Long Crayons Poems
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I started cleaning the attic, I stopped…I saw an old book.
‘Diary 2012…PS: Private – Do Not Open.’
I fumbled, through the dog-eared pages
All written in my unattractive scribble.
Pages bordered with crisscrossed drawings,
Each page; a different colour:
One’s green, the other’s blue-black.
Pages colourful… some with many pictures,
And some had less, or none at all.
Going to keep it? Yes, of course.
Then something fell, a paper… a very old one.
It looked at it…and smiled. Something I’d drawn.
With my friends, in our school uniforms.
I’m the one with the pulled back hair.
Then there were my teammates… each reminding me:
A night of stargazing, a swim in a beach,
All those crayons and markers...how we used them.
How all of us, on our own, took one colour and
Slowly, but steadily, coloured our dreams.
Another college tour, another favor. This time it was an old schoolmate, George and his parents who were taking the official tour. I was going to babysit his little sister Mary (5) while they walked around.
It was good to see someone from home and sad in a way. For a moment, I had a tugging feeling, like there was a hook deep inside me and the reel was back home.
When I first saw George I remembered a time, in 10th grade, before COVID. I was leaving school early and waiting to be picked up. Twenty track boys, fresh from their daily run, were lounging, seductively around. George, in particular, in a pose rather like Michelangelo’s Adam. “OMG!” I remember thinking at the time.
I smiled at that long-ago tableau. “What?” George asked, he was watching me. “Nothing,” I smiled, “Just looking forward to babysitting”
Mary and I exercised to a video, had a pizza delivered and colored - crayons aren’t easy to find in the modern college environment so we used high-lighters to create delicate, watercolor-like masterpieces.
As we drew, Mary said, off-handedly, “You’re really nice,” as if the nature of my character had been in some dispute. Still, I still felt warmly complemented.
When the tour was over, we were walking up science hill toward their car and the sun was declining to sunset. “How do you like it,” George asked, confidentially, head lowered, voice low enough not to be overheard by his parents who were walking a few yards behind us with Mary. “There’s a LOT of reading,” I said, shruggingly. “but I’m keeping up.” Last year I was a junior, this year I’m in college. It seemed absurd.
How do you conjure a vision for someone of what college would be like, when college experiences are so individual? The writer's dilemma, interpreted by a babysitter.
As we reached their car, the caroling bells started ringing (5pm) from Harkness Tower. It was the perfect send-off. Again I felt the pull of homesickness but my phone plinked and the emotion didn’t even last as long as dusk.
Artistry created with a hand comes in so many forms
I'm not always able to conform to considered norms
I've used #2 pencils when it was suggested I use a #4
Then again, I don't always do things to keep score
I've used crayons on pages while coloring with a child,
often traveling outside the lines on purpose, a bit wild,
but that's the rebellious side of me that I tend to condone
for I'm not one to be commanded like an airborne drone
I don't respond to lectures that try to confine my style
Establishing my own borders... blueprints not kept on file
The designs I'd used in poems and paintings, heretofore
are never repeated in new creations. That would be a bore
I write outside the margins and scratch words out with a pen
but on the keyboard, it's much easier to delete and then send
them to keep with pictures I'd consider painting in the future
I continually edit poetry and repaint scenes that need a suture
I'm open to the boundless beauty that nature holds in store
All anyone needs is the willingness to wander about and explore
I find incentive in spider webs before sunlight dries the dew,
and in prisms of wondrous things open-minded vision can accrue
Give me blank pages, stretched canvases, pen, paint and brush
Music brings out the artist within me, and I am never in a rush
to finish a poem being born, or a lighthouse I'm drawing on a cliff
but I am easily distracted by baking cookies with just one whiff
The Lies of Divorce
The truth of facts,
lost over time,
by the deceit of repetitive
misstatements...
also known as; lies.
He put me on the ground.
He yelled at me.
Yet, I am the one at fault.
Our daughter believes,
all she was taught,
at the foot and knee of a mirror.
The greater the enhanced
recognition of his implied power,
the overall tolerance
for things spoken incorrectly
at first,
while drifting into
complete darkness at whim.
He took his son's blanket,
in the parking lot and laughed.
He took his crayons,
and threw them into the fire.
Just to watch the colors,
melt and burn together,
while the screams of the innocent,
sang...
The depths of your unconscious actions,
are only ever so much lower,
nearly unmeasured.
Hate was your mantra,
a game played with the lives of our children,
still echoing into their patterns,
set to be changeless.
The truth ever grows in a place,
watered daily, and given prayer.
The form of which takes hope,
to a new realm,
that can not be shattered,
or stolen.
The jig you follow,
up and down, a puppet on a string,
for a darker thing.
I pity your displacement,
of what is important,
to the world...
inclusive of all that has life,
and will continue to breathe.
Let me read this to you...
as I know that will fire the flame.
Let me speak it clearly,
so there is no shame.
I forgive you.
If the church is a hospital,
does it have an emergency room?
Can the person with a spiritual heart attack,
get a lifesaving response?
If the church is a hospital,
is there a psych ward for the mentally ill?
Are there crayons for the scitzo to draw on the walls?
If the church is a hospital,
is there an X-ray room for broken bones?
Does it provide chemo therapy for the cancer patient?
Is there a recovery room for the alcoholic struggling to stay dry?
If the church is a hospital,
is the pharmacy always open?
IF the church is a shelter,
Does it have blankets on the beds?
Does it have a teddy bear?
Are there toys a plenty
for the boys and girls to share?
IF the church is a shelter,
does it have a home like vibe?
Or is it a cold white waiting room?
If the church is a shelter,
does it have a warm fire place?
Does a picture of Jesus
hang as a painting on the wall?
Is there a nurse on staff if I fall?
If the church was more of a treatment center,
and did not have a big X over sin...
I would find a guide indeed.
But maybe I might actually be
the helping hand someone needs.
Form:
You don’t know how parted we are
Uncharted we are
The piano keys sooth the turbulent sea and music melts the burning icebergs
Pride sinking a ship…giving into nature
Hands severed and torn, pressing lightly on the stained ivory
The creatures are mourning for the death of loved ones
While men in white laugh, masked by the ghosts of their own insanity
Stained with foreign blood
People speak out against it while many others follow me to the grave
Like the single stone in the chalk piece scrapes against the black board
We feel the pain with our empathetic minds without having to hear the chalky cries
Subconscious we are transformed…informed
Knowing that once parted, no earthquake can make us whole again
We couldn’t visit her today…he was forced to go
The mercy found in these crevices is buried in the snow
I hate it when I can’t find words to describe the way I feel
I would like to tell him how I feel…but the air
Is too thick here…
And the sea parts us…blue eyes are merely brown…
The grass is greener there
We’re all the same…we fear…we cry
The web still weaves us together but dew tears stick to the strands
And flies that we feed on destroy the unity of the intricate network
Reassuring words mend temporarily…but you leave again
Hairs grow gray and the black stickiness is fresh once more
Light pours in canyons of crayons…the flower is a scam
The smell of childhood lighting up our lives with the little fuel we have
Jealously thrives through…and they won’t stop touching them
Some look into the mirror and cry everyday…
Bruises turn to gold and they sell artifacts already sold
The buzzing vibration of my phone is ignored tonight…
I’m on my last bar…
I’m dying…I really am
Dying to know WHY. Dying to give life
Parting the lands to flood obscurity…
Pangaea, what can make you whole again?
Is it possible nature is but a child?
Let me try to verify:
She loves to play with crayons…
have you seen the way she paints the sky?
She colors over everything…she never stays within the lines...
When she’s hungry her stomach grumbles…
In the wind sometimes she whines.
She laughs at all the little things…she gets tickled by the breeze…
Her attention changes quickly…from the flowers to the trees.
She often cries for no reason…she is changing every day
sometimes...she might smell bad...other times...like a bouquet.
She fills our days with sunshine…she’s a constant source of light
and just like any baby…she needs her sleep at night.
With nature, each day is an adventure…you never know what to expect
perhaps nature…
like a child…
is something we should try more to protect.
falling rain, droplet by droplet
pane pain pane
sipping on leaves
fall falling
failing to see
leaves livestock
lumbering, conceited
between the pages
their veins throbbing
as a moppet scribbles
over their bones
with primary colors
heavy-fisted, fat crayons
that melt
into the whirligig
cheek flames
and bright eyes
follow the track
jump into the raked
leaves piled high
aww, rains leaking
inside…pane…pain
child leaves it all behind
the grown kid rounds
Louisiana, not impressed
until Autumn leaves
remind and reminisce
stopping the automobile
in real time…real smooth
New Orleans beckons
but the scenic view
having said, howdy-do
is left behind with the pain
of slippery rain
"Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad." — Quote by Anne Geddes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I liked to wear new clothes
as a kid I liked things many more
crayons, paper, a doll, a chocolate, pink shoes, ribbons, bangles
I knew not: they were to be bought by money
that money was to be earned,
that my father was poor, that he skipped meals often.
As a kid I just thought my dad was cruel
cruel, as he did not get me things I pointed
He would turn my gaze to something else
distract me with jokes and tales
His roaring laughter drowned my likes and my childish cries
But I never saw his aching heart and unshed tears
I was ten when he died
Forgive me dad, I was a foolish child.
If the color blue was sad
Would it be black?
If the black lost it’s color
Would it be white?
If white married lavender purple
Would it too, be blue?
What about brown and yellow
What’s procreations due, would the children be orange
For what’s at stake;
The color spectrum
Rainbows and crayons
Would it be black, if it’s midnight?
Would it rain blue, if the water falls?
What am I to do, if I’m blind with no vision?
You see the lavender purple people
Have painted themselves into the corner of the room
The lights are turned off
And black is in full bloom
Colorize…………..
12/5/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©