In the space a forgotten person is left to entertain
The remainder of civilization has been acquired
The unfinished civilized area per "your" affront, complaint, insult
Inflammatory remarks is creation of code
Creating colony
Demanding colonization by war
The financial crimes which capture attention are all in time.
Havings leavings
Feelings frustrated
Poor troddings while wasting into the poor shallows?
Allowed to do so.
Beneficial beginning from behind.
Avoid all affronts
Immediate rights?
Separation from extreme exposure
The writers block of monetary syndrome survivors
The elements for one
The news arriving on earth
In the way the news was arriving
No obstacles?
Really?
Greetings!
Thank you so much for submitting your letter to The Washington Post.
Portion control included, have fun?
History allows one the Japanese quartermaster position
I know that art’s subjective;
Everyone has different taste,
So one exhibit that I love
Might be, to you, a waste.
The same applies to music –
Some like opera, jazz or blues,
Country, rock and roll or show tunes –
What some pick, I’d never choose.
And what about vacations?
Many opt for beach or isle,
While a city with museums
Is a trip to make me smile.
Disagreements are expected
Where the government’s concerned,
But to me, what’s most upsetting
Is the lesson I have learned…
That no longer can we argue
With civility and poise.
Respect has been replaced with
Lowlife nastiness and noise.
This has come to be accepted –
Points of view can’t be discussed
And the bullies bloviate and leave us
Trampled in the dust.
Harrowed heart
Abstruse abstract art
Canvas concealed
Depending on your viewpoint:
time is a subjective thing.
When you are in a rush or feel anxious,
time suddenly seems perceptively slow:
but when you are having fun, it flies by.
A child's day seems forever;
always finding time to play.
Oblivious to all watches and clocks
a child's awareness of time is askew:
for it's a concept they've yet to master.
But that innocence doesn't last:
adults are obsessed with time.
And seemingly speeding up as we age,
years, suddenly morph into memories:
as yesterday's outnumber tomorrow's.
Caught in boredom's doldrums,
our perceptions of time change,
The sands of time keep forever flowing:
the past, present, and future flow as one
as we rush to waste what little we have.
We squander what we treasure;
till we find, there's no time left.
What is art?
Almost no two people agree
We all have our own ideas
I love what she despises
She has mean things to say
I only have delightful things in my head
Because I love it, it has called to my soul.
He comes along and pokes fun at a piece of art that she loves
She loses her temper, now loving it more than she did before.
Their personalities come out in full force as they argue about it.
It is hilarious to listen to, and more fun to watch
Art is subjective
None of us agree
In the passing of the still
everything moved in the darkness
of No light everything was bright
captivated by The stance
everything was at a glance
as we hovered as we stand
we are in a faced with reprimand
I am biased though I am objective
these thoughts are not reflective
abraising patterns of confusion
for you see this reading this verse
Is as thought as such a subjective illusion
2/22/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr ©
I love this painting; it reminds me of my grandmother’s apron.
I see her kitchen and smell fresh chocolate chip cookies.
Another despises it;
It reminds her of being raped when she was four.
The wallpaper on her Uncle’s walls.
She smells him.
Art is subjective.
She loves it; he hates it; the children are indifferent.
Max, the son, runs toward an abstract artist the others do not understand.
Charlotte, the daughter, is reading a book, loving it that she has a bench.
The largest art gallery in New York has no pull to her.
Stepdad is pretending to like what their mother is oohing and ahhing about.
A Monet exhibit where every painting is the same in dull colors.
Trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees, trees.
You can tell they are newlyweds.
Art. Subjective in every possible way.
It separates families, much like religion and politics.
Many opinions, ideas, and feelings.
The sweet perfume of the flower
Is in the nose of the sniffer.
flowers in conversation
or
confrontation
in white-bright light.
duet, leaning
as if elbowing the window
of an automobile,
glaring-blank stare.
the other with violet eyes -
the kind
that drives the point
home.
5/20/2021
Old adage: What goes around comes around
Recovery from Subjective Sight
Subjective eyesight sees a narrow way
No stoic smile for the inner child's face
Headlong into a righteous angst delay-
Humility on trial with biased grace.
Peering into mansions of another soul,
Reminds ego explore all new labyrinths,
Savor truth hidden in rhythmic rhymes’ role
Let words escape harsh judgements damning breath.
Grace restrains words dogged to throw verbal stones
Mercy’s lens delights in effort’s labor
Refreshes eyes enchantment for heart zones
Finds the unique original to savor.
Releases judgement of poet premonitions
Removes cataracts – compassion’s mission
5-12-21
Contest; Judge Not Lest You Be Judged
Sponsor: John Lawless
when i
first saw
you your
hair was
in a wrap
almost seeming
African in the
presentation
of yourself
was there hidden
a tumbling down
lost treasure that
i found or was she
bald but that never
phased me because
i saw her face without
make up yet made to be
simple purity of
poetry in motion
yet emotionally
i only need to
just softly speak
for how dare i
might mistak
ingly awaken
her from her
night dreams
and take her
into my day
dreams
Time can be a great friend,
some time feels like torture.
I wonder what time this is.
Hey brother, do you have the time?
** Perspective
Seeking something Sensual’s Hardly Helpful,
Losing Calla Lilies is Easy! Tripping
Falling, Dropping, Landing in Black Dirt, Smelly!
Has repercussions!
1/31/2019
Subjective
her vision moves me
thoughts soar
and I'm consumed
by emotion
flooding my senses
euphoria felt
I melt
as I become enthralled
with her all
She is the art
that erupts
off my canvas
magmentous
in passionate heat
with strokes that repeat
studied and taught
each night
caressed in deep thought
eyes wonder
but dare not wander
keeping such beauty in sight
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