Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness’- Isaiah, 5: 20
Topsy turvy is the world, we live in.
Man claims to be advanced and civilized,
But now he has more of animal instincts
With all human qualities paralyzed.
Seeds of goodness our ancestors sowed,
Have fallen on rocks and in arid soil.
Cracks are deep, our moral structure weak.
Race after wealth and fame sadly recoil
Wars and bloodshed are too frequent,
Scattering the pristine peace and calm.
The bedrock of values we once held,
Has disintegrated raising alarm.
We watch the crumbling of values nonchalant.
Have begun to take everything light.
While the soil is slipping from under our feet,
Without the least resistance, we yield to might.
Fact and fiction morph into each other.
Evil has become good and good- evil.
Woe to men who turn their back on goodness.
Sad, we have mortgaged our lives to the devil.
We should reverently turn to our Creator
Respect nature and everything created.
Prevent the quiet erosion of our values,
And blow new air into the tiers of life deflated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four furry silhouettes, whiskers twitching, huddle around a cardboard grid~
Four acorn tokens clatter on the board.
Dew-damp grass stains the Baltic Avenue deed.
A whiskered snout nudges Community Chest~
Winter stores secured beneath oak bark.
Four paws grip the dice cup tight and shake.
Electric Avenue mortgaged for one nut.
Tail-flicks trace railroads, Park Place dreams
Shatter as a crow steals the top hat piece.
Four bushy strategists stare at Free Parking.
Rain begins its raid on Marvin Gardens.
The dice roll forgotten, they scatter skyward~
Squirrelopoly unfinished beneath gathering clouds.
You seem to have a nicer Room—
Than I—have, in the Sky—
Yours—has Curtains made of Lies—
And mine—of Memory—
The House—you call it—Sanctuary—
Was built—of borrowed Tears—
I mortgaged—Heaven’s smallest Grace—
To pay—through haunted Years—
My Sister—slept where Love had lain—
The Sheets—still warm with Trust—
And I—a Stranger—to my Name—
Slept—in the Street—with Dust—
My Daughter—turned her Face away—
Her Silence—like a Bell—
Rings—every Night—in rooms I’ve lost—
And tolls—what Words can’t tell—
Forgiveness—is a fickle Guest—
That never—answers—twice—
It knocks—upon the wronged Man’s Door—
Then—passes—into Ice—
I stare in the mirror
the devil stares back
Laughing and sneering
his taunting attack
“I bought you, I own you
now run, try to hide
Your soul has been mortgaged
your spirit is mine”
I run to the yard
and come back with a brick
At the silvery glass
I throw and then kick
The pieces all splatter
and smash on the floor
As a roar can be heard
from the rafters and more
A fire has started
the attic ablaze
With bats in the air
the demon is raised
I reach in my shirt
for the cross round my neck
For my Grandmother’s promise
to preserve and protect …
And the heat that it carries
burns bright in my hand
As I point it aloft
at the horns and demand ...
“A Rosary upon you
return to your cave
My faith is restored
— my sins he forgave”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)
Never came close to starving
didn't wait tables or wash dishes
Never hung out in the subway
no cults or commune on my resume
Didn’t stay up late at night smoking dope
Actually know how to spell hope
My soul is not tortured
nor my clothing mortgaged
I wash my hair oftener than you think
(if you count the toilet as a bathroom sink)
Vote Republican, straight ticket
Don’t consider Trump a bigot...
A poet I became after years of sniffing glue
~ all those model airplanes that didn’t flew
Between the time card and the grave,
We trade our days for dollars spent.
Each sunrise mortgaged, sunset saved,
For what we call accomplishment.
The hamster wheel spins endlessly,
As we chase what we're told to need.
Survival isn't thriving, see—
Just breathing while our spirits bleed.
To make a living isn't life,
Just passage through familiar halls.
The true wealth lies beyond the strife
Where joy, not obligation, calls.????????????????
Trends mirrored me
I wrapped fire in my gut
Passed through the cells of light
I cut my anchor rope
Struggled to realize my dreams
I floated above time
All is left to me alone - alone
The suffering - sleeplessness
I swam the opposite of my tragedies
I'm a prisoner despite the distress
I did not give up my sails to the sea
In the memory of my begining
I walked in my derby
Criticism - heart breaks - suffering
I wore them my stories
Walkers hated me
Lookers spited at me ugliness
I held it for years
Crossed it to sleep on
Hugged it - Hugged it
Mortgaged myself
Watered all my seeds
Although revolution is repeated
Yet career has not risen
Planes of enemies
Tasted the scourge of the earth
Civilization denied me
Parties divided me
Earth hunger revolted it
Soul milk satiated it.
Thinking is seaman's chore
in calm oceans, not the seagul's noise.
You need the right condition to
avoid sublimation-- a house burned down
by a mob needs practicing generosity.
Thinking of suffering in pandemic is itself
an act of suffering, needing resuscitation. Start with masks on the dead without coffins, truck-loads of bodies, with no where to go, ghosts of doctors exiting to cheering crowd, ambulances screeching to a halt, melting urban hot zones and infectious rural alarms.
You need the right condition to survive thinking of suffering, the wailing in hospital hallways, the hungry and the food banks, the mothers and bored infants, poorly-clad nurses teeming with pride. Pandemic has foisted new thinking on future survival, not trips to Niagra Falls. Thinking is luxury of living, not mortgaged by the dead, and suffering in thinking is legacy of the dead. Before the pandemic thinking was an easy kill by TV and internet, now pegged to a killer surge.
Ask for the roots of suffering and you never get it right, xenophobia's order of the day and thinking in despair. I think therefore I am – infected with fear and dread. I suffer, therefore I am.
It’s mortuary time to a-tone deaf clock in
to the pawn fate
of warlock plans that bewitch angle bend
The hourglass is turned over again,
wearily watch the
sands of your inhalation dwindling
In a despot time of greed,
second-hand puppets do the dying
Ag coin commodity bleed
Feel the avarice reign,
those tempestuous profit tears falling
Be the fodder battlefield fed,
pleb body debt chained
Intellectual properties acquired
in the gold piece accord
Condo hearts time share expired —
Mortgaged souls
got swept off the board
In a weepy eye time of need,
first class haves
deafly ignore the poor pleas
Cadaver cold tongues
toll the hell bells rung
Burning that pulse promissory scrip
with pirate-pierced, profiteering lips
Feel the ageless pain of bosom misery
in this modern time of ancient greed
When should you get ready
to die…
When you’re old,
and the signs are in letters so big?
When should you get ready
to die…
When you’re young,
with it’s messages trapped in the wind?
When should you get ready
to die…
When it’s winter,
and the cold bellows loudly with fear?
When should you get ready
to die…
When it’s summer,
love teasing, its distraction so near?
When should you get ready
to die…
When your life has been bartered,
the present dismissed?
When should you get ready
to die…
When your soul has been mortgaged
—last payment remiss?
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
Hand me down memories,
borrowed not owned
Dreams that are mortgaged
—the present on loan
(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)
A magical number is seven
Celestial spheres of Heaven
Seven are the Days of Creation
Each one a Wonder of Imagination
Every Spring, Israel observes Seven
Days of Freedom, bread without leaven
Seven times seven are the years of Jubilees
All slaves and mortgaged land to be released
Revere the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son
Healing Powers attributed to that special one
A very lucky number, indeed, is Seven
Cash your chips in with Seven, or with eleven
Too Late
By: Tom Wright
Feb. 9, 1998
At mercy's throne
I sadly stood.
Trying to explain
as best I could.
Attempting to justify
all that I'd done wrong.
But, God, wasn't buying
my tired, sad song.
For the pleasures of sin,
it then seemed but a day.
I had mortgaged my soul,
it was now time to pay.
No pardon was forthcoming,
no parting glance.
Then reality set in,
I had used my last chance.
As I quickly departed
to a place I'd heard tell.
There awaiting my arrival
were my soul mates in hell..
The question Remains If God is all you Have Then You Have all You Need-
I have some money a house my home;
It’s not paid for yet it’s mortgaged loan;
I have some food to eat some clothes;
A paid for car, a job
And yet the question remains
If God is all you have, well then
You have all you need;
Your homeless no job;
You live in a shelter;
Somewhat dirty, looking for work;
And yet people around you find it odd;
Your faiths like mine, hallelujah
As yet the question remains
If God is all you have, well then
You have all you need;
Been terminated from a job of 22 years;
Old enough to retire but what fears;
Money from retirement now gone..
What have I to be thankful about… well, well
And yet the question remains
If God is all you have, well then
You have all you need;
If God is all I have, well then I’m glad
I have all that I need, I said
If God is all I have, then I’ve all that I need.
Well
As yet the question remains
If God is all you have, well then
You have all you need;
St. John 14:8
3/15/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
To those who seek acquaintance,
I can’t and won’t befriend
No time that isn’t mortgaged,
no hearts will I defend
Each day begins and ends
with gifted words upon the page
My blood lay rediscovered,
new memories to age
My spirit lost within the Muse,
my shadow running free
Her fond acceptance zero-sum,
her voice my destiny
To those who say they know me,
my verse they must have read
That person lost before the scribe,
much better left for dead
And in the moment present,
where all things take their place
I give myself back to a choice
—no friendship can replace
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2019)
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