Long Gregarious Poems
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Written: December 10, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
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Ice is the ubiquitous viceroy,
a sovereign of silence,
Its crown an amaranthine shimmer
that mocks the sanctity of warmth.
The mountain breathes in chiaroscuro,
shadows ossified into marble frost,
while man, brittle and breviloquent,
offers a panegyric of footsteps
that vanish spasmodically into drifts.
There is no gregarious laughter here,
only the weltschmerz of wind,
It's inimical howl a hymn of acrimony,
It's persnickety teeth gnawing on bone.
The slope, a declivity of despair,
slips beneath boots with fickle quixotry,
and the body, once gamesome,
becomes a tristful husk,
a mondegreen of strength misheard by fate.
Yet within the stillness,
terms versus mere generic
aspects in multiple segments.
evoking the scent of lost shoes.
revered in their fragile blossom.
Man kneels before the ice,
not to abase,
but to find synchronicity in its stillness,
to view beyond its meretricious glitter,
to hear the palaver of silence
and understand:
the sanctity of frost
is the sanctity of self.
I dived into the cauldron of magical potion,
drank to the full the elixir that in an instant
turned me into an entranced wizard.
And I saw …
In the desolate seashore of secluded island,
people built desire castles with dream sands,
with fervent care protected the fragile niches,
but the breaking waves rolled over them.
The surge washed away the forlorn abodes,
sheltering the insular souls of lonely people.
With the magical spells I turned them
into convivial people, greatly gregarious.
And I saw …
Behind the closed windows on sunny meadows,
submerged in obscure depth of dismal darkness,
people morphed into slices of moonless night,
compact contours marked their bleak peripheries.
Nobody could see through them, couldn’t perceive
the true substance of the opaque people.
With the magical spells I turned them
into transparent people, utterly unadorned.
And I saw …
People were like frigid birds with frozen wings
under the misty sky, swept by the polar wind.
In the congealed hearts lapped by the Arctic sea
petrified emotions drowned unexpressed.
Warm embrace of empathy they couldn’t proffer,
for they were condemned as cold people.
With the magical spells I turned them
into pleasant people, amply amiable.
And I saw …
People changed their lives into desolate deserts,
the charm of oasis desiccated in dwindling dunes.
Blazed by the flame of their fierce minds
the fallen foliage of ardent passions burned,
didn’t rustle with the fossilized cadence of their hearts,
for they were wooden people.
With magical spells I turned them
into vivacious people, eternally effervescent.
Written: November 26, 2025
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She cares for the pedigree cattle,
their fleece brushed into luster,
domesticated dogs prowling the yard,
obedient to her behest.
She is a good mother—
her hands sow carrots,
her voice a catchphrase of sanctity,
her smile a tiara of sky foam.
However, while holding a feather…
she teaches me to wring its neck.
While holding a feather...
she shows me how love can writhe.
While holding a feather...
she whispers that mercy is moribund.
The cloudscape of her face shifts,
dusky shadows grate against the light.
Her gregarious laughter,
threadbare and spasmodically sharp,
becomes a panegyric to discipline.
She is a good mother—
who rakes the soil with staunchness,
who rescues the stray,
who feeds the wilted wisteria?
Yet she is also the provost of violence,
who teaches catharsis through hecatomb,
who makes me smear myself to hubris,
who shows me that sanctity can evanesce.
Her lessons are sacrosanct,
her love ubiquitous,
her burden ossified in my bones.
And still, she is a good mother—
with a bird in my hand,
with a bird in my hand,
with a bird in my hand…
Missing
I saw the the solitary people of my generation destroyed,
the wind wind has gone, my breathing stop;
How I mourned the lost;
Are you upset by how non-gregarious it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the lost so unaccompanied?
the populace has departed, alone broken hearten;
I cannot help but stop and look at the ants gone;
Cool, cold, crisp windy air, traveling from the North;
Does the bare naked trees and cooling breeze make you shiver?
Does it?
I saw the the cunning person of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the deceased;
Now wily is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the deceased is foxy, my spirit soul is proxy;
Are you upset by how non-gregarious it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the lost so unaccompanied?
the populace has departed, alone broken hearten;
Alas, something here is;
MISSING...
10/29/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Sumptuous suggestions straddle stagnancy
Summoned by engaging pages
Susceptible skulls imbibe vibrancy
Surmounting latitude notion ravages
Authors serve smorgasbord swathes of research
Reading's pizza fuses flavours opposing
Issues investigated, valid views aptly asserted
Essays stretch perception, anomaly concepts provoking
Unfurling knowledge tunes recognition's accord
Rhizomes capacitate vertical fronds fluent
Rationale garnered from forest of topics explored
Absorbs ripened writing, reaps new nutrients
Menacing media's ocean threatens to overwhelm
Thrusting throng fish flash slippery details
Awash in momentum's musings, reader swallows foam
Deep sea dive reveals wealth of ocean's minerals
Publications polish paled perishing facets
Discernment detangles dusty brain's barren
Seeds sown with sophistication grow great in habit
Cracked codes give gregarious cerebrum companion
An assemblage of golden rays adorn a becalmed blue ocean,
glistening as a bright new dawn greets us, reminiscent of your beautiful enlightened eyes when they meet mine.
A plethora of pristine White sand moves deftly between our toes as we traverse hand in hand towards the edge of serene waves, inviting us to enter it's blissful shallow depths.
Nearby a gregarious pat of Flamingos wade delicately, their natural beauty is that of yours,
a joy to behold, a vision of pure love, ecstatic am I the one to embrace it.
Our bodies entwined I caress your beauteous face, gently I stroke your silken hair as you give me your enrapturing eternal smile, I have but one question, "will you take my hand in marriage?"
"Yes".
A bird that loves warm weather, I am beautiful and bright
although some in my family can even be pure white!
I have a friend like that (so cute). His name is cockatoo.
You can call ME Scarlet. I’m yellow, red and blue!
How beautifully I blend in with colors you can see
in Amazon’s exotic jungle. That’s where you’ll find me!
Curved and quite distinctive is my large and lovely beak.
It cracks nuts (even coconuts!). It’s certainly not weak.
I’ve got strong claws for clutching as well as four long toes.
Plus I know more things than your average bird knows!
That’s because I’m sociable and smart inside my flock.
Our tail feathers we shake and noisily we squawk!
That’s how we communicate; if caught, we learn to gab.
That’s one reason we’re a bird that bad guys like to nab.
I’m charming and gregarious. Sassy too I’d say!
But just you try to catch me; I bet I’d get away.
After I am 3, I hardly even get to date
because I live for many years and stay with just one mate!
To watch me in my setting, I think you’d be in awe.
Do you know precisely? I’m the parrot called macaw!
July 26, 2020
for Tania Kitchin's I Am A Bird - Personification Poetry Contest
WE WILL WALK OUR RAINS
Welcome the falling rain with a rainbow smile
dripping onto our face rippling even the sea.
Flowers and bushes mottled wet along the aisle
together in the pouring rain, running with glee!
Without a care in the world the brackens spree
and beneath the trees nesting birds hide in style,
beholding this vista, we both are in agree:
Welcome the falling rain with a rainbow smile!
Soak and cold, hugging for warmth is worthwhile
and so is hearing the rains' staccato percussion keys
in a moment of stillness... Some cascading vile
dripping onto our face rippling even the sea,
some bring frowns, worse-- tears to our eyes
but having a beloved through every miles
may lighten dark skies. Hopefully, those guise
flowers and bushes mottled wet along the aisle
dry as the sun rises, wiping natures cries.
Under the sun, under the rain: dance and be free!
Breathe! Drink their essence... Release some sighs
together in the pouring rain, running with glee!
The rain and the sun: like a couple sustaining life~
garnishing both the earth with gregarious greens.
May we be like them: partners holding no strife...
The yins and yangs now smoothly hurdled in between
welcome the falling rain...
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*** Bracken/s~ these are ferns.
Poem Contest: ONE
~~3rd place~~
Copyright © 2015 Olive Eloisa Guillermo and James Andrew Fraser
6:21 pm, September 03,2015
Part of me longs to reside in
a high functioning
win/win cooperative community
of resilient left hemisphere,
resonant right hemisphere,
polypathic/polyphonic communion.
Part of egoself-care wisdom
and longing
feels drawn toward eremetical asylum
more than gregarious shared sanctuary;
to solitude,
peace
ease
natural sounds and sights,
green new/old deals,
relationships
communications
communions of egalitarian interdependence,
more internally holistic intersections
noticing sacred global beauty
in local experiential truths
mundanely secular.
Yet the best part of my internal ecosystemic awareness
wants both,
wants Earth's all,
longs for cutting edge win/win communion,
healthiest wealth,
resilient resonance
restoring ego/eco co-investments,
just truth and beautiful mercies,
graced bounty,
synergetic integrity,
robust democracy of healthy hermits.
Too unneedy greedy,
the sound of two co-arising hands
not clapping,
I unrealistically realize
longing in belonging.
Euphoric, I rush to you, Lord, unaware I'm naked.
In your presence, my physique and psyche are elated
On my way, I trampled them—thus my kith and kin complained.
In my mad, single-minded pursuit, had I gone harebrained?
Am I a rebel that I've given up all social norms?
Drunk with your thoughts, have I forgotten all gregarious forms?
My home and all within it, seem to me nonexistent.
In my sleeping and waking I've become inconsistent.
I'm filled with hallucinations of heaven day and night.
With devils and furnaces, in my nightmares, I often fight.
I feel your Spirit flowing like a stream and washing me.
From my sins of commissions and omissions, I rise free
Transcending each mundane infinitesimal dharma
That fetters me in a birth-rebirth cycle of Karma.
Like a mad mullah or like a crazy priest of Allah
In each drama, am I not seeking you, the Param Brahma?