In the measure of the heavens, my heart turns to you.
Like the barley rising, you are my joy.
Your name is sweetness poured into the reed flute.
I, James McLain, know the fire of devotion—
Yet yours is greater,
A river that does not cease.
James, beloved, your breath is the wind of spring.
Your hands are vessels filled with light.
You walk, and the earth bends in gladness.
The moon hangs jeweled upon your brow.
The stars are your companions,
But none shine with the brightness of your soul.
Love such as yours endures beyond kings and kingdoms.
It binds what was scattered,
It heals what was broken.
Yours is the greatest love of all:
That your heart holds all the world within it.
Your name is Karen Jolene Cook
Dear Governor,
In this quiet, fleeting moment of reflection, I urge you to consider the preciousness of life, its fragile beauty that blooms even in the darkest hours. Though laws may seek balance, the human heart begs for mercy, for in the shadows of despair, there is always room for redemption.
Every soul, no matter how lost, holds the possibility of light. Let not the scales of justice be so rigid they forget to bend with compassion.
Extend your hand, not to punish, but to heal. Mercy is the highest gift you can offer.
With hope,
James McLain
727-678-8284
The sun dies hard over the western hills,
Leaving red streaks like blood on the sea,
And I, with half a bottle of whiskey,
Wonder what’s left, what’s still waiting for me.
I said goodbye to a thousand faces,
Left them all in their endless places.
Wars I fought and nights I wasted,
Promises tasted, never embraced it.
The road ahead was always shorter,
But I marched it down, still a soldier.
Through smoke and fire, I walked on slow,
With too many stories I'll never know.
There’s a letter unsent, somewhere in my mind,
A name I forgot, a hand left behind.
I never cared for second chances,
But I feel the weight of missed advances.
The moon comes up, cold as bone,
And the night reminds me I’m not alone.
Still, something lingers, lost in the dust,
Unfinished business, broken trust.
In a humble home, where love takes its stand,
Uncle Devoe and Aunt Shirley, a diligent band.
Hardworking spirits, like a flame that won't tire,
Kindness and warmth, they generously inspire.
Aiding thousands with grace, their hearts pure and true,
Selfless endeavors, like morning's dew.
Though time keeps us distant, and miles intervene,
Missed moments weigh heavy, like a forgotten dream.
In the quiet of Christmas, nostalgia takes flight,
Memories dance, wrapped in starlight.
To Uncle Devoe and Aunt Shirley, a heartfelt refrain,
From afar, with love, James McLain.
'Every man is proud of what he does well; and no man is proud of what
he does not do well. With the former, his heart is in his work; and he will
do twice as much of it with less fatigue. The latter performs a little imperfectly,
looks at it in disgust, turns from it, and imagines himself exceedingly tired.
The little he has done, comes to nothing, for want of finishing.'
Abraham Lincoln.
'When a man is led to believe that the pride in the work that he thought was done well, is undermined by himself, or others, for lack of instruction, where such instruction would not be rebuffed, then those whom could so instruct are just as responsible for the want of his finish. For when his heart is in his work and he seemed tireless in the pursuit of it's perfection, while knowing full well that nothing is perfect, when if fortunate enough, then his efforts could at the very least be perceived as his willingness to bring himself up from his past failure'.
James McLain Saturday, November 1, 2014
In those fearful time's by memories clear,
James McLain, a soul once gripped by fear.
Within the labyrinth of my own mind,
The Mandela effect, a twist defined.
Through unfairly, I faced a daunting fate,
Unjustly convicted by the state.
Mental tempests, an internal weight.
Florida's prisons, a brutish place a primitive place,
My resilience endured despite the state.
Fifteen years entrenched in strife,
Raped by other's most now dead.
James endured the tumult of prison life.
But within his core, a spirit resilient,
A survivor's tale, uncowardly told.
In echoes of despair, a whisper grew,
Hope emerging, a steadfast view.
Through bars and chains, my spirit free,
James McLain, triumphant decree.
With each passing day, redemption's flight,
A phoenix rising, reclaiming the light.
The Mandela effect, rewritten by grace,
James' story echoes in time and space.
Where there is injustice I remain disgraced.
i carry your heart within me) do you
within mine as well) lockets of hair
your sweet breath that i smell and pulses i
feel make me flow.
my heart lets me know that it's you,
your heart as well i must know.
is it red hot,
when you think of me my heart races
around to the beat that comes next before
your last) how do you do what you do, you play
to my heart you squeeze it more and it grows.
James McLain Saturday, October 17, 2009
Like a bird to see her sitting, roses are
of passions dream, in sight her flight.
Butterfly's know her grace, touches many
all, weeping softly, others without, it is sadly.
Ants march to her smell, hidden never off
to carry bubbles, her journeys path, is clear.
Essenes of berries in her, moistness air laden
dears follow, youth will, never currents to cross.
raises wind, cover embodies still, covered up
she, glories light golden, honey is her, in poise.
Yet she knows, she fav'es him, his heart just bursts...
It loves you just the way you are, it is such in love,
it is so full of you it's crushed..to burst your sun.
James McLain
It is so blind, it saw eyes, mouths, bodies, feet
imploring it's paint, it's beggars land, stroked
by hand.
It's can, faceted as one gem, drips only you.
The brush peels back, stroke by stroke, layer
by layer, new always differed you.
Each canvas, some happy, some mad, still it's
always you, is to Regina's sun.
The brush of lips, still trembles it, invitingly...why?
Lips brush the stroke, you make the paint, wants why?
The canvas is always full of different you, asks it,
is it not?
Respectable mirror to try on in you..why not?
It laughs at it's self, seeing a growth on it, so boss.
The rose drips, it is painted to it's natural blush,
as it's meant to be.
It is a struggle between the rose and it's blush, it's
a grippe so tight, the colors run at times, on it..you
still laugh amused.
It just cannot, as much as passion flames it's eye,
be reduced to frame, you in the boring same tired,
eyes of it is.
When every woman is her, she a Queen.
Google poetry James McLain
Broken down meatal cribs with wooden bars.
About the first,
it was as much to her as I to it,
the cloth thread bare.
It was so much and different from today,
always dark and no sunrise.
Biblical, baby names,
like James, Richard and Robert.
A sister Sharon like an olds.
That never seemed to run.
Was always hot.
To much salk and lot enough
we turn away from doing that.
It is different now planned parent hood.
She wore a mask.
To even touch her face it ment another child.
Being pregnant when a man has had enough.
I go fishing
and those worms they take me back.
James McLain Wednesday, April 24, 2013
The little wooden horse you gave me, when I
came home from hospital.
I watch you through the window, in your smock, planting
a new garden.
It is hot I know, I never tire watching you do some thing
simple like drinking from a glass that was once dark blue now bleached from the sun, into some thing even more Unusual.
You hang the white smock over the small wooden fence, the
dear will come and eat when you have left.
James McLain
To come and go
and not be afraid of the light.
Again I'm a child and my secrets
I have chosen can you love me?
Death will come this I know
slowly I grow you remember.
The bottles were colored when first I arrived.
Hairy eyes hiding tremors pass.
I agonize once again arsenic moons.
A man makes his bed yet a child and his maid.
Starched white shirts in the closet I hide
from the church.
Mary wept but the nuns make me weep even more.
Loneliness is a face never seen.
I drink it all as a child what they allow.
Buds and bells heaven is not full of metaphors
I can change but I won't.
When I write best this way unlike you.
Your will I don't want just my cat.
Coming back here your heart once mine was too heavy.
Wide and straight the road.
Narrow paths for dark horses the moon the clouds
they pass by me lost without you my bed wetter.
God help me I can once again hear loud sucking noises
soft whimpers and quite cries for a price.
Mummy the bottle on the floor it is empty.
She comes in a double glass, blood red dress.
I did not write this because of the hairy eye hiding.
But children and their secret lips confessed.
James McLain Thursday, August 11, 2011
Each company targets specific demographics.
Except for fast food and coffee, where all are targets.
The use of English must be impeccable.
Their is no room for guessing when words are
missing and the reader has to guess at what word
should be used.
Listen to the very successful jingle now in use.
The hard working Korean's being such perfectionist.
The - it's all about you - a million dreams -
The perfect Air Line Commercial that targets U.S.
James McLain Saturday, September 5, 2015
Why should I care about rain and or snow,
About your green leaves that were silver and gold.
Or on a bush on that hill that will never be seen!
Or all of the trees that you climbed as a kid,
But summer was ours by the sea.
But lovely my dear, I really cared, I confess to you that I did.
Taken from me as a leaf caught up tossed around in the wind,
And trapped in a wave, a wave none could see.
There we once we're and now we're both here,
Quite, Silent and still, lost in our love and at peace.
James McLain Saturday, October 28, 2017
The report was even louder, this time
I watched, Dr.who, slow it down
the bullet just spun through the air, de-
verb-ed tied to a string, dancing through
me in and out, you laughed at my faces
inability to comprehend my understanding
maybe one, two holes at the most but over twenty?
Heavily fruitful Jayne steeped in his personal assistant
did realize such fancies as delightful as you make
them sound need to be conserved for a much
wider guidance of divisiveness.
Happy wild Jayne plugs all the holes with her finger's.
What was I to gain by watching you give
me desert on a string, while I watched from the other room
not quite as hungry.
James McLain Sunday, May 3, 2009
Related Poems