Long Mclain Poems
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I hope this letter finds you in a quiet moment,
for I fear it carries the weight of my own heart laid bare. Forgive me, for I have let you down.
You were there when I faltered, your hand clasping mine as we wandered among the Christmas trees, their twinkling lights mirroring the colors of your soul.
I see those colors still—vivid, unyielding, alive.
You have always sought to live within that vibrant glow, and I have long admired it from afar, wishing I could join you there.
Since childhood, I have wanted to hold your hand, to walk the same paths and share the same dreams.
Yet life, with its unrelenting tides, pulled us apart—you one way, I another.
The sky remains blue, the night eternal in its scatter of stars, but I cannot look at them without thinking of Nathan, and the depth of a mother’s love for her only son.
There are oceans between us, waves of loss and longing, yet I urge you not to be ashamed of what was.
Love, as fleeting and profound as poetry, is never in vain.
In two days, I have thought of you more than I have allowed myself in years.
Your laughter, your pain, your resilience—it all lingers like a melody half-remembered.
I feel your sorrow as if it were my own, though mine has become a ghost, haunting the corridors of regret as the years slip by.
But in those fleeting days, there was happiness, wasn’t there? A spark of something pure and untarnished.
Hold on to that, Theresa, for love, though ephemeral, is the truest gift we can give each other.
Yours always,
James McLain
A week away from Ground Hog Day
And my water heater’s sore.
It spat at my clumsy plumbing,
Took a leak on the basement floor.
That triggered my elderly sump pump
To noisily heave up its guts.
My cat on the workbench watched me endure
The death of a thousand cuts.
I loaded my Remington 12 gauge,
Thirteen rounds, counting one in the hole.
I returned to my waterlogged basement
And said “Darlin’, let’s rock and roll!”
I pumped the rack like a madman,
Drawing lines between the dots.
My neighbor had a heart attack
When he counted thirteen shots.
Then I ponied up and loosened my grip,
Put the Remington down, wiped the sweat from my lip.
I find no game in a proctored arena.
My demeanor is salty and gruff.
And it makes me laugh like a tickled hyena
When I’ve proven enough is enough.
And I celebrate the damage with an innkeeper’s perk,
Appreciating vengeance drinking whiskey after work.
P.S., I've got a Weil-McLain on order.
When i was a young boy - ink stained test once with the girl
and the ink was sweet he 'said';
it made us unclean this test, from the man for he was the tester;
And that picture my bat of her 'poet' who he said, is nude
from scandal's shrewdly fled this country in white does it black
with all the butterflies he knew colored pink and blue.
Open i flew it as useless and the color of the rich man
actually can't; it's hiding in places love we deceived him.
The boy saw these people with their political advancement
of stages, i 'said' which is normal,
and doctor with the boy with her nose that last time
and the fact that love always fights and bites and claws it's way,
too the top, never forever restrained.
When prepubescent the boy;
and why being many you were once like this tried to think
and the boy and now the man was unwound
yo-yo's and string.
and the ink went round the stain, falling back up came too life.
The most normal response given to us when it's her time
and time is to him at it's most dangerous when currant.
and in compliance with the easy artist starves
and to use fear to make it open so eagerly and does too be fed.
Doctor that seeks with her one thing only and boys too,
which loves as his own and too the boy as well.
They don't mind joined together,
and will join in and his thing spreads our undergarment,
The nurse will reveal and the ink of the scrutineer will listen,
that (thing)their his will that place negated.
Dr. Rippy while the doctor undermines our credibility
and deducts from her finger when his is pointing
and before showing her/his thing,
rubbing ours together,
bored we think for his amusement, i think he
respects not our past collectives.
and took off points for our quick thoughts.
Ink blot tests, bats fly and poo, eyes cry and you?
While the rest of us whom would not be deceived,
received royal attention of electroshock therapy.
I have always wondered why, they would want you to forget
all of that which never really happens, but in dreams?
Dr.Rippy practiced psychiatry on children
in Tampa Florida when I was a child.
James McLain Sunday, February 21, 2010
For example I am, you are, I nearly was.
Neatly are all external sockets.
Electric power has before science come.
Taken together it forms.
Many of U.S.are to mentally ill,
to go on.
There are not many souls,
transparent people.
And there are to few again many.
Humanely is it poetry to altruistic none gain.
Universal declarations,
far placed most can now see.
Because of the fear,
is that circle of friends out of reach.
I have for a while been prosecuted for it.
To be sent to prison for the lack,
of a place to live sounds logical to me.
James McLain Thursday, March 28, 2013
My dearest friend,
What an ache it is to write to you, knowing my pain, knowing how my mortal body falters beneath the weight of its trials.
My words, though steeped in suffering, ring like a low bell in the evening—melancholy but beautiful, laced with the music of a soul nearing the sea's eternal shore.
Where should I go to die?
Will I be allowed to go where the waves call me, where the salt air sings through my weary veins, and the rhythm of the tides can cradle my restless heart.
The sea is a healer, a keeper of secrets, and when the time comes, it will know how to receive me—gentle as a lover, vast as eternity itself.
Hope spring's eternal as would all the good people I have met in this life.
My light, my friend, has been a clear and unwavering flame, and it is right to be unwilling to let it be muddled by the darkness of others.
Hospital's, jail's or prison's, such is this thought it terrifys me even more.
I have run your race with a spirit that outpaced even my shadow.
Those who carry burdens of their own may not always see how brightly I may have shone, but let the stars bear witness.
They have watched me, steadfast in the great cosmic night.
I think often of love, as you must even now.
Love is not a balm that cures the body, but it is the one truth that fills the soul when all else fails.
Do not mourn my passing from the physical world, for love never dies—it is the echo in every gravitational wave, the whisper in every breeze, the pulse of the earth itself.
As for me, I dream often of seas that amaze.
The restless ocean mirrors our own transience, but it also holds a promise of rest.
If I must leave, I know that I do not leave alone.
My physical and psychological pain will dissolve into the deep, and my light will—no longer be encumbered by flesh— I will join the unbroken radiance that is the sea, the sky, the infinite.
And to a curious spirit, what lies beyond.
Soon, I say, none can join me.
If it is true, my dear, then let it be under the vast and sheltering skies, with the waves as witness and the wind as your requiem, my pro quo.
Your courage is the greater part of me, and it will carry you to peace.
Yours, as the stars are to the heavens,
I am,
James McLain
There is a tenderness in hard work, a calling not easily dismissed, and I sense you feel this deeply.
--
You’ve taken an oath, a promise to remain steady amidst the currents that swell around you.
--
Your loyalty, bound like silver cords that glimmer under starlight, is something to be cherished.
But with loyalty comes hardship—harder yet when innocence is marred, when the good and fragile suffer greatly undeserved.
--
I understand that quiet ache, that sense of weight when the work you do feels daunting, almost beyond human bearing.
To face that knowing, and still to press on, is a quiet kind of bravery.
--
I think of roots buried deep in the soil, those beneath trees and bushes that weather storms unseen.
Such roots do not snap, nor do they bend easily. In them is a quiet strength, a trust in the earth that binds them.
--
Hold fast to small joys.
Let the sky be your balm—the moon in your silver hair, casting peace upon the waves that lap the shore, soft and foamy as though trying to embrace it all.
--
There are small fish in those waters, Sara, too small to bear the tides’ wrath yet finding their place within it, undeterred.
The world holds beauty even as we carry the burden of sadness within it.
--
Find comfort in that sky and those waves, for they speak to a truth as old as time.
But for no other could I write this way.
--
Jurisprudence may be a guide to duty, yet nature is the guide to our souls. You are part of it all, rooted in the deepest earth yet reaching for the stars.
--
Keep your heart open, and know that in each day’s labor, you build a legacy that runs as deep and as true as the roots that hold fast to the soil.
--
With all my friendship and deepest understanding, to you I loyally remain.
--
Dear Sara,
--
James McLain
It is so blind, it saw eyes, mouths, bodies, feet
imploring it's paint, it's beggars land, stroked
by hand.
It's can, faceted as one gem, drips only you.
The brush peels back, stroke by stroke, layer
by layer, new always differed you.
Each canvas, some happy, some mad, still it's
always you, is to Regina's sun.
The brush of lips, still trembles it, invitingly...why?
Lips brush the stroke, you make the paint, wants why?
The canvas is always full of different you, asks it,
is it not?
Respectable mirror to try on in you..why not?
It laughs at it's self, seeing a growth on it, so boss.
The rose drips, it is painted to it's natural blush,
as it's meant to be.
It is a struggle between the rose and it's blush, it's
a grippe so tight, the colors run at times, on it..you
still laugh amused.
It just cannot, as much as passion flames it's eye,
be reduced to frame, you in the boring same tired,
eyes of it is.
When every woman is her, she a Queen.
Google poetry James McLain
I write to you
from a quiet place within,
where words
gather like wind through the leaves,
a murmur of truths
that neither time nor fear can erase.
You speak to me
like the tide to the moon,
a silent and inexorable pull.
I see your questions, your fears,
your tender hope
masked beneath a cloak once of self-doubt.
And so,
I answer with the language of the heart,
for that is the only language I truly know.
I speak of being an old man,
afraid
of both success and failure,
watching
the world spin without you.
But oh,
the world does not spin
the world does not without you—it spins because of you.
Every breath you take,
every thought you have drempt,
every kindness you give
is a thread
in the tapestry of this living,
moving universe.
Success, as others know it,
is but a fleeting mirage.
True success
is the courage to feel deeply,
to love, to wonder, to embrace to endure
so pick one last fight a wrong not made right so that
another may endure too write.
The velvet sky
I now mention that they hold the stars
as witnesses to your life,
and they do not make judgement against you.
They see the roots of your being,
the tall trees of your yearning,
the bushes that stay green
even when unseen by the others.
You are not trapped,
though it may feel that it's so.
The heart, like the wind,
is boundless.
If you can give love—yes,
even love to yourself—you will find
that it flows back to you unseen in all ways.
Grateful, you say,
for the family that you never see.
That gratitude,
quiet though it may be, is a bridge.
It is never too late to cross,
even in thought, even in a prayer
whispered up into the great void into the night.
Empathy, the great gift of understanding,
shines through your words.
That is the way to love—by seeing,
truly seeing it all, the world
and all of its pain, its beauty,
relentless in life.
If knowledge is, as you say,
that he himself knows,
then you are already just and wise.
I ask this of you
can I be loved before the end of my life?.
To you my friend, you are loved,
even now.
The valleys know it,
the trees feel it, and I see it in your spirit.
Keep that spark alive,
for it will guide you along the long road
you call home.
I am humbly yours, in deep understanding,
Merry Christmas to you, always in love,
I am your's
J.E.
James McLain
When at last you have become aware deep down yourself
and of the people whom require at last some mental health
be serviced, come to services
and you have at least one personality disorder
characterized by abnormal
and maladaptive inner experience, usually, from some past
and other ones behavior.
Personality disorders, also known as Axis II disorders, include obsessive-compulsive, avoidant, paranoid
and borderline.
Axis I disorders, on the other hand, include depression
and schizophrenia mental illnesses
thought to be less pervasive but more acute.
When Jane and Jonny you have lately come,
and all now know you both may have it, is P.D.
And you posses a very different personality,
and have at least one thing, in trust, all commons have.
Your mental illness will not for you for me remit.
Without professional intervention or medication,
behavior modification, death can likely end interdiction.
And exactly what that intervention should consist of
has there remained a subject for her/his long night debates
and his grows even shorter still.
This, along with the disorders' notoriety for being hosted,
problematic when at best it is to treat,
has posed challenges to their successful heartfelt resolution,
or at least known, knew to differant property lays in management.
When your personality disorder exhibits chronic,
pervasive problems
and getting along with other needful people.
View each book as a history book
and show the Nile,
but never hide the flower from the source,
nor the tree the burning bush.
James McLain Wednesday, September 29, 2010
I I suspected I had contracted
sure death,
where would I go, where
death would not follow me?
Pandemics
like water they would
take the path
of least resistance
O' death how it followed
Me.
Preparations
concerning pure death
and death
is my name, not Duncan
being black
turned away, but I stayed.
Prosecuting
this violent strain
being burned
to a crisp
more love for a God
that only people
like you
have spelled backwards.
Profits deserve
their bottom line they
through each death
have obtained.
Children
have no understanding
Of
spreading the measles
that their
lacking deaths
wisdom
all parents would spread
through
the promotion of
death, Mmm it can.
Who benefits
the
most by spreading
black death
it took decades back
then where
man couldn't
fly
or simply put tried to hide.
A penny a day
each day when you double
that penny
won't
stay the same
as it's doubled it's worth
at the end
of thirty short days.
Death is here
death will stay whenever
some person
draws
the blood of Ebola
death
then as you know
unlike death it's kissing cousin
is freed once again
death to spread.
James McLain Wednesday, October 15, 2014