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