Who's this, that makes a poet's soul,
and motivates the heart?
Who exposes one's true yearnings.
in depths that's set apart.
What stirs the scribal cauldron's lust
that moves the pen to write?
What mysteries the quill brings forth.
does wisdom forge the light?
I know not where the winds may blow
as passion dwells within.
But I know this, that I will write
that truth is next of kin.
Deep in the canyons of my mind
that screams for sweet release,
I can't contain that precious brew -
a tide that cannot cease.
The universal Master's hand
this most precious of all gifts.
Is likewise host to beauty's fest
and healer of all rifts.
Categories:
scribal, joy, longing, love, passion,
Form: Rhyme
Ode to My Love Jesus Christ--
My love Jesus, you inspire me to write.
I love the way you look, I pray humble,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the deep cimbal.
Let me compare you to an able larch?
You're more than bible, caring and giant.
Light clouds dull the stable flowers of March,
And the springtime has the right alliant.
How do I love you? Let me praise the ways.
I love your excited eyes, feet and smile.
Thinking of your pibal feet fills my days.
My love for you is the scribal trial.
Now I must away with a tribal heart,
Remember my white words whilst we're apart.
3/5/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
Categories:
scribal, appreciation, blessing, devotion, i
Form: Sonnet
My most fervent hope is of the species that,
It wonders most powerfully and unceasingly anent the security of
These notebooks containing these selfsame poetic works;
And I hope also, that asleep and secured is how they are put away.
It must be for me to assume, and ah, yes, presume even such.
Forever I must presume their safety, that of these notebooks,
Else the very worst and most maternal ilk of
Patent worry should invariably ensnare and enmesh me:
It should eternally trap and bother me, this
Baldfaced concern for these, my scribal children.
Thus, within the compass of the caliginous fastnesses of
The occluded drawer of my wicker-paneled,
Square and flat-summited nightstand,
They lay at rest; and, when I, of a night or
Even a day, have little use nor need of them;
And whensoever as my stylus has stilled its diurnal or nocturnal
Movement, and is stationary, silent and at rest:
Resting along with these many notebooks:
These cribs and nurseries gently housing and cradling my poetic,
Inscribed progeny, and there is then no hourly
Requisite of further poetic parturition.
Categories:
scribal, anxiety, appreciation, art, assonance,
Form: I do not know?