In daughter a river seen I had,
Wee bit homeward tried to wean I had.
It’s so hard to say goodbye to her,
With clenched fist, home lush green seen I had.
Her life sea-bound imagined I had,
A live stream beneath sun seen I had.
The banks looking bare, she coursing far,
Home, not so love-less lean, seen I had.
Eyes homeward, life marine seen I had,
Her journey riverine seen I had.
Heart anchored to the birth-bound old shore,
The rest turning saline seen I had.
____________________________
Musings | 27.09.2026| daughter, goodbye, home, river, Quatrain
Based on a Muktak (as under) in Gujarati by Darshak Aacharya: Along with two stanzas added in anapaest meter.
Dikree mañ meiñ nadee bhali hatee,
Aitle to ghar taraf vali hatee.
Dekree ne kem karavuñ avajo?
Dost, muthee aitale vali hatee.
if as yet addicted to a routine ~
tendencies of our past we need to wean
what’s faster than our blink rate cannot be seen ~
silence dissolves time and then the truth we wean
The one became two, polarised
Delusion: objects weighed and sized
Lethargy, bound to a routine
The truth of Self not recognised
Let’s slow down thought and desires wean
That lust soiled heart may become clean
In timeless time, the mists then clear
Restoring our luminous sheen
What attachments do we hold dear
Knowing in time they’ll disappear
Find that that does not come and go
Allowing God’s light to draw near
Shifting into staid stillness slow
Our bliss drenched heart is all aglow
We then flow like the morning breeze
In the boat God Himself does row
No fear demons left to appease
Mood and mode embrace and release
Surrendering will at God’s feet
Dwelling in peace, we are at ease
Grace in-pours as magnetic heat
All nodes within form feel upbeat
Vibrant emptiness is the norm
From head to toe we’re bliss replete
Centred in love’s benign bliss storm
With God’s will we gently conform
Aware we’re not this body-mind
For His breath enlivens each form
In solitude, divine aligned
With cravings of ego declined
We imbibe each breath in surprise
Playing our life role as assigned
Time was money was when a mindful mate
That gave me time enough to feel its feel--
The touch of grain and texture of its state,
How one hesitates ere part with the bill--
Crisper the notes harder to part was it,
The time it takes to wean out the wallet
That gives enough time to be wise and discrete
To look into, to wait, deliberate
That slows me down enough to weigh its worth.
UPI now cuts that safety circuit
That technology calls it empty mirth,
Not watch out, weigh and well in time to quit.
Technology oft looks an empty boast,
And I know well: comfort comes at a cost.
___________________
Sonnet |01.06.2025| change, money
Tears form in my eyes,
It's no surprise.
I can't understand why,
I don't really want to die.
I know its unhealthy,
But I Loved getting high.
It's hard to stop this guy,
The harder i try,
The more I cry.
Giving in again,
Strengthening his Tie.
Every time I Deny,
It's urges,
He surges forth,
Searching for More,
Running through my core.
A mental war,
Until we score.
Riding the Lightning,
Crashing to the floor.
"I can't take it any more,"
My Spirit roars.
All the Cells Implore,
The need to restore,
Balance to this Machine.
Screaming I wean,
Changing the Routine.
Intervening in between,
What's dirty and clean.
Fruits of wisdom to glean,
Rearranging the scene.
Staging the past,
Clearing the screen.
Removing the obscene,
Learning what i mean,
Becoming a Power Unforeseen.
The Other guy,
Remains to be seen.
There once was a dame in New York
Who plugged her hole with a cork
Some thought her insane
For not wanting a wean
But she still got one from a stork
toss anger, he said
into the bin of waste
waste not mankind’s love
with abuse and bite
the bullet skies
high the eagle flies
why not the steeple
less with feathers flocked
why not the pews on
threadbare knees
that knock and palms
close touch of closed
and ethereal eyes, in shock
of amazing blue, far above
the whizzing bell of shots
some fell, some rise
both have a knell and sigh
anger flung like monkey dung
lay upon the sheetrock roof
its lies are born and cradled
evil has a childhood, is able
to wean and crawl, to fall
toss anger, he spoke
to the deaf and blind
they never woke nor wised
up. six feet downer done
swept into the bin of waste
a godforsaken life
“The rabbit hole of lust, is subtle and deep ~
Be watchful if we’d take a consciousness leap”
~ quote by poet
As we pick up our pen and begin to write,
conceding this too is a habit routine,
we console ourself that it is quite alright
and this is an addiction we need not wean
but when soul’s musings fall from their lofty height,
the truth of our bondage we begin to glean,
as we pray to God, asking Him to restore,
rhythm that delights heart, begging for an encore.
addicted to a scent
we once granted consent
enmeshed us in confines of time
deadening sentience to our inner chime
self-blocking the influx of God’s grace
owing to mundane goals we chase
so the verses our mind shapes
though colourful rainbow drapes
if it has now become a habit routine
perhaps it is indulgence we need to wean
Mistakenly believing we’re body-mind,
bewildered by fear and enslaved by desire,
we fail to see head and heart are not aligned
with love, so the objects we seek to acquire,
fixates attention, gripping us in a bind,
consigning our soul to the funeral pyre.
Adding to our woes is conditioned belief,
which unless undone, will give us no relief.
In the void of cessation, we’re always free
but presence soon returns to habit routine,
caged in turbid tempests, tied to our mind tree,
borne of heart’s dark desires, not easy to wean,
unless with soft whispers of love we agree,
for it’s then that the truth unseen may be seen.
Making thus in staid stillness, love our soul’s scribe,
we imbibe divine bliss, mind cannot describe.
if there arises an urge
to follow a preset routine
it signals a stuporous stance
of habit patterns we need to wean
flows so the waters
wean vast the moving currents
bathe motions waters
under the clouds of
pearls puffy solidified
waters solid white;
bathe motions waters
currents wean moving vastly
waters so they flow
8/22/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
A soul is divine it is said,
by spiritualists, well read,
but what soul is, most have not seen,
who are by scriptures blindly led.
Detached hermits, whose needs are lean,
in staid stillness have felt soul’s sheen,
which we too can know, if we choose,
erst fears and desires, from heart wean.
With agape love as our heart’s muse,
following truth without excuse,
we then see soul, as light of God,
whence mind games no longer amuse.
Made in God’s image, soul’s a pod,
blooming when we give love our nod,
shining within, as living light;
revelation that leaves us awed.
Bliss drenched soul pulsates with delight,
humming gently by day and night,
as God’s essence, alive, aglow,
known when awakens inner sight.
Thus truth of soul, if we would know,
we must make first, our thought flow slow,
whereupon we see soul’s divine;
whence God guides us and we follow.
Some fireflies lit the way of wishful whim,
the expectations fired diminished vim.
The lack of lucence rendered chances grim.
Design of great foment—I hugely now repent.
The flowers vie with scent—their vibrant colours spent
when light from Sun in lower meadow mean.
The crows at dawn abated soon to preen.
A gibbous Moon in western sky still seen.
Yet rainbows will succeed—the face of Moon must bleed;
the rays absorbed thus freed—its cast expressions knead.
I guess my chance to win your heart is slim.
Tenacious Moon by day espy torment:
From arduous labour I tire and wean
myself by increments in chocking plead!
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