Long Father Poems
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He isn’t here;
He isn’t here;
He HAS RISEN;
Jesus has given
Given His Spirit, back to the Father
He has callin His reign on Hold
For He’ll be coming back
He shall be back
To march His army of angels
He will be back
Yes, He’ll be back
It is set in stone
He isn’t here;
He isn’t here;
He HAS RISEN;
Jesus has given
Given His Spirit, back to the Father
Heaven and Earth He’ll rule
He is risen, from the dead
Just as He said
Would happen rose He raised up high
He is risen from the dead, yet alive He shall rise
He is risen, He is risen
Come see where he laid
Yet, He’s risen He’s no longer here
He isn’t here;
He isn’t here;
He HAS RISEN;
Jesus has given
Given His Spirit, back to the Father
4/9/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
St. Matthew 28:6
I.
ROMANCE begins
with a supernovae
as two
hearts decrease space between
walls and fears; the ice-floe
of painful life melts,
once powerful thoughts and
conviction now powerless,
against a force of Nature
If Lust then a brilliant lit
moment; if by divine guidance
True Love as eternal.
II.
Ages and Time and Ages roll by
the music plays upon hours
and thoughts as ivory keys;
fear burning minors of
weeping fossil time
four walls closing within me
The loneliness of a fractured
soul and it's heart's broken
shattered pieces bleeding
blurring terms of surrender
;the etiquette of death:
none shall bury raw feelings into the ground
III.
All industries of silence
rituals and formalities
they burn deeply
they weep tears
life as muteness
rigorously executed
the form of History
a blueprint of Life.
IV.
my Hand deeply within the bowls
of my gaping Mouth! Offensive to me!
an ode begun in grief and anger
now mired within surrealism -- abstract!
a hole dug deeper and larger than Mind
a Mind deeper and larger than holes!
i scream with my illegitimate voice
raped, pillaged, torn, and sworn
by lovers, brothers, father and mother
my soul's water broken -- still born
you cannot answer useless questions.
:: 04-11-2019 ::
You Were My Death
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You were my death;
I could hold you
when everything abandoned me—
even breath.
Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry.
Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, death, breath, abandoned, abandonment, absence, hold, holding, Germany, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, horror, abuse, murder, war, World War II, world conflicts
SMOTHER YOURSELF WITH PEANUT BUTTER
You may like chicken and your mate might like it, too
One of you might like peanut butter as cookies but the
Other as a sandwich but that is truly no excuse to often be
Snickering and flickering when you could be getting along
And even dickering or having fun and cooking together ‘like
Two or more birds of a feather’ even if you don’t wear leather
And your name’s not Heather- you do not have to be in tethers
and dithers.
Toss out the old useless medication and all of that stalling alcohol
Switch to an alternative that needs no perspiration or prescription
Or druitions- ‘if there be no purpose it is not needed so toss it all out
And make the switch before you lose your ability to do so otherwise
You are throwing your life away without sway instead of striving
Resist not offered help no matter who or what offer it whether it be friends or
God- it really makes no difference because God is our Divine Father so who
Ever and whatever the offer comes from it’s from God- fret not over how
People communicate nor how advice is given for it has to be given when it is
given- you who need it must really listen, so listen up then smother
yourself with peanut butter
These poems I've been chronicling
Are for my children's sake
If I die tomorrow
I want them to have the skills
to watch out for false love
That through my journey of healing
from the sociopath that is their father
They gain understanding and insight
For them to see I truly love them
It's in a mother's soul to protect
her children in her heart
I've wrote poems about love bombing
I've wrote poems about psychopaths
And most importantly I've wrote poems
about true blue role models who can
impart skills for us to use
To be safe and self sufficient in this world
that can take from us if we let it
None of these poems are a seduction for
anyone I know
These are just my artistic soul
Like a love song that's sung for everyone
and no one in particular
To enjoy the artistry of it and take what you
will from it
So be safe my babies
When mom is gone
Imagine me tucking you
under your covers at night
and saying sleep tight
I won't let these psychopaths bite
I love you deeply and completely
Goodnight
God's masterpiece
I feel the blood rushing in my veins,
I don't even have to think about it...
it pulses inside me just the same
I feel the air passing through my lips,
I don't even have to think about it...
it fills me up to my fingertips
I feel my heart beating in my chest,
I don't even have to think about it...
it keeps beating, til I'm laid to rest
Chorus
Oh Lord-I see...
just how wonderfully I am made
You knew me even before I was born
Now to you alone-I give praise
I feel the love burning in my heart
I don't even have to think about it...
YOU planted it inside me from the start
I feel the thoughts churning in my brain
I don't even have to think about it...
YOU inspired them to praise YOUR name
Bridge 1
So many slander YOUR great name
they deny YOUR power to create
Father help them please...
to recognize YOU and YOUR majesty
Chorus
Oh Lord-I see...
just how wonderfully I am made
You knew me even before I was born
Now to you alone-I give praise
I feel my arms reaching for YOUR touch
I don't even have to think about it...
YOUR love embraces me, Oh so much
Chorus
Oh Lord-I see...
just how wonderfully I am made
You knew me even before I was born
Now to you alone-I give praise
Bridge 2
Dear God, we are your masterpiece..
oh how wonderfully we are made
Oh, how wonderfully we are made!
Oh, how wonderfully we are made
repeat and fade
John Derek Hamilton
July 26,2018
Based on Psalm139:14-16
Too often when you ask someone
who they are?
they give you titles and labels
which are actually subpar
you are more than just someone's
father, uncle, aunt or mother
there is much more to you than just being
a sister, a niece a nephew or a brother
I am a seeker of truth, an observer of choices
and I dwell in God's light
I am defined by my values, my morals
and I walk by faith and not by sight
my moral code, my set of values,
my standards, and my convictions.
these are the crucial elements
that determine my individual predilections
who are you?
how would you describe yourself?
do you mention your education
or do you tell of your wealth?
who are you?
what is your self-characterization?
do you illustrate your talents
or elucidate on your associations?
I am defined by my values, my actions
and my willingness to grow
to be curious and wanting to learn
all that I need to know
I am defined by how I treat
and interact with others in my life
I offer acceptability, kindness, compassion
and move in the ways of Christ.
So who am I?
I am a disciple of Christ,
a gentle loving human being
more than just some man's wife
when I reached my twenties, there came great changes in my life
I met the man who ultimately, asked me to become his wife
I'd had two or three encounters when I played the dating game
but I finally found the special man, who set my heart aflame.
my time before I met him, I was a carefree single girl
who was out with friends each weekend, in a hectic social whirl
we'd eye up the local talent, in clubs and bars each week
we met the wild the weird and wonderful, the handsome and the geek.
my man and I were happy, and we soon became a pair
we'd be together at the weekends, ours was a gorgeous love affair
came the day we both decided, we'd love to find a place
where we could share our lives together, and create our own space.
about a year before we married, I got some really awful news
there'd been an accident with father, who was injured, battered and bruised
yet he did survive his injuries, and he made a full recovery
but six months down the line, they made a terrible discovery.
he'd got a fatal illness, and for which there's no known cure
this news came as a tragedy, for all the family to endure
when our wedding day arrived, my dad was too ill to attend
we'll come and see you straight away dad, once the ceremony ends.
In Loving Memory of David Padilla Jr.
Taken by the unforeseen.
I share my birth month with
(K)Crystal.
My Cousin must be
feeling phantom parameters and
missing links.
Zoom.
Thumbing through everything
from past to present.
I miss your presence.
Life that filled the room
with laughter so loud.
A love stretched out.
So proud I known you.
I'd never change you.
Home real quiet, the silence
keep me company.
Love lonely too.
I wait even though
spirituality was never my
directive.
Id never dream of
losing a sought after
perspective.
My Father broke the silence.
He told me that you had to go.
That you're already gone.
I hear the air whistle blow.
The distance, it's everywhere
and haunts me with its stretch
expansive, blaring with
warbling trill.
Into my ears, attentively
listening because
the call cannot wait.
I refuse to miss the call.
I'll react before
August hesitates
again.
Shall not lose faith in the realm
of the railed express ways.
I sometimes believe when the whistle
blares, you encompass the path I need.
In the fever pitch I soak in
the noisy roaming careless
Intersection.
I miss you.
Never forget you.
I'm not baptized so if you see me
show me.
I'll reach up to you.
That's better than living,
knowing that gladly I take
My dastardly beating.
My friend.
My dawg.
My missing month.
Feb, 15, 1977
to
Aug, 9, 2023
All the love I received,
All the love for me.
I sent to the memory.
Rest easy Padilla..
In the early Winter morn, in the Seargent's footsteps,
They followed on the burned, barren earth,
A place so strange, but so familiar, he looked around,
A sign lies, on the naked land, "St. George Vill.", it read,
In a frenzy, he wondered at the town that made him,
Now buried in its own grave,
While his Comrades rested their tired legs,
He ran, like a deer from its predator, hither and thither,
"Frederick Stewart" it read on the sign, the house's only identity,
The house looked as if a canvas drenched and stomped,
He looked on, as still as a windless night,
A pat of a small hand, he felt on his thigh, a little boy,
About two, neither a drop fell nor did he smile,
When the world saw two years, the town saw a hundred, he thought,
He embraced the boy, kissed on his cheeks, but,
No cry or laughter was heard, only stillness,
He took the boy inside the gloomy home, if,
It was home anymore, sat at the dining table,
He looked on at the hanging pictures, perhaps,
The only proof of its inhabitants,
In a picture, a boy laughs, on the same table,
A cake infront, as people heard clapping,
He looks at the wide smile of the picture,
And the deafening, loud silence of the boy,
"Are you from around here?", no answers heard,
"What is your name?", silence answered back,
The boy, now descended from his chair, walked,
His eyes towards him, fingers pointing the ground,
A watch fixed with a large button, it seemed,
" A time machine my father made for me",
The watch made him relive those bygone days,
"When you feel afraid, this is your way home"
He remembers his father's words,
A toy it was, now became a window,
Through which whispers could be heard,
Sweet, haunting and lamenting whispers,
But, as if something clicked in him too,
He ran towards the thing, his chair falling in neglect,
He wore the watch and clicked the button frantically,
" WHY DOESN'T IT WORK!?", he cried as two drops rolled down,
The boy as if awoken, now let out a cry,
The silence was finally broken.