inside the stone
there is
another stone
it winks
and says
don't remain
stuck
to the stone
above
and for now
put your
mars expedition
on hold
riding
on indigestion
instead
come
to me
i will
initiate you
into the mantra
i will teach you
how
to cut through
the cocoon
and become
a butterfly
spread your wings
and walk
across
a silk handkerchief
as a
brown lipstick
We've had; the Stone Age, Bronze Age,
Iron Age, Ice Age, Industrial Age too,
a thought about what man hath wrought
and the not-too distant future view.
It's now the AI Age we're living in,
yet, wouldn't take much persuasion,
or a second guess, to believe it's somewhat akin
to nothing more or less than an Alien Invasion.
At dusk, I hear that ghostly call
beneath the pale face of the moon;
I wander, wishing you were not gone.
A curlew’s cry says you’re not gone;
yet I am summoned by that call,
which spills its silver sorrow on the moon.
All reflects the mournful moon;
I wait for footsteps, but you’re gone;
the curlew keeps its vigil, call by call.
Its call beneath the moon names what is gone.
their wills stronger than their wont’s
like mountains, immovable
stone deaf, irreprovable
compromise beneath them, a dirty word
betrayers of this world, rest assured
A young soldier, set loose in the real world Initial positivity clouding judgement,
like teargas
Ignorance, blinding like snow on a sunny day
Human interaction;
Like eyes,
a beautiful sight until
you zoom in
Every man for himself,
ignoring the cries of those affected
Isolation,
a savior from the chaos
Happiness becomes like a card trick,
the closer you look the
farther you get
Thoughts become a cancer, slowly corrupting your mind
Refuge becomes a prison,
trapping
you inside yourself
A young soldier,
consumed by his attempts to grapple with reality
Desperately pleading with lost dreams
A realization
Hidden by the dirt, finally uncovered
Peace lies beneath the stone
This stone is a memory
and memories are not truth.
I carry these stones in a box,
dripping nostalgia all over my shoes.*
The box fills faster than I can make room,
old rocks settle down below.
Some get stuck between my toes,
as I limp toward another show.
It's already Tuesday again.
I've got a pile of Tuesdays stashed away,
wearing themselves down to sand,
rattling the box with every shake.
Running my finger along the edges
for the last time—I'll know,
I'll divine them across the floor
and see what remains.
Wearing the champion beau crown
William's port the dude's tug was bound
Sapphire ring
Shined with bling
Lucky, very happy
Not sappy
Snow coming down hard
Staring from the bar
"Time, I carry out this mission,
It is her decision,
Destiny on my side
She will decide
Doing the right thing
Since I am her King"
There she was
Showing Princess buzz
Until the liberty bell sent a response
"Anything else are their wants?
Voice shouted, filled with demand
Making the command
"Formal nice white dress
Bridesmaids will be impressed
Romance
Special dance
Day reserved for me
Is what I decree"
Months later
Brotherly love paid her
Weather turned warm
And a family was born
Creating a Queen for the day
Hearing people say
"Good luck," sending off the pair
Confirming a permanent affair
Loving emotions that cannot be compared
Since once the key stone is unlocked
Married couples are off the marketing block
"Stone by Stone"
Each sin I’ve carried—stone on aching stone,
Dreams left untouched, stacked clean in silent rows.
Each promise broken, marrow turned to bone,
Each wound I’ve borne, a weight that never goes.
"Stone by Stone"
The heavens sang once, choirs now dismayed,
Ignored by hearts too deafened by the toll.
Layers of earth by sacred hands were laid,
Yet mud retains my shape, my heavy soul.
Your voice cuts through—an edge, both sharp and kind,
Unbinding what my ruin dared to cage.
Stone by stone, your mercy shaped my mind,
A sculptor’s hand to calm relentless rage.
"Stone by Stone"
What love remains ascends where grief resigns,
A monument rebuilt by your designs.
"Stone by stone"
bitty lit busy
ants stronger than cinder
-block busy moving
~
following the trail
beaten path busy workers
laymen in the grass
8/27/26
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
Every sin a stone, every dream denied,
A choir unheeded, its anthem mute.
Each vow shattered, a jagged weight inside,
Pain carried, pain dealt, endless tribute.
A choir unheeded, its anthem mute,
Promises fracture, their echoes wound.
Pain carried, pain dealt, endless tribute.
These burdens rise, a temple consumed.
Promises fracture, their echoes wound,
Each day in the mud, stone grinds to stone.
These burdens rise, a temple consumed,
An offering built where none atone.
Each day in the mud, stone grinds to stone.
Every sin a stone, every dream denied.
An offering built where none atone,
Each vow shattered, a jagged weight inside.
colossal statues were three thousand years old
found in Sardinia in 1974
carved by the Nuragic civilization
depicting warriors on Easter Island
We thought they were only heads
Until someone decided to dig down
They are full-bodied
Buried up to their necks
How did they carve stone back in the day?
Is it odd kings were not represented?
Only archers, boxers and warriors
Many theories are bantered about
Easter island holds on to her mysteries
Intriguing and enticing archeologists
Keeping the Nuragic civilization alive
Three thousand years later
Perhaps that was the purpose?
Blundering over garments for the party Artemis Fowl begrudges the night, he calls like wild wolves that have become one, the books to be read, are soreness in mud, like dirty old cars sitting in a lot, procuring new demons from bibles afoot.
Happy go lucky, lucky is a dog merry Christmas to all like fall counts the dollars from the open maw of awe to bring the other car to grab the other girl the hapless zepher stone beautifully untold, shimmering like the gown that holds crisp the night, for the woman of darkness the lady of the night.
Rough, not proofread.
Rain on gravel is stone-soup.
An alarm clock leaves a bad taste of daylight.
Never proofread that argument.
Ha.
Depression is stone-soup.
With extra polluted rain.
From a tornado.
A tumbleweed as a side salad.
Depression bleeds old vegetable broth.
I’m a stew set aside for later.
A single white rose,
stark against the scar,
left on a plinth—
pale,
pierced,
and pared.
Air drips with heavy dew—
a heady sip,
thick nectar stung by wind,
a bitter elixir on the tongue.
The faint decay of autumn bloom rises.
Petals—
crushed,
capsized on iron.
Ensnared.
Entombed.
Rusting deep in the split stone—
iron teeth gripping the grim root.
Under the rust,
a secret scarlet pulse.
White thorns wake,
weaving through the wreckage.
Wild shoots shatter the cage,
rising—
raw,
radiant,
and reborn.
For deep under the bitter stone,
beneath the winter's heavy blow,
lies the silent, secret seed.
It waits for the solstice's soft sovereign warmth,
to wake,
to break,
and build the bloom anew.
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