then, I dare you,
hovel not in your early barrow.
Shelter not to make it through,
hide not from relentless harrow.
See your friend and charge
laying there next to your door,
try to bring him back from the marge,
and instead see him forever on that floor.
Take your father and drive across this land,
a will to live, to fight, you slowly rebuild -
succeed at staying his self-sanguine hand,
and a year hence, hear how he was brutally killed.
Try to focus on what you have left,
to your closest kin should you hold.
Then rapidly find yourself bereft,
your own brother's flag, soon you fold.
Then, and only then,
come back and tell me to stand,
when you can well and truly ken
the source of my soul's brand.
Merely half have I relayed here,
the easier for you to join me -
carry but one crucial bier,
and know that 'one' is only the lee.
Challenge me to sally forth hence,
to draw blade and hold the line.
My oath against your pretense,
my loss against your spine.
They were bank robbers and their names were Bonnie and Clyde.
They robbed banks in six states until 1934 when they both died.
In addition to robbing banks, they also robbed stores and service stations.
They killed thirteen people, they were dangerous and caused devastation.
In 1933 the dangerous duo teamed up with Clyde's Sister-In-Law and her husband, Buck.
Clyde's brother was killed four months later and Bonnie and Clyde soon ran out of luck.
The next year they were driving on a road in Louisiana and they didn't know they were in danger.
They were ambushed and killed by a posse that was lead by a Texas Ranger.
The posse fired one hundred and sixty-seven rounds and Bonnie and Clyde were hit fifty times.
They were deadly murderers and thieves but they ended up paying for their dastardly crimes.
(This is a true story about Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker who were killed on May 23, 1934.)
When hurt descends from the tree of life and
The stepladder breaks straight onto your pain
A trampoline turned jo-jo strangles creeping ivy
Entangles in trapezes and dreams of surrender
Pick me up where I have buried my wounded soul
Uncover my darkness and cradle my weeping heart
Mind gaps’s emotions and feelings of rational thought
Transcend into vibrating light of balance and harmony
At the bottom of searching for circles’ impermanence
Rests a rusty wheel barrow that nestles a garden of love
Sheds a load from my shoulders and unburdens torment
Fallow fields harbour seeds of regrowth and compassion
15th January 2020
I hear them calling out my name but I could not tell from were
I heard the chorus from the big orchestra in the open air playing a rendition above the water and the sound of the giant whale splashing water everywhere, as the sound draws near my heart began to fear, I could not understand where those peculiar sound was coming from so I got the barrow meter and place it at a convenient spot to see what the earth’s pressure has got, the atmosphere stood in layers in front of me like a giant and I watches its weight pressing against the objects and gravity pulls it and bury it into the earth; oh what magnitude of pressure lies deep inside the earth, release some of it before my head burst. The tree is shaking and a voice above my head is calling. I hear voices echoing in the deep and I see a multitude of people crossing the street, something must have woken them out of their sleep, it was just before day break when the fearful tides had rolled away and my heart was singing a beautiful song before the mass came along. Everyone was standing in lines stretching from New York to Washington Dc from urban, suburb and rural community; everywhere you had a line and the outpouring was divine, the message was clear that they did not wanted him there, so they jump the ship and join the line to get on to her bus, the wait was short and millions and millions stood in the dark, for less than an hour just to make that historic mark on that special paper. The line kept moving and all I could do was to sing. I watch her numbers grow, and the people keep marking that special paper, with conviction and determination; the calling voices got louder and the crowd got bigger, and the momentum continues to build towards the end of the show.
This was the year for an abundance of plums,
the fruitlets spared by the absence of frost.
The tree was leaning, the branches drooping
with a curtain of fruit downward plunging.
Such was the challenge of so many plums –
how much could we cope with? What would be lost?
Each gust of wind the ripe fruit scattering,
the dark red plums ready for gathering.
What to do with the abundance of plums? –
some stewed then stoned to use for plum crumble,
some straight to the mouth, juice from my lips dripping;
bags in the freezer with one of them leaking.
To raise a glass for this surfeit of plums,
into a bucket the ripest would tumble -
nine kilos of plums in hot water steeping,
then syrup added with yeast for fermenting.
Juice remaining for a cordial of plums,
which went well with tonic and of course gin.
We ran out of jars for jam we were making,
so sieved the rest, then further reducing
concentrated the taste of so many plums -
confection perfection (perhaps also a sin).
Indulgence redeemed through gifting and sharing
and a crate at the gate for neighbours passing.
I ask what is this tree that gave us these plums? -
it has dark red leaves like Burgundy wine.
That the tree might expire I was fearing;
so I pruned back branches, the plum curtain drawing.
Lastly for pigs a barrow load of plums
should flavour some pork to dine with plum wine,
plum crumble follows plus double cream topping,
the surfeit continues. (Inside I’m cramping!)
Sundial
My passion is the silent weather vane
The gambrel brought such sorrow
Much I marveled this roughcast cairn
Eagerly I looked for the lintel
I have dreamed of the clocks
Eagerly I looked for the masonry
It was heterodox
Somewhat louder than the freemasonry
Back into my memories rewinding
And the clapboards never machining
Deep into that darkness watching
Still is notching, still is notching
The graves seemed happy botching
And so I screamed, 'Is that a weatherboard?'
I crave the dissident, derelict dormer window
My mind always strays to caryatids
Much I marveled the dissident gazebo
Much I marveled the eighth patio
I crave the baronial, balcony breezeway
You warned me about the indigo
And so I screamed, 'Is that a drift way?'
Take thy landscaping from out my heart
What time is it, And the megaliths never grinding
What time is it, And the masonry was nonbinding
I heard an italianated, slapdash roofing
It was fireproofing
I discovered the statues
Take thy picket fence from out my heart
I discovered the vases
Deep into that darkness listening
'It's that plaster work,' I muttered
My passion is the silent weather vane
The gambler brought such sorrow
Much I marveled this roughcast iron bane
Eagerly I looked for the lintel barrow
It's a new day and yet dark now,
What time is it on the sundial?
4/7/19
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2019 ©
Bonnie Parker was obsessed with fame.
She finally got it in the end, when her body was shown to the public.
Riddled with bullets.
I doubt that is what she was hoping for.
Clyde Barrow had kept them out of trouble for years
Thanks to his keen sixth sense, of where to go, and when to go.
His body was right there alongside the love of his life.
I imagine he had no idea his body would be displayed like that.
They were public enemies one and two for a while.
Their crime scenes were stair steps to each other.
Increasingly dangerous robberies occurred, as their confidence grew.
The public was totally infatuated with the robber lovers.
Perhaps this is why the G-men displayed their bodies for all to see.
Hoping to dissuade the next potential Bonnie and Clyde.
To this day there are books and movies written about them.
The public has a pathological fascination for this kind of thing.
No idea why.
Reality is rising out of the earth, mixing water with dirt, the children are playing in the mud from morning until sun down and the crisis in the street have disrupted the long awaited peace, and I patiently watched their short lived freedom evaporating in thin cold air.
They once bore the amour of truth from the days of their youth but with the passing of time, wisdom has crossed over to the other side and reality runs like mad men through the street.
You don’t know the price of goods for you have been living in the woods, raisin buns have gone up and the eagle bread is soaring in the sky. The prices are way out of reach and it is hard to compete; anxiety is running throughout the town and the hustlers are running around looking for cheap barging.
Food is going to be rationed again, run and tell your friend, get ready for the big overhaul, it is going to make some people bawl, a pound of chicken for ten American dollars, a pound of steak for twelve dollars, eggs for six dollars a dozen, rice, flour, sugar and cornmeal for three dollars and fifty cents per pound, oatmeal for six dollars and fifty cents per pack and seawater fish for five dollars a pound what more can I say when reality stares you in the face, you have to do something before it’s too late.
Come and share your bread with me and I will make your dream come true, come and share your bread with me and enjoy my company. The people are coming out of the lion’s den, they are looking for new friends, one bread to feed a family of five; and there peace and love will abide.
There is just not enough for everyone and reality is singing a different song so meet me at the garden center before noon because my family and friends will be coming home soon.
I have to buy buckets, mops, bleach, and detergent to clean out the place and air freshener to neutralize the mouly smells in the corners. I need garden rakes and brooms, a big shovel and a wheel barrow, we are going to clean inside out and we are going to make the devil shout; I need board hammers and nails to keep the dogs behind the gate so meet me at the garden center before it’s too late.
He was jaded with prostitutes.
The young ones were vacuous,
their bodies unleavened bread.
The mature models scored
by the violence of disappointment.
Both the naive and the world-weary
were dull molds.
The sculptor and anatomist,
delved deeply into the inquiry of form.
As an artist he craved perfection;
a risen Venus, immaculate.
He dissected, he plucked at visions.
On moonless nights carried their corpses
on muffled barrow wheels.
By the light of a hundred candles
he eased flesh apart,
nose swathed in verbena drenched rags,
hands tweaking tissue, tracing
once sensuous shapes under sallow remains.
He worked with live models,
hired women of every class.
The rich were flattered, vain,
the poor always eager to earn.
None made the stone under his
hands blossom.
It was a matter of timing,
catching Venus as she emerged
from her littoral crest.
It seemed his models
were always coming to, or moving away
from that conjunction,
yet he kept opening mythical shells
until death took him.
At his funeral
his straight-backed widow,
adorned in darkest weeds,
hid her anger well.
Despising those cold hands
that never did understand
the revelation of She.
Can remember an ember from being a boy
Off for a trundle little me just a bundle of joy
Dream I am Roy of the Rovers or Rob Roy
Admit never did behave like Lord Fauntleroy
More up for a caper than being a paperboy
Dressing up always more Indian than cowboy
More bow and arrow shun the gun not my toy
Messing up older a bit bolder got first playboy
Each page teenage hormones rage their ploy
Confessing at some stage wore dodgy corduroy
Not a fave gave colder shoulder to sage Tolstoy
More plot thickens heart quickens Dickens envoy
Who's ever told sold better tales of the hoi polloi
Artful dodger that insightful and spriteful decoy
Delightful a bold cheeky and sneaky barrow boy
BUT
Liars & deniers stoking fires while we're choking annoy
Pariahs empires of desires requires knaves to employ
Craves those culture vulture raves which then destroy
Waves stroking cage of wage slaves to graves deploy
Don’t subscribe to tribe’s lust it must just surely cloy
Paths to Mars paves all caves in as did for Helen of Troy
SO
Won’t snaffle the health raffle... folks selling saveloy?
Or crickey chat to that spiky pikey prat yelling “Oi Oi”
We maybe all at sea but lets believe land’s nearly ahoy
Street food snack some heat... pak choi chilli and soy
Suss don’t ever be coy telling us what you dearly enjoy
The fuzzy warmth you feel clearly is the real deal mccoy
True birthday treat got to finally eat yearly at the Savoy
If beset then really never forget the reset for regret JOY