My soul started yearning
And my feet grew all restless
To see the old hometown
And the place I was born.
Out back of my old house
Sweet nature was waiting,
The woods of my youth
Were calling me home.
I drove all that night
And half the next morning
I pulled up to our place
Where strangers now lived.
Things looked pretty good
Till I checked out the backyard
And rows of new houses
Where the woods used to live.
I asked an old neighbor
Now gray and decrepit,
Where is the oak forest
Where we all used to play?
He said it's all gone now
Except for the memories,
A big old bulldozer
Has scraped them away.
They put up these houses
On top of each other
And squeezed the old woods
For each nickel and dime.
The trees are all gone now
Except for the memories,
A big old bulldozer
Has scraped them away.
I got back in my car
And headed for Bristol,
Didn't stop driving
For a night and a day.
I gazed at the trees
That stood on my woodlot
And swore no damn dozer
Would scrape them away.
Standing in a woodlot
A boneyard of fallen timbers
Lifeless they are
Warming sun on earth
Thick with bush
Bulging buds spring forth
Where violets grow
A stream - flowing low
Scarcity of winter snow
Painful to the eyes
Stands of willows gnarled
An artist records
As autumn wanes and winter falls,
I always wait for owls' calls
They must not live near me, close by,
so seldom do I hear their cry,
but every winter, once or twice,
they come to my woodlot for mice.
And so I know, on some cold night,
when milky moon spills liquid light,
a muffled wail, a haunting chide
will part the darkness, here, inside.
And I will turn, lie very still
and listen to the hooting— shrill,
and then, again, musky and loud,
enfolded in a billowed cloud.
With fog it fades, as great wings beat
through gauzy gloom, where wild things meet,
and trees and owls and creatures blend
in ancient turns that never end.
As echoed voices wend away,
while morning turns the black to gray,
beyond my lot, their hazy howls
float back to where I wait for owls.
*this poem was featured in my regional newspaper in Feb. 2020
THROUGH THE ARBOR
Ahh! A group of trees
Inculding woodland, woodlot thicket stand
so amazing
through the arbor
through the arbor
through the arbor
through the arbor
we will be walking together endlessly, we will be walking together endlessly, we will be walking together endlessly, we will be walking together endlessly,
we will be walking together endlessly
I see visions of grandeur, grandeur
I see visions of many trees grandeur
through the arbor
through the arbor
through the arbor
through the arbor
I see visions of grandeur, grandeur
I see visions of many trees grandeur
Many different trees varity of leaves
You and I running through those falling leaves
Many different types of beautiful trees
So many visons, beautiful trees in the arbor
We'll be dancing merrily
through the arbor
through the arbor
You and I shall plumage through the trees
Laughing holding hands in love
In love with each other we are
Frolicking merrily we will be happy among the trees
through the arbor
03/4/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
Arranged music by Kevin Kern
A statesman oak, in fall he spoke
to brethren of the wood.
Windblown vowels and fluttering jowls
deciduous he stood.
Calm and serene he argued green
for change, said change is good.
The Sugar Pine stepped out of line
and said he never would.
The Sumac said, "I'll show you red!"
and red indeed he showed,
The Maple leered and, snobbish, sneered
"And I will show you gold!"
Mulberry trees, devoid of leaves,
held transient feathered fruit.
But winter breeze chased birds and leaves;
it stripped them crown to root.
"Oak," said Pine, "you should resign,
you've left your fellows bare!
I can assure no conifer
would oh, so badly err."
"Pine," said Oak, "I won't be broke
My way is more than fair.
Needles catch snow, and green will grow
when spring is in the air."
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