Long Estuaries Poems
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Between paper-soft
worlds of fragile
imaginations,
I float upon those
gossamer tulips
that split every
second of saccharine
musings and
eclipsed confessions,
distinguishing all
photoelectric synonyms
of lachrymose
stimuli towards
glassy manipulations
of blood-fragranced sun.
Everything that is
sown in sweetened
textures of afterglow-soil,
always blossoms upon
decayed fossils of
frivolous fates, as
balanced bullets have
forever pierced
through the pulpy
sheaths of nature's
rainbow-blankets,
but their aged roots
always adorn nourishing
gemstones of
ephemeral healing,
to spread their wise
branches across earth's
mirrors, as the thin
veil disappears.
What is the raven-spade
-hearted impulse
without its nascent yet
succulently flowing
snow-white mist?
What if, reality speaks
of those skies smitten with
hypnotic illusions of
chess-shaped horizons?
Have yin and yang ever
repelled each other's
rusty-maroon notes
that they whisper in
immortal prelude?
We have remained
skillfully blindfolded to
the isles of inceptions,
swirling amidst ripples
of diamond-kismet
estuaries, washing away
consciences with
diplomatic dewdrops
of frosty maple fog.
Tending to forget that,
we are mere syzygy knights,
crawling along
slanting seesaws as
bioluminescent bishops.
Our schizophrenic
threads have been
tied to the aroma of
poisoned satin within
these final alphabets of
enchante´ epitaphs,
where life will be
the last organ grinder
of karma, playing
an evanescent checkmate
which shall ascend
every soulful spirit
beyond Persephone's
penumbral embrace.
I watch fascinated
at its teetering stance,
bobbing up and down,
picking at small insects
that infest the lonely loch,
that it chooses instead of
upland streams or creeks
or fast-flowing rivers,
or in some lonely lake.
Today I sit on a small chair,
behind some bushes on the shore
of a lonely loch, away from it all.
Ah sandpiper, are you emulating me?
Are you in search of lonely spots too,
far from the worrisome cities of the world?
Let's leave behind us wars and strife,
enjoy a bit of peace. Let us be true to love.
A breeze strikes, up and up you fly,
with stiff bowed brown wings
and your characteristic cry,
swee-wee-wee, swee-wee-wee.
Where will you go for shelter?
Do you prefer the secluded estuaries
or the protected inland lakes?
I see you return, too good a place to miss.
But look, you've found a mate.
Heaven provides, love conquers all.
I think I'll turn in, my wife awaits.
Oh the whiteness of the light!
Oh the peach and pinkness of the horizon!
Oh the breathlessness and beauty!
I fall upon you
As if to dive
fearless
into the eternal frothing white
caught up in the glorious arms of the heart tinged horizon
rocked gently by ... my boat
Your hands alone
place stars in my jet sky
You surf me
No matter how wild the winds and waves
as conductor moves music...a magician of sound
Swirling circles ...creating eddies of air
So you
Move my darkest estuaries and hidden unspoken
hopes
I am symphony
the sweetest notes escaping my lips
till
angels with heads touching
smile and gently nod
and God himself gives a little satisfied chuckle
before going back to his work
You moved me as the tidal currents move
the sands of shore
Restructuring the view till I can no longer recognize
Myself or the Chatham shoreline
Upon her last sighs, she narrates cosmic
sagas flowing within poetic veins.
She still remembers
those idyllic evenings,
engrossed in raining confessions,
influenced by her shipwrecked heart,
expressing scarlet
sentiments that sail in silence,
across unruffled ink-stained waves,
amidst the endless oceans between
their untouched silhouettes.
Her every desire to reunite and
cast away midnight blues,
float within perfumed love notes
written by the silky seashore,
placed in crystalline bottles
of timeless lyrics,
that shall be carried through
estuaries that lead her
to his sacred island
with everlasting roses~
where pearlized shells reflect
saline left as tropical memories
of tomorrow with him by
her sun-kissed innocence.
at the old fishing lake
In a kingdom full of whitefish
And the mussels are never filleting.
~
at the old fishing lake
I remember I was oystering
That moment my soul grew scalloping
~
And the estuaries never reefing
Mudfish - mudfish – mudfish!
The lagoon laughed
As I threw in my line
Surprise carp and catfish whaling and barks
Dogs chasing squirrels onto rotten logs
~
look at the water
into the pond bubble-bubble
circles swarms
~
my line gyrating slightly moving and bobbing
guess the fishes are biting
at the old fishing lake
6/25/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
The only fear of this stubborn lion heart
is to beat - unheard, without the blessings of your sighs.
In the absence of your affection,
severe silence spins cobwebs upon mossy fences,
you have built across your sky full of blackness
and I ponder
when my soul ascends with sunrise,
why do you veil yourself until twilight reflects moonlight?
Am I the personification of a tree,
under which you no longer need shelter.
A message in a bottle,
no longer upon your mantelpiece.
That love sonnet to which you found so much joy,
but now torn from pages of your poetic anthology.
When romance arrived at your doorstep,
blooming like cherry blossoms,
you pressed each petal in a book you called - love,
but now it collects dust - unread,
wilting like an unnourished bouquet,
so here my hopes lay,
like a 'pearls cradle' upon unwanted shores,
preparing to be washed away with the tide.
Footsteps in the sand remain -
although nothing will keep us together.
I know you are the most beautiful thing,
I'll never get to call my own,
so should I still whisper vows into the void,
or allow upcoming waves to wane our bond?
If only you would flow to me
like tropical drops from waterfalls,
eventually kissing frozen estuaries
then I would place you in the cusp of my hands
to refresh my lips, which crave your touch.
It seems this year there was no spring,
no daffodils, no sunshine - only rain,
so downhearted robins did not sing,
but I captured the last feather from your exodus.
I know a premature summer
will only bloom anaemic sunflowers
but, I still sow their seeds -
hoping you will appear.
Simple Sunday Musing
Freedom ~ an inked kingdom
of macabre mirrors,
a vermiform lie
veiling the vehement suffering
amidst serpent estuaries,
surging within strangled skin,
as if I am the living sin,
jinxed by the crawling creatures
in the lamented labyrinth
of deceitful dreams,
inhaling venomous vapors
rising from the cursed creeks
that failed to caress
the brittle bones of delirious dawn,
where the nocturnal owl
sits, phasing stellar phantoms
on tattered twigs,
oblivious to the piercing pain I breathe,
as poetry feels like
a somatic hallucination,
a reflection of the phoenix crescent,
a dialect the naive can never comprehend,
the voice of truth,
the jaded outline of mortality,
can never interpret~
as the last sacred light of twilight
r e m a i n s
unmarked and lost to the Earth.
O wicked wind beneath
the crestfallen wings
of cruising constellations,
will this piece of paper save me
from the maleficent violets
in the spitfire blaze
of stigmatized stars?
I am stuck ~ hell-bound,
troubled placing my
tongue on Freyja’s chalice of tears,
for I feel oblivion closer than death,
I taste the flames of Tartarus,
I dance with demons,
I sing to the malevolent moon,
I see in distorted dimensions.
But would the ignorant know
I hear beyond what’s spoken,
in search of Eden and love?
I give gratitude to your God,
but the veiled care not~
this is beyond the making
of a self-forged inferno.
I am the harbinger of harmony,
my soul aches
to paint your scarlet spheres
in butterfly bliss,
praying in secret
that the deviant daggers in my spine
would blossom into russet roses,
their petals ~ like an elixir
to my paranoid psyche,
paralyzed in the
catacomb chaos of insanity,
as the scorpion Sun
k i s s e s
me one more time
with sweetened poison.
While you,
the spectators of this twisted spectacle,
condemn my insomniac aura
to stain the essence of my existence
with condescending colors,
unaware that
introspection is a powerful weapon~
all blood is blue,
and we breathe hypocrisy
scrutinizing the unknown....
Here lies what this aged Indigenous River
thinks s/he needs
and wants, perhaps,
but most emphatically feels,
from us.
We continue to use Her
more like a shameful toilet
than her delivery system
of upstream pure
and nutritious drinking water
would suggest she had coming
from former deep green estuaries
Root flow systems
sacredly emerging functions
from deep EarthMother's darkest
primal wu-wei
winter womb,
dipolar co-arising
health is wealth compunction,
conservation.
Ancient indigenous wisdom
suggests we would be healthier
if we didn't dump on MamaEarth,
from whom we safely drink,
should we hope to keep hunger
and thirst at bay
with and for future regenerations
Pursuing our healthiest dipolar nature-spirit
co-arising win/win wealth
of ecopolitically enlightened nutrition
And empowering fertile poop repurposing
for cultivating improved soil health trends
Ego- and Eco-systemic
permaculturing design,
cooperative planning,
nonviolent implementation priorities
for local community co-invested resilience.
I see, and fear, a trumpian landscape,
usually, and more casually, outside any safe inside sanctuary.
Infrequent glances inside windstorms
and rivers of underground currents
surreptitiously culture shape
mold
transform vertically visual landscapes,
motherlands of ecotherapy above, outside
forests and deserts,
Earth's inside
farms and gardens, windblown
oceans and continents in-between violent storms
and ego-magnetic rabid inside voices
from underground aquifers
reappropriating information originally borrowed
from outside sacred spaces
Now over-invested in big WhiteHouses for patriarchal elites
purchasing trumpian ego-greedy competitions
to conquer physical elective losses
with mentally unhealthy unbalancing wins
against SuperEgo's timeless ultra-violet, climate
Green Gaia/Diana Goddess, client
Holy Matriarchal Spirit, common
EarthSoul's ZeroZone, everyday
whatever within healthy core
LeftBrain label you prefer, bling
because of early childhood market language
and competitive culture, nurturing
neurological and psychological development.
EarthSouls learns more in an outside voices hour
observing our trumpian landscapes within
and without
than would be possible in a humane domesticated lifetime
of ignoring what neither God nor Goddess could love,
Absence of prime WinWin creative relationship
robustly ultra-violet not not light
ecstatically deep resilient color speaking
non-trumpian resonance, positive energy
multiculturally peopled
and polyculturally populated, democracy
within merging bilateral inside-outside health, integrity
in religious liberal loving consciousness
with multicultural soul-conserving unconsciousness
of cognitively dissonant trumpian winds
and cold, wet winter estuaries, hope
terrorizing elite polynomial faith
in irrational left without right
unloved remainders.
the creek is quiet, mossy
phantoms surround inlet
safeguarding all who visits
a lonesome eagle overhead watch
me strike a match _____ flame
dies in cold breeze
silent is vast sky
slowly life appears
chameleon on sediment
gecko peeping
fire I try to kindle splutter
gasping for breath ~
orange tongues appear
god’s original juices
consecrated ibis lands as if
sent from Nile where I drank
waters centuries before
sweet solitude filled with
memories of pharaohs
chariots, hieroglyphs
inlet waters fill voids in mind
I’m inconsequentially cosmic
egyptian geese descend
estuaries flow through limbs
nurturing blood …
_______________________
Placed : 5th : Premier Contest
Sponsor : Brian Strand : May 26