Passing the PILL?
Brightly sun beats sweat out of men--
Abreast, they hold and pass
A bumpy brownness roundball
Dirty-sweaty bronze-gray-brown bodies
Walk, hop, run skate and walk
Pop, shot shoot the pill, outside toll
A hot brazen day on the Tarmac of ”Basketball”
8/21/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026© Imagism
The colors shifted
Rainbowesque splashes
Smoothly flowing
The temptation
To touch, to alter
To interfere with
The wind’s oily brush
Directing the rain’s movements
Teasing the tarmac canvas
With its majestic strokes
Red and green flashes
Confounding the simplicity
Of a rush hour
Water color
With night fall, the tiny scraps of humanity
congregated in the alley with stories of day’s adventures
their laughter creating waves in the silent dark.
Barefoot they wandered through scorching tarmac roads
with soiled clothes and hunger in their bellies.
As the cold winds swept past their bare faces
they slid into sleep’s embrace curling in some dark corner.
Somehow this view left me wonder if they will wake up
with the kiss of dawn to see another day’s fruitless platter
or will they bloom like wild weeds from the stony cracks!
The past rises
grey and pink
amid rasping gravel
barnacled to chasms
sunken and sodden
clawing at hasty feet
that skate manically
and hurl bodies cruciform
onto mocking concrete.
The marred morn pauses
for a nanosecond
to ponder the maelstrom
of mangled flesh
and sirens.
There is this runway
Where I take off
But I am too busy watching the sky
To know I’m still on the ground
If I close my eyes I can pretend
that what is, isn’t
But I am going to accelerate
At breakneck speed
And I cannot brace myself
I want to run
I want to run
I want to run
Take me off this plane
I don’t want to fly
I cannot hold my composure
I will jump
I will jump
I will jump
Don’t test me
I will out of spite
My pride will get the better of me
I will stop
I will sigh
And pick up my pieces again
I will lie on the tarmac
Watch the sky
And forget about the runway
No one saw me slip into the cockpit.
I dreamed of flying like pilots on TV.
So many buttons — which one should I press?
I picked the green; the plane began to roll.
I pressed again — it raced across the tarmac.
A man ran fast and screamed, “Terrorists! Child?”
The wing struck hard; another man cried out.
A bus rolled out to block the moving plane.
I saw the crash, then fainted in my seat.
Metal shrieked louder than my heartbeat.
I woke to police swarming all around.
They called a child pilot a terrorist.
My name was on the news — same scary word.
That word burned deeply;
I had to ask myself,
What did it mean? I wondered every day.
Not till I grew up did I learn the truth.
That day inspired my dream to be a pilot.
Lady luck alone had saved me from death —
Green button, scream, and question — all began.
The Sun burns down
Turning the day into a hell
Tarmac burns and bubbles
Sticking to children’s feet
Sunscreen will not work
Your body turns red in minutes
Clothes hurt way too much
And sleeping is almost impossible
All you can do is pray for cold air
Or you could pray for a quick death
Either way would be a blessing
Chill please. I was just kidding
But, think about this for a second
At least you wouldn't hurt anymore
© Poem – IV/XI/MMXXV
LRET
The first attempt
This is the first poem I try not to think about.
It is like crossing the plateau of Alentejo
I see the tarmac road that stretches miles ahead
must follow the lines of the road
or, fall off and sink into oblivion
Poetry is not unlike arithmetic; using words instead
of numbers
The hope is that the writing has an inner logic
That defies jumbled words
The instrument has a hidden note that tells us
That two is not four
I try telling you what I hear, it is easy, our obligation
to love our fellow beings
This request can be obtained by honest feelings
Driving down the black tongue
Desert highway
Mirages rise
Pools of water on the tarmac
Reflecting even the sky
Suddenly, darkness arises
Flatness on the pale horizon;
No time or purpose to slow down -
It rises, engulps the world
We move into it
It
Moves into us.
The flying lesson
White as a shroud, the virtual paper in front of me
I wanted to record my first flight in a Dakota plane
Inside, the aircraft looked like a bus, reaching under
my seat for the parachute, the steward said
there wasn't, but he handed me boiled sweets which
I didn't eat in case it was a drug keeping us
asleep, that made sense since many were drunk
Turbulence, like driving on a badly maintained
country road, I threw up in a paper bag
The plane landed in Sweden, and the flight had taken
less than an hour
Nonchalant, I walked across the grey tarmac, gave
my passport to an official who stamped it
here comes a seasoned traveler
sun, ripe citrus fruit
sapphire sky flecked with white clouds~
tarmac road steaming.
Born yonder east flickering behind the rolling sky.
Majestic birth of light governs wonders for new and old eyes.
Though northern winds crash and whistle around walking legs under hooded collar of wet yet thick, warm, heavy coat.
Screwed up eyes know light shines bright between the lines of driving rain causing splash on tarmac roads.
Heavy sway of branch and leaf rustling all around. Faced down onwards walk - no run as pointless now the weather found.
12 when I wrote this, from the perspective of a mushroom.
My gills grasping at air, but the grass is not too far;
My scales glimmering stupidly to shine through watered tar.
And in the gaseous tarmac world, I shine here far too bright,
And oh, the air, too stale if for my gills to get it right.
I long to build a house and make a living off of sticks,
Press flowers to make bookmarks. Feather ink dips.
And for one day, to hear ... a knocking or a rattle
Of rats and pigeons at my door. To me, should they grapple
I wished to fly away with birds, claws ripping flesh and all
To find my new roots in the sky: frail, delicate, tall.
I wished to burrow in the ground when I must collapse.
I wish to hide me from the world. I wish for a relapse.
A tingle down my stem, my gills no longer pulchrify
My dirtied shine, my residue: I tell you, "eye for eye."
This vivid tarmac world around me, perfectly reflecting
How little you appreciated when we were worth defending.
Late at the airport, in haste we arrived.
Rumbling plastic wheels rushing in unity,
from tarmac to marble to carpet;
the shuffling queue dispersed, finally.
Luggage swept away, adorned with labelling.
Black and white tags mark a future, awakening.
A marathon sprint to the gate, a race against time
but a man dressed in opaque black approaches
and with regret explains
how just one seat remained,
a voice I'd never forget.
You spoke longingly of your mother's dearest day
and I swayed,
watched as your shadow boarded
naive that I had just sealed our fates.
Now I sit, staring blankly
at your unopened case
wondering if we could've opened
a different timeline in a different space.
If only we'd chosen to stay, chosen to wait.
Regrets waft through the cy air,
a melancholy echo of what could've been,
remnants of a longing to a love unseen.
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Keeps me focused
Keeps me grounded
Keeps me present
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Takes me farther and farther away
From everything I have ever known
Chained up like a worthless dog
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Reminds me that rebellion
Always comes at a price
You just have to decide if it’s worth the prize
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Tells me that my fight is far from over
The war not nearly won
Whether I’m protesting from my backyard or someone else’s overseas
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Fills my heart with pity
Pity for a society
Too at peace with being alive but not really living
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Makes my whole body tingle
My life sentence stinging and burning
As we near my new home
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Makes me hope
That the words scribbled on my torso
Inspire others to likewise pick up their pens
I am told it is mightier than the sword
The sound of wheels on tarmac
Places courage in my veins
A man who has lost his freedom
Has no more to lose than himself
The sound of wheels on murram
Tells me we've arrived
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