CLEAN AIR
Only a few now recall the London smogs
The early Fifties, I think it may have been
When a man used to walk ahead of a bus
As schoolkids, it was a strange time for us
Almost every day greeted by a misty scene
Our young minds were just whirring cogs
White collars got smudged with sooty grime
A prisoner in that secluded and private cage
Was this our coal fires or industry’s disgrace
Not to see your hand in front of your face
Was decades ago really such a different age
But lives still went on, even during that time
Now, it’s more the exhaust from diesel trucks
With traffic-clogged roads from dawn to dusk
The dirty pall is nothing like cool country mist
In cities, the public is likely to shake their fist
To breathe and be well again, remove the husk
It is all about making and spending our bucks
Silk-
starfish
of fervent
fate weaves soft-quartz
feathers of marshmallow metaphors that
croon with firefly's fluorescence amidst life's
claustrophobic
clouds, shading
bitter
smogs
with
plush sweet-
dahlias;
And I chase light
within saffron skylines beyond dreamscapes.
Sore is the vision in front
Of heavens day gaze
Brilliance shines the dawn
Blinded by the stars
Morning lists summer smogs
Smoke stench tarnishes the air and wind
Blinded by the synthetic sunlight
Everything is blended outright
2/23/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr©2022
Selma started out with a little pup when she was nine.
He was a darling fellow, and best of all “all mine”.
Her parents thought the couple was sublime.
They let her get a new puppy all the time.
When she grew up she had a bunch of them.
Many dogs, some tall, some short, fat and thin.
She grew up happy to be with her puppies so fine.
They are all my friends, totally “all mine”.
Men who might have been interested stayed away.
They were afraid of her dogs each and every day.
She went on picnics toward the end of May.
And was never bothered by Roy or Ray.
She lived her life with a house full of dogs.
They kept her warm through rain, snow and smogs.
She was happy and delighted with her friends so fine.
“They are my friends,” she told people. “All mine and fine.”
The soil is dreaming in a silent technicolour,
peaceful and alone. It exhales, gently without the tragic
trampling of mankind snapping roots, without the world above
and its usual stampede. Gone. Branches noticed it
first - slowly having time to stretch, to watch clouds;
time to open their barks wide and bows sprawling and luscious,
away from smokes and steams and smogs. The sky is blue,
clear. Rivers are lapping, sighing. Birds fly in a chorus, circling
in trills below the moon’s pupil-white skin - seen at night.
Fields are resting their patchwork bodies, their tissues of
grass and pores sewn from the vapours of oak, birch and ash.
Nature’s legs are stubbly now, growing hair left wild and unshaven.
In the morning, rabbits stand tall on haunches saluting the sun.
When the time came
For me to understand
The footing of thanks
Thinking you could send
Heavens eyes down upon
Me crimsonly. Love spilled
Forth and brought colour a
New definition seen as being
The eulogy my casket
Had painted white. Which comes
A word comely used to smother
Smogs of masked conception
Of being black.
Love in Black and White
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