The lighthouse sits upon the desolate island shore
Slowly dilapidating as its pieces fall to the ocean floor
Seagulls and ospreys have made it their coastal home
As it sits unsafe in a place most would never dare to roam
Once it’s nighttime its prism lights are rumored to turn on
Even though the original light bulbs are all broken and gone
Sometimes the lights can be seen at the hotel across the bay
Many guests have reported seeing it light up the open seaway
There is a legend that the lighthouse is cursed and a haunted place
Those who have ventured to visit have disappeared without a trace
Many say that on quiet nights when the moon is full and bright
A young widow can be seen pacing and crying in the lighthouse at night
It is rumored that a young bride is waiting for the return of his ship
That was lost at sea with its captain, who never returned from his trip
There are nights when the wind may carry her sounds of despair
The haunted lighthouse remains a mystery and many fear to go there
It's morning on the seaway.
Snows had gathered in drops and hops.
Prepared to dance to mellifluous flute.
But the sky is dark.
Everywhere, the tone is clear.
Human faces are strewn with fear.
And the rivers are muddled with tears.
And no happiness here.
However, we owe ourselves golden coins.
Of love, forgiveness, and trust
We owe the white sky a white dove.
Of which there's no dialogue.
Blood Brothers, without our happiness like a river
Or our feathers like the beaver
We will sail deep into the abyss.
Abyss of no return.
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.
"Lo! the dolphin dotes laughs
My passion is the maritime coast
'Ocean!' said I, 'thing of seawater.'
Oceans dolphins
In a kingdom full of coastlines
Eagerly I looked for the seaway
I crave the marine, more mare
That up bound jellyfish - that unbound jellyfish
I felt compelled to sniff the territorial waters
I am shorn of my catfish
I discovered the riverbanks
Suddenly, I heard some tiding
Rise, fly mighty dolphin up through the skies
And its eyes have all the ponding
Resulting and resulting with my pacific
But in the fact that it was fluttering
I had dreamed of ribs cluttering
Only this and a ameba
The west water whaling
The dry dock smiled
How they were curtailing, prevailing - derailing
I discovered the crayfish
I crave the marine, amidships maritime
Ah, distinctly I was swallowing
Rise, fly mighty dolphin up threw the skies"
11/19/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
Six to eight African nations
count on the powerful Zambezi.
Rightly called their river of life -
its wilderness lets wildlife roam free.
Batoka Gorge attracts tourists as
Victoria Falls' wet smoke thunders.
Two dams provide hydroelectric pow'r
but many in south Africa wonder -
What "dam"age would another one bring?
Does an ecosystem have a right to
freedom from economic encroachment?
Think what a Zambezi Seaway might do?
started February 27, 2017, revised April 3, 2017
with rhyme and new focus.
Bar Stool Bed Sore Ode to the Record Machine
Smoking Winstons
At the Seaway Lounge
At 2:00 a.m.
The juke-box sighs out
Buck Stovell, Roy Crestline and an occasional Darla Parsell,
Whoever she is
Buxom barmaids who are 53 years old
Wear nineteen year-old gold stretch pants
Bleached blond earlobes
Wrinkled double chins
Kissing
Genuine Cherokee Indian jewelry
An old gray side-burned man asleep
In the corner
Beside the cigarette machine
Middle aged women looking very divorced
At the bar, two stools away
From the pretzel can
I sip on warm Blue Ribbon
That looses it color in the dirty glass
“Oh … lonesome me”
Juke-box oozing out tunes
As my jaw oozes out of socket and
Into my callus factory hands
Dirty finger-nailed
Sex-starved wrists
Palms ready to …
Put another quarter in the box
Nashville’s monument to love
In a shaggy bar, in Lawrence, Indiana
seaway blue stem~
Massive mama's
bury their babies
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