Long Thrice Poems
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The Heavy Price Paid To End The Deepest Of Dark Pains
In my night-dreams, flies jargon of oracles wise and profound
words given that break heavy chains by which I was once bound
just a conversation with my dark-muse and her ancient friends
as she promised, they provided a means to making of my amends
tho', they are not angels, and each one exacts a heavy price
one that costs this soul very dearly and I have to pay thrice!
For when I reenter this dark world and walk among the dead
I am commanded to do a ghastly deed, one I so truly dread
kill, on first day of each week, not true villains as a great release
my victims are to be the innocent or else their help will cease
this long forty year vicious cycle only ends when I shall perish
or dare'st to murder that which my heart most fervently so cherish!
Alas! They knew well such great cost I would never ever dare to pay
what do they say, poet's ink is the blood that keeps devils away
yet all of my devils dance gaily within my red-blood splattered ink
and to this day, I sorry at how low my desires caused me to sink
tho' with glee, they told me this also would make it all go away
if I would murder my own beloved wife and use her blood to pay!
Now to commit that unthinkable act, its time has too soon came
I had played with fire, sought the dark gods, played their game
the oracles I told would get their last pay come full moon tonight
this would bring buckets of blood, to their greatest of delights
each one appeared and gave me more useless advice to seal the deal
having no clue, that this old tired poet, himself would thus kill!
All that gloomy day I worked to make sharp the sacrificial knife
to kill the monstrous monster they had made, not its beloved wife
she I had sent very far away, to visit her beloved family in Spain
to spare her this night's bloody sight, never to see her again
now the full moon has risen, that dark, dreaded midnight hour came
I give you my friends, these sad words bereft of a dark poet's name!
signed,
In honor of my hero, Edgar Allan Poe
1-31-2019
Note, this now finished piece was the other poem(4th) that I had
wanted to present when honoring Poe in my ongoing dedication series.
I only just finished it today, early this morn. I hope you may find
it dark, ghastly, and very Poe'esq in somber mood and its darkness..
Cabbie with A Heart
This latest news about a selfless taxi driver…
The kindness out of his heart is a source for wonder ….
In the daily business of ferrying his charges for a fee…
He works long hours , morning till dusk before going off free ….
As a family man like any other, he provides for his family with his daily takings..…
Time is ever precious, more ferrying means better daily earnings…
Just as any other hard working Malaysian, he always there to give service…
Doing his utmost best each day in providing a transportation service…
For a working man such as he, where time and his service means money…
It surprises to know this taxi driver willingly sacrifices his time and money….
All for an aged yet loving couple, who are yet to be classified as senior citizens..
Who are only in their late forties and yet the woman has chronic kidney disease…
This stricken woman requires a thrice-a-week treatment at the dialysis center….
The fare is an exorbitant RM30 to pay even if the center is but a short drive away
It is always a trying time to hail for a taxi willing to take them to the center..
For the word is out that they are unable to pay the full fare, even not at all..
One fine day, as they scoured in vain for a taxi to take them to the center..…
Up came Mr Jong, an elderly and sprightly taximan, willing to ferry them over…
The kind hearted soul in him accepts only RM20 for his service, if possible..
He’s such a good man, giving discounted rides and payments in installments..
Taxi driver Jong, 61 years old, thinks he is doing something simple…
Out of the goodness in his heart, he is now on their call three times-a-week…
It matters not, Jong wisely observes, I am Chinese and they are Malays in need…
God willing, I will stay healthy and I trust them to pay me when they able indeed..
So fellow Malaysians, do marvel at this display of humanity on the streets…
There are countless other good deeds being played out that are not called to heed…
But this episode runs contrary to the prejudices and the mistrust on racial lines..
It calls for brotherhood love, as the same colored blood runs common beneath our skins..
http://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2015/12/16/a-kind-and-caring-taxi-driver-cabbie-drives-couple-to-dialysis-centre-without-expecting-payment/
At the last supper He declared,
"One of you is my betrayer".
They questioned Him and each denied
Then all joined in song and prayer.
Mount Olive was the next stop
They could see He was distressed,
But they fell asleep while He prayed,
Even those who loved Him best.
When the mobs came with their clubs and swords,
Disciples turned from men to mice.
Even stalwart Peter faltered
And in fact denied him thrice.
Then Judas boldly kissed Him.
It was the cruel betrayer's sign
And they took him off to Pilate.
All was part of God's design.
Jesus had to die to save us.
Calmly He accepted fate.
"Crucify Him. Crucify Him."
Love for their Christ had turned to hate.
They nailed Him to the cross and mocked Him
As He hung between two thieves.
Jesus said to His companions,
"I can save he who believes."
Darkness fell across the whole land
And at three o'clock He died.
Then the women who had followed
And His mother loudly cried.
Joseph from Arimathea took His body
Which Pilate graciously allowed.
Joseph wrapping Him in linen
Carried Him past sobered crowd.
The two Marys who had followed
And another named Salome
Watched as He was quickly buried
Then each went sadly to her home.
On the evening of the Sabbath
They brought spices to embalm Him,
These two Marys and Salome
Who had worshiped and adored Him.
Early on that Sunday morning,
The women again came to the tomb.
Unsure if they could roll the stone
To unseal His burial room.
But they found the room wide open
With an angel sitting there.
"Your Lord's not here, He has arisen."
They could only stand and stare.
Mary Magdalene, cured from demons,
Was first to see Him now alive.
She told disciples, but they answered
"That's a bad tale to contrive"
The grieving disciples locked themselves
Into safety in a room.
They felt as isolated
As was Jesus in His tomb.
To their amazement, Jesus entered
Showed His dreadful wounds and scars.
He told them He would rise to Heaven.
(Is Heaven found among the stars?)
He bade them to tell His story
And to spread it through all lands.
The faithful disciples did so
And the world now understands
That we sinners killed our Savior,
But we know we'll be forgiven.
If we believe in Him and trust Him,
He will gather us to Heaven.
Written: March 31, 2015
Ta'likra
was a most stubborn slave
He loved to rattle the chain
It was a sound of pure defiance
that echoed across the lush plantation terrain
Son of Antuk
had a pygmy burning bush spirit
He seethed silently
as the lashes dug deep into his back
The masters hoped the other slaves
would see this bloody spectacle and fear it,
thwarting any thoughts of a rebellious attack
He was beloved by the other slaves,
he had a will of burnished steel
He had a big heart, noble and brave,
his presence strengthened the weak and the ill
The European rulers had a troublesome dilemma:
If they killed Ta'likra, they would make him a martyr;
causing him to live still past his death,
stirring up angry African chants of unrest
And if they let him live,
he would continue to challenge their authority
Thus making it harder to rule over
the other slaves with complete fear and impunity
They struck a balance as to what they would do,
they would whip him daily, give him meager rations
Eventually break his spirit down to ashes
But that didn't work against this
four-foot-two mountain of a man
He was Pygmy,
he was a dark bush man
He was pure African,
borne upon the hot desert sand
He didn't fear death,
he didn't fear pain
Thrice bitten by the deadly viper,
he loved to rattle the chain
The masters, unable to break his spirit,
were perplexed and at wits end
When a wizened one with gnarled raised hand,
offered up a most enlightened plan
This old, white medicine man
appealed to Ta'likra in a peach grove
He said, where would the souls of the ancestors go,
if the tree of life isn't allowed to flourish and grow
The tender buds of the future will wither away,
and the great roots of your ancestors will die here today
Let us gather up the ancient leaves, my warrior friend,
and build a fire of peace
Let us pay homage to the holy ancient ones
with gifts of love and largesse
For as the stars will not always remain in the sky to stay,
the chains of slavery will be removed from your people one day
Ta'likra, the Pygmy prince,
peered into the blue eyes of the old man,
and thought deep on his sage sayings
Then he arose in dignified grace
and silently walked away
He never once rattled his chain again,
he kept his untamed rage locked in the cage within
He came into your life from afar
At first he stood and watched from a distance
He whispered not to you but to another
Then he stepped closer to call forth-another one
This one like you
Sorrow called forth Nanator and with him your soul
He faded and tainted your most precious gift
He reached out to fleck my wings with grey too that day
For that day he nearly filled the well again
Still he had barely begun and his work grew ever closer to us both
This time he whispered to you from a foot away
Thus thrice he reached out to call forth another
Yet each time ‘twas I who wept for our suffering
For no tears have fallen from thine eyes in many years
Still Sunder gave you something in return for all he had stolen
Didn’t he . . . didn’t he
For all the bits and pieces of your soul
You were given something so dearly precious it hurt to have it
And now you lament with a voice to be heard
By the few who were to know the one buried so deep inside
The few to be loved and to love you
Desolation knew this would be so
So he whispers to you often now and from afar
Knowing that you cannot help but to listen and to grieve
With your new voice
Though it rarely rises above a breath to be a whisper
It sings of your great disenchantment
Your disbelief and your faith in the void
It allows you to cry
To tell the tale and story of your greatest sorrow
Within you there lies a faith of something more
And the desire to see
And cause the light to glimmer within another’s eyes
One whose life could carry your hopes within them
To lend your strength to
One who might have all that you denied yourself
For these long and many years
So heavy upon your shoulders
And yet this can never be and this is what despairs you so
For none to follow you
None at all
Never
Never”
And thus she spoke to me plainly
To show me my loss of faith anew
So in her despair in her sorrow
My unbelief breathes again
My search for desolation reborn
For this knowledge too great to bear
Thus I fled and so it was
I ran
A great many years
I hid myself deep within
Beyond the reach of sunlight and the eye of the moon
And in the darkness
I tore out all that caused my pain
I read everything again
To see
And to know
Why it was I had
So long ago embraced wholly my unbelief
Here it comes again, the daily reminder ...
cold sweats out of nowhere that hit me like a slap
on the face, my entire body turning clammy wet in an
instant, three-or-four times every day. Then there's the
uncontrollably exaggerated yawning and eyes that won't stop
watering, a runny nose as if instant hay fever, and that nearly in-
tolerable creepy muscle thing ... that's the worst symptom of all by
far, (akathisia, it's called), because you CAN'T hold still - all your bones
and muscles have to move at once, or you quite simply can NOT tolerate it.
I always say a prayer that it only happens a few
times each day, and only lasts for a short time, but
to be honest, it's a nightmare, and inside I'm cursing ...
cursing myself for this reminder. The reminder of a terribly
bad decision that I made thirty years ago. Oh, my "problem"
is under control, thanks to a wonder drug that did indeed save
my life, (when my heart stopped thrice), and while I no longer abuse
anything, that accursed monkey is still there, riding me like a two-dollar
mare, and reminding me a few times each day, that it's completely in control.
Yes, I'm alive and writing this because of it, and
as thankful as a human can be, truly, but I'm light-
years from the obliged kiss-off I dream about giving it.
You see, it creates another problem all its own, one they
don't tell you about when you start on "The Program", that
this particular monkey, while having the power to save your life,
is also the strongest, most tenacious monkey that exists, by FAR,
and the chance of you ever giving it that dreamed-about final goodbye,
are easily the longest odds you've ever had, especially with a weakened heart.
But you push your mind to try to remain thankful
nonetheless, because after all, you ARE still alive ...
alive and kicking and getting these wonderfully horrific
reminders each day, of just how little control and charge
and health and power you have over your own life ... alive
and moving through life like you have a giant condom on your
body and mind and emotions, not really FEELING or emoting or
experiencing much of anything in the way a human being SHOULD be,
but alive and breathing and functioning ... you ARE still alive ... aren't you?
Once thy future spouse (Abby Zison) found herself in the family way
(with what would turn out to be the first of our two daughters – i do say
determined and sealed the decision per our rolling in the figurative hay
to wed said mother of thine deux female progeny
on an agreed (in Linkin Park) upon a green day.
Both of us happened to be older grown offspring at ten times thrice
Or three plus decades to be generally precise
our fate sealed sans no hup hauling clay dice.
Said age difference approximately a year and a half between us two,
and miserably living with parents, which o’er the years rancor grew.
I agreed to pledge my troth on the premise this writer
(christened Matthew Harris) aka king o one scott the lighter
found himself in the throes of becoming a potential mister mom)
per one dominant seminal striver a darwinian foo fighter.
Since neither of us took any precautions and thru caution to the wind
the inevitable (i.e. a so called bun in the oven) nonetheless
tasting supposed verboten fruits branded us as having sinned
took us by surprise and got us necessarily biologically pinned.
Even though a decision to tie the gordian knot (more like a noose)
per donning the role of future father tightened and n’er got loose
an inner conflict jostled thine inner being
against forming a legal wedded union – the deuce.
Prior to taking that legal vow to be husband and wife
until death doth us part before the justice of the peace
(which building matter of fact, happens to be
a hopper, skipper and jumper
from where this seat experiences posterior strife
because this gluteus maximus constitutes on bony ****
as if being cut by a knife
matrimonial bliss seemed like a pipe dream
in subsequent years only to spiral into a maelstrom of chaotic life.
In truth, the prospect to marry
in general mills and aforementioned gal in particular
hardly filled yours truly with giddy excitement
but a decision this troubadour wished to defer and tarry
even as of this writing thoughts meander envisioning
the bachelor life - since daughters grown and I feel self confidant
to manage the unforeseen challenges of life, and hence less wary.
The Cunning Stranger at Dragon's Lair - A Narrative Poem
One day at a comic shop,
I met a man selling cats,
For the money, he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some bats.
"Got any bats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money (wow)."
"No bats here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.
This ain’t no zoo or pet store!
"We've got some interesting comics,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some ergonomics."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.
The store owner said I got Batman # 7;
The man said I’d rather have rabies.
The man seemed exceptionally energetic,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call acetic,
The great disdain he noticeably oozed.
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit cunning.
Still, he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty stunning.
In his hand was Spider-man # 5.
In mint condition worth $1.000.00, what a fine;
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the comic shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."
"Cats, bats, you shall not find.
Comics, ergonomics, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to Dragon's Lair Comics.
So to Dragon's Lair Comics, I decided to go,
In search of the bats, I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But I felt that the day could be saved.
There were stalls selling comics,
Role-playing cards many heroes shades.
There were even stalls selling home economics
People were scattered from many trades
I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather cunning
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady.
I wondered if she was at all stunning.
Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some bats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some comics and cats.
"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the bats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.
As I walked away I heard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?
Next door to the comic shop Acme Pet Store?
For you see a pet bat, not a cat or a comic was I looking for
6/6/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
There was a dense fog upon the land
not a fit night for animal nor man...
the moon did change its silvery view
replacing it now was a blood red hue....
There just beyond thicket of the marsh road
lies the endless tar pits of bubbling black
It has been told that should one fall in it ~
There would definitely be no turning back....
Oh, how the populace did dread passing the pits
for all knew what dwelled within it...
Goblins dared not cross over it... and the vampire bats
would not go anywhere near it...
Even the witches feared this Halloween night,
as they packed their caldrons and potions...
preparing their broomsticks readying for flight...
too escape the diabolical one, known as Dark Blight.
Alley cats sat on fences and drank black draught, tonight
thence, sang they a harrowing song full of fright...
As the draught turned their multi-colored coats
to the colors of pitch black midnight...
The domesticated dogs remembered
their kindred brother wolves....
Soon they gave chase to lost souls,
while howling at the man in the moon...
So it began... with large boney fingers liken to ashy white talons
Dark Blight emerged scatching its way to the surface... its massive black shoulders
bearing a skull revealing eyes which burned
liken to red hot coals with yellow pupils set a glow...
With a sinister grin he did appear from within the pitch black pits
pentagrams and talismans were etched upon his sinewy back....
such slimy black skin mirroring centuries of horrors from many Halloweens past.
Oh, indeed there would be no rest for the weary wanderers this night...
Unless, a champion should appear in time to put things a right....
until then Dark Blight would continue to pass through the night; slithering upon his
belly ~
all the while leaving a dark trail as red as raspberry jelly...
Even the Ghouls knew and would stir clear of the sweet sticky pools
The Gnomes stood careful guard over homes,
whilst watching over all babes and fools....
For such tender flesh made the Dark Blight's lips drool...
The crows cawed thrice and the hoot owls hid their eyes....
Oh, the night was nothing nice, as blood chilled like ice....
Who would put a stop too the dastardly Blight...?
Anchors Aweigh...
destination unknown
for this Earthling
stardate: February 26th, 2022
At sea since time immemorial
I relish being alone
upon oceanic expanse
yours truly doth bemoan
me gal Sal (one among
numerous female confidantes),
no matter, she easily
mistaken as a crone
magical powers keep
her manning far aloft drone
as surveillance hovers above me
(to intercept encrypted
communication maintained
courtesy bluetooth earphone)
the two of us sol survivors
I feel like a foreigner since
global thermonuclear war
bombed webbed wide world
into pulverized power
vaguely similar landscape
to age of Fred Flintstone
and Barney Rubble
recurring memories redolent
of yesteryear, whereby I groan
though simple living
such as me and the missus
did Potschke coaxing homegrown
organic fruits and vegetables,
though, I attest we did
get violently angry with each other
and unwittingly cross interzone
where brickbats exchanged,
especially after she discovered
an illicit extramarital affair
between myself and Joan
since kindergarten her I known.
Weather beaten cap'n,
and watertight bewitched craft
time tested since maiden voyage
(circumnavigating the globe
back in the day of my youth),
I ranked tough as a pitbull,
when severely pitted
against raw elements
of swiftly tailored,
harried stylish nature
against leathery faced
reptilian skin, hard drinking
(actually as corked
poetic convenience - vermouth
arbitrary bottle of choice
if for no other reason,
than to rhyme
with the above line),
and tobacco spitting, while
colorfully swearing as an uncouth
Furies (of Agamemnon)
fighting (tooth
and nail) Pirate,
where rickets, scurvy,
and thrice unconscious,
currently ample proof
could not forsooth
bring me to Davy Jones's locker,
cuz I never wanna
get relegated to an underwater
whale schooled booth,
this raconteur can nonchalantly,
glibly, and blithely attest,
with braggadocio, despite
no warm welcome will
ever greet mine tinnitus
pained ears, I can plainly
imagine acrimonious retort
upon me behest
his far more'n lifetime
bobbing (like a sponge)
square pants float
buoyed atop crest longing e'en for
(carping, caviling, hen pecking,
or shrewish) wife.