James McLain Poems

Winter:
With the fog running off and down the hill.
Morning which does not have today a name.
It is covered with the misty snow filled veil.
...

As for the moon lite every night.
There is candy it is sweet it's over there.
Where the flowers and the woods,
by the passing wind has breached.
...

Some stains never wash completely out.
But my best friend's a girl some times his mother.
To protect her name we shall call her Mary.
She the center after words she would scrub.
Worn out by this never ending work,
her neighbor and his name.
...

When you were I ask before.
I, by you your open mouth said more.
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She navigates about or above the sun.
As for my eye only her.
She is where I planted my deepest of sorrow.
Her dress of my color befitting it is yellow.
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Now upon his return,
but I she takes a note it's more appropriate.
To the flashing gender ever changing mood,
flushed of face impending thunder soon.
...

From one's own diminished absence which at morning sings.
The climbing sun it comes,
and at night and as for those of us for whom day goes away.
By your dawn I lift each misty covered yellow veil.
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If white is the only color
of your morning then my love,
It is like the dew a proper luster.
...

Do it to do,
to give it to me.

You transfer the seal,
...

He was to be the poet.
And she not being able to describe the words to him.
Silence deeper then the sea,
that none with eyes being able wished to see.
...