Today, out along the east property line
Driving in extra posts to shore up
The ancient and decrepit fence
Carol comments on imagining
What it was like out here before radio
When there was only the sound
Of wind and birds and cows,
And I think how it wasn’t that long ago
And how 99.999% of human history
Was just that way
And how I lived a summer like that in my youth
Building a house while camping
Under a pair of big ponderosas
And a sky full of stars.
And how it was the happiest time of my life
But how it too passed
As our life accelerated up through the centuries.
Today mending fence
It’s nice to be reminded of our roots
And recall all the things we must have done
When life was simpler
And having each other
Was all that mattered.
(7/26/26)
I am 57 years into riding the waves of life
some waves are welcome and wonderful,
some are life shattering and heart breaking
I am coming off a wave of the latter,
and trying to shore up for a big wave of change
While change can be good, and even powerful,
when you are beaten up by big waves and pounded
by the surf, the large wave coming at you can feel
daunting and unsurvivable, but my stubborness
and optimism have kicked in, and I say “Bring it on!”
I’m twisted
into submission;
admission
to true world
of imaginary breeze
and coconut salt.
I’m a seed,
slipping into sand,
letting go.
The wild sea’s
crest and trough didn’t swallow me,
silence me - my thoughts.
Roots, a muse -
rest and recreate;
drudge baggage
ditched at shore.
The dunes spoil me with their grit
and pink hydrangeas.
Sunglasses
recover my eyes;
sunburn writhes
on my skull.
Hair in free fall, snarled and damp,
like anemones.
An assault
of coconut breeze
in true world;
admission
into twisted submission
of relaxing waves.
The sunspots
of Summer outbreak.
I bring pail
and shovel.
I shore up castle, today,
midst whirlpool of moat.
The true world
tries to interfere,
as I splash
cruel eyes.
My hands and feet completely
disappear…left - write!
Come out of the darkness, stand in the light.
Speak from your heart and give us insight.
Don’t treat us like animals lured by honey.
Saying you care and you’ll give us your money.
Offer instead, a small thread of hope,
A plan to slow, illegal immigration, guns, dope.
Shore up our borders, build a great wall,
Help the murder and theft totals to fall.
Give us a chance, a dream we can earn.
The legal citizenship for which our hearts do yearn.
Make America great, let us be a part.
Workers can stay, would be a good start.
Think of others, give up your greed.
We’re just asking for the things that we need.
An Angel sent by God best describes my Mum:
a more loving soul has never walked this Earth.
Mum could bottle preserves: apple, peach, or plum;
cultivate my pride, and shore up my self-worth.
And she could knit, crochet, macramé, and sew,
learning skills on her own; she took life in tow.
I have always felt loved and safe around her:
so when I think of her, tears begin to stir.
I recall an earlier city than this,
that smaller metropolis had to be
plugged into black handsets for distant listening.
Often, I think that his city is a concrete megaphone,
one we have made from fabricated conversations.
Denizens daily must recycle themselves,
with ever louder words.
A few artisan poets,
with their mortar and spades,
grout the cracked and leaking windpipes,
hoping to calm the roar of a casual chitchat.
They labor on, to shore-up crumbling words,
before they all unplug themselves
from silence forever.
Moorings anew are easy as thought,
Vessels tethered, fixed as weather,
By an anchor, a person, or an idea,
Sure to shore up evidence of defense, of itself.
With every wave, memory fades soft as morning fog,
Providing wet hiding and reinforcing ties,
Binding us together, on shores of security,
Like seamen seining a weir of our own making.
Forgetting respawns our willingness,
To be encircled again, within a radius of safety,
Ropes with a constricting reach, endless limitations,
As far away as the unmovable horizon in view.
Then we float into the final harbor,
Less grounded, ethereal anchorage more stable,
Rites of arrival unknown, moored in others still,
Slipping in, your past adrift, reborn under a new gable.
The eyes of the world are upon two men today~~
One continues his assault upon a sovereign nation
The other travels to shore up peaceful alliances
One isolates himself, knowing his life is in danger
The other visits a town where people are suffering
One’s poll ratings are very high as thousands perish
The other’s polls lag as he deals with enormous issues
While juggling tremendous problems not of his making
One consorts with oligarchs to increase his great wealth
The other works for meager salary considering his task
One will remain in power by manipulating an election
The other will stay or go, as the people make a choice
If I have a choice to live under Joe Biden or Vladimir Putin
I choose to live under Joe Biden, any day, no disputin’.
Written May 21, 2022
What day was it I found this piece
Of broken bottle turned to gem
Abraded by the sands and tides
And worn to faded opulence
Just trash upon the ocean’s shore
Now in a jar upon a shelf
And miles from sights and sounds of gulls
And years gone by from when first found
A talisman to touch and hold
To shore up memories now gone cold
Of walks together on the beach
And hunting for the sea glass gems
Perhaps some magic still remains
Of walks and sharing finds.
We all make choices in life:
sometimes, it's the small
seemingly insignificant
little things that can corrupt the heart
and assault the soul:
or make a positive difference in someone's life.
We try to shore up our convictions
using alternative facts, logic, pride, and hubris:
and yet end up fortifying frustration,
anger, and contempt.
For we're all human,
sharing the frailties intrinsic to our species.
No one is immune to failure,
and some have stumbled and fallen
through the cracks,
living in the shadows of life.
No one wants poverty.
And yet, it thrives all around us.
The city’s reaction to the homeless
is unapologetic and stern:
fueled by scorn, as opposed to love.
And society's deafening silence
speaks volumes;
sanctioning policies
lacking in compassion and understanding.
Our choices define us.
Some reveal humanity's heart,
while some sully humanity's soul.
I gave my love my courage
To help fight all his ills.
I gave my love my strength
To help shore up his will.
I gave my love my heart
To keep his pounding strong
I gave my love my soul
To keep sacred for so long.
I gave my love all I could
And watched him slip away.
I gave my love my own life
To keep him one more day.
I cannot con a con man
A god I could not bribe
I did not see a future for me
Without you by my side.
Ketchup, catch-up
...running running
Shore-up, syrup
Gumming, humming
Sticky Ricky
3/23/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2020
"Dam it ...
I said dam it!!" she cried,
Tears soft-swimming in her eyes,
Welling up like the swift torrent inside her ...
"Can you not see the rising submergence in my gaze?
My vessel is yet full," she pleaded, "and will soon runneth over!
The waters of my ravishment have flooded the lowlands to breaking,
And the banks of my best intentions can no longer stem the tide within!
Please ... please be my sad salvation, and do what you must,
For should you not shore up this trickle of passions,
The levees shall most assuredly break,
And quickly drown us both!"
Indeed, he thought,
Brightening.
A very human touch to a story
with some zip to it.
The media is a heartless leach
to the many unfortunate souls suffering,
amongst the filth and chaos of a city in peril.
War has reduced entire cities to rubble,
people are forced to flee for their lives
and yet, the news cameras focus their lenses
on its bullet-ridden facade for dramatic effect.
A money-hungry machine,
news stations suck every ounce of emotion from a story
without shame.
We expect them to inform us
of worldwide catastrophes and events,
and so, we encourage indiscriminate insensitive
photo-shoots of people’s pain.
It may be a sad addiction, and quite pathetic,
but it’s perfectly acceptable,
to exploit human suffering
in the name of news.
Coverage of childhood trauma, fear, or starvation,
all fall under the doctrine of clean hands.
Reporters inoculate hard hearts from reality’s truths
as homeless, hopeless faces,
cling to life, walking away
from everything they ever loved.
And recording their pain
while it’s still fresh and piercing,
is but an opportunity for the news to shore up falling ratings.
(Free Verse)
If I had a bevel
to mark my right angles,
in the limestone of the quarry of my mind,
I would be pondering
a life to be envied.
I would make a resolution
to adhere to the sinkhole
of madness that collects
in unclear images in my
capable dendrite hold.
If there was a fragment
of possibility that I had
retained a tiny piece of
leverage from this hunting,
I would shore up that sinkhole
which hints at an illusion of a
possible psychosis.
If only I had a bevel, but sadly
they are in short supply in
my current stage.
So I shall retain and enjoy my
current level of comfortable,
honest, well-understood
derelict madness.
Written 6-3-2019
Contest: 8 Word Challenge
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
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