Long Lintel Poems
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Before the last of the Ancients from Eden had returned to death ,
It was decided that with their direction and wisdom Stones of meaningful proportion and weight should be used to measure the cosmic traveling and mark our point of perspective from then on.
Those Alignments would allow a link to the stars and celestial movings that infinity travels upon ,
reminding also of the male and female balance that is and would always be .
For a mountains age ,our people would observe their true origin and place in the great all and everything.
Their construction of these raised stones and lintel ,as well as successive generations would continue to orbit around that great shining star,
seasons shall be recognised determined and endlessness suggested.
Monoliths were also put in place for the passing moonths ,that would wax and wain illuminating the legion of marked centuries which would then come to pass.
For 9 thousand generations of people-kind shall our places of science and observation stand
looking upon the universes boundless wade .
A tribute to the future from the past , monuments marking our journey ,
These noble sentinels looking silently skyward ,
awaiting the great return .
I …
am provenience …
the heel of my father’s foot -
the damp of his brow
and his burgeon …
I am my mother’s bloom
sown in the soil of her intentions
seeded with wonder
and promise …
but some petals unfurl only in
the dead of night -
haunted gardens tended by
half-wished ghosts
phantoms …
frozen to their duties by the
mists of recollection -
icy arbors of regret and time, passing …
if I could but daub that lintel
with my blood -
force the reaper’s honed, desultory edge to
pass over those most dear
but …
too many I’ve walked homeward, in hand
too well he’s learned my face
too deep and numbered I’ve plunged
that oily, arrogant eye
and far too many times I’ve cursed
that endlessly esurient appetite …
I’ll find no pity, those deep pockets, his
nor a nip of banal bearing
it’s too late for tears -
the winds, far too wet for weeping
but I know him too
and he shan’t catch me dawdling
no - he’ll have to swing wide for this vine
else I greet him running and
wrap him snug -
strangling, like kudzu on catalpa …
for my roots reach deep
and are family-firm,
tended …
with love.
( photographic art created copyright-free at Gala AI and manipulated with filters at Prisma )
PRETTY WITTY
Cocktail thirsty : Mocktail, Green tea.
Few Males naughty : Females pretty.
Toe nails: Twenty ; Vessel empty.
Slow snail, safety ; Cat- tail, fatty.
Road- rail dusty ; Snow, hail frosty.
Gravel: Grotty ; Pastel: Arty.
Lintel faulty ; Snacks sale: Salty.
In jail: Guilty ; Egg shell : Poultry.
Chisel : Acuity ; Repel: Pity.
Rebel: Haughty ; Nobel: Petty
Angel - Deity ; Blue bell: Beauty.
Slipped fell Humpty ; Ankle twisty.
Novel Party ; Revel: Sporty
Bread-gel : Tasty ; Ship sails: Hasty
Stay well: Hearty ; Gone Hell: Dirty.
E-MAIL: IT ; Marvels Mighty.
THE MIRRORED MUSE OF THE MIRROR MAN
Golden threads upon his headgear crown,
White attire as robes flowing, drifting down.
Against a canvas red, his spirit shines,
A thousand faces, splintered across places, one design.4
A regal calm, with no alarm, a timeless grace,
Yet fractured mirrors, cracked interiors, frame his face.6
Echo, echo, shards of lintel light,
Fragments dancing in the night.
Each shard a story, each glance a flame,
Whispers of God's glory, echoes of name.¹°
Every mirror sync with my life's aim,
Every rhythm fans my fervent flame.¹²
Step by step, the story sways,
Tradition emboldened in woven ways.
Pride and honour, bold and true,
Reflected skies of crimson hue.¹6
By experience woven, pride adorned,
A spirit unbroken, richly worn.¹8
And in the silence, still and grand,
History and future carried in his hand.
I am one soul, yet many visions span,
A man of dexterity and posterity, borne of woman.²²
I'm one who's not just reflected in fragments
But carried into history & beyond forever radiant.²4
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©?15th February 2026.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RAVENous
Wickedly,
dressed in black satin,
corseted with passerine-ego —
she dares
the dawn to interrupt her feast,
afterall, SHE is the Queen!
beheading of the smallest of things,
the nibble of opportunity.
Vast is she, the moonlit sentinel,
fearsome in flight as her ebony cape
flaps open like the grim reaper — ripe,
as she lurks over the lintel.
He who tenders
money, braving twelve last straw dings
of the towering clock,
caterwauling about a nagging wife,
a no-good son.
No mercy
for the ungrateful,
she abandons berries and grains
for a heartier steal -
an alcoholic’s swansong.
7/7/2019
She vibrates, a chassis minus shock absorption.
A painting, the nude descends a staircase,
rings of Saturn etched in a vacuum tube.
Or Eniac of twisted cords and switchboards.
She isn't programmed to see light beams
spraying through the trees,
nor silver bearings of morning dew.
There are no bees plunging like pistons
in the flowers, no circuit board on the step.
She climbs the jamb as a bot returning to its task.
Monitors flicker as nanoseconds pass unnoticed,
but the galaxy ends at the lintel.
She's a child of Mir, suspended upside down
in a universe where falling isn't death,
but the failure of electrodes.
Then silent as a dead star she descends.
All drives cease functioning.
She is still as a scarab,
the light years casting sand dunes on sphinxes,
until legs spasm as though coding
a final matrix for iron butterflies waiting to be born.
Sundial
My passion is the silent weather vane
The gambrel brought such sorrow
Much I marveled this roughcast cairn
Eagerly I looked for the lintel
I have dreamed of the clocks
Eagerly I looked for the masonry
It was heterodox
Somewhat louder than the freemasonry
Back into my memories rewinding
And the clapboards never machining
Deep into that darkness watching
Still is notching, still is notching
The graves seemed happy botching
And so I screamed, 'Is that a weatherboard?'
I crave the dissident, derelict dormer window
My mind always strays to caryatids
Much I marveled the dissident gazebo
Much I marveled the eighth patio
I crave the baronial, balcony breezeway
You warned me about the indigo
And so I screamed, 'Is that a drift way?'
Take thy landscaping from out my heart
What time is it, And the megaliths never grinding
What time is it, And the masonry was nonbinding
I heard an italianated, slapdash roofing
It was fireproofing
I discovered the statues
Take thy picket fence from out my heart
I discovered the vases
Deep into that darkness listening
'It's that plaster work,' I muttered
My passion is the silent weather vane
The gambler brought such sorrow
Much I marveled this roughcast iron bane
Eagerly I looked for the lintel barrow
It's a new day and yet dark now,
What time is it on the sundial?
4/7/19
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2019 ©
A Solitary Stranger
Lonely a soul, he, waits there daylong, a lonely stranger, he
To knit the finest webs of dreams, one of the most delicate kinds.
Gazing, out there, with brimming eyes he ponders
To catch a glimpse of the sun seeping through the windowpane
Lonely a soul, he, waits there daylong, a lonely stranger, he
To knit the finest webs of dreams, one of the most delicate kinds.
Gazing, out there, with brimming eyes he ponders
To catch a glimpse of the sun seeping through the windowpane
The croons of his leisure time runs high through the seven seas,
As a hymn, rises to heaven and above, one, perhaps, eager to linger more…
Brushstrokes of canvas, dazzling horses of the clouds, in a resilient morn..
Open your eyes , and you will believe the happening world, in a fable, unborn.
Lonely a soul, he, waits there daylong, a lonely stranger, he
Cotton candy dreams, where in production, are in muse, those dreams!
Those old aged clouds are all in a classic silence, piled up high,
Rain will be coming soon!
Lonely a soul, he, waits there daylong, a lonely stranger, he
Cotton candy dreams, where in production, are in muse, those dreams!
Those old aged clouds are all in a classic silence, piled up high,
Rain will be coming soon!
Those croons are floating with the strongest rainfall , great news!
Where it drizzled through the lintel for yet , an hour more.
Rain-soaked an hour are chilling with gone hours, as ours,
A dead wet soul now, is he, posing in my mind!
Those croons are floating with the strongest rainfall , great news!
Where it drizzled through the lintel for yet , an hour more.
Rain-soaked an hour are chilling with gone hours, as ours,
A dead wet soul now, is he, posing in my mind!
Before the last of the Ancients from Eden had returned to death ,
It was decided that with their direction and wisdom Stones of meaningful proportion and weight should be used to measure the cosmic traveling and mark our point of perspective from then on.
Those Alignments would allow a link to the stars and celestial movings that infinity travels upon ,
reminding also of the male and female balance that is and would always be .
For a mountains age ,our people would observe their true origin and place in the great all and everything.
Their construction of these raised stones and lintel ,as well as successive generations would continue to orbit around that great shining star,
seasons shall be recognised determined and endlessness suggested.
Monoliths were also put in place for the passing moonths ,that would wax and wain illuminating the legion of marked centuries which would then come to pass.
For 9 thousand generations of people-kind shall our places of science and observation stand
looking upon the universes boundless wade .
A tribute to the future from the past , monuments marking our journey ,
These noble sentinels looking silently skyward ,
awaiting the great return .
The night comes down like iron,
cold on my shoulders,
pressing its verdict into bone.
I walk through the ruins of myself~
rooms gutted by old hungers,
mirrors cracked from staring too long
at my own small griefs.
Every shadow hisses
its familiar gospel of failure.
I almost believe them.
Then~
a thin gold seam
splits the rubble.
Not loud.
Not triumphant.
Just steady.
Christ steps through the fracture,
dust rising around His feet
like surrendered ghosts.
He does not flinch
at the wreckage.
He touches the broken lintel
as if it were a beloved brow.
My darkness folds inward,
ash collapsing into ash~
and still His light
keeps blooming
in the hollows.
I stand there,
ruined and radiant,
a house on fire
with mercy.