Long Weeded Poems
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No romance today.
The cemetery was deserted,
at the far edge of the tiny village,
shrouded in a fine sultry fog.
Large black trees threw darkened shadows
over the deserted gruesome sepulchers.
Few cared to visit, few cared to tend the tombs.
A large hawthorn hedge, irregularly grown,
surrounded its oblique perimeters.
Cursed, the villagers said
for it never flowered red blooms
during any time of the year.
An old hunchback lived there,
he lived all alone, with no one to care
No one fed him, no one was his friend.
No one knew where he came from,
no one knew his name,
but he loved the lonely forsaken place:
he weeded out the desultory paths,
and cleaned the old dreary tombs,
he planted evergreens and white flowers,
to welcome the damned and the doomed.
Only one woman came to visit,
constantly, rain or shine, every blessed day.
The hunchback would give her a white flower.
And she returned the gesture with a dime.
No word was spoken, nor looks exchanged.
She’d go to a small tomb, presided by a tearful angel.
The grave was covered with a cold white marble slab.
There she’d leave the white flower,
stand for a while in silence till she left,
No tears fell down her wrinkled old face.
The cemetery prevailed in gloom.
By invitation from a trusted friend,
a medium intervention took place and I went.
The building set in the thick forest by a shimmering lake,
some broken sheds looking sad and strange to take.
Weeded and worn the manor house thatch,
a frail welcome and the oil lamp in my face, opens the latch.
Guided into a stony room, a roaring fire giving light to others,
all wearing coats to darkness trance of matter.
Musky sandalwood and smoke heavy on the eye,
cold winds slapping windows nearby.
Tattered curtains reveal a stone cast from the wall,
a female priestess turns into a fragile light, while some stones just fall.
The purple silver dress enriching her timeless gestation,
taken centre stage and a bow of appreciation.
‘Weary dreary, the lot of You’,
the soft velvet voice seeking attention, of what to do.
“I roaming with a hungry heart,
and I invite you to my noble sphere”.
‘And all I see are empty cloaks everywhere’.
You charlatans and prosperous healer,
you happy clapper and commercial dealer.
‘When will you lot start to provide genuine visions,
which are not based on commissions’.
‘This labor by slow prudence not to fail,
needs the wind of compassion to sail.’
‘Some work of noble note is still to be done’,
Deep moans round with many voices,
some shriek from there own detected choices.
‘We need to be one equal temper with heroic hearts,
to strive, to seek, to find the virtue of healing art’.
The doctrine is simple, ancient and true,
Life’s trial that you only love what is worth your love,
has little consequence by the miracle above.
The fire crashes to a flicker and darkness takes the hand,
The faint voice of the priestess so clear, “Wake and understand”.
Feeling lost in the solemn and strange,
wondering about the elements it takes to change.
I have seen it slowly coming,
and I do not know what to do,
a slow but steady erosion
in the world’s average IQ.
It started back in the nineties,
a slow but steady drip since then,
decline in mental fortitude
amongst our women and men.
I’m not talking partisan stuff,
though this doesn’t help with that crap,
I’m looking at evolution,
which never really takes a nap.
Some jolly heretics speak up,
but most others tend to ignore
that our success undermines us,
and this has happened before.
It happened back in ancient Greece,
and it happened to ancient Rome,
when we wipe out all our hardships,
when our struggles are banished, gone,
we find ourselves in a mismatch,
we find ourselves rather bored,
our minds are made to solve problems,
this is a fact we can’t ignore.
Part of us craves security,
and leads us to suppress the fact
that instinct craves volatility,
without it we go off track.
We even stop having children,
when not faced with hardship and death,
lose that urge for immortality
if we know what’s coming next.
The ultimate contradiction,
that in order to really live
we must feel like the end is near,
and without that, we’re bored as sh-t,
losing the age-old impulse to
keep things going and carry on,
we are evolved for the struggle,
and without it things go wrong.
Harder still is it to realize
that the fact we all now survive
leads to growing mutations that
make it harder for us to thrive.
As late as the 1800s
half of us died when we were young,
a thought that’s sobering to me,
since I know I would’ve been one.
And cruel as it may be to think
all that death may have played a role,
weeded out weakness, mutation,
left those who lived stronger as a whole.
But we’ve always been caring types,
and our science ended this trend,
we stopped all this mortality,
and thought things would get better then.
For many decades that seemed true,
but now the data has reversed,
without Darwin’s remorseless hand
the incentives are now adverse.
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
And this is the origin of victory:
A man once went to sow his mustard seed;
The path to his garden was impassable muddy
And the weather was discouraging awry,
Thin drizzle and heavy downpour alike
Made clothes stick to his sodden body;
He however firmly held his seed
For in his mind was registered the re-affirming need
To reap abundantly when the harvest came.
And though tares throttled his seed,
He one by one weeded them out
Until the crops were dancing in the freedom of breeze.
But after a time rather short
Pests and disease fell upon the green garden
And all crops were about to wither as a result,
But the industrious farmer fought them strong;
He sprayed chemicals and with his hands crushed the aphids dead,
And after a time surprisingly short villagers gathered around in a throng
Wondering how he managed to have his garden green
When they all stared with uncertainty the prospect of famine.
And thieves tried to steal at night
But the diligent farmer smoked them out;
He labored steadily to the end
Until he harvested barns and barns before the drought
While some neighbors chose suicide
Than face the gallows of hunger.
Others had no where to hide
And were seen borrowing with shame
While blaming the weather for theIr misery
And cursing God's benevolent Name!
This parable is for you to unravel
And upon its substance ponder and marvel:
The lazy man blames his tool,
And some have taken Providence for a fool;
They blame the times and others seasons
While the same should supply ample reasons
Why they should succeed to the brim
For nothing without a cause is ever allowed by Him!
DREAM SPENT ETERNITY WITH GOD IN CHRIST
Had a dream like David did
Jesus came led me by my hand
There we stood in front of God
I was in awe
I open up my mouth and said
There are no street lights in heaven
And why aren't the people sad and crying in heaven
And why are all the children so well behaved,
and what happen to mankind unhappiness
And why are the animals smiling, there's no violent anywhere
And why are there trees and non-weeded grasses everywhere
Why is no one over thirty the beast and the homey now is pretty
All evil no longer found, everyone now beautiful
We mankind shall be remolded reshape and remade beautiful
Placed into the prefect image of the true and living God
Forever praising Him eternally forevermore
Spending eternity forever with God in Christ
03/6/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
God, I come to you in quiet meditation seeking divine growth ~~
May I step with centered senses
As I climb my negative fences:
All my vision seeing far and near,
Bright in light, truthfully clear;
Both my feet saying no to retreat,
Standing faith strong my life long;
Please so each ear with knowledge hear –
Be calm, be silent, be ever reliant;
Powerful words emitted be manifest committed
To realizing the divine in this life of mine;
Hands do be love, a touch made of
Joy as directed from God above;
And, every thought weeded as a garden,
Pure with intent, never requiring pardon.
Thank you, Father, Mother, God
There's some urge in me that makes me want to dance. Dance the dizzying spin
of childhood again until I fall still, mimicking the lifeless on the grass and laugh
with the scent of dirt and air and life. No fear
of the unclean. Or the co-mingling scent of alcohol-laden
sweat or the lingering eyes of intoxicated men.
No music but the wind. This simple want is simple enough
to mend. So the un-doing must be my vice. But it's unwanted
and I'm thinking twice. What the heart wants is wild. Primal.
Behavior is not a spontaneous thing,
but a learned reaction. Like the fear of being seen
for too far gone and past the customary
stretch. I've been afraid. But nobody wins
without starting the race for the long-haul
even if it turns out to be a short spin. Nobody knows
and that's the thing
and the irony about what we know. If you want to taste the fruit
you might have to risk falling from the tree. It's the anecdote
of craving for the wild. And we all do.
So there's that cliche "passion for adventure".
I want to feed it what it craves and watch it spring up forbidden fruit
undeterred. Uncontrollable. Bloom into a raging obsession
that's dangerous. But it's a dangerous game,
and it's all about the novelty of a thing. That's how I know the game
is still wild. Right alongside our securities and self-inflicted
responsibilities that take front seat to the natural methods
we make to survive.
And there's suburban housewives,
and seven o'clock dinners
in the bigger houses for the biggest winners.
But we're never really cultured because culture's a lie.
We're just reprimanded too many times and the sameness
is weeded out through the television lines telling us stories
about the difference that coordinates the violence.
But people have to have their vices.
A way to let out the wild hoping for ways that appear tame,
if we give them a proper name just like our actions in the dark.
Or the things we want to do when nobody's watching,
and so we learn pretend games instead
until the feeling is dead.
Or expressed or repressed. And sometimes we joke about
the urges.
But it only gives the wild a different name.
Outside Jesus Town
Old man dusted off his hat and whiskers
Polished off a tumbler of red wine
Continued baking in the California sun
Outside the town of Jesus, just east of it, before the mines
There to finish his raw sculpture of a sandy rusted man
Bent over, sitting on a worn out stool
The desert followed the old artist
It is everywhere
He blended in with it
Black hat and shirt were not the best apparel for the heat of day
They are the only clothes the old man owns
He scavenges the dried out lands for metals
Rusted iron is the best to build the sculpted figure
A monument to life out there on prairies
Where heat and art and wine take part in nature
And pull it all together from the dark
The white bearded man with tumble weeded hair
Stands contemplative just east of Jesus
Planning his next rusted man
But blinded by the noon day sun
Created on 12/05/14 for- East Jesus – Poetry Contest
Anacreaontic
Do daffodils cry
Do snow drops shed tears
Do willows weep
Do blue bells bawl
April showers
Don't weep for winter
Miss the howling winds
Sob for snow white outs
Sad on cloudy days
April showers
Splash of yellow
A dash of blue
A drop of white
Edged with green
April showers
Birds sing for joy
Rabbits have a romp
Bee's buzz the flowers
Frogs lay their spawn
April showers
Barbecues cleaned
Gardens weeded
Recliners aired
Lawns cut and fed
April showers
Spring has sprung
And natures burst out
Life will renew
Year's cycle begun
May's flowers
How many years did I plant
dig and dig up again and silently rant
where a flower placed here, should be moved from here to there
at first, not well planning where
this one or that one should go,
then look back, finally, lining up the perfect garden flow.
The pathway twists and winds
behind the trees, along the well-edged vines
where honeysuckle rises, clings, and climbs, after twenty care taken time
the flowers bloom gracefully well and fine, sublime
just outside the opened door,
each one more beautiful than the one before.
Spring greeted painted croci, hyacinths, mounded daffodils in flight
yellows, purples, peaches, orange, and ivory clustered delights
where clumped marsh daisies spread and evoked
wild mustard glow with lavender henbit, wild violets unprovoked
from weeded plants successfully uncloaked
the garden of my dream scheme
each one's beauty uniquely reveals a theme.
In the more gentile light, the sun provided
the preplanned layout was actually well united
where bearded irises staged with tall and short dispersed colors
lapping at the breezes, peach jam ruffled blushings unlike any other
rusted blends, bright yellows, blues, purple raven blends flutter
each majestic while beneath the warm sun they blend
having found their spot embracing light around the bend.
Now nearing the end of a warm enticing month of May
peonies bulge, buds, blossom pink bouquets, huge cherry red displays
where perfumes waft and call out to the butterflies and bees
every flower causing an allergic someone passing by to sneeze
but who can resist the magical mystery of flowerings released
waving, dancing, frolicking beneath the sun
how far the garden growth has finally come.
Nearing the start of June
the roses rise to greet the fullest red blood moon,
hybrid white teas in touch with crimson floribunda collections
pale pink blush tranquil dazzlers, iceberg lavender-blue deflections
everyone a petal cultivated to perfection
each and everyone finding its place in the sun -
I could never choose just one.