The Legs of a Child


(And The Marlboro Papers Vol. 1)


The early poems of:


Lee Rector


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My powers of instinct are broken down

Into a mental pacifier.

The directions I take are none other

Than those of ones least connected to me.

I have lost my courage, my will, my devotion,

And yes, I have lost my God.

For my god can be called the essence of falsehood.

My character is as the erosion of the soil

My life as an equipage on a rocky road.

My era will eventuate into the greatest jumble

Of all languor.

My mind, the most lethal weapon I possess.




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Life in a nutshell

Could be described as this

You shoot a rocket for a goal

And always you will miss

You catch a falling star

And it will burn your hand

You buy a cut-rate island

And find it only sand.

But if you stop to think,

Still life is rather grand!




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Driving rain,

Why donít you fall elsewhere?

I canít get the chance

To dry my soul.

I canít get the chance to live.


Streaking lightening,

Why donít you strike elsewhere?

I am blinded by

Your intensity

I canít get the chance

To see.


Thundering roar,

Why donít you call elsewhere?

With wet soul

And blinded eyes,

Your call

Will not be answered.




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When I first opened my eyes

I saw that I must be

The one to take the initiative

To spread the word,

††††††††††† As I felt my talents grow

I decided to leave the greatest epitaph of all.

When I felt my growth cease,

I fadedÖ




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Welcome death,

So wonderful to find you at my doorstep.

My tears will never miss my life,

Although theyíll miss my mind.

But never the less, youíre a beautiful sight

To such a weary occupant.


I often wondered when youíd call

But now I could really care.

This side of the wall is so pleasant

Iíd never cross the line.


And now Iíve answered a question for you.

Thatís why grandpopís not home for Easter

And why a sťance does not uncover.




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Reprise for everlasting faith

Distinguishes between the noble.

Complete control of all that ainít

More so never over.

Last day of earth

Be still for some

And roust about for others.

But never cause undo of love

And heaven be uncovered.




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The Poets


We are an overemotional sect

But will never be forgotten.

Some of us believe in God

Some others think itís rotten.

But no one will let us down

Weíll always be a copy.

And some of it is rather good

But most of it is sloppy.




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Antagonistic as it might be

The last forever ceases

And calls the little running man

For one brief moment to stop

Forever seemed the secondís pause

For called from deathís own evil

For leaving the earthís orbit

To visit, calls the Devil.




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I sat and watched the ripples on a lake

And watched the shadows on the water cast.

I listened for waves on the shore to break

And thought of poets watching from the past.


I felt the cooling breezes on my brow

And drifted into ahypnotic sleep

I saw leaves flickering colors from the bough

While floating over the unknown blue deep.


But then the sun oíre purple mountains dipped

As sadness oíre my weary body fell

And closer to the sore my small boat slipped

To break the soothing dreamy evening spell.


Such peace came to me when evening died

As alone I rowed into the dark of night.




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Why so wonderful a life

Should be destroyed by regret

To consecrate such destiny

And relevate such fate

When crossing rivers wide

Or passing canyons deep,

The never ending song

Forsakes the eyes of others.

Verily I come to you

Asking for the knowledge

To aid falling objects,

But never myself to slip.

Trudging through the forest hills

You undergo the resurrection

While digging the blossoming flower

From its eternal resting place.




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I see a tree,

A hangmanís tree,

An oak of sturdy stature.

Your leaves are gone

Yet still you stand

With bulging joints and muscles.

Your hardened bones and arthritic walls

Are still so very stable.

Your wiry hair obstructs the sky,

The brown leaves few are clinging.

You stand so strong.

Your position long.

Your past I wish youíd tell me.

Behind you stands

Deserted lands

Of death and wandering

To eternity.

But here you form

To weather the storm

And to shelter birds and mosses.

Your twisting arms,

Your writhing arms,

Your beaconing to me.

You sad old hangmanís tree.




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I want to run with the legs of a child

Like on a springtime day, just running wild.

I want to think with the mind of a boy

No cares or woes playing with a new toy.

With all fears and worries eternally suppressed,

A smudge on his cheek and a tan on his breast.

No cares about money, society or employ,

Just the love for a tree in the heart of a boy.

To wade in a brook with tough nimble feet

To sneak a taste of sour and turn it into sweet

Thinking not about wars or things to destroy

But the breath of a song from the creation of a boy.

And the glory of the sunrise, also of its set

And the thrills of the night, the mysteries youíve met

Ah yes, just the simplicity of a blond-headed boy

Shirt and shoes off exploring all for new joy

Oh, God! Why canít that again be me?

For the thrill of the boy, with his first view of the sea.




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Now listen to me,

My friend the sun,

And clear the skies

To shine on this one.

Whereíere I go, sun,

Let me see

The green of every

Frozen tree

And if he wishes winter gray

Give me the warmth of summer day.

When ever you may hear my call

Break through the clouds to shine on all.

Oh listen to me, old father sun.

Donít ever hide your proud gold face.

And never wander from this place.

And melt the snow.

And bake the ice.

And hatch out hibernating seeds and things.

And cause a jungle of beauty to grow.

And let the foul northward go.

Shine out for me, old man the sun.

Let the children outside to play and run.




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Oh, God.

Wherefore art thou?

Art thou in the trees?

Then speak to this lonely creature.

You donít exist, nor do I,

And with that statement

Iím satisfied.




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There are nine in the hangmanís house

With long ropes for the hangman

And his children and his wife

Theyíve come to take him away

And leave his dependents to sway.

Nine ropes for the hangman

All of which are tested for their strength.

And the hangman winces as the others make him think.

Nine ropes for the hangman, who will cry

As the rope holders watch the hangman writhe.

And the hangman prays for mercy

As he watches his children swing.

ďTake my wife, and let me free,Ē the hangman sings.

They took his wife and strung her up.

The hangman thinks that he is safe.

They take the hangman to the lake.

They throw in all his children.

They throw in his homely wife.

And then they take the hangman,

And with him they take his life.

The hangman cried through the whole ordeal

Unlike did his wife and kids.

And then they left, with extra ropes

And prayed God save their souls.




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My delinquent soul, opaque in its way

Is the praiseworthy puff of the earth.

My goal is to disconcert all that is righteous.

I have a rigid stem with the taste of alum.

And my mind will discourage the holy!




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A tear is like a drop of dew

From the weeping sky

The dew falls like music

In the cool of the night

Yet the tear falls in sadness

From the weepers eye.

But tears may fall from laughter

And dew may turn to rain.

Itís not the drop of water

But the sincerity from which it came.




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When will I die?

Will I live first?

Why do I wonder?

I wonder,

Why do I wonder?











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What is water?





What is water?

Who knows?

Only one.


God knows!




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Who can say?


What is love?

What is passion?

Who can say?

Only a fool.

For only a fool

Canít love.

The wise man will say,

Who can say?

Only a fool will know.

Can you say?

Can you love?

Do you have passion?

If not you are a fool.

I am a fool.

We are all fools.




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Who is insane?

The conformist

Or the non.

If the conformist,


If the non,


I say all.

All say few.

What is proven?

Be yourself,

No one else,

And the world

Can be insane.




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Theyíll look at my skeleton years from now

And scream in horror to think

That this was once a civilized body

And now the body ainít.


Theyíll plaster together all that was

And imagine what was not

Then smiling at their handiwork

Will begin at another spot.




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© 2001, Lee Rector, Reno, NV, USA, 606 Nebadon

Unauthorized reproduction prohibited.

All Rights Reserved