Long Hems Poems
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WORLDS ARE FORSAKEN
Mama sings those same old songs
Babies crying waving their hands
Elder's seniors being left alone
Worlds are forsaken
Teens vying for affection
Having no mind for correction
Disbelieving, misbehaving is their direction
Worlds are forsaken
Boys, teens pull up your pants, stand
Girls, teens pull down the hems of your dress
there's no need for me to see your middle/upper thighs..
Children open your eyes
Worlds are forsaken
Grandma and Grandpa vying for affection
Being left alone sings those same old songs
Now led to crying waving their hands
Disbelieving, is now their direction
People open your eyes
Worlds are forsaken
3/31/18
written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2018©
"Brioni ... or Armani?" quizzed the fitter,
For bolts and hems and lines were all his passion,
And though Italian food oft' left him bitter,
Their suits and leather set the height of fashion.
"Perhaps this Cucinelli suits you better?"
He eyed the gent and winking, pulled his measure,
"Ah, yes" said he, "it fits you to the letter!"
"And just your color, too - a woven treasure!"
When he was done, the fitter smiled in swagger,
The goodwill flowing through his shop like honey,
For as the patron's suit was priced to stagger,
Departing soon - his goodwill AND ... his money.
Written and submitted on November 26, 2019
For the "Fashion" Poetry Contest
Julia Ward, Sponsor.
Carved arches of rainbows competed with the sunbeam clouds.
Stairs from the seen scenes to the unseen secrets sped in shrouds.
Galaxies and constellations like lightning bolts shined and shunned.
Between snow-white clouds, seraphims and cherubims hummed.
I saw the souls of saints around the thrones of the Trinity.
They sang and danced, adorned in robes of divinity.
The hems of the cloaks of the father, the son, and the spirit
Flowed and glowed through the realm, joys implicit and explicit.
Amidst hills, seas, oceans, and valleys, in the velvet green
On the edge of the yard of Eden, Adam and Eve were seen.
The seasons of spring, summer, winter, and autumn looked blended.
With plants, trees, flowers, and fruits, the heavenscape seemed splendid.
The merge of God’s glory and joy of beings is heaven.
Love, peace, kindness, goodness, and fullness there bind everyone.
Some pondered ways
to pep-up the pulpit and pew,
but disinterest and ennui won the day.
The clergy went away to get help
and never came back.
Eventually, thunder and sleet
cracked stone, spire, and gable;
neglect, and the cold winds of time
nibbled at arch and buttress.
Where once was a stained-glass light,
weeds and mildew weathered to a moldy rot.
Where once the hems of cassocks swept
now mice and spiders rest or nest,
and baby bats roost in the rectory.
There In a dusty belfry
owls hoot and solemnly perch.
Walls crumbling to niche and cranny.
Amid all this spacy ruin
jackdaws lay their speckled eggs,
while in the misty moonlight
homeless angels dance
upon feather-light, slinky legs.
In Marked Territory 10-28-24 - Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Marked Territory
Midnight tightly clasps the darkness,
Like a wounded heart,
In between topaz edges of twilight
And pastels of first light.
Jealous of its cosmos
Shoos away the master of the day
Turning the face of the daystar
To other skies
To claim small hours.
Guardian of vanishing infinities
Speaks
Indigo borders
For moonlight
Moonbows
And wishes on the first brave star
Where waves of the galaxy
Break
Over unseen edges of stellar sands.
Lit only by celestial lanterns
Enchanter
Conjures sovereign spells
Declaring jurisdiction over platinum roses
And
Lover’s sighs
That wax then wane under polar stars.
Night rules this welkin magic,
A sorcerer hiding a book of spells,
This realm under the starry arch
The moonrise
The nebulae decorating the firmament,
Where gravity hems in epiphanies.
If you're reading this, honey
it means the diner is burning,
It's not a typo or a misprint,
but a message:
Witches are wisdom-embedded
women who have seen worse things
than the business end of a newt's behind
I once made a man cry with desire
on a whim by telling him who he was
at twenty-five, I hadn't yet realized
it's really just a trick of language
to be specific
pick the bits of a person, hanging
like snagged teeth on stems
of last night's arugula
reading their cards like tarot on credit
serve the assessment of them
with a side of sugar they'll call it magic,
make you marry if you're good at it—knowing
when to grind the spices is the icing
sin of men or Saigon cinnamon no matter
witches as women, as wisdom get better
in time, in the garden, in the kitchen
slow-cooking rhymes that melt men's masks
over jasmine rice, like loose meat
so the young girls feeding at our hems
can remember the recipe
Nature's green dress sprawls lofty upon the earth,
bursting forth with life abiding foliage,
photosynthesizing perpetual birth
that carries a carpet of created knowledge.
Ivy hems climb to the collar of fir trees,
with moss detail, but not to upstage
frisky fern fringes, flower buttons with bees,
roving clover, shade hostas, and sun sown sage.
From fresh fruit to seed to nutrient soil,
plant life receives light sufficient for each day.
They neither spin their garments nor do they toil,
yet the good Lord clothes them in kingly array.*
Adorned within the fragrant, lush greenery
are creeping critters and miniscule beasts
making tasty tears upon the scenery
as they nibble upon ceaseless fresh feasts.
Through new leaf growth and seed germination,
the green dress prevails with flowing strides,
for our Lord gives hope and restoration,
replenishing her green even as He provides.
*Matthew 6:28-29 KJV
And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
12-4-19
Crisp ...
You lay like solemn ashes
'Neath glass ... spotless, sacred
Dried to bright hues ...
The shades of her lips in chill autumn air
(Winter, whisp'ring soft)
Edges crimped ...
Like the hems of her pleated tartan skirt
You are the vestige, precious
Of a moment ...
A final moment of love, true
Sweaty, sweet passion
That found its confluence under a vault of fire
A canopy of crumbling crimson
Wafting, weaving a rustling woodland blanket
The bed for a callow curiosity
Confusing, carnal, but perfectly imperfect
Numberless months have yet ceded to the wind
(As tender as the moons they bind)
Since I rescued you from the hood of a sweatshirt
Still, your color is unerring
And your scent is ...
Her.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand no 780, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Select V Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge - December - Any Poem NA'd In November 2019" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart - Wishkobi Ode, Judge & Sponsor.
( This poem was written on November 14, 2019, and N/A'd on November 22, 2019 in the Scented Leaves Poetry Contest )
Some pondered ways
to pep-up the pulpit and pew,
but disinterest and ennui won the day.
The clergy went away to get help
and never came back.
Eventually, thunder and sleet
cracked stone, spire, and gable;
neglect, and the cold winds of time
nibbled at arch and buttress.
Where once was a stained-glass light,
weeds and mildew weathered to a moldy rot.
Where once the hems of cassocks swept
now mice and spiders rest or nest,
and baby bats roost in the rectory.
There In a dusty belfry
owls hoot and solemnly perch.
Walls crumbling to niche and cranny.
Amid all this spacy ruin
jackdaws lay their speckled eggs,
while in the misty moonlight
homeless angels fan dance
upon feather-light, slinky legs.
One summer morning on the beach
she spies her friend, and runs to greet
this lovely child, in solitaire,
with a parasol and silken hair.
A cherub look upon one's face,
while the other smiles, still filled of grace
But both are feeling young at heart
and can't resist the sand and surf
Too soon the whimsy of the day
has led them closer to the bay
The warm sand and the sea agree
to join the ocean's windswept breeze
to make their visit more replete
with gifts of summer's sweet retreat
Perfection offers them a chance
to laugh and plot, and take a glance
If no one's looking, they can shed
their shoes and stockings, free their feet
then tiptoe in and shriek in glee!
They feel each ripple undertone
which tickles toes, and chills their bones
and licks the hems of petticoats
In pastel shades of vast array
they seem two flowers, wild bouquets
that dance among the white-washed hue
of tide pools blue, and morning's dew
Two flowers sprouting here and there
cavorting along the sandy shore
Until again, it's time to go
And though, restrained, as secrets go
they must again be proper girls
-------------------------------------------------------
6/20/16
Contest: The Red Parasol by Alfred Glendening
Sponsor: Eve Roper