Yearning

This place, in mind, is

a wild place full of life and laughter. I would see

heaven in it, where a lake spreads

sun-rich waves and tides to shore; I would see

spider webs suspending fallen leaves and holding

them up like mannequin strings. I would see

the sunrise and sunset; and the robin and goose flying

over all of my petty worries. Once, I believed that strife would be

met and could be conquered here. Nature was

not strong enough! Life outside this pretty world, in mind, is

not a place of truth speaking to the powerful and corruptible.

My soul traces boundaries of freedom; my heart yearns

for a simple place to help me be simple, where yellowing leaves may

fall freely without being pulled off. I would not see

Mother Nature ache as She does. Her heart beats

ever faintly… Our touch does this, and what I would see

is almost gone. What I love is dying an undeserved, untimely death.

I can only feign see Nature wander in my mind.

J.H. Lee (original c. 1987; edit 2017)

Wings

I trap my feelings,

hold tightly

in sad embraces.

I fall into cold waters

of impatience, impermanence.

There’s solitude,

a brainwash from substance

and matter.

Tongues of a thousand

leaves shake

in scorn at me.

I wither under hard glass

and fold my emotions

in these twilight hours.

I hide fast wings

under my breast

and can’t release

them to the sky.

Where’s a healthy rope

to draw myself out,

climb over the wall between me

and the light? Time.

Smile for me, life!

Smile and see me grow.

I’m young in your eyes.

Help me unhide my wings,

to raise them up

and let me shine.

As Long as Angels

Sorry if my actions made you feel somehow flawed.

It was no failing of yours.

If you needed more than I wanted to give,

and you had to make do—

If your plans involved me and I didn’t show—

If all you wanted was a little affection and reassurance,

and I was too “preoccupied” to pick up on the cue—

My reasons don’t suffice, I know,

Can’t possibly qualify,

Aren’t even remotely acceptable.

The worst ring out a hurtful cacophony:

“I’m busy right now.”

“It’s a waste of money.”

“I don’t have that kind of time.”

“That’s silly.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

And, of course, later meant never.

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Say yes.

Can I make it up to you?

If I can’t get through now, it can wait. It can wait a while.

If you’re not ready, tell me when you are.

But please don’t forget—tell me, okay?

And don’t take as long as angels. We’re mere mortals.

Chances are always fleeting, I’ve learned.

And lifetimes don’t come with guarantees,

and regrets last forever.

(Draft #2: June 19, 2016 – Juneteenth)

Puppy-dog Tails and Everything Nice

We were all going to be rich someday, we thought.

And gorgeous women would sniff us out.

Maybe some turned out to be genuine; most were not.

Naturally, they knew we were wannabes

barely past our Mommas’ scolding

with unkempt hair only yesterday and hand-me-downs

just a few seasons ago,

now putting on airs as if those boyish,

snotty-nosed days were somehow long gone,

trying to convince some attractive young ladies

who had only yesterday been out of pigtails themselves,

thinking naively they could bait and control

a gentleman of means.

That knowing look on all our faces—

as if we were calling out “trick or treat,”

not ready for ugly, for sure,

still playing games we thought we knew how to play,

but along the way, had changed.

So, this was growing up.

We didn’t see it coming on so fast;

we didn’t notice the lessons smile and pass.

(Draft #1: Sept. 24, 2011;

Draft #3: July 20, 2016)

You know the type

You know the type

Wears dark eye makeup

That would scare away blackbirds

Prude, bitch—needs a lesson in manners

Punk-ass rebel without a cause

She was stolen by…

Who the fuck knows

She was read to as a child

Came from a good family

Daddy loved her dearly

Then she lost herself

Had no sense of direction

Just wanted to have fun all the time

Snubbed her nose at common values and decency

Garbage and rage spouting out of her speakers

Even the sweet roses were manufactured, made in China

She wouldn’t recognize a true emotion

If it sideswiped her at 80 miles per hour

Guess she had it with authority

Even before authority had much of a role

She was conforming to her brand of nonconformity

So what was there to respect?

What she didn’t realize was she'd have to work with it

As much as it sucked

Doesn’t help to work against it for no good reason

Pitiful attempts seem to feel good only for a time

Too bad we’ve all gotta toe the line

(Draft #2, July 19, 2016)

Exporing Finitude

Lust and nothing more, you’d say—

The way you moved your hips? Tossed your hair just so?

Like waves in woodblock prints we saw at the gallery.

Your touch no longer makes me shudder—(I lie).

You must have known as well—Don’t lie.

You were just as tired of going through the motions,

wondering how much more you could take.

Think how our niceties stole years away from each of us.

Time for another? Or too late?

Should I say it first? Or can I not live without you?

No, it’s you who can’t live without me—(I snicker).

You don’t want me to leave you—(I pray).

You don’t want me leaving you—(not now, please).

So, what was I trying to say…?

Don’t go...

Regifting

Regifting

Seems you’ve forgotten everything you said you’d learned

You were going to change, remember? You said

You’d try to be a better person

Then sure enough—

What bad influences!

Let sway you

Or were you confused because of your footing?

But that’s just growing pains, Dear

You apparently forgot

Others had placed

Great faith in you

Yes, the pressure can be unbearable—suffocating at times

But do you think you’re the only one who’s been through the wringer? And already?

So, did you forget? Was it apathy, instead? Was it deliberate?

Maybe you chose not to look ahead at the grief you could cause

Perhaps others’ disappointments meant little

And your own? Somewhat more? But really less

Maybe you hadn’t heard enough

Just didn’t want to hear anymore

Because you were tired of it

Or weren’t ready yet

You wanted to listen to the Beatles, again

But it was in fact what they’d read—to convince themselves first

Through some ambiguity to, then, make people stop and think that

“the love you make is equal to the love you take”

So, it wasn’t that you didn’t know, completely

You’re smarter than that

You had no way, no good and ready tools to help

You couldn’t merely borrow someone else’s

You needed to learn how to use your own each passing day

And when you scream, “Enough already!!”

People everywhere do

You simply lose sight of what’s outside

And those you hurt so much

And don’t know they hurt, like you hurt—or worse

That’s why you have to be gentle

Because you do care after all

But the secret is, caring when caring seems impossible

And you have to force it out

And it literally makes you sick

Embracing when the embraced resists

Shutting up when the world, it seems, accuses you falsely

Don’t you know?

True courage doesn’t strike back

It takes the blows one after the other

And does more than tolerate pain

It even forgives

You’ve heard that the world is full of malice and wickedness

That heroes are nowhere to be found

That real criminals go unpunished

Not all true—It was selective hearing

It was the news focusing on the sensational

Truth is, heroes are born every day in the everyday

You’re just as capable as anyone else

You just have to empathize and then act

And that boy you say you hate

Even after giving him a halfhearted sorry

You weren’t thinking about his feelings, his pains

The frustrations and hardships he faces

At home with his family in tatters

With his friends who don’t understand what’s really important

Because they too have problems of their own

Yet, you know about pride

Do you know it’s not at all a virtue?

Who asks to be a victim and does nothing?

The desire for retribution is natural, often overwhelming,

As human as laughter and tears

But do you know that justification and justice

Are two very different things?

How terribly, terribly sad to see you go when

You don’t see what you do

Mostly to yourself

Opportunities you squander

Griefs you pile up and onto—so much useless baggage

Hopelessness you turn into cancer

Did no one ever tell you?

Some types of suffering are worse than death

Fear is worse than humiliation

Only the twisted dare say otherwise

It’s the “when,” and anybody can

There’s actual beauty in all the muck

You’ll see it if you try

And if you listen

And you recognize that love is the only

Four-letter word worth shouting, whispering

Then maybe, yes, maybe!

Because life throws boulders and walls in your way to test you

And, oddly enough, tragedy to help you learn all the better

You can see the goodness everywhere

Even in you

Draft #3 (7/17/2016)

Draft #2 (9/24/2011)

Forward Across

Strange, this eighty-pound little boy
giving direction to a pony
ten times his size,
retired 1st Cavalry.
Does the animal protest?
Not even--
Sure, he's conscious of self-preservation
like any living creature,
gingerly testing the loose rocks
as he navigates the steep gully.

And as I lean back against him
sure as hell not to fall forward into the muddy water,
I push him forward
and he goes on and rights himself.
Would he want to cross into the creek
without me to egg him on?
He doesn't care--
Maybe, maybe not--
But he knows the trail,
Taken it a thousand times,
Seen the Red River rise and fall
high as his chest, low as his hooves--
Knows the currents,
the staccato and rhythms
of the stream in every season.

He brakes then--
Curious.
I prod him to keep moving.
He pauses for no reason at all.
What thoughts make him hesitate?
No answer. Perhaps a passing memory.
I see how he could take flight
if he wished, but he has no such wish.
Not like me, not like what I dream.
The moment is ripe while I'm not yet.
And now the boy pauses and looks ahead.

Physician

"And he said unto them, 'Ye will surely say unto me this proverb, Physician, heal thyself: whatsoever we have heard done in Capernaum, do also here in thy country.'" -Luke 4:23 KJV

Physician do
remedy the ills of spirit,
make time to treat with care
nerves so burdened.
Could it even cure your pain?

Practiced over all these years
concocted potions:
from herbs, roots, bark, grasses, seed, moss, fungus--
All to make better the body and mind
and somewhere inside, the spirit, too.

Remove with swift skilled blade
cancer that attacks organs--
Cut deep and precise--
Cut sure, to see the evil growth gone.

Cause no harm, per Hippocrates,
ease the pain, the suffering.
Bring relief and comfort
And as the new day's sunrise
melts away the dew,
wakes the morning sparrows,
chases away the small fattened bats,
come brighten.

Dear Mr Fear:

I respect you. I acknowledge you, you who creep up on me and make me see that I'm weak and really scared sometimes-- as much as I don't like to admit it.

But I wonder just how much power and control you actually have over me? I think you just come to visit me when I'm at my lowest, weakest point. You prevent me from thinking clearly. You take away my confidence, my faith in myself and what I believe I can do. You make me doubt.

Why do you hurt me? Or is it that I let you hurt me? I could unleash my hatred on you. But that would be pointless. People say it's normal to be afraid, to be fearful of something. They say, "You wouldn't be human otherwise." "Just don't let fear control you, paralyze you, take over your life," they say-- which I've let you do to me many times before when I was younger.

Then, as I grew older, it got easier and easier to ignore you, blow you off and reason my way out from under your grip. Sure, sometimes it was god-awful tough. But my wits won over. I could see how irrational you were and are. It's just that you have a way of skirting around my armor, finding my underbelly, so to speak.

You try always to sidestep my intellect. Because, of course, you wouldn't stand a chance against me there. What you do is totally underhanded. You strike me when my guard is down-- through my sympathetic channels, straight to the very "heart of darkness" where you take hold of the little boy. You are most unkind. Perhaps? And yet...

I know it's also foolish to deny you. As despised as you are to me, you have been a teacher to me, a harsh one, granted. Yet, you've saved me from myself on more than one occasion. It was you who stopped me from jumping, from taking all those pills, keeping me from getting beaten up (many times over), keeping from getting involved with that nut-job and that one scary bitch and that other one disguised as a sweetheart. Sure, they were pretty, they drew me right in-- right into a trap, that is. But you kept me from falling to my death (quite literally) from all those terrible devices.

O.k., so we have this conflicted relationship. Guess there are two sides to you, too. And guess I'll have to keep fighting you on some accounts because you can be petty-- by turning my thoughts into mush, making me think I can't do something when, honestly, I know I can, making me act foolish at my very worst, turning me inside-out-- irrational.

Tell you what, I won't welcome you, Mr Fear, when all you want to do is bring me down.

I will, however, allow you in when you mean to warn me, to keep me safe.

Well, think that's about all I have to say to you.

Cheers!

chill mist

Rest, My Boy, Rest (Nov. 15, 2001 - Jun. 7, 2015)

chill mist morning before dawn
darkness drowns like ever worn quilt
of dried yellow rose petals
liquid umber filling
crevices where sorrow hides
silence now when sleep overtakes even
summer beetles in their moist, dark shelters
and the early robin still waits
to signal sure sunrise.
who sits here awash
in heavy, heavy thoughts
for another day
to welcome life's breath
in warm salt tears
replaced with hints of
honeysuckle and raspberries
white, red-- arrangement of flower-fruit
nectar of heaven for a sweet child
no longer broken
whose smile is eternal?

(draft #3: July 2015)

serious down sit

am twisted, am i
not but shackled feeling down
i get touch when feeling lose i
shoulder hers sudden air
brightness takes, joy
is never always none wringing
sweat-wet shirt, mine
old ragged now edges friction-frayed lost
its original forever owner
somewhere dog-eared in
pages turning harsh as most
disaster profound old
so attached but crumbling almost
am twitching, twisting too close to doors close
such with grief simple slow as
right rain, replenishing as to used be

Sweet Rejections

Impressive
All the right--
the wrong
Wish we had a suitable
Thank you for your
Not at this time
We appreciate your effort
The work we are seeking
kindly encourage you
Perhaps another time
in our upcoming issue
The subject, the theme, the topic--
does not lend itself to
Please be assured
But we cannot-- sorry
Best of luck in
Will consider
Maybe a better fit for another
We wish you
Please resubmit again in the
fall, next year, coming years, soon--don't
Feel free to--don't
We'd like to but
are unable to
Try again

central time

central time

1. conditions that i've known fluctuate
in my shorthand residual mind curiously flighty
where the concerns of socialites run
i've secured little gathered only a few odd pieces
like tattered remnants found after a consuming fire
only i understand the nature of their harsh language
how can i justify sharing such personal knowledge
trying untaught ears at this moment

2. where i lived once i felt the strength to govern my world
with respect for time and its ultimate power over all things
some scraps i keep may give account for future lives
of trivial things practiced by a child defending mankind against ignorance...
it was in central time that i grew and learned
felt hurt and cried and saw changes...
reflections now torment me
there is so much spread out far and near

3. on highways with white lines
crossing over and under great stretches of paved land
toward points of interest
my journey was sacred
made with dangerous ease
blurred quickly by poor memory
"against authority!" was the battle cry
but when reaching into my pocket found nothing
i realized all i really wanted was a sense of freedom
a taste of pleasure
in taking comfort
in me
in my own time
like anyone else would



J.H. Lee ('93)

the slightest (if ever so much)

 Poems/Art by JH Lee

so much
(tribute to ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’
by William Carlos Williams)

so much depends on a little turn
a little tweaking left or right
a red wheelbarrow
might not make it without
the necessary directions
so much depends on just a little
course shift
projecting destinies and such

crayon marked outlines
on coloring book paper
pasted on an asphalt road that meanders
from here all the way to there
a million miles or so
give or take a yard
‘nary a mean ole' man’ can possibly
come to the exact length

so much depends on proper calculations
iotaed on every piece of soiled tablecloth
a revolutionary theory may be in the works
to finish off the year
if not today
with something significant for mankind

so much depends on no more looking back
after this one last year passes
into hardly a memory
some kind of existence merely

so much depends on having
the right tools to work with
kept sharp and clean
not useless, dirty
knowing dull is really purposeless
taking up precious space in the shed
earthly baggage
bladder bursting

it does seem like
so much depends on so very little
if ever truth be known
knowing truth
that big things just get in the way
no need for idiosyncratic postulations
on a global scale
or dogmatic geriatrophs
or a new Regis Sisyphus
sandblasted off Camus, his Godot
or some pedantic mythoscopic
Anglo-Saxon warrior type Beowulf

today's rhyme marks
the heavy cornerstones
of the Catman's great wasteland
so much goddamnit depends on
driving out hatred
pushing it far, far to bay

AND now the rhyme unwittingly comes to an end
pressed time after time immemorial

all, such expectations
all great Dickensian ones for sure
in arousal that's desperately certain, natural
forcing out juices of post-coital ecstasy

so very, very much depends on faith,
faith alone always
a single word that counts
for a ton-weight
of tooth and nail
no abuse would make suffer

because so much depends on intangibles
so much on the weather of course
on rainwater and white chickens
so much on the mood of the moment
so much on the flapping of butterfly wings
in coastal Belize
or any other place, obscure
of remembrance
of years gone and forgotten
so much


JH Lee (’93, ’10)

Chronicle

Chronicle

I slapped a shoeprint on the whitewashed cinderblock wall behind our garage
I read a poem that talked about dog excrement drying
“into white stones that sift into lawns or wash down gutters” (lines from a poem by B. Brown)
I’ve seen my own dog’s excrement do the same—
Dry into white stones but melt into the lawn out back when the rains came
My own, my very own memories stop and start with every tick-tocking
Of my battery-operated travel alarm clock which used to wake me up every morning
Until my daughter took it away one day and kept it for good to use for herself
A cheap heirloom now, I suppose
Funny how almost desperate I don’t know if I’ve gained or lost
It’s my secret I don’t share, and each thought about that one
instant with my brother makes the images clearer
It’s with each drop of rain in early fall
the six tiny legs of every invading ant that scurries across my cement basement floor
thunderous pat, pat-pat, down, down, sinking hurriedly seeking
I watched across a hundred, maybe five or even six hundred, acres of corn and soybean
Partitioned with barbed wire, gravel roads and trees that grew horse apples
All said something about the memory of that one time
The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, Speed Racer and Star Blazers, The Mighty Thor
Captain America, Iron Man and Spiderman, Wonder Woman and Green Lantern
Tyco racing cars doing loop-de-loops
What I grew up with, what I put together as frames of reference to the time
I remember the wasps’ nests, the cheese and mayo sandwiches—they were so good
Then, the “dog excrement” brought it all back, in a crash of unrelenting stinging regret
But I too was young when it happened, as if that might serve as a good enough excuse now
It was the time I caught my brother choking our new puppy
The two of them locked in a cruel molestation episode—a criminal act in violation of ASPCA rules of humane treatment of domestic animals, I’m sure
I suppose I should forgive, I suppose
But I couldn’t
I took hold of him in an instant, and showed him what,
Made him feel how the pup felt
He gasped, eyes popping out of his face
Made him feel firsthand the horror, eye for an eye
Meting out justice but it didn’t make me feel right
Told him I was sorry the next day as we walked to the bus stop
He’d already confessed what he did was wrong the night before
Said he’d never thought about how pups, or any other animal he’d tortured,
Might feel getting strangled


J.H. Lee, ‘07

Chosen Spaces

This is a chosen space, this.
Not chosen by me, I’m sure.
Not consciously anyway.
But knowing I would never willingly
Refuse the choice,
I knew the consequences, as well
As I know so well the souls of those who lived here,
This red-earthen basin of a pot.
I know they called out to the one that first did all the choosing,
Just as I know how I used to call out
So hard it would burn my throat.

But then that imposing spirit called on me to make my own choices, too.
And I complied all those many yesterdays ago,
Already chose what point and purpose I desired.
That’s what I always wanted to think.
When those fixed souls in spite or good humor said
I was “just a little shit,”
I grinned, too— embarrassed to hear a word like that.
Yet something I had thought was so bad somehow sounded respectable.
It made me proud, surprisingly— full of myself, even.

Do I know better now?
That being full of me was exactly what that meant?
Full of life-enriching fecal matter perhaps.

And that’s what I gave back, and in earnest.
It merely came in the guise of such seeming ugliness
That so few could comprehend the worth.


J.H. Lee
May ’10-‘11

Meat

Extrude me through your grinder
Pat me, shape me into a nice round ball
Of tender, succulent surceance
Find where you put that cast-iron skillet
The left-over grease from the fat-back
Put it on to melt away the milky white
Start the grill, get it hot
Let the heat permeate through
Smell the acrid smoke rise from the gristle charring

Now scoop the ball and flatten it gently
With a ready spatula
Onto the hot black
See the outer skin of my ground flesh
Fry in the sizzling emollience
Now flip this browning side over
To the pink that’s holding onto raw
Two more minutes basking away
In my own collective juices of thought

Am I done? Am I ready enough for you?
Careful not to overcook me
Some rawness is fine
A rare delight to keep a little
If you ruin me
Well, I suppose you’d want to try again
On some other unsuspecting piece of meat
And I can’t blame you
Cooking meat takes genuine practice

(June 2011)

we have this certain misunderstanding
makes us beg, plead—philosophize
then we think of pleasant turns:
such trees in fine meadows
an oryx jumping out of harm's way
a piece of banded chalcedony
ornaments made from nature's toolbox

i dreamt of Faulkner's Nobel speech
about refusing to accept the decline of man
Did he ever feel guilt for lying?
Did he ever have a one true friend?

my child says we're all "fakes"
some cynical wisdom in that, i suppose
but kindness doesn't turn away
it foolishly accepts but finds reward

flights of angels

something pure about addiction
so pure in its single-mindedness
a purity that doesn't replenish
pure blackness, pure evil
a love that kills
shakes painfully to the core
chews and spits out its victims
in a garbled wad of phlegm-mix
waiting for the next fix