Beneath the rippled, sunlit glass,
I rest among the eelgrass blades,
A shadowed world where currents pass
Through quiet, emerald-tinted glades.
A gentle pulse draws in the tide,
Through open folds, the feast is spun;
I sift the sea where currents glide,
And take the bounty of the sun.
A sudden rush—a snapping spark—
I lift and dance upon the floor,
And vanish swiftly in the dark
To settle on the sandy shore.
Here, safe within my textured walls,
Away from cruising shadow’s eye,
Where peace defines the quiet halls,
The rushing world may wander by.
Adorned in ribbed and fluted grace,
Where painted bands of pink align
With lavender across my face,
The ocean's quiet masterpiece—
A living scallop...resting.
I heard the hollowness that this heart hithers ~
but to tame my tears, must I trust the twilight
that ripped me in tremors and toxic tales,
the titanium lightning that traded me thirsty,
like the thunder that cuts across the ribbed sky?
these tantalizing trembles of Thor have left me,
wilting in memories, where moon rests in malice
and the monsoon maiden murmurs in wrath,
unspoken within roars of wallflower leopards ~
who ink me, laced with tiger-lilies and lethal lies.
I ache for you, stretched across sun sighs,
a bereaved goddess of thunderstorms,
vows to sear within silver streaks of solace
stripped of silk and sacrifice,in rust-skin revolt,
seething a smile across slaughtered stars,
and be the Bronté light in brooding blindness,
that cunning cyans cease to code and conceal,
I am the feminine glitch of golden gloom ~
perfumed with mercuric petals that echo rain,
in the restless release of reverent renaissance...
all booze hounds stay away
This tickled me and my gang today
we did not know the prissy ladies called us that
we ribbed each other, it gave us a new chat
Booze hound, booze hound, we said to each other
We laughed as loud as any soldier brother
Booze hound, booze hound, it tickled us that night
We were glad there were no prohibitionists in sight
I prefer raw dates to most candidates
Robert to Bill Gates
Watching mine to lifting weights
fewer versus more states
Some call me a rock-ribbed conservative
but they all have a lot of nerve
My day is filled with uncommon verve
in my swivel chair ~ Watch me swerve!
______________________________________
Robert Gates served as Secretary of Defense
for Obama and then Bush Jr., from 2006 - 2011.
We laid our breath
in the cold dish of morning
not to warm it,
but to watch it vanish.
The way ghosts do.
You struck the match inside me
with a tremor,
like forgiveness
forgot to be kind.
I was not born for light.
I was spilled
like ink across your undone name,
every letter twitching
like a fish on the wrong side of water.
You came in with no skin,
I gave you mine.
You left with it,
stitched to your memory
like a farewell garment.
Now I wander these ribbed corridors,
each echo a footstep
I never took.
Not dead.
Not quite.
Just learning
the shape of love
in an afterlife we invented.
If you'd like the next one,
our merged lament in even darker hues
I am ready. Just say,
descend.
ceiling-to-floor stone fireplace,
uplifted with Mother’s Day gifts:
amidst the painted flower trio,
sunny bright and purple mums,
yellow glad-iolus, ma-genta roses
in red-ribbed vase, hearth-right;
and butterscotch lantanas, on left…
now in a planter on the porch,
inviting hummingbirds and butterflies.
More often than not, I chose the feel-good road.
The road of instant gratification.
Everybody smiling within the veneer of hardship.
The lazy man's road, lined in devil's blood and madness.
The other road was long and tedious.
Lined with breadcrumbs and thin-ribbed people.
Playing dominoes with beer-painted fingertips.
They were born within the cocoon of reality and truth-
It came naturally to them. They were the struggle itself.
BUT THEY WERE HAPPY-happy they were.
On the feel-good road, thin slippers slap the vomit of untruth.
Unattainable wants and unsustainable happiness.
I existed on the feel-good road and became spiritually broke.
A paper mâché skiff upon a reef made of metal.
A marvel of architectural grace
Needle-ended arches touching the space
Vaults that look imposed and superimposed
Ribbed ends that kiss the corners, hawk-nosed
Ornate spires like jewel fabrication
Fine flecks and fancies with fascination
Each segment shines with mystic touches.
Fusing faiths of temples, mosques, and churches
Let us momentarily contemplate
The discourse on the very first date
Adam: Father You've been busy lo' these six days
Would it be too much to ask for a help mate?
(From a rib Eve became my wife
Then ribbed me for the rest of my life)
Eve: Oh Adam ! Where shall we honeymoon?
Adam: I hear Eden this time of year is in bloom
(We had our first date in the Pleasance
She bone of my bone. We cleave as one flesh)
Adam: This rose (of Sharon) is for you my bride
Eve: Who's Sharon?!
Adam: Let's take these horses (I've named) for a ride
Through the Sharon countryside
Eve: Oh Adam! Look at he stars and moon I adore
Adam: Breathtaking my love they've been since Day Four
Oh my fairest with kisses better than spice
Let us again be together on Day Eight and Nine
Now let us return to our demesne
As Father did intend
Velvet red roses stand
cheek to cheek
with daisy faces, ringed
in petal fringes,
sweetly scented
by creamy bubbles
of double jonquil popcorn blooms
beside a starburst
yellow chrysanthemum,
and long leaves
squeezed between.
Below, their stem-straws blur
in the ribbed glass jar,
looped with a satin orange bow
for your 97 years
we must farewell soon.
The loved ones are visiting,
bringing flowers, hugs, reminiscences
for you, last of your generation -
two brothers, two sisters.
I don't want to say, 'Goodbye'.
Let's have a few more days,
or weeks, or months,
just for keeping company,
like the flower bunch.
Loud
Explosive soundings
Environmental vibration eradicate motion
Bombarded sensory thee volumed
Dropped focused turn down
Ribbed quiet
Silence
12/10/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
I want a silver tree because I did not get one in sixty-three
She was adamant about it, my great granny Fee.
We gave her one for Christmas, feeling lots of glee.
Didn’t remember they were ugly, said disappointed she.
Why did you want one? Asked her great grandson Lee.
Because everybody on the block got one except for me.
My daddy said they were ugly, she said with a tee hee.
We ribbed her about this forever, loved teasing granny Fee.
Intercom: the visuals are incredible!
The spray of candy corn fireworks
and the snowflake stars. Land ho…
…and out come the celebrants. They
Stick their tongue to the flakes. Catch.
the honey Brach’s with their teeth.
Leaves layered everywhere. Seasons
on display. Children’s flower windmills
wheeling. Sun’s mellow-yellow-smile.
Oaks, maples and pines holding hands,
branches clapping, looking up, gifting
edible acorns and prickly pine cones.
The skies grow heavy with foreboding
as the great and small pumpkins roll in.
Hideous laughter, sinister carvings
on their orange ribbed faces. Seed webs
dangle from their toothy grins. The wind
says, “Boo!” and off go the craven beasts.
Oft the celebrants feel sorry for them,
having most of their insides scooped
and made into the most delicious pie.
They end up taking one in per house.
Each pumpkin shines bright, contained
on breezy porch, scared of the next boo.
MAD TIMES
The season of hope and growth
Following those cold empty days
Dark ribbed ploughed fields wait
As new life sniffs the warmer air
Bursting forth, as if all new ideas
In shades of lime, olive and sage
Avidly searching to see the sun
Soon to realise their new vision
Going home
across the Shard bridge
spanning a rattle-snaked river
that bites into the Irish sea
cold-bloodedly pumping
into Fleetwood's gaping fish-mouth.
Here birthmarks
are branded with icons
like beach lighthouse at Rossall Point
as Northwesterly winds
whistle across the dinosaur ribbed sands.
Yet towers still sentinel
over the dark valley
riveted in iron, rusted russet
like warships wrought from steel,
but aspire
like a winged-spirit
above backstreet's cobbled lanes
that echo with drunken frenzy.
The river's stenched breath
perfumes the breeze with sewage leaks
as passing tankers head north
and farm slurry seeps into pure veins.
Distantly,
Alveley's coalfields fade
whose ashen sides once licked
red ulcers with embered tongues.
Their slag banks were stacked
near St Michael's
whose hidden eddies still swollow
many a beautifully troubled mind.
Now the future skies
spread star-spangled
glowing with fractured light
sparks that guide strangers
embracing Morecambe bay's wide
open seas
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