Long Seclusion Poems
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Where are all my sisters at
And where do they all habitat
They must be in seclusion
I can't think of any other reason
Of why I am not seeing them
Precious God daughter's come out of the water
I want me to drown in your love
Float with you the aqua Blue
Shall not worrying find the perfect mister
I insist I am of the catalyst
A trying man with outstretched hands
Ready to embrace you whole
Come aboard get off shore
Are you ready for my love
Tangent sees blended aqua blue love
Come woman...float
Float on, float on
Sisters
9/20/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2019
Two lonesome beings in company of contrast,
entwined by the sonorous medley of music.
The confined bird has lost the freedom of the sky,
but not the tune of its song,
that echoes in the incarcerated air.
The frail man has crossed his prime,
but not the rhythmic refrain of melody,
that resounds in his archaic milieu.
The cheery chirp of the bird
perks up the musician in the man.
The sensuous sonata the man plays on the violin
captivates the avian essence of the bird.
The duet of delight resonates in somber solitude,
suffuses with sublime symphony the seclusion
of the bird, caged in isolation,
and the old man, captive of age.
________________
October 24, 2022
For Brian Strand Contest No. 1199
I was lying there pool of ashes, amidst ruins a faded glory
In the dark, outside the hustle and bustle , in seclusion
many many years.
Many storms did pass through testing me in the elapsing summer time
The wind chill , shivering cold a strong grip, haunted me days and nights
Yet again, a deadly lonesome , alone with the mundane, alone with gone days
An ashes of burned violin , left alone into an utter silence
I was undone, untreated, left alone with the progressing day
amidst an outcry, yet an indifference lingered on.
In the audacity of the unruly, no one was a reverie
out from nowhere, the awakened eve arose a croon
a weaving mesh of the cosmic creation. Even though I had the shade of the lamenting
A farewell with the tragedy of the departing of nothingness, no one.
Miles to go for a voyage, the trumpet enclosing toward an end
A sunrise, why the embellishing epiphany whence promising for the darkest night?
In English we say, I am hurting,
but in poetry we say ~
I am windswept wave
weeping weathered roses
upon the haunting heart of drowsy dunes,
kissed by the mineralized melancholy
of wounded wadis,
for love forgot the fated flow,
nevermore feeling the forlorn skin
of b l e e d i n g ink…
I seize the scorpion crushed weight
of crestfallen crystals,
once voiced
through painless passion.
Devouring the distress
cutting through lips splitting,
I taste nothingness
amidst raining ruby-winged butterflies,
mirroring the bruise
burning in sync with extreme dolor…
O beloved, would you still recognize
the rippling riddles of soul’s river,
or has distance
dried the wild-lilies
dressed in dramatic scents
of dangerous devotion,
like the syllables I spilled
between the spaces that
held the poetry we once breathed?
Would you still hear the
undreamed chimeras ~
chapters channelled
now choking the reveries
I home in morbid muteness,
or has the nerving nadir
jinxed the sparks of Jupiter ablaze,
numbing ringed-jewels of strength
we once believed faithfully
would
never phase
nor decay…
I wonder if your skies serenade
soft blue soliloquies ~
sunrise soaked in honeysuckle hymns.
Do they drizzle
densely designed darkness
draped in dissonance,
or do you find comfort
in painting me with solemn ashes
as the black-fanged Empusa ~
one that inflicted
nothing but misery,
injected like liquid lethal lament
that suffocated
the arteries of midnight?
2:22 ~ angel omen ~
do with this what you will,
I overwrite to outrun the emotions,
refusing to be overtaken
by disillusionment.
I speak not to lure the stars across
your cerulean seclusion,
but to heal as I seal the envelope
of unanswered thoughts,
wishing the pulse of p a t i e n c e
would no longer
push and pull the string
of my weakness
like ice-hot estuaries
rushing against the ache of want...
O detached desires,
forgive my need to release.
I am not restless,
I am not reactionary,
I am merely reminiscing in resilience,
to rise again
as the seamstress
of scarless sonnets….
In the splendorous crown of my ardent heart,
shimmering in the glow of the argentine night,
you gleamed like the tinsels of the moon.
I tried to feel your touch of sapphire sheen,
but you drifted away out of my sight
from the passionate pathway I had paved for you.
In the verdant vale of my cascading heart
your footprints impressed a turquoise trail.
As I walked with dream on its tortuous trace,
I discerned the remains of my love glimmer
in the mesmeric embrace of the stardust,
showering on me the sequins of your beauty.
From the ebony edge of the tranquil night
storm clouds surged with the thunders of strife,
shattered my sky of seamless yearning motif.
Beneath the dispersed debris of despair
the fragments of my broken heart
found the despondent niche to solemnly sigh.
Splintered in the disastrous ambience
of the tarnished twilight in the vortex of turmoil,
I felt the ruins of my passion blow away
with my dreams in the squall of the sulky night.
I was sucked by the unforeseen calamity
within the virulent void of its enraged eye.
When the spring of longing came after the storm,
I entered the secret garden of your seclusion,
blooming with flowers hidden from me.
As I sauntered there in the sunburst new dawn,
I wished before I walk the last mile,
our paths would cross someday by accident.
The patients often rock back and forth,
or pace as if to move away
from their frustrations,
their situation, their self,
but the same always follows.
Their only task is existence...
yet such a heavy endeavor,
like moving through thick mud,
always messy and often stuck.
As long as they remain their same selves,
they remain a prisoner of themselves,
haunted by screams of unworthiness,
threats of unforgiveness,
and insistence of victimization.
Psychologists ask questions
and sometimes make suggestions.
Doctors dictate medications.
Many have chemical dependency
or a congenital chemical imbalance
and lack the physical capacity to be happy,
in the same way someone with kidney failure
would die without dialysis.
Patients regress into numbness,
an unintrusive seclusion
and an attempt to avoid
misery's self-abusing mind.
Some find an escape,
by God's grace,
faithfully willing their way
out of their mental detention and
the "Rehabilitation" Center Prison.
The summer men are standing, alone upon a wretched stone,
Contorted, bent and torn. Dressed in paper-like ragged clothing,
The ashes of the universe, they are brother less bone,
Forming declarations from hearts made barren by their loathing.
The winter women, busy themselves by making baby sounds,
Weakened, sad and tired. Wishing for the sun to disappear,
The carers of young flesh, the ones who turn the merry-go-rounds,
Bark at the dark night sky, with a howling that comes from despair.
So soft sands soak seas, and verdant grasses devour the sun!
They are still orphaned by the relentless, apathetic tides,
That kiss and tickle, and dampen any hope or ambition,
Reminding them with the sunset, that within them dread presides.
Most will never take the long and lonely swim to each other.
The gentlemen will never dare ask the kind lady to dance.
The sadness forms like weeds around beautiful flowers dying.
Here they stand, alone, in the season of father and mother.
The fire has gone out, yet some close their eyes and take a chance,
Only to wake in the cold morning to the sound of crying.
Around them, broken sickles warily monument the soil.
The hopeful, but weakened authors draw visions of a new land.
But defeated, they yield, bare-faced and burnt, tormented in toil.
The courageous man will not kiss a smiling lady’s hand,
Finding in sacred seclusion, a world of tranquil weather,
That allows the mind and soul to exhaust themselves together.
Horticulture? truly awesome!
Granddaddy’s timeless illusion -
one giant synthetic blossom
swirling midst rustic seclusion.
Fascinated by back-crossing,
Pop experimented in silence.
Sleep was spent turning and tossing
weird ideas, odd incidents.
His gigantic bogus blossom
would emanate from these night-swings.
He had heard that you could cross some
old parent plants with their off-springs.
Such horticultural incest
troubled Pop’s moral conviction.
Botanic genes lost his interest,
guilt became an affliction.
He took up artistic venture
creating flowers of pottery.
The last one he made, the clencher,
shines in his orchard's rockery.
"Album Daylight by Jonathan Patterson" - Quote by Poet
In the precinct of sprawling emptiness,
curved out by the contours of desolation,
the spreading daylight of prime promise
bursts with the brilliance of magnificence,
creating the serrated shadows of silence,
where I'm consumed by illumined calmness.
Within the light and shadow lattice,
the fused sunray strands weave
the tapestry of argentine ecstasy
on the silvery barrenness of seclusion
for me to walk in search of the lost dreams.
Trudging with the forlorn life
across the shades of grey in the wilderness,
I take a lonesome journey with my pallid heart
across the silhouetted grandeur
of the daylight dwindling.
Walking the last mile of the journey
in the remaining hours of the day,
I long for respite for the last time,
step into the waiting memory corridor,
see my dreams return enwrapped
within the lengthening shadow of me.
Keep your distance from my choices
You, with the staff of valor,
With the staff of all-truths
Deem me a simple fool
Dipping my wavering feet
In the pools of this ghastly world
I do not love to be in this place,
On the edge of conclusion
The brink of union and seclusion both,
To the last upheavals of verdict
Did I wish for these uncertainties?
And yet I chose it!
Asking for answers
Left open for me
Do you truly understand what it is that I face?
You call my pursuits frivolous attachments,
Immaterial accessories that must be,
As quickly as they have burdened me,
Disposed
I call them Blessings,
I call it Trust, and I call it Faith,
A sure love of which I chose!
Have you attained the eyes of God?
Do you know what He knows?
I don’t
Keep your distance from my choices
You, with your pains on display
Over and over calling me to stay
Look into my mirror
Do you see my dreams?
They thrive when hope and acceptance stand
Do you see her smiling?
Or do you see her failing?
Is she alone, and happy?
Or is she with you,
Bound in chains of never-happening?
You call it love’s desperate plea,
I call the sound,
Wanderlust
Can you truly love me,
And yet press me to stay?
As the winds blow my heart to Belong?
I envision my life with the words I have embroidered
Upon the waters of flourishment, far away from any doubt
I trust in the God that made us,
To lead me
To lead you
My tears run freely upon the hands that created this
Upon the salty moment, from pain to fulfillment
I trust in the legs God gave me
To walk my soul in the direction of the sun
He knows my heart belongs there
Just as you are sure I am a fool
If you care oh so deeply,
If you believe in the path that I choose to walk,
Keep your distance from my choices
Choose to free me
Choose to see me