Long Skinned Poems
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They move through the maze,
Papers wavering like
thin-skinned truth,
Each signature a quiet uprising
Against the slow- grinding
Manuel Materials
That call themselves order.
Their voices catch on procedural
irritants
Cracked syllables lagged
Across desks,
Needs folded into Manila envelopes
That wander office to office
Like pilgrims pleading for
Charity.
Red tape coils around them-
A serpent made of statues,
A ribbon intertwined from regulations,
A binding charm diffuse by
Hands
That promise representation
But deliver hesitation.
Paper pushers sit behind the
Writing desks,
Shuffling lives like loose
Documents,
Moving stacks instead of
Solutions,
Measuring urgency in forms
And stamps,
Instead of human obligations
Still they push forward,
Bearing the bulk of civic expectations,
That drag of political formality,
The discomfort of being heard
Only after being processed.
And in the end,
Their persistence becomes revelation-
Proof that even disordered
Systems
Cannot silence a people
Who declines to be filed away.
The frost is on the fodder now, a killing blight of cold.
We have crossed the river—gray, wide—
to reach the place where stories are retold
leaving the iron winter at the door.
Here the bin is full, the fire bright
we shut the night out with a single latch.
Praise the humble things that make a feast
the paper-skinned onion dissolved and gone
the invisible labor—the greatest and the least
the butter loosening into liquid sun.
We praise the sweetness pulled from stubborn ground
the heavy pumpkin, copper-fleshed, profound.
For the world begins and ends upon this wood
this scarred old table where the ghosts draw near.
My grandmother's hands, translucent in the steam
pass the bowl of something not quite here.
We carve the bird, dry, sacrificial meat
and blend our strange new spices with the sweet.
Bless the throat that swallows, the lung's slow tide
the cedar shingles holding back the rain
the kneading hands gone numb with repetition
those small liturgies we gather against the pain.
For even in the shadows or the fear
we set a place for everyone not here.
The Pilgrims crouched beside their starving fires
while Haudenosaunee blessed the Three Sisters' yield
their hungers haunt this feast like iron in the water
undrinkable, essential, in the field.
The mist has lifted. The honest work is done.
We taste the generations in gingered slice.
So praise for what breaks open and stays broken
for sight, for blindness, for the space between
for this abrading, necessary evening
for everyone we've harmed and cannot heal.
The world forgets itself here, then remembers
autumn spills its copper into winter's palms.
We will not wait for loss to teach us dying.
The harvest of the heart, the gathered store
we pay the simple, heavy human price
of loving what we have and asking nothing more.
Not grateful for our goodness, but for breaking
together in this blood-warm, breathing place.
We are the fruit returning earth, becoming sun.
I was seven when we departed for East Africa
and what a journey lay ahead of us. First the
Suez canal which felt like you could touch the
opposite bank as we sailed through them.
We saw plenty of crocs and native people
hard at work planting and growing crops
dressed in very colourful long robes
Then out into the red sea on our way
to crossing the meridian date line
Back then in 1958 Neptune board
the ship and a ding dong party
took place welcoming him aboard.
On we went to Zanzibar and The
trade people looked pirates
These natives ware the first dark
skinned people we had met and
many of them bore horrific scars
with ears and limbs missing we
stuck close to our mum while
she reassured us they meant
us no harm we weighed anchor
and set off on the last leg of
our journey and docked in
Dar-es-Salaam on my eight
Birthday and to ten years of
pure bliss what a place to
grow up in I often wish
I was still there
. . .
I don’t feel like doing anything. . .
And yet here I am, writing again. . .
Punctured thoughts gushing redness of frustration and disgust,
Black rivers flowing and intoxicating the remaining blemished white of reality,
Stuck in this brain,
Wracking desperately for order and purpose,
I want to be perfect,
And yet the concept of perfection in certain viewpoints is downright sickening,
Puking out flaws. . .
Diseased in the mind. . .
Stretching out in exhaustion. . .
Not wanting to feel the numbness of nothingness,
And yet not wanting to face the day. . .
I am angry at my life. . .
Scared of what’s coming—of what’s not coming,
I damn my aching mentality into the dark depths of arbitrary emotion. . .
No one gives a sh*t. . .
So who cares if it overflows?
Asphyxiating my very existence,
Hope springing to mind for s p l i t moments,
Then fleeing like a damned jackrabbit in heat,
Wanting its companion,
Playing hard to get—becoming hard to get,
I hate. . .
I love. . .
All in one.
The emptiness is almost welcoming,
But the sun refuses to shine there in that strange pleasure. . .
I feel the earth below me as splintered pictures wisp around me,
The days I’ll never miss,
The days I have come to wish were my present,
And those days that will never leave me the hell alone. . .
I think we all feel it,
Justin different ways. . .
The rubber bands on her braces snapping. . .
Saliva squirting out and splashing me in the face. . .
Is there a reason my stomach wants to melt and fold over?
Webs keeping them intact,
So intricate—yet delicate
Her eyes popping out of her head,
Violence surging in her like a mad dog,
Drooling and snapping its folded-skinned jaw,
Tightened buds blooming blasphemy,
Forces, vile forces spurting out in cuss words. . .
Like it’s just a regular day. . .
I’m staring at them all. . .
I am crowded and so sacredly alone here. . .
I sense madness,
But that’s just another defense mechanism I have formulated in the imagination,
If I am mad,
WE ALL ARE. . .
I was never there to begin with. . .
Change Aint Easy
We thought it was so simple back then
Things didn't need to have to make sense
different words were okay,
yep green on both sides of the fence
We just played
I was a boy
you were a girl
My hair straight yours had a bit of curl
Jumping on pogo sticks
feeling dizzy when we'd twirl
Boy things, girl things?
Forget it, let's follow that squirrel
Today kids gotta be gender neutral free
No labels, no siree
He's not a him and she aint a she
No one knows for sure who they might be
maybe somewhere in the middle or all three
I remember boys and girls climbing trees
hopscotch, jump rope and skinned knees
We'd pretend to sail the seven seas
Little kids didn't know about birds and the bees
We didn't have the politically correct disease
Yep, we were more interested in running with the breeze
Playing outside in sunshine
or even when it would freeze
Just kids building forts
Playing cowboys and Indians in our shorts
Using pieces of wood as racquets
on the tennis court
playing with snakes and toads
unconcerned with warts
Our biggest worry
was bringing home our school reports
Yes, I understand the world is changing
It's time to point fingers and start blaming
The past generation needs shaming
We're toothless fierce
But somehow
we still need taming
trying our best but lacking training
No need to worry
the old ways are fading
Now it's okay
if it's us you're hating
In time you'll be old
and with the new young you'll be debating.
I'll be long gone
Hopefully you won’t be complaining
Yep, change can be awfully frustrating...
Note: I put myself in an older person’s shoes and tried to imagine how things have changed since the 40s and 50s. The landscape has changed quite a bit since then. Each subsequent generation will look back and think their time was the good old days and the next generation will need to put their stamp on the world. Then their time will end, and the following generation will think they had it all wrong. As long as we keep trying hopefully we'll get more right than wrong.
The Girl I'm Infatuated With
The girl I am infatuated with
Tells her friends that she ignores my advances.
This flirtatious game she finds dismissive
Still, I stay the course and remain focused.
When I approach or pass her by, she stops
And acts neutral as if I didn’t exist.
Though disheartening, I calmly nod,
Like I’m thick-skinned and do not feel the sting.
For reasons I cannot explain clearly,
Her negative response is challenging.
And so I pursue my heartfelt desire,
Despite the laughter and chiding from her friends.
Love is a paradox that has limits.
Fear rejection—then live to regret it.
Visualizing Warm Raspberry Cobbler
I dive into the raspberry bushes with gusto
But carefully, wanting to save my soft-skinned arms and hands
Because I know the biting and chomping of the thorn's teeth.
Notice sister’s basket has a few more berries, so competition is on!
Ouch! Ow! Haste tears up my skin in earnest
Puny tight raspberry, but it might add volume, so I grab it.
We return to grandma’s house with two full baskets of raspberries.
Glad we beat the crows to them this year.
Our hands are berry-stained, for we ate a few on the way.
Thinking of the raspberry cobbler we’ll have tonight.
Warm with cold sweet ice cream.
My bloody arm and hand scratches heal as my mind tastes it.
My Thoughts On Cancel Culture
Written: by Miracle Man
November 1, 2021
Cancel culture is stealing our freedom of speech,
when we disagree, practitioners will impeach.
We can express an opinion only if it agrees,
but canceled out by our refusal to appease.
Someone’s always offended by something we say,
is it really the speech or socialist way?
Perhaps its a logo that has caused our affright,
disagreements, then become, social media fights.
Daily I'm offended by something in my sight,
but I quickly remember that they too have a right.
We appear set in our ways refusing to bend,
I think the main reason, is we're just too thin skinned.
I AM A HERO
BLACK
Are you my kryptonite
To battle the powers that be
Discrimination, political
Spirituals warfare
Sadly my powers that be ruled over me
I AM A HERO
WHITE Are you my kryptonite
White supremacy, skinned heads
Wounded knees
Shaved cold stoned hearts
Sadly my powers that be ruled over me
I AM A HERO
NATIVE AMERICAN what tribe am I
And where am I, Are you my kryptonite
Rich men never poor again fighting rising TAXES
What a shame
This disclaimer
Black Panthers in the jungles
Just getting stronger;
Poverty clashes
Fake rented mustaches
Seasoned hick
Country kicks
All run away, no where to stay to each his own way
Just ain’t right to be individual heroes see none are right…
Sadly my powers that be ruled over me
HERO AM I
Lo, I be creeping in the night…
I KRYPTONITE
1/30/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
January 28, 2020 Assignment
Written for class assignment (WIPS) North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)
My very first picnic is my favorite memory of all time.
Fried chicken, potato salad and a loving smile, sublime.
With a blanket and basket, she chose a spot by the trees.
I felt so special with Mom, in the warm summer breeze.
I recall my state track meet. She stood there cheering me on.
I've countless memories to comfort me, now that she's gone.
The first time I skinned my knee; her kiss made it all better.
My first year away from home; each week Mom sent a letter.
When she fell sick and I moved back home to provide her care,
after radiation and chemo, she smiled though she lost her hair.
It was a special bond we formed, as I watched her slowly die.
I'll always cherish the special moments between my Mom and I.
Time moves on, as it does. Life will bring you a lot of change.
Memories you make will always keep your loved ones in range.
My heart is still there, in the gentle hands of her golden palm.
I’m thankful this contest reminded me of my memories of Mom.
July 31, 2020
Dusty Old Memories Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France