Long Vents Poems
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July 25th, 1996 tied the Gordian knot,...
(I spent noose cents)
begot deux daughters, the major events
both since flew cuckoo's nest,
the eldest angry at papa for offense
sieve behavior fatherly bond
forever sundered permanent rents
unforgiving progeny vents
bile, explosive vitriol whence...
Aye yen for bachelorhood every
now and again doth mildly abate
after saying "I do...,"
when axed by justice of peace
nearly two dozen years wedded
bull hissing, rest assured
I will abbreviate
encapsulate, fulminate, narrate...
and forthrightly admit,
yours truly oft times
yearned to abdicate
spousal unbridled warfare and injustice
reason enough to abnegate
null and void husbandry role
ex post facto finding thyself
questioning pledging troth even
Frosty the snowman would abominate
to say "screw this -
marriage nut for me"
bolt in a huff boot (dang)
ne'er did absquatulate
altercations that adhere
to rule of physics
and tended to accelerate
as muzzled, neigh saying saddled
former groom did
lament and accentuate
his physical needs,
she did not accommodate,
cuz this solitary soul
(with good n plenti horse sense),
never did fully acculturate
with female species,
one whose blunt cold front
seemed to accumulate growing
gripe list bestowed courtesy this mate
tit for tat wrathful pitiless,
(not so cherry) feedback unmatched
within annotated coupled courtship of fools,
this scrivener with steely
iron maiden breastplate,
nonetheless did rack up and accumulate
battle scars hitting bullseye,
since donned with
corrective vision spectacles
hen pecking, needling termagant
untameable shrew did acerate
(worse fate than death -
validated by grim reaper)
avowed covenant thru torturous years
exponentially punishing innocent soul
(slightly biased) did acervate
popping one after
another over the counter acetylsalicylate,
no ampule adequate
to relieve permanent suffering,
thus lifetime electric shock treatment,
nsync quaffing prescription
kool aid battery acidulate
ineffective to activate
palliative, and restore
liberty (yeah) sense and sensibility
subsequently providing freedom
against further wifely scourges
whereby Doctor Phil Ander
refused to adjudicate,
perhaps understandable why I advocate
selfless mercy killing (euthanasia)
for this urbane country bumpkin.
Our latest product is the Viv mark one,
please stop and take a gander,
coated with skin of medium grit
and an ass like an orbital sander.
Adjustable nozzle to help you reach
in all those hard to get places,
plus two large air vents for cold air intake
on a range of adjustable faces.
Exhaust pipe set down around the back
starts first time on the coldest mornings,
but use of improper fuels may lead
to blowbacks without warning.
Will decorate, and dig, and clean
all your household stubborn grime
and is guaranteed to get all jobs done
in probably six months time.
For contest 'Make me laugh', sponsor Robert Haigh
24th February 2018
Gaggles of ghetto girls mollycoddle, dandle cranky babies;
some cradled on arm and hip, some hustled along
on low-rolling rides. Granma’s noodle their talk
together with headshakes, busy body elbows akimbo.
Thin men lounge outside bodega’s, soft-soap,
play imaginary guitars, flash smiles at the slack sun,
dare it to glitz elsewhere. Daughters and aunts sit
on the steep stoops bare knees out and breezing,
smoke the tarry air with dreamy eyes, pass their whispered
words around like ticking tome-bombs. Street pigeons
rubberneck and preach like pavement parakeets.
Many a backyard mechanic bends over an engine block,
imagines curvy garbs air-dancing, blown outward from
street grates - hems billowing from vents, hormones hang
as heavy as greasy clouds.
The brownstones take a knee, sweat breaks over rooftops.
A scurry of hands work the rumbling city, roads beep ways
to late shifts. Those that ply less punched-out trades
slip into hankering gaps, the alleys, all the half-way loitering’s
that flicker into sight and are electrically juiced by the scatter
and clatter of bat wings.
The town steps down into basement bars, warm cars click like clocks,
beer cools the hotheads while on a midnight stage
wild women bump and grind for the sporting crowd.
who like all devoted followers of the tinsel and neon arts
launder old dollars inside the G-strings of plump
and twerking nymphs.
The town unravels itself then knits its windows out of the dawn
to ply its daydreams shod to walk and strut once more.
In the ocean’s vast and boundless deep, where light begins to cease,
A world of silent shadows casts a spell of tranquil peace.
Abyssal creatures, luminous with bioluminescent glows,
Paint streaks of light amidst the dark, where the deep ocean flows.
Jellyfish, like floating lanterns, illuminate the sable sea,
Drifting through the eternal night, in a ghostly, drifting spree.
Anglerfish, with lures of light, beckon through the abyssal plain,
A mesmerizing, glimmering beacon, in this tranquil, liquid domain.
Deep-sea vents, like chimneys, exhale plumes so rich and hot,
Harboring life in warmth and wonder, in the frigid, sunless spot.
Whales sing their melancholy tunes, reverberating through the deep,
A melody of ancient travelers, where the ocean secrets keep.
Corals, intricate and delicate, in the depths, quietly reside,
Creating havens for countless beings, where life and beauty abide.
Squid flash iridescent signals, conversations in hues and shade,
A vibrant dialogue in colors, in the oceanic parade.
In the abyss, where darkness reigns and where pressures densely pack,
Life forms with resplendent light, revealing nature’s knack.
For even in the most inhospitable, in the harshest, deepest sea,
Life finds a way to dance and glow, in beautiful, pulsing glee.
May we find inspiration, in these beings of the deep,
Who illuminate their own paths, where light is scant and steep.
In the glimmers of the abyss, amidst the pressure and the dark,
There resides a quiet, enduring spark, an ever-persistent mark.
For in the vast and inky dark, where hidden wonders lie,
We glimpse the boundless potential, under the ocean’s quiet sky.
May we carry forth this luminance, in our journeys, far and wide,
A beacon of resilience and hope, in life’s ever-turning tide.
(Land that doth marry mother lode
of sublime earthen land and sea).
Age of exploration
ushered cruel fate
against “red” men living
in bliss by agents
patch of eden north
o the Mason Dixon line
latitude: 39.64839
longitude: -75.95591 alee
perchance designed
by divine providence
with dyslexic humorous bents
Cecil county Maryland
lies like plump backward letter “e”
witnessed topographic erosion
pocked imprimatur marked
meteorological dents
thru inundation of
oceanographic propensities
melding coastline like the Galilee
in particular by Chesapeake Bay,
that body of water
abutting like natural fence
first witnessed by captain
John Smith in 1608
mistaking himself tong tied
in sole of Italy
learned faux pas, when crossing paths
with Susquehannas hence,
offered tobacco sticks to natives
while recovering
from injured wounded knee
said other sundry tribes curiously eyed
then (I utilized poetic license)
took smoke from packet of Kents
which twist on actual
historical facts manipulated by me
but more truthful account awash
and replete with more
than interspersed nonsense
and incorporates tract situated
in so called Fertile Crescent – see
settled by Europeans of English stock,
who emigrated with nary a pence
“taming” shrew like “noble savages”
plied Leviathan sized ukuleles
whose might exploited for felling forests,
which timber built cabins with vents.
~PIDGIN ON THE ROOF
Holler ya voice git down
Talk to me roost, nest, and dance.
Talking rooftops their height, providing a safe vantage point
Speak out potential threats moral sources.
Rest of the outside world understands not their voices
Roofs offer shelter from elements speaking nooks and crannies.
Speak compassion commandment reactions they ain’t no Jim Dandy
Talk to me for suit, pidgin on the roof
Here's a more detailed look what pigeons do on roof
Gathering voices protesting choices in languages from urban hoods
Use rooftops as resting spots, elevated areas ledges speak aloud their virtues
They build steps in various locations, dance under eaves,
Scream into vents rafters, and window sills,
Dance on materials like ground twigs N leaves.
Talk to me for suit, pidgin on the roof
Swoop down to ground level ta dance and voice their intentions,
Especially if there are nearby people formal gathers
Utilize rooftops to look down on citizens
Observing Predators atop shouting obscenities
Telling the world they don’t belong to these
The height of a roof offers a good view surrounding
Area spot potential predators
Git down git loose Pidgin on the roof
8/5/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2025©
English verse
ORIGINS
I
It began in the dank basement of the Thallasic column
steeped in abyssal brine of a thousand supernovae
so much alchemic sludge churned up, expelled by the co-tidal vice into the epeiric sea
A million points of organic flotsam and jetsam; Indra’s vast net billowing, swollen and bloated by myriad regurgitating fountains, shattered vents, open ocean scars
from which inky bathyl streamers wave to and fro
a trillion interactions, a revolution every second
The colossus flexes, stirs.
II
The inland sea carved a path awash with silt and sand-grain memories of a thousand shores
the alluvium mire replete with vagabond deposits
buoyant and bobbing
ethereal strands of angel hair wafting through the abyss
nerves and sinews and veins
myriad natant snowflakes tripping atop organic ooze
vast web spanning to the lapping fetch on clay-layered littoral ledges.
III
The swirling brew, rain-pummeled and vent-swollen
dividing, sub-dividing, swept by bitter sea brine
its mind’s eye under a thick film squints open.
---Life was not wrought in the witch’s cauldron---
---The Cauldron itself came to life---
The Universe awoke from its eternal slumber, and Thalassa stirred
rocked and bathed in a vast organic web, star lit and floating in a Nebula of Dreams
IV
Information-gathering units
each body a corpus of datum
splitting, spinning, joining, fusing
probing, flattening, bloating, separating
spawning countless non-appendage heralds
crawling, flying, walking, swimming, floating
WE ARE THE MANY IN THE ONE
WE ARE THE ONE OF THE MANY
WE ARE THALASSA
iv.
By Thanksgiving, their machinations no longer discreet,
Voices from the walls and vents, betrayed their deceit.
My family revealed as demons in flesh-and-blood guise,
Christmas Day was the day they had plotted my demise.
My nightmares more horrific, as that curséd day drew near,
Every morning, drenched in sweat, consumed by my fears.
So, I wore the mask of loving dad, right up till the Eve,
One last dream of the woman offering my reprieve.
"Your family is wicked. They'll kill you while you sleep.
Take the axe from the shed—when you swing, bury it deep."
v.
Christmas Eve, bright and early, I quietly left the room,
My family still sound asleep, silent as a tomb.
They awoke to hot cocoa, crackling fire, freshly fallen snow,
The smell of gingerbread, apple cider, their faces all aglow.
We spent the day playing games, told 'em how much I loved them,
Then kissed my wife off to bed, grabbed my son and hugged him.
"I care for you and your mom and would only do what's best.
I'll come wake you when Santa's gone," his head against my chest.
"I can’t wait! Goodnight, dad!" He bounded off to bed.
As soon as his door had closed, I headed to the shed.
With gas can and axe in hand, I moved with hurried stride,
And kicked open wide the door, where the first demon I spied.
With the axe, forty whacks, when I saw what I'd done,
I kicked down the other door, then swung forty-one.
I moved from room to room, possessed with righteous purpose,
Made the sign of the cross as I doused every surface.
The last drop, the living room, tossed aside the can,
Where among the gifts, an envelope, signed with child’s hand.
I removed a card and read—To The World's Greatest Dad!
With a photo of our family and the happy life we had.
I slumped beside the Christmas Tree with lit match and tearful gaze,
Then screamed as it and my wretched soul went up in hellish blaze.
As the flames consumed the heavens, a woman cackled with delight,
Disembodied laughter, that faded with the night.
"Although I'm familiar with the art of poetry,
no one has inspired my muse
to inscribe my own journal. -
so I placed my soul in her hands." Silent One
I used to be a journal,
daily dips of ink dripped
deep into my dilapidated soul.
Supporting sorrows of the one
who wrote with endeavour,
'letting go,' of the blackness,
infested within her veins.
Endless chapters of vents,
tears, fears and misery,
bleeding from ruptured arteries,
etched upon the fresh fibres
of a canvas of compassion.
In times of fantasy,
I was a field full of her
supressed wildflowers.
In reality, I was her diary
of deep, destructive desires.
Now her pen rests,
with a sharp nib pointing at me.
Like a shield, preventing
her ink to reveal the
truths behind metaphors.
I'm an anthology of her emotions,
wondering how the next chapter
will be written - is there more to confess?
But in her mute melancholy,
I can think of reasons to express,
but many more to remain inkless.
Yet no other 'ink-toxication' can fill this void -
I'LL FOREVER REMAIN WORTHLESS
as what purpose do I have
without her words perpetually
nourishing my empathic existence.
In this slumber, I collect dust,
feeling bare, but in her rejection -
hungering for her verses to soothe.
"Lucky me - I grew up by the Pacific sea" ~ quote by poet
Its depths and vast breadth suggest a mystery.
I've pondered it from airplanes, boats, and shore -
the Pacific Ocean in all its glory,
from its gentle lapping to its mighty roar.
Underneath the unchanging blue expanse,
lies a wide-ranging world of features -
magma oozing from deep sea vents,
blue whales, giant squid, and all kinds of creatures.
Earth's biggest site's fascinating history,
from Polynesians in palm leaf canoes
to the battles of recent generations,
and the many lives we had to lose.
More than that are personal memories
and evocations of sites and smells,
as my eyes well with salty moisture.
I am with Mother, picking up seashells,
And it's to the Pacific, I must thank
for the sunsets and moonlit nights,
promoting long lost budding romances.
Oh, how I miss those sweet delights.