Long Gentleman Poems
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He was a gentle man
Savvy yet so presently
Merrily he studied to be a lover of humanity
And women he treated so royally
Needless to say he'd open a door for her
Polite and yet strong and quiet
Ever so proud of her and to be her one man
He would never strike nor hit her
No would he step out on her and ever be so unfaithful
Never would he be perfect for only Christ was perfect
He would only be worth following as he follows God
Most men and poorly standard women
would think he a fool
Because of his politeness
He would walk on the curb side of the street (always)
He'd be a gentle man (always)
He pray for her continually (always)
He would understand a woman's feelings
he would never go off ranting and reeling
Alas, to say he's a gentle man
A gentlemen
Polite and ever so Godly
Not perfect but yet has a perfect praise
Worships his Our Lord Our God always
Savvy yet so presently
Merrily he studied to be a lover of humanity
And women he treated so royally
Needless to say he'd open a door for her
Polite and yet strong and quiet
Ever so proud of her and to be her one man
Praise God for this God fearing man
Whose devotion to a Queen one of God's daughters
This woman whom he treated so royally
Needless to say he'd open a door for her
Needless to say he'd praise and call her
A queen for whom she is
Needless to say he wouldn't be ashamed to hold her hand
This my dear lady is the start of an imperfect yet gentle, gentleman
2/2/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
One misty morning Grace came to my little house,
The drizzling clouds had soaked her purple blouse
And her rounded eyes sparkled with rain and lust;
I kissed her dewy lips as any savvy gentleman must.
“Life is dreary without your warmth”, she said
As she threw her handbag on the rumpled bed;
I removed her shoes and her sopping attire
And at her behest quenched her restless fire.
“Let’s go see my parents “, she begged with care,
“Promise you’ll marry me”, she stroked my hair,
I squinted into her eyes and with the last kiss
Accepted her requests in the scintillating bliss.
We trekked till our feet were sore
From ten in the morning to nearly four,
But when we reached their estate
She went in fast and locked the gate.
Alone I considered my fate in the lonely dark,
The dogs punctuated my thoughts with a kindly bark,
The sporadic owl hooted to signal the inevitable menace
And the few stars overhead smiled to lighten my face.
What was my mistake, Grace?
I have been asking myself all the days
The wrong I did you on that drizzly day
That love with hate you chose to pay.
He speaks of sunken treasure
Draws maps to fortunes you may find
He writes it boldly as to where it may lie
Taking pleasures in his masculine pride
A gentleman cultivated in artistry
Loving lavishly he knowingly struts
Boosting his flirtatious ego
His moves, planned, calculated
To arise primal pumping blood
Eyes that manipulate and conspire
Until your dreams become endless desire
He breathes a burning fire
Embers embedded within
Unsuspected your caught within his grasp
Words uttered to ensnare
He persuades you in a game of trust
Leads you into passion and lust
Making you believe in sunken treasures
01/09/15
thanks to PD for the inspiration to write this poem.
Say a kind word to your husband
That's what he wants most of all
Not a gaggle of gifts for his birthday
You don't have to buy out the mall
Compliment him on his appearance
Or say that you appreciate his perseverance
Tell him it makes you happy he's so tidy and neat
That in the house he puts slippers on his feet
Let him know that he's magic for your son
That he's turned him into a real gentleman
Point out just how much his daughter loves him
That she tells you only God is above him
So forget all the knick-knacks and accoutrements
Hubby thrives on kind words and encouragement
TIME MACHINE
The Clock has been set for 1955,
For a journey into my history book,
Time Machine fired up and primed,
So, lets travel back, take a closer look.
Step outside into a strange new world,
Outside the house where I was born.
Like something from the olden days,
Children in clothing, tattered and torn.
Difficult to comprehend the scene,
Did I truly live during this time?
As if I’d arrived in an ancient land,
Strangely spectacular, surreal and sublime.
The Town has character but colourless,
No obvious signs of wealth.
Air is thick with smoke and sulphur,
Factory chimneys choke citizen health.
Noticeable the absence of bright light,
Men in flat caps and smoking.
Cigarette billboard for Senior Service,
Two and six for Twenty, must be joking.
Very few cars on the roads,
Bus Conductor, “Hold on tight”, any more fares.
Most of the men must be at work,
Street full of Ladies, Toddler in tow.
Milk fourpence a pint, that’s old money.
Loaf of Bread, just ninepence today.
Butter, reduced this week, just Two Shillings,
Mind you I’ve just seen the wages they pay.
In the bank window is a vacancy;
“Required experienced Gentleman Ledger Clerk
Generous annual salary £720 per annum
48 hours, excellent pay rewards hard work”
I contemplate the incredible changes,
During my life time of Sixty-Two years,
Almost like an HG Wells Novel,
Gazing in wonder, I fight back the tears.
My heart urges me to stay,
But the head, knows I must leave.
Mourning for people no longer here,
For a time in my past, I grieve.
One moment to be
This moment I breathe
Put on glasses & glance to see
As I say I'm sweating success &
decree
Woahw,they be looking for
faults
I'm choking over their words
Charge me with herts not volts
This mind is for goodness God
molds
Now Of late I barely see my
path
I was on a quest to finding
Thabo
But he was locked in a cage of
wrath
Living dark-light from sorrow
I feed this seed within my soul
I circulate this hallow doubtful
hole
I consist of fire from life's hard
coal
This heart is iced up as south
pole
Criticized like some public
opinion poll
Success is my only option
Failure's not
Not "gentleman"-he went for
adoption-I now take the big
shot.
prosperity & I are tying the knot
No love in my life's court
As long as there's breathe
within this simple body
I shall lose myself through lights
with Phalodi
I'll find myself in aftermath's
recovery
Then Testify of this path as a
new discovery
I lost fate
But still I remain great
So I seek no mate
losing me Is a gate
Leading me to escalate
..To a new golden state
In chambers grand where words like weapons flew,
Sat Churchill, stout, and Astor, sharp and new
(The first lady MP, with spirit and with grace),
Who often met the statesman, face to face.
Their rivalry, a legend, oft-retold,
A battle of wits, worth more than gold.
Though much is but apocryphal, they say,
The tales endure to brighten up our day.
Part I: The Gentleman and the MP
Winston, with Brandy in his steady hand,
Surveyed the House, the finest in the land.
Then Astor rose, her voice a sudden sharp decree,
“To have a woman here’s like you in your privy!”
The Prime Minister, with a twinkle and a grin,
Replied, “My Lady, that is quite a sin!
But fear not, ma’am, no danger to my pride,
You’re not good-looking enough for me to hide!”
Part II: The Poisoned Cup
At Blenheim’s table, ‘midst the silver gleam,
The tension rose, a palpable, hot stream.
She eyed his cup with a disdainful lip,
And let a cutting, venomous remark slip:
“Winston,” she snapped, with fervor in her tone,
“If you were my husband, I’d put poison in your tea, you’re on your own!”
He paused, then swallowed, with a look so wry,
And gave a swift, unburdened, classic reply:
“Madam,” he said, without a moment’s pause,
“If you were my wife, I’d drink it to applause!”
Part III: The Sober Dawn
On another eve, or so the story goes,
She saw his state and let her anger show.
“Winston, you're drunk!” she cried, with eyes so cold,
A fact she felt courageous to unfold.
He looked, with a ponderous, heavy sigh,
“And you, my lady, are extremely ugly, I won't lie.”
"But fear not, in the morning, I'll be sober and all new,
And you, alas, will still be ugly, through and through!”
Part IV: The Masquerade
When talk arose of some grand, masked affair,
And Churchill mused on what strange guise to wear,
‘Twas Astor who suggested, quick and clear,
Dispelling any notion he held dear:
“Why don’t you come as yourself, Prime Minister, for once and all?”
"Or better yet,” she added, “why not just come sober to the ball?”
So went the “feud”, a lively, verbal spar,
Between two titans, like a distant star,
Whose witty words, though maybe not all true,
Paint pictures of an age that’s fresh and new.
A time when cutting insults, sharp and bright,
We were parried with a quip and pure delight.
In my global village, Oxy, where folks live all alone,
There’s lots of open secrets, for secrets are well-known!
Fairly dark alien residents live with us above ground.
A dull roar or deafening silence you hear when they’re around.
In mobile homes, alone together, some big babies live,
hanging out with old boys. Head butts they like to give!
An idiot savant is here, and he is terribly nice.
His glasses are half empty, and he likes to use hot ice.
Non-working mothers are employed here as paid volunteers.
Infinite in number, earth angels are those dears.
One skinny broad likes idle gossip. With sad clowns she talks.
She gets cold sweats. In restless sleep, she wakens from sleep walks.
A petty officer with some lame effort likes to find romance.
She wears tight slacks but lusts for men who only wear dress pants.
A gentleman bandit had brief longing for a student teacher.
Her morbid humor was, for him, her second best feature.
Mostly in my village, folks are devilishly good.
Private citizen have open house in every neighborhood.
Others, though, are pretty ugly; some are really fake.
The highly depressed with quiet rage are just too hard to take!
All that aside, with mild enthusiasm, I must say,
I love the mud baths, rock gardens, and elevated subway.
Come visit. You’ll love our jumbo shrimp, local celebrities,
work holidays and free love; all make forgotten memories!
Written Aug. 26, 2016 for David Lindsay's Oxymoronic Obsession Contest
Every line has one or more oxymorons. This was great fun!
Aaabhi tho busy hoo bacho
Time passes in memories
Fill colors in flower of my pain
Forgot the taste of fruits
She scare to be die if not able to complete my thirst
chopping of Onion leaves tear,
Baha comes when pain goes
Bus do wait till i come
one day you miss my clothes and design
AAbhi tho busy hoon bacho,
Don't think will vanish like smoke
comes like fog in winter,
Will always see 7 colors in rain
Will come to add 8th in that
By touch touch feel feel of your body
Will design and make you swoon and melt
Palu Na oodana Abhi Gunghat oodane aaooga.
Let me leave Dear madams and gentleman
AAbhi tho busy hoon bacho
With love all
Jagdish bajantri
Our drive started out like any typical summer trip into Philadelphia. Both buses rolling down the highway loaded with screaming teens, eager to reach their destination in a hurry. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, the white lines hidden beneath watery mirages that lifted only briefly beneath underpasses. The skyscrapers were barely visible through the thick haze of summer's heat. The skyline had the appearance of night and day clashing off in the distance. You could smell the rain approaching.
along city streets
slight breeze carries aroma
food and wet pavement
Once the children were safely inside, the buses continued to 30th street station, the only place the city allows buses to park free. The windows were all still down and the roof hatches open as the skyline grew darker. A light show was off in the distance and approaching quickly. The homeless people were now entering the train station in hopes to stay dry and earn a meal or some quick cash.
almost homeless
young girl wears a sign
on the corner
Inside the train station a young family sits on a bench awaiting the arrival of a family member. The benches line the hallway with vendors tucked in the center isle. We sit across from the young family, facing them as an elderly gentleman approaches them. In his arms he carries a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal. The little boy, probably about 10 years old, has grown tired of sitting by now, and his teenage sitters seem agitated by his silly games, the mother in frustration hands him money for a sketch.
with quick hands
he carefully sketches
to perfection
The oldest sister now amazed asks for her's as well. The man sketches her picture to a beautiful black and white replica. The mother refuses to spend another dime and sends him away without paying. Behind us sits another elderly man. He seems to be carrying on a very intelligent conversation with himself. This amazes the children for their final hour and fills them with much knowledge as they slide in to listen.
an old man speaks
as he looks to his right
just his cane sits
The last train has now entered the station and the crowds of people are disappearing outside. The storm has now passed and the sky left a permanent black with the coming of night. We headed outside to the buses to begun our return trip home.
on the street
two yellow buses
filled with rain