An initiative unforeseen
Supported by the Countess Aberdeen
Motivated several politicians and were
Encouraged to convene
In the year of 1920
When issues were aplenty
Delegates backed the Cork City charter
And elected MacSwiney, our dear martyr
Yet as many were to grieve
Others would also leave
They were faced with a new mandate
Upon founding the Irish Free State
However not everyone was happy
And things got rather scrappy
With views diverging ever-more
Making it hard to keep the score
The dust took a while to settle
And tested our civic institutions’ mettle
Though issues were left unsolved
Causing city councils to be dissolved
New problems were to be addressed
That would get the people rousing
Occupied with public works and housing
Making the managers obsessed.
That’s an oversimplification
For a topic deserving of dilation
An overview of a creation
Being the Municipal Association
Thunder only comes calling
When the fervor has has hit it's zenith roar
And one forgets to remember
He omits testament is not testator
Nor he grantor of municipal adage
Until it seems, always, mid-December
Once the cold has set in and the timbers
Are far too wet to stoke and more
His children have all but left therefore
Nothing left
Appalling, yes, and nothing more.
Attending school was never an option when the empty drum echoes the song of yearning grains, trekking the lanes with bathroom slippers that awaits a welcoming party in the municipal waste truck while idanuwa na zubar da kwalla.
Bafflement grips me when some sit in their Sunday best with glossy heels kicking a storm for not getting steak when tuwo miyan kuka is served.
Wai mai duniyar nan ke zama ne? The rich are becoming richer and the poor, poorer. Wai fa we can no longer spare a Kobo for the sick and weak when aljuhun mu na zuba. Ni ban ce kudi bata yi ba, wealth is everyone's dream amma sparing little for the needy too is good.
Imperfection abounds,
the evidence is everywhere,
misshapen leaves and tree trunks
hunched over and almost touching
the ground mark the morning -
a dog chasing a ball along the beach
has a bent tail, the owner a limp.
Across the road, a mower
that is cutting the grass
in the municipal gardens coughs
smoke out of a sick cylinder and a seagull
that waits at my feet for a scrap
is missing a foot.
And I and all the people that are here
taking in the morning air share
an imperfection written in our genes,
unseen, benign or a ticking time bomb
waiting to explode into disease.
Perfection is an ideal
that perhaps exists only in our heads,
a notion conjured up and given to grace
our departed gods. Everything carries
the seeds of its own decay,
is sentenced to pass away
and yet we swear we see it
shine through a crack in time,
in nature when caught sublime
in a moment of transcendent beauty
and in the love hiding at the center
of ourselves and our art
that threatens to break through
and illuminate our dark.
bizarre stuff
in fact, she'd never visited a golf course before
in fact, as i took my daughter to the clubhouse toilet
i held the door open for her
the contents of the coffee was
all over the floor
i hit my tee shot against the trees
and the ball ricocheted back onto the fairway
'Good shot!' my mother yelled
there was a lot of top of the lungs stuff
MASHED POTATOES
i shanked it
mammy chops and bunkers like thunder thighs
my daughter wants to sleep in a bunker
i want to throw my clubs in the lake
worm burners
and municipal memories
this was meant to be a love sonnet
i'll be your caddy
i love you flagstick
A dog with a missing leg
Knocked down by a driver
Drove at dog speed
And barked away
We have stopped to see
A group of people, too
The dog with a missing leg
And smoke from nearby hut
The municipal is here
Health officer with a spade
Staring at the carcass
And calling for backup
The cop's siren is here
Looking around curiously
I wonder why, for a dog
And bullet in the barrels
A man looks on and yawns
A sharp kitchen knife in hand
He looks anxious
And prays for a miracle
A newsman looks on
Been here for long
A canon camera at hand
He waits for his time
The dog with a missing leg
Has brought us together
Nobody speaks but we talk
There is tension in the air
No rules of engagement
Someone is angry, another one hungry
Someone is joking, another one hoping
we are here on our terms
Your hands lingered as prints upon my mind.
I became a glove for your love.
I gave you time,
I gave you my tongue
so you could speak a moment of ecstasy.
You gave me Cauliflower cheese,
the only meal you could cook well.
Then when you were done
with my squishy love
you left on a bus, bound for West Ham,
left and did not wave back
from its people stuffed windows.
That was back then
when cakes were left out in the rain,
when poets wore bell-bottoms
when flower power flexed its stems
with blond muscle men.
No beaches in Tottenham,
the parks probably still are
municipal mud baths.
I recall it rained for days
in our love-stained apartment.
London often chooses
to live in small puddles of loneliness.
The mattress we had inherited,
survived to moan on and on.
Queue, in my nation, is a customary circumstance,
Women, each day, stand in queues for municipal water;
Young and old, before government ration stores, stand in trance,
Youths, with diplomas, stand in queues for the imprimatur...!
Banks have long queues and the A.T.M counters have no less,
One could find, in front of Public Washrooms, the longest queues;
Sure, one could read on the faces of those in queues, big stress,
Yet, in a system where there is no system, can one choose...?
As queue has become part of our life we seldom anguish,
We have accepted and resigned to this fate, merrily;
We make friends with the one near us and, hence, never languish,
We take, hence, our physical and psychic aches airily...!
Though an imminent evil, queue teaches me endurance,
This, in turn, molds me and brings to life a vast difference...!!!
Diversity explores
both resonant and opposing positions
with nearly predative anticipation
And such perversely curious
reverse revisioning diversity deplores
with monoculturing anxiety
quietly crossed
and boldly violated boundaries
of personal
and familial
and municipal
and EarthTribal
indigenous integrity
Sacred space expands
mindfully perceived
this Business As Traumatically Usual place
too lose/lose dark
and too win/win blind
to keep faith with dimming starlight
Celestial Glitter Rivered Ways
majestic
yet ominously silent
shunned Spirits
of ancient silvered sentient bright
Yet momentary mortal time
feels reflective light received
sufficiently reassuring
mythically alluring
for transient transportive pleasure
tenderly insufficient
for full-ripened organic measure
depleting dissonant self-disenfranchising
failure to complete
integrity's potential Paradise.
Down by the only lily pond around here
the air is brisk and not particularly subtle
as it blows its windy nose.
It's not exactly a Monet painting
the setting is a little too municipal
and certainly not in winter,
but in a good light
it can be almost picturesque.
I conjure up some Debussy
replaying a favorite musical theme
in my slowly hissing mind
as it deflates and comes to rest.
In time, my thoughts
may dwell upon the pretty ladies
in their summer dresses
that sometimes visit
this unassuming spot,
but of course
not on a cold winters day.
No doubt I was born too late or early
to be a romantic
and my ass is getting chilled
on this stone bench
but damn it, with any luck
I will be back here in Spring
dewy eyed, and with
a melodic tune or song
pumping along
in my quixotic heart.
I might even bring the wife,
might even buy her a parasol.
When I was 12
our family arrived at Croydon.
Everything seemed grander
a real Municipal town
we had record and camera shops
and departmental stores
everything seemed geared for conspicuous expenditure
We seemed not to have beggars in the street
and the greenline buses took us to country lines
My secondary school seemed good
as were our teachers
We had night clubs and gigging places
Like Sinatras and the Cartoon
and Entertainment places
Like the Fairfield Halls and Warehouse
and ample cinemas
We were self reliant
with a beating soul
A trackless wind scatters his mind
leaves fly away where no leaves are.
A hummingbird inside his chest drums,
the evening is escaping down roads
long plowed over with remorseless change.
It never used to be like this;
he had once been the bold pirate of his fate
his ship sailed away one day only to return in flames.
Sometimes you have to shrug,
keep walking around a small municipal park
until a parked car follows you home
The city will swallow its many tongues
then bury its hummingbird mind
until the dawn
retrieves a life once more.
Potpourri starship jetting through the black hole
In your eyes sparkle the retina jaded surprise
Dew drops droughts in ranges filled with cactus flowers
Glaciers frost environmental placements fold
Pilgrims travel journeys through intergalactic sunrises
Escaping the colonies complicated municipal towers
~
Jet setting the millionaires are traveling through space
Flying first class in this new space race
2/4/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
An Old Warrior
This old man, sward in hand, takes a stand
against the Provincial, the Municipal man.
The power hungry, with all the appropriate tools,
who treats us, his constituents, his voters as fools.
Our voices are stilled, silenced by political oratory
as they convince us of the sincerity of their story.
They operate, under the radar, with impunity
whether they are innocent or they be guilty.
This old man, sward in hand, takes a stand
against the Provincial, the Municipal man.
I think that I have reached the end of my rope
as I battle with the powers that be, without hope.
Three years, ten years without satisfaction,
not the courtesy of a response, nor reaction.
Ignore, and eventually I will simply go away.
This is the game they both choose to play.
The powers that be will always get their way.
For us old warriors, not much left, but to pray
B. J. “A ” 2
April 25th, 2021
Generally dreads the kitchen:
The incalculable losses it occasions one’s image.
Often with fried, oily chicken:
A company that doesn’t anything damage!
For all early morning jogs promptly ready!
Its healthy rejuvenation of a woman’s waist!
Has resolved not to be domiciled in a periphery,
Wherever seems to suggest a satellite
Eating rice with much stew against Beriberi:
A tradition of treading roads of laterite.
Unparalleled roles of reforms she can play
But sometimes the very driver of a fratricidal truck:
The ultimate prices of natural sacrifices she can pay,
Yet, the chief character behind some municipal ill-luck…
Not infrequently, recipient of cheers of a mammoth crowd,
As much the earner of the first bed in a bedlam.
From time to time a powerful voice on human affairs very loud
Not inconceivably between two hearty friends building a dam:
In some cases, emerging the people’s torchlight and battery,
still in others, the mastermind of a scheduled adultery.
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