No! Mom's numbered boxes! All night we spend
Digging through papered names Red, Other, Mend
We find lights, but they aren't right
missing the Blue Silver White
Santa yawns, says, “Oh man, this house again!”
This life of joy and sorrow, weighs heavy on a fragile soul.
Waiting for that tomorrow, and broken hearts being made whole.
Like the leaves of papered gold, promises scattered on the ground.
Dreams we have are bought and sold, to corporate prisons we are bound.
Time tells if mercy we'll see, like the stars shining from above.
A light that will set us free, and from heaven rain tears of love!
We saw some hieroglyphics
And some beaded Native art,
Some instruments of music
With their coolness off the chart;
The Frank Lloyd Wright exhibit
And some armor from the past,
All admired and enjoyed although
We zipped through kind of fast.
The only place we lingered was
Where varied rooms were staged
Showing how the wealthy lived,
Our grandson totally engaged.
The lighting dim, the papered walls,
The opulent décor
Elicited reactions
We had not quite seen before.
Such lavish furnishings, unlike
The homes that I have known
Make me wonder how he’ll decorate
A home when it’s his own.
Walking through the door of my childhood home
brought back tsunami of wisdom overture.
Tastes and colours in décor change with culture;
varied pallet of history in lands roam’.
My children had turned out to be a challenge
as they had early on displayed my talent
for examining and questioning latent
defects papered over; now seeking balance.
We’d a small, intimate wedding reception.
The wallpaper in the lounge is instantly
recognisable (like kin related distantly),
from the photos. No inkling of deception.
My parents had asked this sweet sixteen to voice
her preference for bedroom to replace staid
pattern reminiscent of a fabric plaid.
But they had vetoed black and white Op Art choice.
The celebrations of the many milestones,
spanning the blessed years of three generations
firmly recorded in the decorations;
layers of peeling wallpaper to bare bones.
#9: Days of Paper Roses
Do the numbers--dogs don't count--just survives!
Then everything, be as close enough, still,
of this and that, thoughts begin and end, thrives,
truth betold, none were measured boundless will.
There's a bold statement, typed on front pages,
rolled off the presses, just to impress us,
splashed inklings midst papered, of such phrases,
... rolled and impressed, settles the dust--minus.
High-topped towers, the light of day, shadows,
thought-filled days, wages paid by subscribers,
of The Times, Gazettes, or Tribune Heralds,
flighters, fighters, there too were paid--writers.
Dawn paper rolls, notepads ... night closes,
they blossomed they did like rows of roses.
Chill confines a diary of absence
as September keyholes a papered wall.
A smirk tears a face--escapee silence
--styles wall with nothingness, dead ends AWOL.
A bottle of spent wealth parlays about ...
tangled weaves justify the performance.
Pebble leather worships darkly, blacks-out
a ghosted pundit building blocks, mischance.
Cold fashions the well, tilt pour sands reserves.
Alas, pitched secrets facades of falsehood,
its prisoner scopes round a war of words,
sheathed arrogance knells myPhone, knock on wood.
Crinkled gone days lay ... flattery goes on.
Scrawled lines drown, looming voice curts; "My Dear John".
A New HEART A NEW DAWN
a new heart a new Dawn
Precious child
Of a living God
Rise up behold His love
We are worthy in honor
We are more
Than just His friend
We are His children
And He is Our Father
In heaven
A New heart
A new Dawn
Awaken beloved in our Father's new love
For beautiful we are,
Perfectly loved
Chosen love speak longevity of life
Are beating hearts
So by His ways means we are new
We are shaped in His image
We're renewed
As we seek we have you seek
His agape love
Each and every breath we take is fragrant
By Jesus blood
We are His children renewed
In His Glory hearts
Impart
In paged Holy Grail partridge papered page a book
In His story In our HEARTS
New Dawn, Beloved
A new heart a new Dawn
9/5/2023
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
a blue chevy impala basks in a suburban driveway
like a beached whale it oozes gases and black oils
its seeping white walls beg for rubber movements
little boy inside the house sits on a pleated couch
he watches the setting sun through a screen door
fat mother stirs pudding in a wall-papered kitchen
smoking father works a tv guide crossword puzzle
he flicks white hot dust into a crystal glass ashtray
the corner television set transmits black and white
cathode rays of a half-naked wrestler pinned down
the destroyer with mask on lifts his victorious arms
little boy hears calliope music in the green distance
the ice cream man comes with dry ice and cologne
still three blocks away he makes another long stop
fat mother fries bloody meats in a fiery blue skillet
she turns on boss radio to hear elvis sing the blues
little boy goes to the admiral and turns the channel
bishop sheen appears in black cursing the darkness
skipper frank implores the kids to brush after meals
tennessee tuxedo chases tiger tornado to megapolis
smoking father finishes a tv guide crossword puzzle
the ice cream man arrives with dry ice and cologne
leaves of papered gold
a robe for the autumn king...
for a crown the stars
date: 9/8/22
(used 'syllable counter' website)
At the End of the Tour
David J Walker
We would never have survived the poverty
Of the poets poetry
Nor the selling of souls for papered wealth
The death and rebirth and growth
from distant worlds
Abandoning the learned language of
Specific lovers and the invention of
Nuances waisted on foreign ears
Still
I loved you like the duty of a soldier
On foreign soil
I loved you with limited time intimidated
By the clock I forgot to wind
I loved you because the air you breathed
Tasted of the words of your foreign tongue
I loved you somehow knowing
The flag I was baring
Must be folded and put away
At the end of the tour
I loved you until our vehicle
Ran out of gas
And we both walked home
Alone
In different directions
Four-legged guard patrols the papered wall,
Stood by whispering windowpane wind drawls
She is grand, grandiose hardwood keys small
And all across the lounge room rug, she sprawls.
Four-legged guard waltzes to the evening ball.
She dances in her homestead in A minor calls,
The acoustic pride echoes bold and tall
And the chorus chords charms the hall.
On Christmas Eve
The fireplace glows, metallic papered
covered gifts await.
Our loving relatives, coming in, through
our sparkling, lighted gate!
12/8/2021
Again, and again
Lips stained by death
Uttering words—dead, dying, gone forever
Incurably cast to eternal rest
Spoken in whispers
Words drenched in tears
Besieged within antiseptic walls
The grim shadow of Reaper again appears
Pandemonium unfettered
Unmasked villains cloaked in watery layers
An ominous choir
Dancing with ruthless, politicians and liars
A factitious malady
Once bound by walls of glass
Death’s sting unleashed
Fearlessly pilfering one’s breath last
Loved ones menaced
Peers devoured
Papered masks hiding hopeless lies
How many must die in our darkest hours
From bended knee
To a deadpan god I weep
Cowering behind the inequity of man
What you have sowed, you shall now reap
Fists clinched set before trembling lips
Eyes strained by everlasting mist
Spewing words not fit for a god
Questioning aloud, did you ever exist
God of mine, unveil the truth
Ere another dies
Lover, friend or innocent youth
Forbid dear Abba, that it be I
Sorrow in the Land of Desolation
Too often my lips stained by Death
Friends, family…and God now gone
Tell me please, what have I left?
The philosophy of philosophy
is a philosophic probe
not well lubed and often painful
as the followers grow old
crumbled bits of papered truth
lost within their souls
begging for a second chance
to somehow be made whole.
A truth that was a truth
but isn’t anymore
how did it go from iron clad
to whispered doubts galore
how did a bottled letter
ever reach its barren shore
to tell each foaming grain of sand
it’s philosophical no more
John G. Lawless
©10/27/2021
Lofty sorts tenement;
Residential entitlements;
Homeward bound ;
Lost in town,
Logistics Irving bound;
Summers call;
Legitimate hall;
Tournament crawl;
No mortgage though;
No rent termites eating bossa wood;
Lying on rough wet papered floor;
a homeless man lives alone and a cardboard boxed home!
8/30/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
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