small forest
The small forest or the woods by the white road
made of crushed sea-shells, was a place of enchantment
Squirrels played here and had no fear of lone dreamers
stumbling over oak roots.
I used to walk there when cows had
been milked, fed
and the mucking out was done,
fresh strew strewn
in stalls, and the barn had contented animals
I could do so many things in the forest, be an Indian or
take out my pocket phonographic book,
the milkmaid
gave me and masturbated.
especially drawn to pictures of cunnilingus women
seemed to enjoy this form of sex, I was horrified when
told this was not a manly act, ye the pleasured faces
stayed on my mind.
A year later, I drove to the forest
it was a private estate
high walls and posh villas, but the squirrels had gone
I laughed out laud
The good people in the villas will never know my secrets
here, where I dedicated and trained for a hearty sex life to come.
An edited version of my book: The Collected Work, of
Poetry, Vignettes, Humor and Political Statements
Categories:
phonographic, absence, abuse, age, allusion,
Form: Blank verse
Forty three years of marriage and still you make my heart beat strong
I never wanted to be anything else but your wife and loving song
Together we walked, jogged and trotted but most of all we danced,
to the rhythm of our first hello. Every loving act was a show of love;
When we were young we danced between sleepless nights and drank
the brew of life as if it were a fox trot of maelstrom haze;
Then the kids left home and we found ourselves alone again,
Phonographic unused cylinders of time crooned again
with love songs from Edith Piaf;
You wrapped your arms around my waist and gave me a beginners taste
Life had been good to us but oh how we lived it in such haste...,
Then we got a second chance, and we did it just so
losing ourselves on the living room floor,
we danced like newly weds on their wedding day;
That was the last time we danced together without goodbyes,
today all I own is an old phonograph, and yesterday's slow sighs.
July 13, 2021
Categories:
phonographic, longing, love,
Form: Free verse
It begins with the first breeze of morning across the sea shore
phonographic moments from early rising seagulls, arriving
at the edge of dawn, soaring into the blueness above
Initiating the steps to a beautiful day break the shore awakens,
with a harmony of sounds, orchestrated to perfection by nature;
Footsteps in the sand
salted lips and hands
wet feet digging deep
while others are still asleep
Front view seat on a cool cool spot, there she sits and waits for him
the wild chestnut horse with pony box hooves, running like the wind
She names him Red Beauty for the flecks of his eyes are rubies of light
beneath a slow rising sun.
He trots with a nay
she begs can you stay
as the sun burns inside
all the tears she has cried
It all starts with a dream at the edge of the shore,
with a girl and a horse, racing right through the door
All the while the wind chimes as the sea shells incline,
at the end of the day she goes home, just in time.
Categories:
phonographic, appreciation, horse,
Form: Rhyme
Grave Music- -
When I thought of music
Those the song never tuning
Musicians so are cocooning
Taking thy hymn from out my heart
That moment my soul grew routine
Just what does this mean
Grave music
The grave a funeral
I saw the composers
Music is dead
Yet we still sing
And so I screamed, 'Is that a psalm?'
The recurrent repertoire refraining
It was attaining
It was reigning
Grave music
Once upon a midnight splendid
My passion is a phonographic guitar
When I thought of the music
I awoke and flung the score
Much I marveled the ragtime bluegrass
By the grave I saw the artists
I heard a musical, copyright copyrighting
Deep into that darkness availing choir yet still praising
Singing my songs of songs
Grave music
I awoke and flung the voice I have dreamed of the soloists
Screaming aloud with pitch voice, my choice
Deep into that darkness playing
Ever praising yet
Still
Music
Grave music
1/4/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Categories:
phonographic, analogy, appreciation, engagement, how
Form: Free verse
My walls look like a phonograph,
The words on my walls flow threw.
I look to the sky, my body naked,
weeping of the pain that I have endured.
My wings are not angel wings,
I have no halo above my head.
But instead I have devilish fairy wings.
They hold me down like bricks chained to my ankles.
My walls are like a phonograph,
They tell my story.
But if you listen real close,
You can hear me being torn apart one feather at a time.
Eventually I will bleed to death,
And all you will hear is the silence threw the phonograph.
Categories:
phonographic, me,
Form: Free verse
Philadelphia Phonographic School
Back about 1903
A parrot was the pet to be
But teaching Pretty Polly speech
Real words – not just a screech
Took some patience – took some time
For Pretty Polly just to mime
The teacher must stay out of sight
As phrase and words they would recite
Repeating them a thousand times
Before the light in Polly shines
So the Philadelphia Phonographic School
Of Language for Parrots was the tool
A phonograph was left that plays
Your choice of words for days and days
You had to pay for room and board
Six months – eight pounds – and your reward
Was Pretty Polly speaking words
Repeating everything she heard
But parrots live for sixty years
For sixty years your poor-poor ears
Will hear those same words every day
Until they carry you away
Or place you in a padded room
Citing Pretty Polly as your doom
Categories:
phonographic, education, pets, words,
Form: Rhyme
My breath
in the cool
morning
is visible
and
escapes
into
the still
dark
of the
early
morning
This prayer
still resonates in my mind
playing
back like
a broken record
screaming
but no sound
escapes
phonographic
suicide
stuck
in this place of wishful thinking
and
stuck to this tragic fate
my sighs
drip down
off window panes
with
which plop
on
dead grass
thats peeking
out its tufted head
that is
covered in white
snow
which
together with the morning dew
with
my sighs
in one sip
will
lead
to
drinking
as my thirst for
life
my one addiction
is what
im
continually
looking for
and
my toes
begin to tingle
as i lose feeling
to the
lower extremities of my body
My shoulders
tense with
a dull ache
numb
then
a fire
creeping
through
my veins
pours warmth
over
my blue lips
and
i am
so
cold
that
I wonder
will fire
ever stop this shaking?
Categories:
phonographic, angst,
Form: Free verse