How much bloody carnage and rubble
is required to atone for sins of a few?
How many eyes must be gouged
to extract desired justice?
If wronged, is exchanging one eye enough?
What about two eyes for one? Or ten for one?
Is twenty enough?
How about a hundred?
Such revenge might feel like justice,
but it fuels hate’s endless cycle.
Can we exit this interlocked sequence
of oppression and reflexive violence?
Can we struggle toward implementing
a radical, restorative, improbable alternative?
Remember what a crucified carpenter taught
about loving enemies and turning cheeks?
Do such ideals seem impossibly wrong
when gushing anger from our wounds?
Yet, as he stretched on splintery beams
no carpenter would willingly build,
he said, while gushing blood for all our sins,
“Forgive them for they know not what they do.”
My passion is the happy fervor
That covers and moves the lever
I heard an exciting, silent flaming
To warn me about this mine anxiety
And its eyes have all the flaming
On that day my soul grew arousal
and the brainwaves never zesting
and its eyes have all the flaming
The spree seemed happy exclaiming
Not but my thought yet stilled remaining
in there stepped a flammable insight
Only this and heated horrors
I crave the scorched, splintery stimulus
Poundings of my thoughts series
I threw my illumination upon the floor
Satan stool in front of the prison door
I crave the illuminated, illuminating intimacy
While I pondered, excitatory and more
what could there be more purely offshore?
Demon angel
Take thy illuminator from out my heart
those the turmoil, 'Minded the Ecuador!'
Mentor, mentor!
And the troubles never layering
and so the good angel you came gently clattering
Get thee behind me Satan bravo, bravo
11/21/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
A dog
wanders down the road
sniffing
snuffling
head raised
suddenly
alert
to protect
why
* * *
A wall
built ten feet high
stone upon stone
brick upon brick
hides the outside
why
* * *
A crack
in the wall
craggy
splintery
light shines thru
why
Collection: Attaining Peace, Experimental
Written: December 2019
The best I could hope for was a lame or weak animal,
limping along, not able to catch up with their tribe.
My cubs are hungry, and they like fresh blood meat.
A young antelope or gazelle would be perfect!
As I glance through the African grasses, I consider different scenarios.
The old ones often fall behind, but their tummies are not tasty.
There is more gristle, sinew, and splintery bone than meat.
The last time I brought home an old one, we could barely gnaw through.
A herd of kudu came leaping through, graceful, confident.
Hunting a young healthy one would certainly spook the pack
They might invariably change their feeding path after a fear like that.
I lick my lips, waiting for young ones, but maybe they are unborn.
The hyenas came past my grasses next with noises that infuriate me;
“Supper?” my bravest cub asks me, hopefully. Soon, I say with yellow eyes.
I am proud that my hunting prowess has kept them alive so far,
My cubs and I sit down to wait, not as patient as we were at day’s beginning.
CHRISTMAS EVE
riding the wind
a thousand christmas bells
swirl city corners
custom country steeples
ring round my splintery old pew
in a ponderous quiet
on this hallowed eve
i’m forgetting the dreary
remembering those hundred candles
mother singing oh holy night
christmas eve
no snow
torrents of rain
santa comes round
in a pontoon plane
Dave Austin
Over streams
or above deep ravines,
they cling to the earth that supports them.
Having borne years of burdens, their bones are cracking;
the splintery skin of their once-strong arms now rots.
Threatened by footsteps - though few - they groan. . . .
for time is deserting
old bridges.
(Not in a contest,at least for now.)
At that hour
the breeze turns around.
The fishermen are coming back
with hands splintery,
without lips,
with eyes of stone.
The bottom is empty
like a bottle at midnight.
The shore is there
where somebody’s waiting.
They’ve sleept for a long time. Dreaming.
With hands locked together.
He, the wind, the last one
an orphan, leads
them…
POSEIDON
Sleep, Lord Poseidon,
Deep, everlasting sleep,
While sailors watch with bated breath.
Old planking creaks –
The pitiable splintering sound –
Old planking creaks.
Old sailor,
Splintery-kneed old sailor,
Keeps his watch,
With ever a thought of life’s futility,
Down deep,
Where dolphins stay.
But Lord Poseidon never sleeps,
And dolphins play….and play.
HERMES
Young wears the winged sandals,
holds the winged staff.
When old has cried, “Lost spring!”
young laughs in the verdant bush,
And will dance at wedding and wake alike.
Sleep, Lord Poseidon,
Deep, everlasting sleep
While sailors watch with bated breath
Old planking creaks -
The pitiable, splintering sound -
Old planking creaks
Old sailor,
Splintery-kneed old sailor,
Keeps his watch
With ever a thought of life's futility,
Down deep,
Where dolphins stay
But Lord Poseidon never sleeps
And dolphins play.....
And play
You’re watching video reruns
from last summer.
They’re lighting the cauldron, The Games
return to the home of the gods.
2-minute snips
between commercials: muscles
grasping for a globe.
And then the ads. Somebody’s running
for something, posing & provocative
under the national anthem.
He says we’re at a crossroads.
Flags & fireworks.
We saw it all four years ago.
Oh, but memory is a con man,
he could sell you ice-blue riffles
in a creek that dried up weeks ago.
It’s August. On the news,
wildfires are torching the hills.
Come outside and listen
to grasshoppers
strike their splintery music
in tinder-dry weeds,
the song of summer.
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