Long Cracked Poems
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Chubby cream grubby against white ice
Hungry somewhat clumsy polar bear heist
Hopefully loping over to an asylum of seals
Tusked beasts bound to become tasty meals
Damp nose oscillates, catch tongue anticipates
Hook claws extend, jagging his cumbersome gait
Ungainly angle rotates blundering bear ballerina
Jaws roar frustrated, mishap sadly signals dinner
Jolly bodied, barrel stocky well insulated brood
Swivel protruding chests to avoid being food
Fear pulls polar threat away, phew! - Relax
Pack pacify, raft drifts after cold cracks
Snowy blows his nose with hankie huge paws
Lucky that chubby has arms strong as oars
Iceberg dips, whiskers twitch while wishing
Imminent swim success - in frigid fishing
8th March 2023
Written for Contest: Cracked
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
It begins quietly—
not with a step outward,
but with a turning.
The mirror is already waiting.
Pearl-light, not bright, not dim—
something between breath and bone,
as if the surface remembers
every face that has hesitated before it.
I come to it without ceremony.
No armor. No declaration of bravery.
Just the small, brittle sound of being here.
And still—
it asks.
Not loudly.
Never loudly.
It asks in the way frost asks the window
to hold its pattern,
in the way winter asks the trees
to stand without answers.
Look, it says.
Look longer than comfort allows.
There is adventure here,
though no road unfolds,
no horizon splits open with promise.
Only this:
a depth that does not end
because it is not distance,
but return.
I thought courage would feel like fire—
a flare, a rising, a refusal to break.
But here, in this pearl-lit quiet,
it is something else entirely.
A staying.
A listening
so complete
it becomes a kind of song.
And yes—
the mirror sings.
Not with sound,
but with recognition.
Each breath fogs the surface,
then clears—
a rhythm of appearing and vanishing,
as if the self must be sung into being
again
and again.
I see the tremor.
I see the unfinished parts.
I see the places where I almost turned away.
And I do not.
This is the crossing—
not over land or sea,
but through the thin, cold space
between who I am
and who I refuse to see.
Midwinter holds me there.
No bloom.
No promise of easy thaw.
Only the slow making of something enduring—
like pearl,
formed in the quiet insistence of time,
layered around an irritation
that never fully leaves.
So I stand.
And if my voice comes,
it comes softly—
cracked, uncertain,
but mine.
I sing.
Not to be heard,
but to remain.
And the mirror,
faithful keeper of this small, fierce act,
holds it—
turns it—
gives it back as light.
Stow away the congeries of aches
overtly attenuating the life-force
Joints grinding bones as growing muscles waked
Oft, stomping like an apoplectic horse...
Under strained newness, a glum disposition
reeked nervousness, clamping a chest distraught
No diversity, glared their position
Such eyes that stabbed, could snap a breath taut...
Of schooling, what silent complacency!
Jailers with fingertip-busting dusters
or canes that cracked and smacked decency
Umber-burned bruises on smartened clusters...
Raking nails scratch to assuage a mind
New migraines need compulsory unwinds…
(4/23/21 For 'Aches Prompt' contest hosted by Constance La France)
Somewhat spoken;
Smolding
Broken
For I speak life I am whole
Not Broken BROKEN
I know we are not broken
Yet there were moments Walking on the space covered ground Bronze Sand speckled dust every blade of grass on the black and brown darkened land strips in pieces
I KNOW WE ARE NOT BROKEN
People looking through windows that are dirty and smudged . Hoping to find beauty looking out but yet feeling love. While within failing decision distinct the strange cracked ravished blood shot eyes. Complicated other feelings they remain hoping
Somewhat spoken;
Smolding
Broken
For I speak life I am whole
Not I busted, I am whole
I KNOW WE ARE NOT BROKEN
Hopeless sporadic static feelings Hardin concrete parts cauliflower mushed brain mind reeling. The brain ?? thinks about happy thoughts
I know we ARE NOT BROKEN
Feeling life frozen inwardly disposing emotional roller coaster savoring ups and downs righteously a boating abounding feelings of ?? broken
I know
WE ARE NOT BROKEN
Somewhat spoken;
Smolding
Broken
For I speak life I am whole
Not I busted, I am whole
You have not cause you ask not.
Deceiving yourself.
Rejoice once sadden ? Heart
You're welcomed given daily breaths
I must admit sometime in life we are longitude held down by gravity Wearing a frown but I refocus I contest I'm favorably blessed.Just in instant just a second like a vase falling on the ground broken I speak life until myself I am presently whole this I have spoken
I NO
WE ARE NOT BROKEN
No more you nor I
Neither fell, no falling
We stand raised eyes, heart, arms and hands
No more broken...
We are WHOLE SPOKEN
WE ARE NOT ?? BROKEN
Hallelujah thus say the Lord
I am having being birth of Heaven's core. I was placed here on this terrain Earth like the original inhabitants. As my generational Adam, I am the caretaker of this dirt. On Loan soil
Praise God for whom all blessings flow
Elohim
10/31/24
by James Edward Lee Sr 2024
a Dramatic Monologue verse
Scorching Sun in Sky.
Whirling wind goes weepy dry.
Birds don’t dare to fly.
Severe tremendous heat caught.
Fields get cracked yielding drought.
Flamboyant flowers
dazzle in bright vibrant flame,
mesmerizing eyes,
blaze to blink orange-crimson.
Scarlet blossoms on silk-cotton.
Sunny scorching show.
Summer heat hits hot hammer.
Grammar of season
is rigid and tough to learn.
Passion ignites heart to burn.
I was just a little gregarious girl
wearing a lime green bikini
with a tiny red apple
appliqued on the top
splashing
in the plastic kiddie pool
covered in cartoon fish
Drops of cool water
I flung up in the air
reflecting the summer sunshine
falling
over me as if I were being showered
in sparkling diamonds
I climbed out of the water
grabbing my compact mirror
in the sky blue case
shaped like a seashell
a mermaid with blond hair
like mine painted on it
I had bought at the thrift store
with a quarter I’d found in the parking lot
I carried it everywhere I went
I had sat it on top of my tattered towel
I don’t recall what I had planned
to do with it
It slipped from my grip
onto the old cracked pavement of the patio
shattering
sharp shards of glass
shimmering in the sun
Seven years bad luck my mother said
Seven years that stretched
into ten, twenty, thirty
close to forty now
Can anyone see me?
Can someone free me from this
curse?
Why do Ghosts never seem to smile
In picture framed tributes encased
hanging on display front and center
on a living room wall
Is it just incase the outward glass
facade crack's and break's
Or makes the frame from whatsoever
bound it to the wall in the first place
Until it is eventually nothing more than
a black and white picture entombed in
broken glass and frame
Clinging helplessly onto a bare wall
not even hung up straight
Is that why perhaps maybe ghosts
don't ever seem to smile
As they know exactly what the future
holds in store for everyone long after
death is through with all of us
And unfortunately fair warning there
is really not a single thing worth cracking
or smiling about to say in regards to that
Apart from never being able even once
dead
To hang or ever mend a broken frame or
cracked glass again
So as to put a smile back on a Ghost
from future past
My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine.
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.
My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.
Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.
Once, later on in my own life,
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . .
and found that even those less valuable could shine!
A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade,
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen!
The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.
I am glass
I look sturdy,
But I am very fragile,
Easily broken.
I can be cracked with any and every touch.
I am translucent.
I can be seen through
I do not hide who I am.
If you think about it,
All I am is glass.
I'm just there.
I am not noticed,
Until I am gone.
I am a glass girl ,
In a plastic world.
I am surrounded by hard shiny plastic people.
In their hard shiny plastic homes,
With their hard shiny plastic dogs.
Hard shiny plastic is different from glass you see.
Hard shiny plastic is difficult to break.
It is always noticed.
And no matter how hard you try,
You cannot see what is on the inside.
But I, a glass girl, have figured it out.
On the inside of a hard shiny plastic girl,
Lies one just as I, glass.
But she is hidden.
Underneath a mask.
And under that mask,
Is a translucent glass girl.
But,
Who wants to be a glass girl?
After all I am fragile.
Easily cracked.
And the only time I am noticed,
Is when I am no longer there
Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man.
I was more agile than they and could subsist upon a coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?
At length I felt my first stirring; still, at first, it was inward. I began to question what I was, and why I was there, what had become of me.
I was in some great confusion about my existence, my being.
Then I forgot my deformation and lost it, for I grew accustomed to all men.
So I began to grow at an abnormal rate, and my frame enlarged and grew. I, who could barely support my own weight, began to walk in a rough fashion, but in an unconscious way, and without taking heed of my position and how my limbs moved. As I began to eat and drink, my strength grew and developed, but my bones were straitened and cracked and my flesh was scabby.
My ability to bear pain was diminished and I suffered much, but I fared well. My constitution, it is true, was deficient and I needed much care, but I had acquired the means of overcoming my weakness.
And so I passed my days at the springs and in the woods, without interfering with the acts of the animals. I had learnt to behave kindly.
Just a few years back you couldn’t talk about colonic irrigation without getting a picture of a grimacing, painfully thin middle-aged woman with large breasts.
I AM MONSTER.
My heart is dry. Horror.
:: 03.29.2022 ::