Long Timber Poems
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I FALL-I'VE FALLEN TESTIMONY OF A FALLEN SOUL--
I walk step each step;
Step by step
I fall
I've fallen
I run a while,
Teetle-tottle
I fall fallen
I look up vertically;
Eyes blinded feel dizzy horizontally;
I wobble
I fall
Like a chop cut down tree
Timber fall
I'm fallen
My spirit mind, emotion ruined myself;
Didn't in time repent;
I fall, I fell;
Into hell
I fall
I fell
I've fallen
Could someone, somewhere
just dip just their finger in to a cool brook, a wet well;
This eternity hot I fallen, I fell unto hell
and this eternity forever HOT
8/26/20
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
A faint hearted silhouette,
Of a life once thought,
Surveyed the silent terrain
Of a forest plot.
Searching for creeds
In the bones of deeds
Her net came up empty
Only whispers were caught.
A canon of dreams,
Battles of air,
Toothless virtues,
Knuckles gone bare.
Damning a fight,
Stood a farmer trembling,
With fear he looked
At a rabbit’s cold stare.
A word adorned
In glory diamond frill
Longed for a text
To shine upon its bill.
Weaving in grammar,
With vain notes of a stammer
A loin cloth, a rag,
A fettered letter’s
Poisoned pill.
An immodest figure
Of hair-chested speech
Watched over squawks
Of birds on a beach.
Steaming in smothers
Of mosquito-like brothers
A bellicose vein
With nothing to leach
Bled profusely
For compassion to teach.
A steely vow thunders
At the grimace of night.
Speechless candle sermons
Brightens the light.
Wondering if dead means
Off with the head
A guillotine’s guilt
Came down from its height.
A voice of timber
Stood alone
Upon earth’s stage,
A guard with silent strength
A worker of our age.
Holding a wounded dove
With flower power
Tears of love
A woman revealed
How truth is concealed.
Daring to design,
At great risk of a fine,
She wove a garment
For our age:
Eden’s dress in brutal rage.
the end safety
No modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
The Med is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
we who do not travel watch the fire with awe
Further afield, people have too much water and drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber as matchboxes
For the rich to feel the heat, does it make them kinder?
Of course, it has nothing to do with us who live
where the breeze from the North Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
come when Outer Mongolia is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.
Vulture; brazen carnivore, perched high atop the tree
waiting, just waiting, to swoop down for his opportunity
to pick the bones of something or someone he wishes dead
and all the while he roosts and waits for his daily bread.
Nasty black-eyed bird of prey, your ego is fat with bloat.
Hide your cause beneath your claws, on yourself you dote.
Stay on the highest branches of the timber where you judge
but cast your glance behind before another gives you a nudge.
How dare you look upon the ones who's intentions are good.
How I wish to cover your demeaning raven head with a hood.
You snicker and you sneer, but nothing of worth do you bear?
Sink your claws onto paper; let others judge you, if you dare.
Glare until you've had your fill. Cry foul if you will not abate.
No more will your dastardly disguised scorn upon me grate.
Caw out your tale, as did Poe, of the striking rights you defend.
You wanted the last bite of flesh; you got it. Now it's the end
Hello! Jesus, my old friend
I've come to talk to you again
To receive blessings in early mornin' light
After the night
No longer in a world of silence
The sun rises once again
From distance shores of other men
The sky holds dreadlocks of dark grey
But can't keep the Son away
My tears as rain comes down
For all the world's evil around
In this mornin' silence
Hello! Jesus, come again__ fill my heart
Let me weep and not condemn
Show me what I can do
I want my life to count so for you'
In this world of silence
The birds to you sing their praise
Thank you Father for today
Thank you so for all the food
For the sun and the moon
For the glories of the sky
Then the crows crawing near-by
The changing colors of the sky
For the sound of silence
The crows are so distrubed
Are they greeting the sun with words
As it's changing the sky from night
With colors so gloriously bright
The sky's sun casting magenta on the dreadlock clouds
Crows singing very loud
To the sound of silence
Are the timber cutters disturbing
The crow's roost
Those silhoeutted trees against the rose tinted clouds
Of the mornin' blue sky
That lift arms of praise to the sky
In the sound of silence
Roosters begin their tune of love
The tune that you gifted them to sing
In the mornin' silence
Ocean wave charcoal clouds
Jet streak going through
Mornin' silence is distrubed with a noise
In the mornin' silence
Clouds have changed to golden sand
Sun has risen again soon to heat the earth
Restoring leaves to green the trees
In the sound of silence
On the rise of a hill, overlooking the bend
Where the old gravel road, seems to narrow and blend
Stands your bony remains, weathered timber and nails
Posing regal contentment, without praise or complaint
Lacking attention, but for birds and the rain..
Leaning slightly in back, from the north to northwest
Squeaking a bit, from a past of neglect
It clings to the wind, to a past that has spent
The years have abused you...
No longer called useful?
I beg to reply...I think you are beautiful
Strong beams held you strong
Your day's work was done
When the wind caught your breath
and death came with drought, where doubt found a home
Now the birds make their home on the wings of your song
Pride came from the hands that came to erect
Hammered a nail with faith's dedication
Placing each board, with hope and conviction
A wheel, standing regal, a workhorse with fervor
Once brought new life, from the depths of a river
The years have abused you...
No longer called useful?
I beg to reply...I think you are beautiful
--------------------------------------------------
Along the upper estuary,
boats laid beached on mud
like whales you see
on news clips stranded
helpless in the drained shallows
of a low tide. These boats
too were out of their natural world
of water and easy float,
their freedom was the distance
swung on the arc of a rope.
We would clamber up their listing
hulls and into the ribbed
bellies of the bigger boats,
huddle in the dank,
fish foul air of cabins
and turn wheels hard to port.
They were the holds loaded
with the cargoes of our childhood.
Later, there was a sad absence
occupying the helm, neglect
peeling the paint and seeding
rot into weathered timber.
They stunk of decay.
Most boats were abandoned,
fastened for years
to the monotony of tides,
sentenced for life
to lift and fall on the same spot
or sink and be broken up.
And yet they remain anchor points
to what is real, positioned
as it were in a world where things
can be felt, have substance
and assume a shape
mirrored in your mind.
They float secure
on a sea of nothingness whose
sterile depths beckon and beguile
and would claim poetry
to feed the ethereal swans
of Stephane Mallarme.
Here is where a poem
has a smell as well
as make you feel and think
without recourse to meaning,
becoming mere magic.
Beneath Bruised Skies
The wind, a ghost with an unseen hand,
Whips grit and dust across the Oklahoma land.
It carries the smell of ozone, sharp and cold,
A story whispered, ancient, bold.
You feel its tug, a constant plea,
A playful push, then suddenly,
A heavy cloak of pressure drops,
As every buzzing insect stops.
The sky turns bruised, a sickly green,
A painted canvas, rarely seen.
The air grows thick, a metal taste
Of fear, a moment held in haste.
Then distant rumble, low and deep,
Like giants stirring from their sleep.
The sound of sirens, a mournful wail,
As funnel clouds begin to sail.
A twisting finger, dark and grand,
Tearing through the heart of the land.
Houses splinter, timber flies,
Beneath the terror in the skies.
Yet, in the wake, a silence falls,
Broken by the lone bird's calls.
A strange calm follows, soft and low,
As if the earth begins to glow.
And here's the truth, etched in the scars:
Oklahoma, beneath these stars,
Learns resilience from the gale,
A strength that tells a timeless tale.
For every structure ripped and torn,
A deeper bond is bravely born.
The wind may rage, the sky may weep,
But hope and spirit, here, run deep.
It's not just terror, wild and free,
But a testament to what we can be.
Selected by the swift sound of hand to shoulder blade,
The bells upon their ankles sounded like seven trumpets
to me. I had been a chosen sheep among the Shepherd’s flock.
Lead me my Pharisees, I wish to see feel the glee in following
the Lamb within me.
The weight of my new necklace, crudely crafted of twine and timber,
swayed in a schism'd rhythm between my shins
bruises born from my steadfast faith. For I have never fasted
Before, all there was in my Ziploc bag was a single raw egg,
Two slices of wonderbread, three matches with no book.
I heard fireflies bounce in the air between my ears,
I could not see, you see I was blindfolded, but I felt no fear.
The marching sounds stopped, balsam trees surrounded me
and the rest of the chosen tribe.
Night befell the evening, the stars jumped and danced for me
For the Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty, His strength
flowed like the river Jordan in my veins. I had no chains.
Never had I felt grace like this before.
We awoke with gnats in our nose, centipedes between our toes
We arose, and our trials we must undergo.
Silence is the sound of our worship, broken by the
wood bashing between our bitten legs.
The kindling was wet, the bread was stale,
forging for food in the raspberry bushes, hunger flashed
in front of my eager eyes.
Memorize second Corinthians, some stories
I no longer care to remember. I felt the splinters
in my shins, the twine singed the hairs of my neck.
The breeze swung between the leaves and sung chants
that worshiped the King amongst kings.
The counselor crept out of the brush, and with
immense embarrassment I flushed
any of the chances of becoming one of the chosen few.
I could not immerse myself within the verses.
His eyes struck disappointment deep into my gut,
his knife drawn I knew I was cut.
The log crashed to the ground like lightning, the
twine left my skin red and raw. It felt like the
sting of a thousand roses thrust upon my nape.
My cross was no longer mine to bear, it was the end
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care.
I descended from the shining hill, back to
the cabins and basketball nets. I had failed.
There is a creek I will never wade, never cross,
I drowned in my disdain, my faith may be lost.
Another camper, another kid, lost in the flock
of the Shepherd’s failed kin.
Greed overtakes any prospector looking for gold.
Here I am above the Arctic Circle braving the cold.
The bitter freezing is enough to kill anyone young or old.
The river flows under a very thick sheet of ice.
Temperatures at fifty degrees below zero are not nice.
It is late morning, and the sky is a crepuscular gray.
That golden orb called the “sun” has gone away.
I won’t see it again for weeks as it is below the horizon.
That big husky dog with me is much like his timber wolf cousin.
To keep warm, chewing tobacco is of no use.
Anyone can grow a beard from frozen tobacco juice.
It is unlikely the subzero temperatures will get any higher.
Until I get back to camp, I will just have to build a fire.
Based on the short story “To Build a Fire” by the late Jack London