Portage Poems

The World Is An Aquarium

The world is a sea of gigantic aquarium 
Of immeasurable acreage;
With eclectic species of humans:
Coal, Amber, Snow and Bronze;
365 score days in the whale's gut,
Junketing from Kolkata, Kalamazoo, Kathmandu,
East, West, North and South,
Hustling, jostling,  bustling, brainstorming;
Angling for a mess of portage 
At the close of season;
Like Jonah,
We will gracefully, and discretely age and be dispensed,
To the other side of the divide,
To interface with the HeadMaster of all Master's!

Byways in Wisconsin

I
The friend in the deli
of the Piggly Wiggly
in Lodi show me her nails
strikes up conversations
when I come back to town
for a second week of work.

I tell her about the work
on utility lines on county roads
where I control traffic
and the beauty of the countryside.
She tells me about her daughter
two years old who brings joy
and says she’s finding her life
as we share stories every day.

time shared day after day
the delectable taste 
of our conversations

II
The motel clerk near Portage
checks me in for the week.
Her black T-shirt says Hot Stuff
and I tease her
and we learn to confide
in each other.

We talk about our losses
and she says her boyfriend
has died from an overdose
and I lend her my understanding.

One night I sit in the lobby
and watch my favorite TV show.
She sits on a chair near me
as if a date as I sink into
the cushions of the couch.

We talk about our futures
as I check out at the end of the week
I say the next I’ll be on another assignment
but we vow to stay in touch.

moments shared
during my stay
my home for the week



.

No Anchor For Rancor

No Anchor for Rancor

Wounded the ship of my soul, 
With tattered sails,
Heels up in malevolence,
Venom puffs out the jib
In leeward grudges of tactless spite
On a pointless reach 
Heading up into retaliation.

Heart hardened sends out a deep tap root,
Like a dagger board,
For my blustering hubris
To drop an anchor and moor animosity
In a portage of perpetual whirlwinds
With undertows of enmity
Crashing about in irons of spite.

Yet steady winds rise up
And I must come about
Heading into prevailing winds 
Then journey through hubris doldrums,
Sails filled fresh with newborn winds,
Orphaning rancor - breathing in forgiveness  -
Sailing beneath full sails of resurrection

The Portage

The Portage

There is this distance between the lakes,
Through which the waters race.
Such is the land elevation difference,
Too treacherous for a canoeist to paddle,
And so must traverse by foot.
The higher perched lake continuously flows,
And the lower one never empties.
In response to nature’s chance,
The lakes maintain their levels.
Insofar as the climate will change,
The river’s course remains the same:
To reach the ocean and repeat the cycle
Of evaporation and precipitation.

Courage, Porridge Portage Shortage

weighing curds and whey
the spider spied, her courage
curdled, ran away


----------

another alliterative haiku for you

Portage

I trace a path between the rocks, jagged cold and grey
that whip the waves into a froth; tea-like tannin stain

Is this a place that we can pass, safe, Or should we stay?
For rapids, falls, and tangled logs, have thwarted us along the way

We’ve pulled the ropes, despite no hope, down paths of constant change 
And now we go on one last float, to salvage a tired day.

A Rivering

Bring green barges for the winching,
     heft a portage of willowy thrones 
                    for the wind thrummers,
          gild each gap with dewy vines.

A droning in the leaf shelters,
     all the humming skimmers
      grown beyond their husks.
Gather the garner to be had
                      sift and share.

Time to haul-in Lady flaxen hair
              her goldenrods dancing.
We have windows, behind them
                 volant dragons glitter 
and whisk.
We see her serpent forms
              in the airy whim.

We have lashes on ox-eye buds,
                 honeycombed fodder 
                          in the silky sap,
tidings leap, 
utter bright on every tongue.
It is the rivering. The Spring awakening
and the rioters are weaving sunlight
                  everywhere.

Rivering Spring

A droning time with its honeycombed eyes;
lives grown beyond their husks.

Bring green barges for the winching of the awakening,
portage willowy thrones to the wind thrummers,
gild each gap with a dewy wine.

Time to pull up the lady with the golden hair,
wash the water's with her amber and
blood-stones.

We have windows and behind them
volant dragons whisk goldenrods.
We have windows in ox-eye buds.
We see her serpentine hair swim
in the airy whim.

It is a droning time, a glut and glutch
on every glistening tongue.
It is a rivering.

Dw's Essential Existential Canoe Tripping List

Cherry paddle you carved a few years ago.
Short portages in with good trail, except for
One boggy bit to breed mosquitoes.
Mosquito repellent for said boggy bit.
No motorboats after first portage.
Fair wind and clear sky, except for
One bad day to make the trip real.
One big fish that got away for next year.
Enough fish caught for one supper and one breakfast.
Wild blueberries for pancakes and bannock.
Whippoorwills calling in the evening, followed by.
Wolves howling and Barred Owl calling at night.
One clear night to marvel at stars overhead.
One night with Northern Lights flickering.
One misty morning with loons crying.
A wee dram of Scotch to appreciate the above.
Sufficient bladder capacity to avoid 1:00 a.m. pee.
One new gadget – this year a solar lantern.
Tent and air mattress that don`t leak. 
Rain gear that doesn`t leak.
A long portage on return loop, just because. 
Years of memories, just because.



7/28/2019

Writing Challenge 3, July 2019 - List

Licking Wounds

LICKING WOUNDS


Lulling the bye and bye
In dreams that oozed and wept with the regret
Of unfinished business
In the portage veiled with the drift of confusion
Sustained by the envisioned memory
Of snarling words and demon eyes
Ejaculating horror from the love swept beginnings
We once knew

Reigning in this fiery heart so full of itself
To burst in the moment
Releasing its pent-up punishment
To sing in the realm of forgiveness
The harmonies long forgotten
Belied by the swan song that lost its rhythm
Along the path of little substance
Of fabled passion

Weeping upon the pillow of hiding
To disappear while each tear washes away
The dirty laundry stained with apathy and rejection
Dwelling in the temple of our shallowness
Buried in the effort of our escape
Emerging like the slow sunrise of a spring day
Diffused into believing tomorrow will never be the same
To any Joy that is created

My Picture Perfect Woman---View

My picture perfect woman---view


Blue is the color of your eyes;
While tender are your legs;
Your beauty is ever wonderful;
As your smile gleams past the haze;

The sun now rises on your head;
The ocean ever rolls on through your hair;
I image your portage on my stead;
The picture of you share;

Often are the men so jealous;
Now I don’t have to embellish;
Come to me my darling view;
My picture perfect woman you…

11/17/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.

River of Doubt

twists and turns of serpentine.
perfumes that emanate from time to time,
through a wall of quietus-trees.
perils in the doubting waters,
amidst the anaconda, caiman, and piranha.

perhaps, after all, man is the more sinister
as his stomach growls
and his face’s beaten bittersweet
by the zenith of the Amazon.

his legs carry portage and dugout canoes.
sinkholes churn whirlpools.
vines hang down and choke.
~ most hope from within ~
for despairing we learn to be thiefs,
murderers hewn out of fear.

insects further trouble and attack,
and tribal eyes spy, and agitate
in perpetuities’ suspicious waters.
Rio Roosevelt thrives cantankerously
as Theodore’s enemies attack,
with deadly scratches and malaria.

but Rondon never forgets
to map and be respectful
of the tribes, even if
it’s to his own demise.

1/22/2018

When You Wish Upon a Firefly

A hot and summer evening breeze
In jest tickled the napping bees
Incandescent, of floating musk
Shadows like dancing glow at dusk.

Hugging pine trees from branch to branch
Down on the grass gaily they hopped
Such a beauty I'd like to catch
To watch them dance, maybe make love
Freely, on the palm of my hand.

Wished upon a firefly, as a kid I had
Watched your sparkle many evenings
High in hopes, eyes wide open
Twinkles from your flickering lights
Told me that ills would fly by night.

Enchanted I was, you thrilled me
Yet calming like a cup of tea
Left home for decades now I have
Missed your playful spirit and salve.

Like me the gentle autumn wind
From great distance, faith unknowing
Carried me over here to seek
Greener pastures or winning streaks 
And you, for greyer twilight crests.

It was on my birthday last year
In Portage, Michigan, oh what
A grand reunion we did have
When my dear granddaughter and I
Chased you merrily around the block!

The Massasauga

Just one short portage and the park is ours,
Canoe laden down for a one week stay.
At the site in just a matter of hours.
It has been too long since we got away.

The next morning calm, with a touch of fog.
Sitting on the bank, the sunshine a plus.
Deep croaks emitted by an old bullfrog
Echoing back from the cliff behind us.

Five-Lined Skinks running across the rock,
Endangered now, once so commonplace.
Yodeling Loons with their morning pep talk.
Chipmunks scurrying at a nutty pace.

Pour-over coffee perfuming the camp,
The sizzle of bacon beckoning all.
Maybe we'll paddle once it's not so damp
Or just laze around until it's nightfall.

And when the day dims and darkness is king
We'll look up to see that old Milky Way,
Shooting stars, and the moon on it's upswing,
Preparing the skies for a brand new day.

The fireflies flitting freely in the bush.
Raccoon eyes reflected by the campfire.
The occasional mosquito ambush.
That's when you know it's time to retire.

And tomorrow perhaps, when we arise,
We'll launch the canoes,  go out and explore.
Pulling back the veil on natures disguise
Or sit in the tent and let the rain pour.

Images of a Mind

Images of a mind

A mirage.
A portage

between there
and where

one may find
essence of mind.

The subconscious,
the conscious

may not enter.
Doors do hinder.

B. J. “A ” 2
May 5th 2015

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