Fly BMI, to land in time
There is no time to waste
Stroll down along the Serpentine
The morning air to taste
Across the park to Albert Hall
To Kensington High Street
And further on, towards the Mall
Where you can rest your feet
It’s got to be the Living Room
Their Dover sole is great
Pale sun, and even paler moon
Fall down on your plate
Two people here, three people there
Dull people talk and turn
I like the fuss they make, don’t care
To be liked in return
On Charing Cross I’m quick to toss
Some CDs at the Foyles
A truly searching lad I was
To find my kind of noise
End of the day, the hotel bar
I’m looking at the floor
There is no more Thistle Hyde Park
And Living Room’s no more
The times have changed, but I remain
About the same today
Although it’s quite a different game
I imitate to play
Those were the days, my darling dear
Those were the nights as well
Fly BMI, to disappear
No one would care to tell.
The past plays back
Like a reel softly buzzing in a dusty projector
Frames jitter
Grain dances
Scratches run vertical like timelines
Nobody bothered to clean
On quiet unassuming days
Friends flicker in and out of the light
Laughing in that warm sepia tone
Not knowing they were becoming memories
Gate weave wobble
The joy stays centered
Family moments spool through
With light burn marks at the edges
Holidays melting into birthdays
Birthdays melting into twilight talks
All of it patched together
With tape only nostalgia understands
Workdays show up as overexposed flashes
Bright
Loud
Then gone
A few frames missing
A few frames scratched
The story still runs smooth enough
To feel like you were there
Somewhere in the reel
The dust settles on the parts you forgot
You didn’t mean to forget
These parts just fade like film left in sunlight
Still visible
Still yours
Just softer now
The projector keeps spinning
Casting old light on new walls
Every flicker reminds you
Even flawed reels can carry the whole story
She walked into the room without any word, and with familiars eyes staring through her whispering a silent, "Why "?
And then walked past every mirror, hoping her reflection somehow change, become lighter figure.
A little more acceptable to a world that taught to fade when they were born to be seen?
And then she think why did society neglected the darker kids with a fade figure?
Then she stopped and looked at herself.
"I'm beautiful in every way. "
I'm just beautiful in the way I carry myself, ln the way I stand
In the way i represent my self without asking permission to take up space.
Brown skin are natural Tan
Glows with the every kiss the sun leaves upon me.
And my thick hair it is my mink coat, a crown of richness not everyone can afford .
I am the girl
Who learned to love her reflection, the girl who turned her scars into petals _
And the strongest flowers and the ones that“bloom through every season”
A man made out of dust/ dirt and clay;
Comes not now through the womb;
His awaited anointed place space;
His entrance through the womb;
From grace, to faith, to space place the womb into a room;
First eternity with the Father, Elohim;
Now spirit birth into a flesh a vessel of mankind;
Concurring energies graced, to faith, in space into womb-man;
God man and womb-man jointly co create;
Humans
9/2/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
Dancing blind is what they called us,
we both had two left feet.
I moved on the dance floor,
then she followed me gracefully.
Awkward it became,
as they laughed at us.
We did not care,
as we held each other tight in love.
In love with each other,
in love with the rhythm of the music.
In our last big turn,
our canes showed.
The room went silent,
only the music could be heard.
Now they knew we were blind,
but not by the music or by our feet.
In purpose to uplift the spirit
I got up and said hey ho
I thought, if you could hear it
You’d likely say, hello
I heard your muffled cough
Through the ajar kitchen door
I dashed to see you, love
I passed the corridor
I popped into the sitting room
And checked the bedroom too
I smelled no Gatineau perfume
I saw no sign of you
It wasn’t a trick of tired mind
I’ve heard your cough, I swear
But you were out of sight
Just when I thought you’re there
Inside a room, or maybe
Out in the pretty wild
My garden on the balcony
It could’ve made you smile.
I'll give you an idea of what I'm thinking
let you into my darkest room
I'll hold your hand just to comfort
peel your eyes you'll see soon
in the silence of the night
sitting all on my own
I offer myself help
and try lighten the gloom
Talking to myself
stacking thoughts on a shelf
in a darkened room
only light is my screen
in a darkened room
I 'm allowed to dream
In my mind I'm a superstar
been around the world
In my mind I'm superior
my flag has been unfurled
my dreams are ghosts in the dark
and they are haunting me
I'm still building a Noah's ark
and filling with my fantasies
Nothing outside these four walls
in my tiny prison cell
the world doesn't exist, thank god
so glad I'm on my own
In my darkened room
It feels good
to
discover
new poems
which is
exactly why
distracting me
will usually
always
result in
my distance
though I still
always wish
fellow writers
inner peace
and serenity
and all
the very best
as they try
to explore
their hearts
and minds
with
the power
of
their
words.
Trump
Racism
Chaos
Lawlessness
Incompetence
Lies
Inflation
War in Iran
Food and gas prices
Cheating
No accountability
Is this what you support?
If so you're part of the problem.
The truth is the truth nothing more....
I hold myself accountable for all I've said. How about you?
Something to think about.
Got a dirty room to broom
To make it spic, span, zoom
Tumbled on the greasy floor
Pale flew here, broom yore
Glad, a pretty nurse came to groom
Room for improvement awaits me indeed
ready to change, from ignorance, be freed
yet... why is the door closed still?
oh, I first ought to pay bill...
fighting slothfulness*-creed midst God's grace-breed.
*Proverbs 19:15 “Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep; and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.
August 12, 2026
8th place, "Get a Room" Limerick Poetry Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Margarita Lillico; judged on 8/13/2026
It comes like a slip in the day~
a blue stillness,
a pause I didn’t ask for
but must walk through.
The operating room is bright,
too bright,
as if the world has been pared
to its cleanest edge.
A feather rests on the tray~
not real, but the thought of one:
light,
soft,
bound to air
the way I am bound
to this hour.
Memory stirs~
the half-dream drift
of all I’ve lived through,
all I’ve held,
all I’ve let fall.
Peace is not loud here.
It is a small pulse
in my wrist,
a breath that says
I am still
in the world,
even now,
even in this
unexpected place.
And when I wake,
the light has changed.
The day has moved on.
But something in me
has learned
the quiet art
of returning.
Hello rain, nice to inhale you
You’re a great idea
And a great performance too
Good that you came here
Streams fall down bearing light
To my darkened room
Reawakening from outside
Gatineau perfume
Then a face comes from the blur
Darling is it you?
What’s this rain about, what for
The white light turns blue..
There once was a couple from Rundle
Who together we could only see double
Joined at the hip
We shouted a gip
"Christ, get a room for your muddle!"
You've outgrown this dim room of mould
ceiling's peeling, walls are cracked and cold
get a room with view and broom
table for chats via zoom
live without control, equally bold —
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