Long Mother father Poems
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Giving the gifts away is the way to delight
You will never feel better, or have such a light.
The gift of listening, the gift of love.
The gift of forgiveness, like the Good Lord above.
The secret of happiness, is to gift others your time.
Give them whatever they need, you’ll feel sublime.
The true gift is the gift of self, your mother will say.
So make arrangements to give her at least part of your day.
Gifts are given by God to all of us, it is for us to discover.
The gifts He has given to us, our mother, father, and brother.
The more we use these gifts to help others, the happier will be.
And He will bestow additional marvelous gifts upon thee.
In the 40's I was black, not even shiny.
And so were my mother, father, and cousins.
In the 60's I came out in all kinds of pastels.
Soft pink, sky blue, sea foam green,
I was a new shape too; streamlined.
Some called me names and laughed.
I did not mind because everyone fought over me.
The second they heard my ring they'd be shouting
and running toward me.
I had spittle on me most of the time, it made me feel loved.
My great great great great grandchildren are not as lucky as I.
I heard so many voices - high ones, low ones, happy ones, sad ones.
My grands only hear one voice; just one.
Their tails have been eliminated.
They are not prominently displayed.
They don't have the pride we did.
Sure some have fancy covers, but
They are not part of the family.
My great great great great grandson is sometimes worn in a pocket all day long,
never taken out.
My great great great great granddaughter gets plunked into a woman's bra
on a daily basis.
In a bra!
And they only hear one voice.
They are not part of a family.
No one fights over them.
No one yells, "I'll get it!"
I'll get it used to surge through me like warm butter.
It was a love call.
None of them have curves or dials they are proud of.
My great great great great niece was stolen.
You heard me right.
Stolen!
Her brain was removed, curtains for her.
No one could have stolen me.
The whole family would have fought them.
Even if they hadn't,
I was hooked in.
I was loved.
Some interesting statistics that have to do with birth:
Every minute of the day 255 babies are born upon this Earth.
255 babies with different nationalities, different colors…different names
but every one of those 255 babies are humans…all the same.
255 babies a mother, father and a family welcome and hold dear.
That’s 363,000 babies born each day and 133 million born each year.
Every minute 255 families who, as this new life they perceive,
begin to enjoy this amazing creation…begin to marvel…to believe.
Every minute 255 families are excited…to hold a life so new
that includes, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles…
grandparents and great-grandparents too.
Every minute 255 families have found a reason for their smile to beam
255 families filled with wonder…filled with wishes, hopes and dreams.
255 families finding reasons to enjoy this moment of happiness
to think of all the happiness they have in store…
and to marvel at how every minute…the world is welcoming 255 more.
Every minute when we look around the world at all the people trying to survive…
and we see the the poverty, war and prejudice we’ve produced
we should think of these 255.
and wonder how many of our babies born each minute to a family that’s elated
will survive beyond their childhood…in the world we have created.
It should be our duty…from the minute of their birth…
to make all 255 babies feel safe and happy to have been born upon this Earth.
And if they don’t…if the world we have created makes some scared…
makes some of those families and babies sob…
then isn’t it our duty…
to do a better job.?
Oh, love each and everyone
Love everybody my darling
Above all love, yes love each and everyone
Love thine enemy, love thy mother, father, sister, brother
just love each other love deeply, sweetly, completely
Why? love why only love because love covers a multitude
A many a major multitudes of sins
Love thine enemy love thy mother father, sister, brother
Just love each other for love deeply sweetly completely
Why? love why only because love covers a multitude
A multitude of many a major sins
Amen and Amen
My Little darlings love each other and everyone always again and Amen
10/30/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
1 Peter 4:8
Haunted by a bright glow dawn
green flecked grass yet fresh mown lawn
verses spring to mind each day
sunshine has its lustrous ray
Skies awash with vivid hue
shades on canvass that imbue
clouds of yellow, orange and red
sculpt fair passages ahead
Watch the coal-rimmed sweet moon peep
linger when the world‘s asleep
streetlight gaze on ice cold pier
night owls hoot but never fear
Children shriek in rippling stream
playful chatter, oak wood dream
mother, father, bound to smile
now relaxing for awhile
City dwellers rise again
darting towards the nearest train
wonder as they often do
what might happen, something new
The giving of time is a special gift-
can never be wrapped in paper and bows.
Always delivered with love in the heart,
to give and to share wherever one goes.
Time is a gift never measured by cost,
just priceless minutes or hours to supply
comfort in sadness, or laughter in joy
to a loved one, friend, or a passerby.
Much harder than simply giving a gift
sought for and purchased with money we earn,
time is a jewel, more precious than gold-
something to offer with thought and concern.
Be there for one who has lost a dear spouse,
a mother, father, or special someone.
The gift of our time…to listen, to care…
this sacred present cannot be outdone.
Be there for a child, a neighbor, a pal,
even for joy- give some time to commend.
Say well done, give praise, be happy at heart;
this welcomed support wins out in the end.
Be it, minutes or hours, days, even weeks,
small gifts of time that encourage, console,
cherished by all- immeasurable worth
remembered, treasured by mind, heart, and soul.
Where did you get a stuffed albino squirrel?
I say this after giving it a tug and a whirl.
After oohing and ahhing over it, we all yell
And I mean down deep from the bowls of hell…
“Jambers!” loud and proud simultaneously.
We have all been there since our mothers’ knee.
Jambers is the most notorious flea shop in New York.
We spend money there fast enough to stuff porky pork.
Once I found a full-grown suit of armor I had to have.
I rented a truck and brought it to my house along with a calve.
The calve would have been a calf, but it had lost a leg.
I also brought home Blackbeard with a leg that was a peg.
If it is not to be found at Jambers, it is not to be had.
I learned this from my mother, father, and great granddad.
Jambers is the ultimate junk store, known by designers and the king.
If you cannot find anything at Jambers, you do not need anything.
I think the worst part
is that none of it looks big enough
to explain why I feel like this.
No one points and says,
“that’s where it went wrong.”
It’s just small things—
over and over
until they aren’t small anymore.
My dad has another family now.
I say it like it’s normal,
like it doesn’t sit heavy in my mouth.
He has new kids,
a new life,
and I don’t know where I fit in it.
I don’t think he forgot me on purpose.
I think I just… stopped being included.
And somehow that hurts more.
Because it means
I was easy to leave behind.
And at home
I tell myself it’s fine too—
even when my chest tightens
every time Mum’s voice changes,
even when I replay what I said
trying to figure out
what I did wrong this time.
It’s always small things.
A tone.
A look.
A question I shouldn’t have asked.
And suddenly I’m standing there
feeling about five years old,
trying to fix something
I don’t understand how I broke.
She laughs with them—
my siblings—
like it’s easy.
Like love isn’t something
you have to be careful around.
With me, it feels like
I’m always one step away
from getting it wrong.
So I stopped saying things.
Stopped reacting.
Stopped needing.
Because it’s easier
to be quiet
than to be too much.
And for so long
I called that strength.
I called it fine.
But today
when I said it out loud,
it didn’t sound true.
It sounded like
something I’d repeated so many times
I forgot to check
if I meant it.
Because if it was fine,
why do I feel this ache
in places I can’t explain?
Why do I feel like
I don’t fully belong
anywhere I’m supposed to?
I think I learned
how to live with it
before I learned
how to question it.
And now I am—
and it hurts more
than pretending ever did.
Visions Of Match Stick Girl
(“A Christmas Tale”)
New Year’s Eve came in the dark, on the cobbled stone street
On frigid snow and bitter cold, on the little shoeless, hatless girl
Visions of the match stick girl came through
Her name was Mary; lost like a little lamb in fog and ice
London has that effect on fragile things in England winters
She lost her parents too and oversized slippers there
The ones her mum once wore and gave to her with such care
Mother, father and slippers gone in an instance in the snow
Rolled over by two speeding carriages that killed them cold
She sells her match sticks by the River Ripper
Signs read, “No guns or knives permitted about the wharf”
Match girl does not fear for things she cannot read
But for her life and freezing on the New Year’s Eve
She sells only one match at a time
For a penny or a pence for what they’re worth
Poor girl has few customers along the river
As foul weather sets in and worsens
She stumbles sickly, stubs her toe on cobble stones
But still sings merrily against the folding snow
Not for contest
Based on Theme- The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen
“A Christmas Tale”
Come visit us under pink tinged twilight skies..
among boughs borne under a song laden tree.
In fair view of land, meadows green coiling rise,
one hundred twenty counted souls, and me.
The older children play, running in sun washed petticoats,
hair pulled back in pigtails & ribbons, an untied shoelace floats.
Their errant hoops gone tumbling over a dew covered hill,
wonder if sun refused to shine, and not mourning them still.
How resplendent a vessel, White Star's ship of dreams,
carried their passion as coal fed fired boiler steams.
Only to sink 'neath the waves, irony in iron age..
On maiden voyage Ides of April, warned her last writ page.
To the new world go mother, father, sisters and brothers,
prayers spent all would reach safety of harbor's bustling dock.
America's shores promised in the letters of others...
went as sheep to the shearer in Reaper's growing flock.
To third class cabin dimlit, down three flights of stairs,
their mortal passage payed so high a forlorned cost.
Waiting their turn for grace, their last supper's prayers,
scrape of ice., gaping ocean roared, in darkness lost.
God bore them one and all 'way from the tortured deep,
to cold windswept mount where saints and survivors weep.
"Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling"