All poems contained on this page were 
written by and are the property of Betty Lee

'Magination

A little boy is sloshing in the muck
mixing mud with his tiny bare toes.
Today, he is a big yellow duck;
tomorrow, he'll have a runny nose.

From twigs, he builds a little hovel.
Lifting dirt for all he is worth,
his hands become a great steam shovel.
He's a bull-dozer moving the earth.

He's the pilot of a cardboard box
flying all the way to Timbucktoo.
Sometimes, he is a little red fox,
sometimes a big monkey in a zoo.

A fireman goes scrambling from his truck
rescuing a family from the flames.
Sometimes he talks just like Donald Duck
and he has a trillion-zillion names.

A trunk is a desk for Sheriff Bill,
or maybe a mountain peak so high.
Perhaps tomorrow he'll ski downhill
or be a super-hero who can fly.

A trip to Mars he took yesterday
without leaving the safety of home.
He needs very few toys for his play
when he lets his 'magination roam.

circa 1972

Stolen Treasure
(a cinquain)

Jewels
cannot replace
the sparkle of her smile
or dull the memories of dear
Crystal. 

circa 1984

Pretend 

Pretend you don't see him, that he's not even there.
Pretend you don't love him, that you don't even care.
Pretend you don't hear him when he calls out to you.
Pretend you don't need him even though you really do.
Pretend he means nothing, nothing at all in your life.
Pretend you have no desire to be his lover or his wife.
Pretend that you don't want to be held in his arms.
Pretend you have no need to be shown all of his charms.
Pretend that your heart has no trace of desire.
Pretend that his touch doesn't set your soul afire.
Pretend that your mouth doesn't yearn to be kissed.
Pretend, when he's away, that he's not even missed.
Pretend there are no thoughts of him in your head.
Pretend you don't remember all the things he has said.
Pretend there is no love for you to give today.
Pretend long enough, and he may just go away. 

circa 1976

High Need Achiever
(a cinquain)

A "B"
might be okay
for some people to get,
but not for me. I need to get
an "A".

circa 1984

Ode to Nikki Giovanni

I met another poet today, one who has received much fame,
one who has traveled far to reach acceptance and acclaim.
As she spoke of the world, its problems and its strife,
I felt akin in spirit, like I'd known her all my life,
for everything she had to say, I'd said, myself, in the past.
It was if the two of us had come from the same last,
For she saw things much as I and said the world needs changing.
If only poets, such as we, could do all the rearranging
We'd put the world on its feet in just a short while or so.
All the problems of mankind would oh so quickly go
For we know where the problems lie, and we know how to care.
If only mankind could learn with all mankind to share.

circa 1984

Blank Paper

A new sheet of paper
All fresh and so white
Stares up at me and
Lures me to come write.
I am not sure what
I should put on it,
But it begs me not
To dally or quit.
It pleads to me to
Fill each empty line
With words that sing
And sound so fine,
But I am out of those
Nice words tonight
And do not know what
It is I should write.
So here upon its glaring.
Snow-white face 
I've written some words
To fill the space
And now, as I near 
The end of the sheet,
I can say, "I am finished.
It is now complete!" 

circa 1993

The Boxer 
(a limerick)

There once was a boxer named Cassius
Who passed out a great many gashes
He changed his name to Ali
And now he recites poetry.
For that, he deserves forty lashes! 

circa 1985

Despair
(a cinquain)

The bills
go unpaid and
the powers been shut off
and now the bank is foreclosing.
So what?

circa 1985

Longings 

A little girl yearns to play and laugh,
to frolic in the green grass of spring,
to smell lilacs in bloom,
to feel warm winds touch her cheeks,
to hear the squall of a loon,
to squish hot sand between naked toes,
to taste the cool runoff in a mountain stream,
to watch a sunset dancing on a secluded pond,
to follow an ebony butterfly skyward,
to perch atop a boulder-crowned summit
and await a new day
But she sits
peering out of nicotine-stained windows
inhaling the putrid aroma of tar-laden ashtrays,
shivering in the drafts of the century old hovel,
listening to the rumble of eighteen-wheelers
speeding by on the highway outside her door,
sipping cold coffee from a chipped teacup,
drifting upward in thought with the smoke
from the neighbor's chimneys,
tracing jet-scars across a cold, gray sky,
hunched in a child-worn rocker,
imprisoned in an ancient frame,
ready and anxious,
amid tears and pain,
for death to snip away winter's chains,
releasing her from this earthly state
into the molecular energy from whence she came. 

circa 1987

The Escape Artist
(a cinquain)

He says
coping's easy,
all you have to do is
take one step forward and ten back,
withdraw.

circa 1985

The Making of a Father

When they marched through Valley Forge,
No man called him plain old George,
For he was commander over them all.
Like the others, he'd answered the the call,
The call to come and form a great band
To fight for release from Britain's hand.
When that freedom at last was one won,
The electors declared him number one.
So off to New York he was quickly sent
To be the nation's first leader, president.
It was his chore then to lead the states,
To tighten the union and make it great,
To bring dignity and respect to his position
And to work out flaws in the constitution.
He led with a hand firm and yet fair,
Though he often put on ceremonial air
For he liked ruffles, wigs and fine lace
And things of regal and stately grace.
He and Martha had no natural son
So he found a proxy in Alex Hamilton.
Alex was fatherless, conniving and oft rude.
He was also brilliant, but exceedingly shrewd
And he pitted George against James Madison
And other old comrades like Tom Jefferson.
Like siblings, they dueled for George's favor,
Each trying to force the other to waiver.
All of their quibbling managed to divide
Men who had once been on the same side.
In spite of division, they somehow secured
A working government, which has endured.
When George had ended his eight-year stint,
Back to Mount Vernon he happily went,
Back to running his grand plantation
For he was no longer needed by his nation.
He had done a good job with his child,
It was no longer disruptive and wild.
He'd raised the country as his own son,
"Father of his Country," George Washington!

circa 1984

note: I wrote this while taking American History 101 in college, 
to help me remember the details for an upcoming exam. 
Hey, it worked; I passed the test and the darned course as well. 

To Jean; in Answer to Rejection

Reject my poems, if you must;
You don't like rhymes, I see,
But I'll write them anyway
Because they're a part of me.
I'm not Helen Steiner Rice,
Nikki Giovanni I can't be,
But I have feelings, just as they,
And they're a part of me.

So disapprove if you must,
It matters little to me.
I don't write my poems for you;
I just write about what I see.
If you don't like what I say,
The problems yours, not mine
For I express what I feel,
And to me it feels just fine! 

circa 1984

Je Cherche la Monde

Ou sont mes soeurs?
Ou sont mes freres?
Ou est mon pere?
Ou est ma mere?

J'ai cherche partout
Pour trouver ma famille.
Je n'ai pas leur trouve.
Ou est ma famille?

La bataille a commence.
Les soldats sont venu.
Les maisons sont tremble
La ceil a ete en feu.

Les femmes ont precant.
Les enfants ont crie.
Beaucoup des gens sont mort
Quand il a fini.

Du milieu des ruines
Pour ma famille j'ai cherche,
Mais je n'ai pas leurs trouve.
Je vais continue chercher.

Heir j'ai cherche ou j'ai poulu
Aujourd' hui je cherche encore une fois
Et demain? Et la jour apris-la?
Je cherche jusqu'a j'ai les dans mes bras.

Ou sont mes soeurs?
Ou sont mes freres?
Ou est mon pere?
Ou est ma mere?

circa 1984

(Translation below: for those who do not understand French.)
This poem written while taking French 101 in college, 
scored extra points with the teacher, (I think).
Believe me, being dyslexic, I needed all the "Brownie Points"
I could round up on the side to keep up that GPA!

I Search the World

Where are my sisters?
Where are my brothers?
Where is my father?
Where is my mother?

I have looked everywhere
To find my family.
I can not find them.
Where is my family?

The battle had begun.
The soldiers they came.
The houses were trembling.
The sky was aflame.

The women yelled.
The children cried.
When it was over,
Many men had died.

In the midst of the ruins
For my family I search,
But I did not find them.
I will continue to search.

Yesterday I looked where I could.
Today I look one more time, again.
And tomorrow? And the next day?
I'll look till they're in my arms again.

Where are my sisters?
Where are my brothers?
Where is my father?
Where is my mother?

circa 1984

Joy

Joy is the favorite truck of a little boy.
Living today for all its worth is joy.
It's a little girls doll so cute and tiny
or laughing together at the rain all shiny.
Visiting a friend you haven't seen in a while
or making a new friend can bring you a smile
or telling Grandma about your brand new bike
or just telling her about things that you like.
Joy is hearing the birds singing in the breeze;
it's watching squirrels leap through the trees.
Taking a walk in the woods can be a real joy.
Finding true love is really knowing joy.
It's holding hands in the dark somewhere.
It's knowing somebody really does care.

Joy is holding a new baby up to your breast.
It's talking about love, life and all the rest.
Joy is watching children as they play
or running barefoot on a summer's day.
Joy is watching all the little things grow
or three little children playing in snow.
It's a house full of laughter that's a joy
or a new pair of shoes that squeak, to a boy.
To a girl, a dress that fits just right
or not being left all alone in the night.
Joy is a puppy as frisky as can be
or a children's chorus singing off key.
It's hearing your child saying a prayer.
Yes, and it's knowing He'll always be there.

circa 1973

Ewer's Plaintive 
(a cinquain)

I feel
like a pitcher,
outpouring feelings in 
vacuous confession, and then
empty!

circa 1984

The Guy in Section Eight

For those of you who have read the works of e. e. cummings,
here is my one poem written in his style. Click on title above.

Please sign my dreambook, so I know you dropped by to visit.

Thank you for visiting with us, and come back again soon.

 

To return to main poetry index

Background made from an owl graphic sent to me by 
a House Of Love And Support sister-friend, Pammie B. 

copyright 1997-2005 by Betty Lee, Glens Falls, NY