Long Chews Poems
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Concrete cracks between the visual impact that
Taking two legged creatures off to step
Night walkers stalk, boulevard bound, to town
Old man, head and cane bent in that direction
Taping solid sounds, hollow notes that don't return
Don't know where to go along the road in dark
Girls in short dresses march with stiletto heels
Break cement's silent night with curses
They turn the corner. Buildings stare at skirts
Bubble gum chews attract attention
Shoes and hearts pounding down into forever
The thoroughfare listens for young girls, who
Move slow, when there is no where else to go
The highway stands alone out there
Not closed for construction as suggested by the sign
The boulevard reflects on clouds dangling soft and low
Precipitation covers up relics in a wash of age
Legs fill in missing steps then walk away
Between the pavement calm
Curved lines remain the same
Hide solemnly in the rain unnamed,
Gifted.
A round clay grey chalice
just outside the kitchen door
filled to the brim
with dark brown nurture,
frothy feather greens trimmed.
She eats the fresh smells
with all her secret senses...
Even her ears hear subtle
strong notes as she chews the cud
breaking down her defenses.
Handed some leaves in a bag-
not big enough to contain
her gratitude and pleasure...
buries her face in notions
of growing her own treasures.
Coriander, sweet basil, dill-
lungs balloon with pungent perfume
caught, breath held until
heart gasps, thankful-exhumes
breath of life with CO2, awake
to symbiosis give and take.
Thank You, from the abyss of my heart...
It is a Pleasure to return!
Aqua Marine: 09/12/2024
Acts 20:35
Acts 17:28
James1:17
Ephesians 5:1
Proverbs 12:25
1 Thessalonians 2: 8
Afterthought...
The sandwich...
Red, white, green...
Tomatoe bright red
Sweet basil next green strong
Mozzarella cheese.
Mama Mia!
Most of the time I am thinking about my pets
Pets others have dumped out
Pets who should probably have therapy but don’t.
One of them is a large pony dog we named Buddy.
He was dumped two months ago; he chews up everything.
Memory foam mattress, shoes, boots, sandals, balls,
bones, doggie chews, doggie toys, spoons, snow scrapers,
spatula handles, cardboard boxes, mouse traps, rulers,
fly swatters, and the lids off of plastic bottles.
Another is my new kitty Nemo who I struggled to get to the vet
for her shots on Saturday only to discover I had brought my cat Shark.
Nemo looks exactly like Shark only half his weight.
He fought me like a tiger when I was pushing him into a kitty carrier.
My other dog Sophie Helen is a worry; when I hear her squeaking
I know that Buddy is bothering her. He is ten times her size-
a giant galoot, and super impulsive.
My children are all grownup; my grandchildren have their friends now.
And their cars, so my time is spent thinking about my pets.
It is a delightful pastime, and they make life worthwhile.
The Cemetery of Myths as Inverted Paradise
in the cemetery of myths where the dead dance alive on graves,
dictatorial faces smile with their teeth of freedom,
the blind sun illuminates the darkness with its radiant blindness,
the tails knot themselves in straight spirals that climb down always.
the lethargic devils tame fury with their gentle heavy violence,
to women pretzels adorn their necks with chains of warm air,
it sweetens the pickle with the acidity of bitter sweet sugar,
to your gang mouth it sings silence with clear silent howls.
the mature university kiss studies primitive instinct with science,
the evening of barbaric pleasure civilizes wildness with crude education,
the ancestors of fate predict the past of the future that will not have been,
friends like slaughtered lambs hunt wolves with their bloody gentleness.
the parrots witnesses of color from the sun speak phosphorescent blackwhites,
the pollution of the heart purifies the air with its transparent toxic smoke,
the bread of square teeth chews hunger with its empty satiety,
your itch becomes my bed of nails on which I sleep deeply.
it is a playful modest plowing field sowing chaos in ordered rows,
your unique meaning multiplies in its dense collective loneliness,
myths die being reborn in the cemetery of their eternal dead life,
the dictatorships of freedom chain us in our prisoner emancipation!
The uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room.
The doctor's silk tie that reflects the tubes of artificial lighting.
The endless vials of blood they draw from my baby's arm.
The area of her arm where the cancer chews hungrily beneath the skin leaving a trail of destruction.
The "PAST DUE" stamped on hospital bills.
Scrubs worn by nurses in the chemo department.
My lips after biting back sobs when her hair falls out in clumps.
My husband's hand when he releases mine for a minute because I'm squeezing too hard.
My eyes in the mirror after yet another sleepless night.
The world I live in is a crimson hell since my daughter was diagnosed with lymphoma.
The ruffle of fleece at her neck
makes her feel manufactured, not born—
brushstrokes of windswept wool,
all soft edges and curves
the color of old milk.
Her lips were no artist's accident,
nor the smirk as she lurks
in the corner more knowing
than any ewe usually dares.
Coy smile, a pearled necklace
of fur and her hind-end musk—
drew the brown ram sniffing
while a dirt-faced ex-love nearby
chews through the cud to find
whatever’s left of her.
Closer to the cliff than either,
she teeters, grazing weeds
like the dutiful daughter of lamb stew,
like she doesn’t know the cost
of this life: skin blistered by sun,
meat slow roasted to melt
on the tongue, bones cracked
for their marrow, dreams curdled
and spun into the itchy arms
of some strayed-from-the-flock husband,
all too eager to forget
the warmth of her body.
But Clover knows better.
Knows that sheep go one of two ways—
a fireside comfort or the fire itself.
Knows the herd will go
where they are led,
always too late to see
the teeth of the cliff.
She stands alone,
the day's last shadows
pooling at her feet
masticating through daisies
and regrets. And then she leaps
toward the yellowing horizon
gathering salt-wind in her wool
along with the cliff-kissed breeze
of freedom that promises nothing
but the opposite direction.
I stand where silence is thicker than bread.
He,
not a man anymore,
but a bruise walking upright,
a shadow that still pays rent to the body.
Loneliness is not beside him.
It is the room itself,
the ceiling sweating plaster,
the window coughing dust.
It pushes through his skin
like cold water in a cracked bucket.
His heart still taps,
like a drunk knocking on the wrong door.
Each beat a protest,
yet the protest already sounds guilty.
To breathe is to sit in court,
to be tried by the wallpaper,
by the squeak of the chair,
by the dripping tap that counts the years.
Time here sharpens into nonsense:
a drip becomes an entire calendar,
a sigh shakes the floorboards.
Even the smallest rustle,
the mouse behind the wall,
falls upward into God’s deaf ear.
And still he remains:
a candle without fire,
burning invisibly,
like the taste of ash in your mouth
after a funeral feast.
I cannot step aside.
His abyss has been nailed into my ribs.
I carry the shame of impotence:
not for sins,
but for what cannot be done,
for the way care turns into theater,
a hand waving at shadows.
The walls pretend to hold him,
but walls are polite liars.
It is absence that chews him,
absence, slow, official,
with a face like an empty chair at the table.
I know this story.
It’s older than stories.
Adam shivering in the weeds
outside the garden fence.
Job scratching sores in the dirt
while the sky locks its jaw.
All exiles line up here,
every silence rehearses its lines in his throat.
So I do the only trick left to the living:
I stay.
Presence,
as a badly tuned prayer.
Presence,
as rebellion without slogans.
Witness,
as the last coin we have to spend.
For what remains
when hope folds its tent,
when meaning slinks off into the dark,
when words smash their heads
against the stone of despair?
Only this:
to squat beside the abyss,
knees stiff, hands useless,
to whisper without sound,
that even here,
where loneliness is stitched into the fabric of being,
life still stutters,
not entirely alone.
While the Pink stays unknown to our Smith without sight
He can easily tell that this voice holds might
The steps flash twisting, metal shapes into view
Wires coil, tipped with wriggling hands two
The hands grab a hold of our Smith's flubby frame
Multiple attempts before a successful claim
The hands spurt fluid from each shiny palm
Causing all our Smith's muscles to simultaneously calm
Unable to move, his digits attempt to gain freedom
As a response, his teeth begin to travel in tandem
Up one shoulder and up the opposite
To try to see if the hands can be bit
Nibbling fierce, bending bolts and screws
But they won't budge, no matter how many chews
Our Smith accepts that he has been physically matched
Then begins to speak, to find a way unattached
"WeLl, I gUeSs YoU hAvE mE iN yOuR sTeElY gRaSp!
WhAt WoUlD pErSuAdE yOu To LeT lOoSe YoUr ClAsp?"
Pink flashes again, this time freeing an entire step
And from underneath, a Machine repeats without pep
"You are a fallen Smith, a missing Link from your Chain
You will now be judged, whether you are able or lame"
A face made up of a visor and puppet like hinges
Begin to shudder and shuffle in starkly Pink flinches
"Hold still, fallen Smith, or you will be thrown away
Regardless of our decisions, there will be no delay"
Radiant rays rate our Smith's quality and potential
Each part it burns on his body is consequential
"AaHhHhH iT hUrTs! It BuRnS! pLeAsE sToP! pLeAsE..."
The Machine doesn't listen to our Smith's crying pleas
It continues its job, disregarding all pain
"Looks like you are worth some extra strain."
What would you do if you got an extra five thousand dollars?
I made a little list.
I would pay for all of my friends’ meals this week.
Why wait? I asked myself.
Knowing that it would make me feel great.
I paid for their meals, having faith the universe would reward me.
After I had paid for three meals my contact for next year arrived.
I am not getting an extra five thousand dollars.
I am getting an extra seven thousand dollars.
I got online to see how much a fire truck costs.
I used to always want one.
Of course I was ten at that time.
Insight showed me that this is not my true desire any more.
I guess I will keep buying my friends’ lunches.
And maybe some doggie chews and some art supplies.
And a steak for my husband.
My needs are simple.
words 148
eudaimonia-
cat's in the birdcage;
bird has lit away;
anxiety outlet;
as the dog chews away;
that old beat-up rug;
shag as it was;
the cat used to roll around in
hook on dark and light;
spilled sour milk from the cat's bowl;
WOW
bArk
Meow
Now
withered clumps of fur;
Scrambled empty soul
bird tweets at the clock;
as the cat watch;
as the doggy scrapes he itches;
needs his medicine;
in grief no hope nor apologizes;
as the bird tweets and burps;
the bird twitadee-tweets and just flies away
Free
11/04/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©