I crave the sunshine

Trashpile

A Collection of Early Writings

By Lee Rector

♦ ♦ ♦

I crave the sunshine.
I like to think about God.

I think that there is a mystery to the moon.

I loathe science for the sake of destroying romanticism.

I want to feel needed.

I want to be of some worth to all people.

There is a mystery that awaits us

Every night in the hours after 12.

That is why I seek companionship after dark.

I can’t stand to be still.

I want to go everywhere and meet all the people I can.

I want to be free to express myself and not be afraid.

I want to love my self in truth, not just say that I do.

I think I can be of value to people when I am an individual.

I have something to say and I want people to listen and learn.

I feel for other people.
I love everyone.

I hate everyone.

I am phony sometimes till it makes me sick

That is when I hate everyone

Sometimes everyone else is phony till they make me sick.

That is when I hate everyone.

I like to be warm.

When someone I like is holding on to me I love them.

When I am holding on to someone else, I love me.

I like to touch people.
I like to touch their hearts.

I like to be loved.

It amuses me and also hurts me to be hated.

Sometimes I want to kick a hole in the wall.

Sometimes I want someone to kick a hole in me.

I hate it when I say something stupid.

I like to be alone.

I like that most of all sometimes.

Then I’m not phony and love everyone.

I like to sit on the rocks and listen to the ocean.

I like that when I’m alone

Then later I would look into the stars.

The stars look into me.

It’s cold out there.

It’s deep.

But there is light.

And the sun is out there.

On the other side of the earth.

I’d like someone I love to come and sit beside me now.

Sit beside me and touch my heart and not say a word.

They could be alone and I could be alone.

We’d just sit listening to the ocean and understand.

Usually that someone who sits beside me on the rocks is God.

It makes me shiver.

He’s other people’s God too.

But I like to feel like he’s mine alone.

When I’m here I’m stingy with my God.

I don’t want to share him for fear I’ll loose him.

I’ll talk to him.

He’ll sit here beside me and touch my heart.

And not talk back.

My train of thought is not broken.

I’d like to kiss God.

Because he’s kissing me. Touching me.

People who say they don’t believe in God make me mad.

They’re phony.

They know God. He takes care of them

And sits beside them when they are alone.

He touches them, listens.

And then I know.

God IS beside me.

God is in the sound of the ocean.

God is in the stars.

God looks into me.

I look into God.

A soft ocean God blows across my face.

It feels cool.

I feel the cool God below me through the seat of my pants.

I smell God.

I’m not afraid to expose my naked self before God.

God can see through my clothes.

He knows I mean,”Yes,” when I say, “No.”

And still he touches me.

I can smell God.

All of my senses are awake to God.

God is in me.

I am God man.

I am the God of what I create.

I play God.

We all play God.

God is God of what he crated.

He plays God,

But he does it better than all of us.

I love God.

I love the ocean.
I love the rocks.

I love the stars.

I love everyone.

I hate everyone.

I crave the sunshine.

1969

♦ ♦ ♦

There is a time between youth an age,

As most young men go through the stage

When they think that they know more

Than generations that came before.

They think youth is a fantasy

And great men they all will be.

Their father, just another man

So they will do just what they can

To prove that only they are free

Until at last the boy can see

That all at once he is a man

Then he wants to be a boy again.

1968

♦ ♦ ♦

Poem by the River

Certain aspects of this world

Provide revelation of the rest.

As you look into the sky

And see the jet streams passing by

And sit and listen to the birds

You really understand what is occurring.

What happens is what’s left.

Jet streams travel fast.

Sometimes they cross each other

And then disperse in the air.

Such the same with the bird’s song

Though it travels faster and disperses more quickly.

There are but a few places left

Where man can sit and think and be alone.

I sit and wish so much that I could be a poet.

I sit and wish so much that I could be all I want to

Then I wonder.

The process of mind is a fantastic thing.

The things a man’s mind can go through

The thoughts, the concepts

All are so beautiful and unusual

But what are we left with?

Not much more than a recording

Of our thoughts, our concepts.

The forms of nature combat the products of man.

We’re not left with much.

Sadness, worry, inconsistence, incongruence, un-naturalism.

They try to protect it.

They are disturbed

When other people who step onto their ground.

They’re concerned about keeping the perverted people out.

Funny thing about that it is it’s the perverted people

Who want to get in.

Perverted people who want to be self-aggrandized.

Such is the way of man.

♦ ♦ ♦

Oh sun above with sacred lore

I wish that you could end this war.

And set the gun shy people free

So all the earth might turn to see

That there could be something more

Than teaching the art of war.

There are things upon this earth to learn.

Friendship, truths, and such to earn.

A wish that those for a million score

Could live a void the threat of war.

1967

♦ ♦ ♦

Suzie’s Book

Suzie as an Okie

Who moved to Tennessee

Her goal was to make out

With the Grand Ole Opry.

She weren’t much of a singer

But she kept an open door

And every lost young picker

Had a place on Suzie’s floor.

She kept her eyes wide open

And if you got a second look

You would find yourself a number

On a page in Suzie’s book.

The legend says the list

Numbers 10,000 or more

Names of Nashville pickers

Who slept on Suzie’s floor.

But you will find 700

Pickers who got so thick

That they got dear ole Suzie

To do her little trick

Doubtless darling Suzie

Will go down in history

As the goin’ downiest lady

In Nashville, Tennessee

So if your daddy’s famous

And you dare to take a look

Sure as God made little green apples

He’s there in Suzie’s book.

1975

♦ ♦ ♦

Downstairs in the parlor was Daisy

Her boy friend, reputed as lazy,

Was knocking loudly to wake her up

After he was bit by the pup

Who guards the white picket gate

Of Daisy’s modest farm estate.

Daisy sleeping in her chaise

Her mind somewhere off in space

Was awakened by the sound

Of her boyfriend as he pound

Hoping to escape the hound.

About that time a housefly lit

On Daisy’s exposed tinder tit

And bit a chunk right out of it.

Daisy awake with a cry

“My God, I think I’m going to die.”

Her boyfriend disturbed by this sound.

Kicked the ferocious hound.

The dog retreated with a, “Yerk!”

Her boyfriend gave the door a jerk.

Then went inside to engage in sin

With Daisy in her modest den.

1968

♦ ♦ ♦

Earth, mother of day and night,

Kindly bring earth men to right

Mother of earth, oh mother old

Play the father. Mother be bold.

Mother of earth speak for us.

Communicate, be weak for us.

Help us to withstand the storm

Hold us tight, earth Mother, be warm

Mother of earth and Father of man

Teach us how to live with man.

Earth Mother you are the land

Upon your beast we walk and stand.

1968

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Parties galore and little stuff

A masquerade of powder puffs

Grin at him. You’ll get ahead.

You people of among the dead.

1968

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Possessing a knowledge of only what I see

The diggings of Pompey could not replace experience

Wondering fondly alone I smell the pungent odor of decaying flesh

Continuing with the belief of never ending nothing.

The sky is so blue, translucent in its way,

Will undergo the face lifting process of deadly black.

And the thunder will hark,

And the lightening will spark

The lonesome sound of immortality.

While swiftly crawling through the dirt

My bloody soul will get revenge.

1968

♦ ♦ ♦

The ominous tomorrow

And the confusion of today

Makes me feel a strange condition

In a very human way

We all have our illusions

And virtue gets my vote

But the human condition

Finds us all in the same boat.

1968

♦ ♦ ♦

I’ve tried to be honest, Lord

Straight forward and free

I guess I just take life

Too seriously.

The worst thing that I’ve ever done

Is run off a friend.

I feel more pain in doing that

Than any sin I’ve sinned.

I haven’t been too careful

With restraining my will

Temptations were taken

If it offered me a thrill.

Yet all this leaves a broken man

Just like all the rest

And I wonder who we are

Really to be blessed.

I’ve tried to help some understand

By leading them astray.

I knew that by doing so

They’d find a better way,

Which leaves the burdens of their souls

To weigh upon my brain,

Now I think I’ve taken on too much pain.

So Lord, if you can hear me

Would you help me to forget

The past mistakes and miseries

And all that I regret

And take my hand now father

To lead this child away

Back on the trail to goodness, Lord

For a new and better day.

1973

♦ ♦ ♦

There it is! Just a little more.

It’s been searched from shore to shore.

We’re finally here and it is found

And all the papers will expound

Upon the fact that it is here

We’re getting closer, it’s so near

But oh the terror we’re in store

Who has the guts to touch the door?

1967

♦ ♦ ♦

The letter opener told its story

On the love one’s breast.

It put its sharp teeth deep in her

And crucified her chest.

A walk in ever upset

The lover took that day

But only a short facet

And he was back to play

The doves in the sky flying

Traced her trail above

You all the lover could deny

Was their steadfast love.

A watch from by the mountain

Brought back eternal pain

And lovers on the hillside

Saw that they loved in vain

A hue of pink came churning

O’er the horizon wide

To show all others

That there was another side

But still the letter opener

It will deface the soul

And everyone who touches it

May hear the bells toll

And from the darkest blackness

A dim light may shine through

Yet all who look too closely

May feel the letter opener too.

1967

♦ ♦ ♦

Catch hold of me you inspiring tester

Help me to cure this fester.

Help me to finish the job.

Let me boom and not lob.

Catch me in a trance so true

That I will never purpose loose,

That I can make my life come forth,

And stop the ever backward pull.

I want to do my work and now

I want to stand behind the plow.

But that which I can do most well

Is think of words I cannot spell.

Spring me forth into the task

And hold me tight until I’m though,

And then let me push anew

Till all the world can recognize

And praise my work with knowing eyes.

♦ ♦ ♦

The giant will have a field day

… if the sun shines

All the children will wave bye-bye

… to their roles

No cockleburs on their stocking

… in the evening

Just elephants dancing

… on tip toes.

♦ ♦ ♦

I will protrude in the grandeur of quick.

My favorite pageant, a fall of those

Who were close to my larva.

The greatest gift I give is confession

And the lanolin of my wool

Is the sweat of a dove.

1965

♦ ♦ ♦

I dwell and dwell on thoughts of escape

The time has come. I must decide,

Whether it is best to hurt others for myself,

Or whether it is best to die.

Escape, escape, the easy way out.

To run and jump and hide.

Or to be a man

And stand the torment

Of everlasting reputation.

The time has come

I must decide

Which trail to follow.

To be a jumping hiding mouse

Or to squeak the loudest squeak

Either way I‘ll be the rat

The dog, the mouse, the snake.

I choose the easy, simple escape,

But cannot hurt my mother.

1965

♦ ♦ ♦

I can’t be awake

It must be a dream

Like a walk

Through the woods

In the shade

By a stream

And the light of the sun

Breaking beams through the leaves

And the air smells so sweet

Rustling through my sleeves

I just can’t be awake

It must be a dream

Like a walk

Through the woods

In the shade

By a stream

1965

♦ ♦ ♦

Noticing a rock go skimming cross the lake

I suddenly was confronted

With the bite of a snake.

The poison spread throughout my mind

And it started to unwind …

But now it’s through

I’m rather blue

Because I’m precariously reincarnated.

1965

♦ ♦ ♦

My secret dream, it comes to me

When darkness settles through the woods,

When half-way between sleep and wake

My thoughts of soothing breezes come.

The lasting pleasure of mortal heaven

It comes to me when all is still

My soft, lonely, secret dream.

1965

♦ ♦ ♦

The laugh of springtime children

Is heard above the birds.

The smiling tiny faces

Of the future’s every word.

The innocent little children

Who have no cares or woes

Will jump and dash around with glee,

And jeer at all their foes.

♦ ♦ ♦

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