Winter Withers
…… its way into the woods
and waits….and wonders….and watches
until…. No-one is looking.
Boorishly, an ally introduces itself,
an iced-sliced wind to quiver-shiver
the woods’ most tender saplings;
to shudder the aged evergreens
with sharpened, encrusted crystals
sandpapering the toughest, roughest bark.
Weather warning complete,
Winter then crunches forward,
cold shouldering its way through the night
to finally rest against a solitary cabin.
Inside that logged shelter, Man awakens
allowing his thoughts freedom
from the waiting room of his mind.
Man has learned how to listen,
but much more importantly,
this man has listened how to learn!
What he now sharply tells himself is…
Winter has arrived; survival demands action.
Man has lived for a year with Mother Nature
after his severance with city life;
he now feels a yearning for the three R’s:
reconnecting, refiguring and relocating.
Man can’t allow Winter’s weathered wings
to embrace him with glacial isolation
nor allow its benumbed playmate… Loneliness
to knock, again, on that fragile, front door.
Ian Souter
You are a Simon
Of Cyrene; a supporting
Shoulder of crosses
I bear in this testing life;
You, a laborer of love:-
You were sharp|ning grass
With your eyes | sit & fixed
Again | a substitute for mow|n
Machine chug|ging along lug
Nuts, molar friction | u - r - n .
Lawn stretches of up|beat
Beach | was there even wind?
Filet a cannonade me | see
The crayons fly | in a circle
A head | towards blu|er | stretches
There | where clouds resemble.
Light is a commodity, scream!
Silly | man | omnibus no teacher
Not even a man. Well still: Lorine
Niedecker e|merges like new
Breath, pulp come together
Mis|hearing cranes, a making
Multicolor wax, bending fuse
Forge |X| fissure for left foot |
Right foot,—we'll find a job a kind
Of game | it’s just planes turned
Paper crane | creosote guardians
A dead lean-to shouldering volts.
In a space reserved for not thinking
a TV blames itself for telling lies to you.
It's another fake cathartic moment.
A wall clock coughs into its hands,
Mouthing a bullet proof prayer -
I waggle limbs into more natural shapes.
Avoid mirrors for a while
until my face settles.
Stamp petulantly
over a not-welcome mat.
The sun has got itself snagged
in shadowy thickets,
a wind sharpens itself
on my nose
perseverance snaps at my heels.
“Go tell it on the mountain”
I speak this uplifting line
while grimacing through a snarl.
Shouldering an invisible load,
climbing a medium-sized mediocre hill.
It takes a whole metaphorical day
just to climb it halfway.
Pause, take a breath.
Try to remember, try to forget,
Try walking backwards for a while.
From far I hear the strains of a mournful melody
It flows from a violin whose strings are about to break
As the violin sings, the night carries the music along.
The notes tremble, the strings vibrate as under grief
It makes such deep tremors in my heart.
Its mournful cry is repeated in sad refrains
My mind turns emotional, yes, I cry.
Once from it flowed happy notes of love
It whispered secrets of lovers, their hopes and dreams
It sang of tales of courage that build the soul,
Of standing tall and shouldering on in the midst of trials.
But now its harmony fades away like dying breath
The violin knows, its end is drawing near,
It can no more produce heart stirring music again.
The bittersweet melody that falls in my ears,
With its notes breaking again and again,
Creates ripples of pain in my heart.
As the loose strings are about to break,
It will soon lie still in a deserted space,
Cracked and splintered like a tree tossed by the wind.
Yet the broken violin will remain,
As a momentous testament of its glorious past.
His own voice
talks over his head,
as if he were not there.
The load car radio
plays distant music.
Without thinking,
he changes channels,
hears only
the drumming road.
His eyes are low lit,
they see only feet
beyond his gripped hands.
Sunlight glares past thoughts,
he swivels right, sidles left,
soft shouldering unseen corners.
He is listening to a memory,
just a self-driving memory,
The car jolts –
returns him
back behind his eyes.
He is safe now
from all those passengers
he invited into his mind.
People driving swiftly
While I was walking
on a rainy path alone,
Many passers passed by.
Then in blues a man
Drove an abandoned road uphill
While the usual being over used.
My legs stride the uphill
Though dreamscape,
It's a mirage of true life:
The shouldering of life's
Call and commitment
Of family's well being.
An Alto car I carried upon
My shoulder and climbed
That uphill , Yes I climbed it.
The road might be plain,
Rough and rugged,
Uphill and downhill
I'll beat with
The rhythm of
My heart and no one
Shall hinder nor block me.
It is night's first light — evening
The world thinks through my mind
The echoes of a bittersweet day whisper
My ears twitch, my heart pricks
A pressed edge leans forward
Shouldering the offices of the earth
A desire to just surmount the hurdles
Like an infant falls yet learns to walk
The one weary of deferred hope
The other elated 'bout a filled cup
The one broken to a love unrequited, at least lost
The other happy, healed at finding love
Life's but a parody of exhilarations
A gnome ignited by fiery undergoings
The man, an eloquent stammerer
Profiting and lossing to antiquity
Love, life, life and love — there's no life or love without wins
Pa, ma, lad and lass — you have no family without wins
Works, rest, rest from works — there's no rest without wins
Wisdom, wits and will will wither — to live is to first die
If it were not for writing,
I would remain as I am,
voiceless wanderer, lost in chatter;
no different than meditation,
mere spectator of unfolding drama,
chopping wood, carrying water.
My common thoughts would linger, trapped,
in silent vacuity;
same as enlightenment's unmarked footprints,
unnoticed, on a deserted shore, washed away,
by an indifferent tide,
chopping waste upon water.
In the quiet curls between verses,
lying hushed as a wake, authenticity unravels,
reminiscent of gurus, tangled up threads of resonance,
only the art of words provides;
in this vain exertion, I find liberation and its sister,
inspiration, too,
splintering kindling, shouldering streams.
Open letter
USA, Britain, Australia and France
You people of the Anglo-Saxon world
Damn you for letting this war go on
Your hatred of all things Russians
Knows no limit goes back to the time
of the Tsars
Sacrificing Ukraine for the ideology
That you are the rulers.
No, Russia, the far east and Africa
Will not bend to your dictate and
Damn the political tyranny in Europe
And damn Putin for walking into your
Trap, shouldering the blame for your
Sinister plans.
But you will not win the world, is getting
Wise to your power grab.
The mind is a mysterious vessel
It carries decisions and memories of yesterday but
No matter how many whiskeys, they will not disappear
It replays life altering choices
Alongside choices not made, in a whine
A stamp of regret imprinted on the brain
The only way to erase it, through death
As Sisyphus, my punishment is grueling but deserved
The ache of self-loathing is like shouldering 100 slaughtered men
The colt 45 calls louder today than normal
Its call seducing
Claiming the pestering will dissipate if only
I paint the ceiling crimson red
Oh, I think today its victorious
As the liberating barrel tastes of sweet escape
Its forces are immense and face withered resistance
Swimming thoughts fly away
Refreshing darkness comes with one, quick, pull.
Hollow heart I do not hone
But one of ocean odes I do own.
Into it is no stuffing sewn
But a brave bold broken bone
That is my wish wicked stone.
The darkness dampers but damsel I am not
My body be bought
And though it will rot
Die it will not.
Golden girls gleeful glint
Chosen choir chords calling cold
Smart sugar somewhat smoldering
The world of warlocks she is shouldering.
full of embraces
I was a hug and you a cover
Preceding and proceeding a squeeze
Shouldering
Body temperature exploding
Rising temps
Incorporate consists
Lust rails relentless
I crave inducement, yet in containment
We unlock our embracement
Nothing but our eyes eye are spurning
Must stop burnings
3/8/2021
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
Let my son stand at the table of Life
sit in the seat of Wisdom
with ever open Arms
fingers of ready Consent
eyes of empath Sight and
a tongue of prose Impeccability
lips of passionate lovelorn Truths
shouldering resolute Responsibilities
on a chest of conviction, pure as Knight
the stomach to move beyond Measure
the heart of treasured Experiences
a soul of infinite Possibles
the karma of cyclic Intents
the nirvana to give back Unconditional
we can be the pioneers of an infinite, Lasting
and loving Peace,
as once we were There.
Your brand is what you see in the mirror, man
The reflection of your choices
A facade moulded by the devil's hand
Shouldering those corrupted little voices
You strayed from the path for a while
Because it would be fun they said
Quietly knowing you would lose your smile
While chasing ecstasy instead
You forgot to read the fine printing
Those clauses that have defined you
A life of being outclassed and wanting
A dull and weathered unpolished shoe
Ask what happened to your personality
That vibrant inner beauty you had
The part of you that welcomed reality
And embraced life's good with it's bad
Its a virtue you need more of lately
So find that laughter that caused your tummy ache
The one that made friends think you were crazy
Interestingly happy and maybe slightly baked
For God's sake smile you bastard
Let the world see who you really are inside
That your soul is not grey and haggered
Wear your brand like you have nothing to hide
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