Long Tall and proud Poems
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Among a stand of pines I lived my life,
blissful in the ignorance of my own fate.
Tall and proud, my fellow trees and I
stood along a ridge that overlooked a lake -
its crystal surface mirroring our beauty.
Underneath big sky
and seeming to lean against a mountain,
we reveled in the gifts of our mother nature.
Oftentimes we felt the breath of breezes at our backs
and cooling downpours in the summer heat.
We saw and heard the scampering of squirrels and rabbits;
We watched as deer and other woodland creatures
stopped to drink at the clear lake or came to visit us.
Birds of many sorts serenaded us both day and night;
Crickets, bees and other insects came to see us too.
Seasons came and went.
Still young, I kept growing on the south fringe of my stand.
This winter as new snow glistened on the ground,
there came intruders to our happy spot.
Wielding axes, two men chopped me down.
Now I stand alone, uprooted and separated from my stand.
No birds adorn my limbs.
Instead I’m wearing garlands of garish gold
and big red bulbs are hanging from my arms.
No moon or stars of night shine above me,
but a silver plastic star is tacked on top my head.
I’m suffocated by this too-warm room
with blinking lights everywhere around me
And myriads of gifts brightly wrapped
piled high and pressed against my trunk.
No longer one of many, I am one alone
And the lovely stand of which I was but one small part
has been replaced by an old and rusty stand for Christmas trees,
a stand that now contains me,
for I no longer stand as one part of a whole.
Rootless and wondering what will become of me. . .
I pine.
Written 9/15/12 for Debbie Guzzi's "Stand" Poetry Contest
Pitching electioneering, albeit Democratic ticket...
as 2020 presidential election nearing
pleading joshing, and endearing...
The choice for commander in chief dum...
dum... dum... dum..
will winnow down, thus
political prognosticator pundits
no longer remain mum
between Donald John Trump,
whose second term win,
would find yours truly numb
versus Joseph Robinette Biden Junior
could infuse flickering
uneasiness among electorate
(quite a few skool
of hard knocks alum
including yours truly),
who attests surfing cyber seas
as seasoned beach bum
up until this moment
feeling rather glum
regarding fate of American democracy
fizzling, muckraking, and sputtering
linkedin with kickstarting,
snapchatting, and twittering
along ever so ho hum
awaiting fateful deliverance
as dueling banjos strum
meanwhile irritable bowel syndrome
nsync with nausea
bubbling, gurgling, quickening
within collective tum
no doubt alleviated chugging,
guzzling, and quaffing
countless bottles Bacardi rum.
Nothing less at stake than (an ill eagle
feebly clutching cherished symbols - regal
representing land of the free and
home of the brave
analogous to once buoyant seagull
encompassing United States)
metaphorical snooping Beagle
only finding peanuts after landing
discovery (of America) triggering extralegal
imbroglios, which courtesy...
Thank manifest destiny
wrought accursed land grab,
where survival of fittest (think militarily)
nonchalantly, insouciantly actually
quite aggressively did nab
great juicy fruited plain continental slab
...to the mountains to the prairies
to the oceans white with foam...
where indigenous people
once stood tall and proud
applying contrived accoutrements,
which implements rendered mortally to stab
invaders, hence convenient plug to jibjab,
(while sack religious lame chap
donning unisexual hijab)
whale within poetic license
to orca straight heady
i.e. think lame muck cab
bra (even garnering groan from
ghost of captain Ahab)
denouncing cheesy pun,
whereby I (Stuart Little) best remain
as caged mouse
subjected to experimentation
within bore writ Tory lab.
The trees, they stand so tall and proud
In forests green and cities loud
Their leaves a canopy up high
A place for birds to rest and fly
Their trunks are strong, their roots run deep
A home for creatures who crawl and creep
A beauty that cannot be denied
A wonder borne of nature's pride
Yet we, in our rush to progress
Destroy their homes with little stress
We cut them down for roads and homes
Showing little care for those who roam
The trees have right to live, you see
Without them, what will come to be?
Their loss will cause a great decline
A world without them, so unkind
So let us cherish these creatures wise
Their presence, a blessing to our eyes
Let us protect them with all our heart
And play a role in their restart
For the trees have right to live and grow
To flourish and thrive, to continue their show
Let us honor them as they are due
For they are the lungs of our world, it's true.
Under the starry sky, where fireflies light up the dark,
A cedar tree, old and wise, tells stories in the park.
Its branches, a tangled web, shaped by many years of weather,
Hold the dreams of travelers, who rest below together.
On the mossy roots, under the green canopy,
The steps of those who came before, speak of history.
Merchants with fine fabrics, poets with ancient lore,
Gather where the tree whispers, to share their wisdom and more.
By the tree, a lute, worn by time and use,
Plays of adventures and heroes, and lands that fear abuse.
The leaves, they sway and shiver, like voices in the wind,
Repeating tales of happiness, secrets, and sins.
Oh, old cedar, guardian of whispers and starlight,
Your strong arms protect us, from dawn to dusk to night.
In this green haven, where the sun paints the ferns,
We touch your rough bark, and learn from your words.
The sun beams through the trees, in shades of gold and green,
Where shadows dance with dreams, that the cedars have seen.
A quiet witness of ages, standing tall and proud,
You've seen empires rise and fall, heard whispers loud and soft.
So let the fire burn, as the moon takes the crown,
Let stories of fireflies and stars, fill the air around.
For in this wonderland, under the cedar's care,
We find a hidden language, in nature's sacred lair.
The Rooster
He strutted ‘cross the barnyard tall and proud,
away from all the bustle of the crowd;
the other roosters in the yard felt cowed,
to him they meekly stepped aside and bowed.
Rhode Island Red to others he was known;
the yard’s top bird, to all he wanted shown.
One day a pullet walking on her own
approached red rooster standing all alone.
“Dear sir you’re quite the standout in this room
all smartly clad and dressed in bright red plume
and standing by yourself may I assume
you’re unattached and lonely, I presume.”
Replied the rooster, “Dear cannot you see,
that others always step aside for me,
and I’m the one, I think you would agree
that any hen I wanted, it would be.”
“Oh, really,” she replied with snarky grin,
“then why I ask your party seems quite thin,
and I’m the only caller who’s within;
perhaps it’s time that you and I begin.”
“My dear young hen you’re simply not my type;
you’re far too ordinary is my gripe,
and I prefer a hen who’s much more ripe
for I must always live up to my hype.”
“I see you standing proudly in your frock,
and I can see you’ve been around the block;
you’re nothing but an old conceited cock,
and you deserve a nagging hen to rock.”
June 27, 2019
Battlefields of Discontented Dreams
another year has walked out of my life like a warrior broken and worn down,
it left behind bloodied fields where my dreams lay scattered and defeated,
it moved through me like an army that had no idea what it was conquering,
and all that remains are the marks of a war I never asked to fight.
at first it crept into me on tiptoe bringing crystals of light and possibility,
ideas drifting soft as a dusting of snow across my bed of quiet anticipation,
everything felt possible that morning that smelled like beginnings and miracles,
and I believed with all my naivety that this year would be different from all the rest.
then spring arrived heavy with promises and loaded down with contradicting storms,
I planted seeds hoping they'd grow into something worthy of all my pain and effort,
I searched for nourishment for my tired soul in the fertile ground of what could be,
and yet the storm mixed up my wants and needs until I couldn't tell them apart anymore.
summer burned a path straight through my life bringing passion and a thirst for more,
I grew, I bloomed, I stretched my hands toward the sky without being afraid of it,
my hopes stood green and tall and proud against everything that came to bend them down,
and for one moment I actually believed the harvest would match the seeds I had planted.
autumn flew inside me on the wings of a wind that only knew how to take and leave,
it took the abundance and left behind a field that was cold and empty and silent,
I wandered through the fields of despair wondering where my own path had betrayed me,
and my optimism fell like the leaves, one by one, quietly, with nobody there to witness.
yeah, wicked winter with your rains that leave deep wounds inside my soul and won't quit,
you beat against me with your fists of ice thinking you'd find me already broken down,
but spring will come back with the certainty of a truth that nobody can ever erase,
and it'll bring with it every possibility belonging to a man who survived and keeps going.
I understand on this virgin ground with old tattered shoes
The elder southerners say, I don't belong here.\nThey're bloody feet on my neck
Yet I stand firm , I stand tall and proud
Demo raggedy shoes did I wear I wore
We're handed down by my grandpapa
Every fiber every thread every bloodshed
For you see , every step that he stood everywhere , he walked everywhere , he stood
Like a cotton wood tree , he covered his family
Like a dandy lion spread , his roots were strong
You see the tattered shoes , though they're hand me down
Is the status of shoes are generational
He started shoes speak of conversations
They have walked the land.\nS has been stripped , that's been hand in hand
Every model , every speck of dirt and sand
These tattered shoes have walked this unholy land.
I will not lose. I will no longer be abused and misused. I Don'n T need no Air Jordans.
I am not a burden nThese shoes of what I wear represents my generational share
In nanuce reality here's the clarity
I am a child of God and despite your abuse
Your thoughts, your views.Your opinions of me
I stand, I walk the this land
I stand on this soil this indigenous grounds
In my bronzed brown copper feet
Walking these their street
My forefathers too has worned these. those
-----Tattered Shoes
3/28/26
written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2026
cinnamon seeps into the home and I can already smell the sugar crumble
a fragrance of childhood innocence captures memories and recollections
different times they were when fresh food could only be bought in season
or harvested from a garden plot that teased my taste buds when growing
beans and potatoes where for the winter alongside spicy pickled cucumber
carrots and beet root were quietly flourishing under cover of fertile soil
to warm as soup longing hearts and bodies when the heating stayed cold
it was post-war and my family still remembered frost bombs and hunger
giving shelter a garden loo I remember was painted and faded in Royal Blue
with a heart carved out into the door although there was probably none
every time you sat there you knew you were producing valuable compost
sustainable living is neither a very modern invention nor flatulent science
behind it a rampant blueberry hedge stood tall and proud in the autumn
you had to duck and stretch out to pick the harvest from thorny branches
did not mind the scratches and bleeding because hunters and gatherers
know that food on the table required skill resilience as well as tough toil
the lacerations were like medals and badges of honour for the pickers
fuelled the collection bucked mixed with sweat from young skin full of
endurance purpose and meaningful clusters of patience and strong hope
for life pastry and home cooking in years when food had not to be fast
much later a psychotherapy lecturer painted a picture of therapeutics
and reminded me that blueberry crumble starts with flowering beauty
proceeds through passion and effort with spiky endeavour to seed
and preserving fruit and effort is a necessary rite of passage to reap
I have succumbed to taking my pills and they assist me on my journey
but when I feel blue I sit in my garden and listen for birds in the hedge
share crops with bees and grateful wasps in silence no sting in the tale
eat biscuits and feast on remembrance so that my nostrils fill with joy
21st August 2020
Painting on the Wall
I stand upon the roof of the world,
Rakaposhi breathes soft clouds of light,
Hunza lies below, a painted wall.
Spring drapes the valley in pink and white,
Cherry blooms wake to morning’s light,
Peaks shift their shades with the turning hour.
Black cliffs hold lakes of glassy blue,
Attabad cuts deep with veins of light,
Turquoise water splits the stone in two.
Rakaposhi rises tall and proud,
Mist spreads wings across the height,
Clouds float low like lilies on a shroud.
Autumn comes in fire and gold,
Trees burn bright in amber light,
Valley wears its richest shawl of old.
Thin air shows how nature works true,
Stars fall soft into the night,
Silence speaks where mountains guard the view.
Wind moves slow through orchard rows,
Apricot branches hum with light,
Each breath I take, the valley knows.
Sunset spills gold across the crest,
Pink fire burns on canvas bright,
I’m lost in heaven, held by the night.
The love of a rose is love of beauty
A love so trusting
Dead wood flowering profusely
Drawing from the earth and sun
Over wintered it has won
Tall and proud
Colour so vibrant and profound
In silence it’s colours no sound
Touch and you will see blood
Stems are laden with thorns
Keep away it warms
Such beauty it defends
We are it’s friends
Blood we shed in Autumn tide
So beauty of the bloom our bride
We endure the thorns so proudly sharp
Summer we reap beauty
That sings in colour like a harp.
Queen of flowers you give your all
We love your beauty endure your spikes
Your presence will always cause delights.