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Voices from the Juvenile: A Collection of Poems
Voices from the Juvenile: A Collection of Poems
Voices from the Juvenile: A Collection of Poems
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Voices from the Juvenile: A Collection of Poems

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This collection of poems is the updated and revised edition of the book published under the same title in 2013. Included are commentaries of a political and social nature as well as some historical observations. These verses, these Voices, are mostly concerned with the self-imposed ills of the human condition: depravity, oppression, alienation — obsessions of the will averse to reason. These voices are as simple as the questions they pose pertaining to those myriad issues that persist. Robert McGee Jr. was born and raised in the little town of Clarksdale in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. He lives in Mobile, Alabama where he has worked in factories for the past thirty years. His other collections of poems are Haiku Composed in Awe: (2014) and the pamphlet, All the More Reason To Say It! A Few Notes & Poems on 9/11 (2017).
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 27, 2018
ISBN9781483487472
Voices from the Juvenile: A Collection of Poems

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    Voices from the Juvenile - Robert McGee Jr

    Jr

    Copyright © 2018 Robert McGee Jr.

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

    ISBN: 978-1-4834-8748-9 (sc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4834-8747-2 (e)

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

    Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

    Many of the haikus were also published in the author’s collection, Haiku Composed in Awe: (2014).

    Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 07/12/2018

    To the memory of a timid spirit—

    may we not drown in vain.

    Someday

    Someday,

    by sunlight warming

    the sunlit morning,

    a somewhat thawing

    occurs amongst the nerves

    stretched taut as strings

    finely tuned for the lovely concerto

    that mourning brings.

    In the warming heart’s dawn

    in the dawn of a sunlit morning,

    delightful birds of spring appear

    bright as blossoms on a tree,

    and beautiful as beautiful can be —

    offering themselves so selflessly

    to the splendor of life’s sweet symphony.

    They open and flex their wings;

    they cough and clear their throats

    so their voices may clearly be heard:

    What lively verse do they propose to sing

    while cowering in the shadows of crows?

    For Keats

    Even the poets were prophets

    Had only we paused to listen:

    Imagery of their rhymes forewarned us

    How truth without relevance is lost

    In the beauty of its fleeting reflection.

    Exception

    If what lies beyond those Pearly Gates

    should remain unbeknownst to me,

    this much I can guarantee:

    Such a fate would not relate

    to the minuscule dimension of an orifice

    in proportion to a humpbacked beast!

    Through the Kitchen Window

    The decade lingered in the August air

    stifled by the heat of the sun;

    relief would come but tragically

    on just the kind of day

    that should serve as a fine reference point

    for many years to come. . .

    an irrelevant dawn emerged

    beyond seemingly impenetrable clouds

    conjured up by an impatient sky

    whose shadow grew dark as the day wore on;

    then sometime along mid-afternoon

    she made a fair assimilation of dusk.

    I remember it clearly now:

    the thunder rolled, windows shook

    winds gusted, treetops danced

    the rain came in waves and lashed the awnings and roof.

    God’s wrath had diminished by then

    the surge of death was far away;

    the winds nowhere near what they had been.

    Through the kitchen window

    I remember it clearly —

    having been all of nine years old

    but mostly, I remember mama

    crying by the stove.

    Muse as Nemesis

    Only

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