Long Gatherer Poems
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it was one of the darkest moments in His anointed life
when the Roman soldiers came to arrest Our Lord Jesus the Christ
divinity was unraveling the prophetic scripture to be fulfilled
Jesus betrayed and then deserted the night went silent and still
Jesus was One who was regarded as a gatherer of men
but at the midnight hour His disciples abandoned Him in the end
the journey towards brotherhood is not just about the good days
it's about a willingness to have each others back when life is not going your way
spiritual brotherhood was being tested the enemy now on patrol
the men of God had fallen asleep and the devil had taken control
a war is being waged today against the Living Body of Christ
yet our Christian brothers are asleep on the job unawake to deal with the devil's strife
we need to open our eyes we need to be alert and aware
on the journey towards brotherhood exercising cohesiveness, compassion and care
but the one time that Jeus needed to have His men around
they abandoned Him and forsaken Him and then went underground
every man for himself they left Jesus all alone
and as a result He was crucified and ascended to the heavenly throne
brothers don't abandon each other there's strength in togetherness and unity
have each others backs and then tell Satan to get behind thee
I.
Rushing ocean, rushing
Forward, and tell me
Where my name
Began.
Where the sand became
A divide,
A father a friend,
A partner in suffering
Bleeding together
Through a sad, sorry
Kitchen in a cabin
On the beach
Where the water
Rushes, rushes towards
My mother, desperate
And proud and
I the gatherer,
The obedient soldier
Under the sun, the
Blinding, pounding,
Honking of steel and
Cemented lanes in
A hot December
Noon.
Time rushes on
With salt and sorrow
And I gather the moments
In fermented ink.
And page another night.
The shunting of sadness
The refusal of fright
Through this rush
Of ocean, death,
And roaming hope.
A cause without a wagon.
Love without a station.
II.
And there was
Truth in the light
Beyond the trees
And above the sand.
There was love pacifying, but, no,
Illuminating.
So imagine His vast and mysterious
Etch-a-sketch--shaking!
It is always the thumping, shaking
beat that calls for grace.
We have no name.
We are the ocean.
We are the sand.
We are the divide that was once the sand
That spots grace,
in the Final Desperate Hour,
Just above the beach
And beyond the dark,
Flickering wood.
III.
And the sound that you make
Is different than the sound that I make
The light through the flickering wood
The immortal Edge of God
Spoken to me from a different channel
Of sense that was given to you
Tensed and alone
Bloated and confused
Living rooms and beaches
Televisions and blood-piercing moons
We came to gather
We came to gather
We came to gather a grace of a love-acquired.
The umbilical cord
connecting Left-dominant Yang
with Right-integrative Yin
stretches back to alga and fungus,
symbiotically congressed as bilateral lichen.
Lichens are a couple of specifics
within which the hybrid whole revolutionarily erupts
more than the zero-sum
of its equivalent dipolar alga and fungus parts,
symbiotic co-arising functions,
like Yang with Yin,
like side-by-side universal ego-hunters
of nutritional souls,
and networked unitarian eco-gatherers
integrating their diverse absorption,
recreating ecopolitical healthy productions.
Alga strengths of dry sugar photosynthesis
fueled by light and air
conjoin fungus spreading wet stringing licks
integrating minerals,
together giving birth to carbon-based lichen,
new life.
A similar Yang male ego-soul hunter
symbiotically married with Yin eco-mineral gatherer
might be found in Y-chromosome producer strength
with X-concave chromosome,
consumer of cooperative
bilateral
matriarchal flow functions.
And, yang and yin dipolar functions
might further follow this umbilical cord of history
back to alga acting out androgen
and fungal integrity within cytosine,
root appositional dipolarity of RNA,
Elder regenerative story of DNA,
thymineyang with cytosineYinYin-squared,
fractal-regenerative only dipolar balancing together,
double-binding octaves
of regenerative light and sound,
dance and music.
Yang reappears ultra-violet
with Yin's sea green algae
aquamarine
shining spiral octaves of internal enlightenment,
like fireflies inhabiting a summer dream
of shining sea stars brightening dark oceans
ebbing yang
and flowing yin
tides of umbilical symbiotic time.
It's quite obvious now:
"The they" are preparing for life deep underground.
Placing final ribbons around subterranean cities.
Stockpiling sustenance
Water being siphoned to top off cisterns and privies.
The Amazon, Tigris, and Euphrates.
Superior, Michigan, and Erie are all being drained.
The surface people will be left scrambling for crumbs
in the phlegm of nuclear holocaust.
They'll devolve into hunter-gatherer clans.
To become a twisted reality show for subterraneans.
"The They" who trafficked us and ate our babies
will make a game of it, placing bets at our expense...
on who will perish -who'll be left.
Then, when the earth is somewhat cleansed.
"The They" will emerge to barter with metal from our teeth
pin our cross/bones to their puffy pigeon chests
The rest will serve as sex slaves, servants, and jesters
in the post-apocalyptic bed, "the they" have knowingly made.
The moon slides silent on the dew-swept field,
My hand upon the curved and cunning blade,
Its weight both foreign and familiar here—
The long crescent, gentle as a cradle’s arc,
Yet sharp as memory’s unforgiving edge.
I move through wheat as if I part my hair,
Each golden stalk a strand beneath my palm.
The swish and sigh, a rhythm in my hips,
A knowledge passed from wrist to wrist, unseen,
A legacy in muscle, bone, and skin.
They say the scythe is instrument of end,
A harbinger of silence, fall, and dusk—
Yet in my fingers, it becomes a song,
A spindle, spinning daylight into bread,
A lullaby for seeds that sleep below.
The field is wide, horizon swept with hope;
The blade and I, together, carve our path.
I am both steward, sentinel, and stone,
A presence in the morning’s quiet hush,
Reaping, not as death, but as a mother would—
Gatherer of what’s grown and what will be.
I envy the precision
of the engineer,
the grounded exactitude
of a trade, to be able
to hold phenomenon within
the spell of an equation,
have the power to make
something from a sum.
I make things from shadows,
the pulled threads
of a mirage and echoes
bubbling up from the bottom
chambers of a void. I work
with the vagaries of whim,
waiting for something to appear
from who knows where,
letting a shape emerge
from beneath a ghostly
gauze of words or reveal
its nature by a residue
of absence left
in the wake of its going.
I am a gatherer of what
is carried on the wind,
the fragrance of flowers,
moans uttered
on lonely shorelines
by the voices of restless seas,
the cry of nightmares,
the crescendos of love,
becoming for a moment
an instrument in some
vast orchestra through which
a divine song is being played.
Well I do so I told you I love you so much my Lord oh God you are ever so beautiful and ever so I Love You Lord God
Every Soul love you Lord
Ever so I love you God
Ever so you're beautiful
Ever Every Soul Worship You Lord
Your eyes are the moon and every star above
Your whole body the nebula the universe you are
Your beauty surpasses Beauty itself
Provide me with ever lasting breath
And for this I am so thankful
Cuz this I am ever so thankful
Ever so I thank you God
Oh Lord above Heavenly Father
Divine creator star gatherer
Allotment of Amazing Grace this for this I am thankful
Ever so I love you God
For this I am so grateful ever so I thank you God
10/31/19
words by James Edward Lee Sr
From anthology "Praiseworthy"
The Gatherer and the Giver sat atop a hill to gaze again
down at the village where they lived, and talk about the ones in need.
At end of day as sun went down, they sat there talking in the dim
as soul by soul they contemplated what was the best way to feed.
They did this often for they knew, despite the many years gone by,
the need to gather and to give would always be in high demand.
But on this eve the Giver took the time to ask the Gatherer why
he worked so hard behind the scenes. The Giver didn’t understand.
For he was ever in the light, the one who all the people saw
taking what he had received and giving to the ones in need,
sharing in the joy it brings (it was the best part of the job).
But his friend never got this chance because he made the choice to lead
a quite life of gathering. A life of no fan fair at all.
So when the Giver asked him why he toiled so hard to gather in,
he sat a while just thinking as he watched the evening shadows fall,
not quite sure how to answer for the thought had never dawned on him.
So when he finally spoke his words fit well into the sunset night.
Soft and slow, the words as natural as the scene before their view -
“I do it for deep in my heart the Spirit tells me that it’s right,
for I am given everything that passes through my hands to you.”
poem submitted to "The Pensive Poet" poetry contest, Constance La France, sponsor, August 1, 2026
“A poet is a quiet wanderer, a gatherer of light, a wordsmith of the unseen truths that rise only when the heart listens.” quote by poetess
Morning finds me at an open window,
coffee cooling beside a notebook
I’ve not yet convinced myself to open.
I watch the light consider the room,
softening the corners
as though it knows I need gentleness
before the words arrive.
I think in long, slow arcs~
thoughts drifting like migrating birds,
never rushed, never forced,
just circling until they choose
the right branch to land on.
By noon, a memory stirs.
It brushes my shoulder
like someone passing behind me~
a small reminder
that the past still wants to speak
if I’m willing to listen.
I pause,
and the pause becomes a doorway.
Afternoon settles in.
I write a line,
then cross it out,
then write another
that feels truer,
closer to the pulse
I’ve been hoping to name.
I’m not chasing brilliance nor perfection;
I’m tracing the shape
of what the heart remembers
but rarely says aloud.
By evening,
the page holds a quiet constellation~
not a finished poem,
but the beginnings of one,
bright enough to keep me company
as the day folds itself away.
I close the notebook gently,
the way one closes a thought
that will return tomorrow.
I am a pensive poet~
one who knows that meaning
doesn’t shout,
but leans in softly
and waits to be found.
The Gatherer
The Gatherer lives in the garden most of the year,
It moves very slowly so no one will hear,
But near to Christmas it comes into the house
And hides quietly, as quiet as a mouse.
Then deep into the night when we’re all asleep
Into the kitchen the bold creature will creep
And then with its long nose and very large eyes
Looks for Christmas cake and remains of mince pies.
It has pointed ears and a tail that is brown
Treading over the floor but making no sound
And then with its paws and its prehensile thumbs
It feeds on sandwiches and left over crumbs
The Gatherer dines on pork patte with ease,
Cold ham and salami with pickles and cheese,
Thin slices of fruit and long celery sticks
Then through the bowls of nuts and raisins it picks.
It’s tongue is as long as an elephant’s trunk
And with it sips brandy until it is drunk
Then you may hear the rhythmic sound of its snore
As it sleeps ‘neath the stair or under the floor.
On the next morning when you finally rise
In the empty kitchen there is a surprise,
You’ll never know what made the food disappear
So beware when the Gatherer returns the next year
Barry Stebbings
12/11/2020