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Have you ever noticed?

Have you ever seen?

Have you ever heard?

Have you ever screamed?

Have you ever touched?

Have you ever felt?

Have you ever asked?

Have you ever received?

Have you ever lived?

Have you ever loved?

Have you ever even noticed?
Copyright © JLB
07/05/2016
01:50 BST
I have a confession
It's called an obsession.
A preoccupation
With my aggression
I feel it building
Like Lego for adults
Doctors say it's part
and parcel of my
Depression.
If that's the case then
All serial killers
and not nice people
are just depressed.
Not obsessed with hurt
or pain or emotion.
Just a little down
Take a pill
Chill.
Don't ****
Don't obsess
You're just depressed.
© JLB
You are an old habit
clinging to me,
like a child clings to a comfort blanket.
To elaborate, I need to cut the apron strings.
Discard you like a cigarette ****,
another old habit.
We've marred and scarred each other and called it:
Love.
We are nothing more than substance abuse,
for each other.
Habit formed, co dependent adults.
No twelve step program for us.
Just your charred remains, found
in our bed.
Our bed that justified our habit.
© JLB
20/06/2014
One day is all the time anyone has.
A day to be born, to die alone.
A day to live at a time.
But, this one day makes markers in our lives,
this day marches on,
until we find that this one day has lasted.

In one day we can find true love.
In one day we can change ourselves.
In one day we can change minds.
In one day we can achieve.
In One day, but not today.
© JLB
09/02/2015
20:15 GMT
Darling, Do you think of me when you **** her?
© JLB
21/04/2015
00:43 BST
Our enlightenment is endless
timeless
Our ignorance is endless
timeless
Our understanding should be endless
timeless

Awakening like spring
we cling
to teachings handed
down
Men take up the pen
in order to
teach
Not to preach

The boatman will await
Our trip
Down the final river
Our endless search
for Zen will end with an
Amen
© JLB
You reap what you sow,
even if that's only woe.
Copyright © JLB
05/12/2015
02:24 GMT
Nothing rhymes with Orange

Therefore I am an Orange

Nothing is what I feel

Nothing is what I want

Nothing is all I am
(apart from Orange!)
© JLB
24/09/2014
14:56 BST
Paper people crackling and folding
Under life's pressure
Blank pages, empty paper void of purpose
Paper flowers, swans, trees and cranes
Craning to find a crease that fits them
Brittle dry leaves waiting to be made into a purpose
Feint margins replace the wrinkles of a face
Origami organisms awaiting nimble fingers
To form features, emotions, life, purpose
Like a Samurai sword, the paper has been folded many times
Yet now blunted, pulped, set alight by a match, reduced to ash.
© JLB
I've not been outside for 100 days.
100 days of self imprisonment,
like a bird in a cage, though the bird was forced,
I have sentenced myself.
I try to go out but the outside wins,
it whispers warnings on the wind, it rustles its rudeness in the trees leaves, it sends a crow to caw, telling me to close the door and stay in.
Copyright © JLB
05/12/2015
14:34 GMT
Cigarette smoke curls upwards,
spiralling into the ether and downwards into my lungs.
I sit looking at the cigarette packet
reading the warning:
Smoking seriously harms you and others around you
How true.
Except, it isn't the cigarettes that have harmed me, it's your lies.
Did you think you'd be able to keep me in the dark?
Did you think me that stupid?
Tut tut, lending me your car, not emptying the ashtray,
didn't think you wore lipstick whilst driving, just sunglasses.
The colour wasn't mine, too brash.
I take the last drag, watch the tip flame orange, and feel the nicotine calm
I pick the Marlboro's up flip the box over, and smile at the irony,
there in bold reads Choose freedom, we'll help you
if I rang the free phone number will they help me dispose of your body?
Your staining my kitchen floor, the nicotine is staining my fingers.
© JLB
25/06/2014
Turn the page
Start a new chapter
Stand on a new stage
Feel the rapture
Escape your cage
Just
Don't let life capture
Your rage.

Turn the page
Start anew
Begin a new age
Those dreams pursue
Use life to gauge
When to engage, and
When to say 'adieu'
Just
Don't let life capture your rage.

Life is a book
It's pages to turn
Which direction you take
May not always be firm
Be firm with yourself
Follow your path
If faced with a fork.....then
Uncork your rage
And choose.
© JLB
02/06/2014
I stubbed a toe today
It brought back unwanted memories
Intense, unguarded, pain shot through me
Like a lightening bolt
A bolt from the blue.

Unpleasant sensory and emotional experience
Transferred themselves to a stubbed toe.
I withdrew my toe
I withdrew myself
I boxed up the pain again.
© JLB
Our souls hold our essence,
our past, present maybe even future.
This thought comforts me, in that when I cease
with this husk, my essence will move on,
like a flowing river, a growing bud,
or to a new born babe.



© JLB
31/01/2015
15:10 GMT
Robert Burton in the Anatomy of Melancholy (1628) writes,
"The Pythagoreans defend metempsychosis and palingenesia, that souls go from one body to another."
A minute portion, an iota of matter
That actually doesn't matter at all.
It just about sums  up the motes of life.
Our fragment of life may touch one,
May touch many, but in the end we're all
Small grains of a larger whole.

The sands of time, the granules of the host at Eucharist.
The scientific nucleus
How dichotomous
Religious and scientific particles
Floating in either a Petrie dish or religious fervour
We are particular particles forever searching
Searching for us, for truth and our beginning.
© JLB
Marching, hopping, running, waddling
down the street, people with working feet
oblivious to the stares of the woman
in a chair.

Why would they see her?
She's not even their height!
They are just people plodding and
plotting, lives rotting slowly away.

But, back to the woman in the chair
Snooping on the crowd
Watching the mothers tug at toddlers reins.
Rowing teens shouting "bruv" a lot!

She's mocking the crowd in her own way
She has become them, just invisible.
She likes it like that, knowing of you
Yet them not knowing of her.

Her awareness is acute, sees the businessman
in his suit. The homeless man in his home
called box, the elderly matrons
moaning about bingo.

The drunk with his bottle clutched as tight
as the baby clutches her bear.
The smokers all congregated at the altar of tar
The shopkeeper eyeing the kids, missing the thief

The security guard, guarding the pretty
Little things, no, not the jewellery the
teenage girls! Oh, his eyes are popping!
His legs are twitching. His fingers itching to touch!

Along with the sights are the sounds,
shouting, laughing, heckling and coughing
Smell,also plays a part in people watching
fast food, sweat, the great unwashed.

All plodding along, flocking like birds
clogging the street, swapping gossip,
unaware as always of the
young woman in a wheelchair.
© JLB
Kuebiko (see earlier poem) In Japanese mythology a scarecrow who cannot walk but has comprehensive awareness.
I looked at you tonight and I saw you.
Not the you that's in a photo, or the you at work,
I saw you.
I saw those brown eyes with lashes curled
I saw your soft brown hair flopping over those eyes.
Those eyes that wear glasses, to me a perfect imperfection.
You stared at the distance, seeing nothing at all, yet,
understanding everything.
Slowly with the hands of a pianist you ran your fingers through your hair and took those glasses off.
Yet, still the bewildered stare.
I'd like to say, that, your not seeing me let me in.
I saw your irritating habits;
(i) not pairing socks
(ii) squeezing the toothpaste from the middle
(iii) not clearing away as you cook
(iv) hating my choice of music
(v) hating vegetables
(vi) loving me
~
The list of perfect imperfections goes on,
but as I watch you staring at nothing,
I would say perfection is overrated
You are my perfection.
I'm sorry I had to go and leave you
Life isn't perfect, and neither is death.
And as I watch your tears fall
I realise I only had one perfect imperfection: you.
© JLB
12/01/2015
01:32 GMT
"It's a girl" they said
Ooooooh think of all the pink things
Like booties and bows
Dolls, and toys that aren't for boys

"Sweet sixteen, and never been kissed"
Blow the candles out love
Your mother spent hours baking
Your mother spent hours labouring

"She's a woman now!" They cried at her 18th
"We'd better watch them boys!"
But what about the girls?
Why aren't you watching them?

Is it because those girls are at the kitchen sink ?
Awaiting a boy's wink of approval?
Through buttermilk sweetness these
Pink girls think.

You men are ******
Full of tricks
That send half these girls to a shrink
But it's time to have a rethink

We fair maidens view you
Through basilisk eyes
We fairer *** are
Crueller than you

It's time to drop kick the pink
Permanently into the kitchen sink
And slink behind you
With a candlestick

After all I'm just a pink girl
Who would believe that the
Pink mess on my dress
Is your brain?
© JLB
Snowflakes slowly fall and
disappear into the ground.
Frozen flakes disappearing
into the snow,
returning to the drift.

Opaque light glimmers on the surface
I wonder if my face has remained
the same, fake smiles all around
plastic happiness built on
plastic dreams.

I moulded myself to being the wife
a puppet on a string, a thing to own
Vile vinyl, fake female
toxic, neurotic, inorganic
credit card lifestyle.

The snowflake has reminded me
of a purer time, a kinder, softer time
Snowflakes are unique
I am unique not
Plastique
© JLB
Poetess, rare in contemporary usage
yet, not rare in actuality.
Am I a poet? Or a poetess?
The word "poetry" derives from the Latin feminine noun poetria, meaning not "poetry" but "poetess.
So, confusion reigns in my mind as to what I am
but not what I do, or why I do it.
Do I write because I want recognition? Fame? Accolades? No.
Do I write because I need to? Yes.
Words soothe my soul, whether they be dark words or
words forged in the light.
Poetry allows the poet and the reader to visualise
nay experience all forms of love, hurt, pain, madness,
and suffering, the poet, the poem and the reader become as one.
© JLB
Marianne Moore famously described the poet's job as creating "imaginary gardens with real toads in them".(Poetry)
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
© JLB
They say that music and maths are the worlds unifier,
its non-barrier standard. All can unite in music and maths.
Yet, they forget the literature form of Poetry.

Poetry its long history, dating back to the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh. Evolving from folk songs such as the Chinese Shijing, or from a need to retell oral epics, as with the Sanskrit Vedas, Zoroastrian Gathas, and the Homeric epics.

Poetry is the history of mankind. Memorable for its form, rhyme,
meter, subject, symbolism, metaphors, similes, hidden meanings,
Truth, fantasy and fable.

All human emotion, no matter what colour, gender, creed, faith or belief system, is welcome through poetry, gains from poetry, learns from poetry and in return is taught by poetry.

Those lines in a myriad of languages, styles, form and content is mankind's story, a poem can feed your soul 'Invictus' taught humankind through one man's struggle. Not music, not maths.

From a Sonnet to ****
Villanelle toTanka
Haiku to Ode
Ghazal to Narrative poetry
Epic poetry to Dramatic poetry
Satirical poetry to Light poetry
Lyric poetry to an Elegy
Verse fable to Prose poetry.
We write poetry because we are human! filled with passion.
And other pursuits are necessary to sustain human life.
But poetry IS what I stay alive for.
© JLB
03/09/2014
01:10 BST
We said our vows
in front of a crowd
of well wishers
and family.

We moved in
as husband and wife
and started a life
not in sin but love.

How quickly love turns sour
our wedding rings
they came to symbolise
flings and lies.

How quickly love dies.
The ring now just a band
of cold gold encompassing
a finger filled with hate.

A poison ring,
no longer are we yin to yang.
Yet the upswing to this decline
is that I watch the crystalline water
on a recliner, paid for by your life
Insurance.
© JLB
Little girl born with auburn curls
Little girl born with freckles and blue eyes
Little girl born with a smile so inviting
Little girl born to be bundled in pink.

Little girl got older
Little girl got bolder
Little girl got colder
Little girl realised she hated pink.

Little girl became a teen
Little girl became a terror
Little girl drove her mama to drink
Little girl drove her daddy to leave.

Little girl was known in town as a bad seed
Little girl decided that suited her fine, carried on drinking her wine
Little girl grew up, now a little woman
Little woman made mistakes, she never baked a cake!

Little woman with the auburn curls and inviting smile
came home early one day, saw you holding her so tight
that she knew what she had to do.
When it was done she spun with glee, caught sight of herself in red.
Smiled, at herself and thought: "if only you hadn't bundled me in pink".
© JLB
07/08/2014
13:43 BST
Pride, personified, Satan.
Lucifer's pride his desire to compete with God
his fall from Heaven, and his resultant transformation into Satan.

Pride personified, but what of us, the humans,not Angels
What pride are we guilty of?
The original and most deadly of the seven.

The original and most serious of the seven deadly sins,
the source of the others
Pride is sometimes viewed as excessive or as a vice.

Pride, Dante's definition was "love of self perverted to hatred and contempt for one's neighbour", but
Pride involves exhilarated pleasure and a feeling of accomplishment.

What accomplishment?
That one is better than others?
Our social and economic standing?

Our supercilious ego's?
A better house? The pride that comes with snobbery?
Our arrogance at believing in only ourselves?

Yet, through negativity,positivity can come of pride,
results from satisfaction with meeting personal goals;
Family, friends, education.

Amplified and multiplied, pride
takes a satisfied place in all our hearts.
A complex secondary emotion.

The first and strongest emotion being love
Love cannot be prideful
Yet, pride comes before a fall.

And we as humans fall in love
© JLB

One definition of pride in the first sense comes from St. Augustine: "the love of one's own excellence".In this sense, the opposite of pride is either humility or guilt.
Biologically linked
His debut was celebrated
A son, at last
Gynaecologically whole
Daughters, well, ok
but a son, now that is
ideal.
© JLB
The parable is referenced in the last verse of the traditional Irish folk tune "The Wild Rover" ("I'll go home to me parents, confess what I've done / and I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son").
They say never look back.
Who are they?
Why not?
© JLB
16/02/2015
20:06 GMT
The line is long.
Am I in the right queue?
Why do they use those stretchy barriers?
Why does the queue next to me seem to be moving faster?
Security checks. Everywhere you go, look or turn, a security check.
Look at the cameras and the border control officials, do they have to queue?
Shuffle movement up ahead.
Tinny old time music playing on a loop.
How many times do I have to hear "The wheel of fortune"? It goes round, I get it. Unlike this **** line, it's not going straight, curved, zig zag or anywhere, I swear if Kay Starr doesn't shut up about that ******* wheel I'll staple her to one and roll her down a hill.
No, wait, she's dead, ******.
Wait, the line is moving, yes!
End of the queue coming up, oh look a poster "Anything to declare?"
Does boredom count?
If yes follow the red line,if no proceed through the green exit.
Yes, finally, green for me.
NO, I've nothing to declare, stop, take me back to the green exit.

The wheel of fortune goes spinning around
The music stops, a tinny voice is heard
"Welcome to purgatory. Your stay is dependent upon truth, honesty and atonement. Please conduct any queries or questions via your religious belief system and representatives"
Copyright © JLB
12/03/2016
03:03 GMT
They'll ask the question again
again, I'll reply the same
we treat this Q&A; as a game
well I do, Amen.

"Why do you think you're constantly angry?"
Hell, no, not that probing question,
don't they train you better than that?
They watch and wait for the answer.....

Here we go again, down the rabbit hole
Deep breath, and...
Silence, the same reply.
It frustrates them, they fidget, still expecting words.

Silence screams in places where volume just consumes.
I will not engage, I will not debate, I will not facilitate
their assumptions.
I'm not angry, I'm passionate, I think, but remain silent.

I rage, I do not engage.
I rage within. If I let the djinn out, he won't go back in.
I'd hate for you to feel the blade and blaze of my fury.
I'll leave my sanity for the jury to decide.

Just know this, I was mad when I closed the door.
I was crazy as I stabbed my mate.
But now I'm calm once more
And I refuse to communicate.
© JLB
17/06/2014
I hear the whisper of rain,
I strain and can hear the heavy droplets talk.
The sound of raindrops hitting liquid caused by bubbles of air oscillating underwater.

Underwater, overwhelmed, baptised in a torrent.
Rolling, churning, bubbling, flooding
Flooded with the now roaring rain.
Silence is underwater, peace is underwater, I am underwater.

The talking rain droplets lied
They weren't talking at all
They were shouting, words like heavy water fell
Fell upon my ears and whispered, "I had died".
Copyright © JLB
19/03/2017
03:49 GMT
Rain patters on the window
hurricane winds whistle round about
my mind.
I hear the rain, amazed that the sun's rays
still fall to earth, warming and nurturing

Cocooned in a throw, I look at the room
I've lain in for three days in a pain of my making.
I've become a cliche, the madwoman in the attic
lamenting lost love, lost life.
Cruelty knows no bounds, yet it binds.

Rhythmically the rain batters at the panes.
I don't want praise, I like my malaise
I feel real when I feel pain
I lie slain on the floor, amidst the wreckage
of a marriage.

I've died over and over these last three days
I want to get up and comfort you
To tell you that your life will go on
Mine had to end. I'm sorry you found me
on the floor, tablets strewn everywhere.

Baby steps now my love
you knew I was broken,
there's only so many matryoshka dolls in the original
I'm still here my love, it's just better that
you don't see me, but I can watch over you.

Your heart is broken, filling with rain and tears
my heart and soul was broken when the ink was dry
on the paper declaring us over.
When I get up from the floor, I want you to listen to the rain and
know it's me, my ghost knocking at your door.
© JLB
High soaring above the Raven glides
What do you see with your eyes?
A bird? A black bird?
What to you hear? A caw? A song?
What if we are in a dome?
The Raven looking down
What does the Raven see?
You? Me?
What colour are we?
The Raven is a paradox
If he sees us and we see him
Both observing that neither of us are black, nor Ravens
Increases our belief that the Raven is black
Unrelated observations under the dome
Supposition, inductive logic, intuition
Illustrate ours and the Raven's deductive logic.
Our logic is the same.
The Raven soars on
We remain.
© JLB
Take a spoonful of hate
a dusting of jealousy
a cup of bile
and stir.

Set on a high heat
add a family member or two,
cook until tender.
Serve with respect.

Life isn't about sugar and spice
and all things nice, it's about balance.
Balancing the good with the bad.
Love with hate.

Kindness and anger, all
basic human emotions.
Poverty and riches.
Jealousy and forgiveness.

All of us alive, need to remember,
remember, what came before,
and ask one simple question;
"What am I living for?"
© JLB
28/06/2014
I recognised you as you stood with your back to me
I tried to verbalise a word for you to hear
Yet I was too hypnotised to vocalise a single sound

To call to you would send lullabies your way
It would have solemnised the moment
Pantomime like I stood stock still, not ready to eulogise.

I wanted to maximise the moment
To sacrifice the past, to address this big occasion
To strive and entice this surprise, but

I didn't call, too many butterflies interceded
My desire to shout out to the me that I
For a brief moment recognised.
© JLB
Red
Red
Red,the colour of danger, a warning, to stop.
Red, stalks my memories, my dreams, my now.
Red, the colour of blood, of becoming a woman.
Red, the colour we are born into, the blood of mothers.

Red, vibrant, primary, primeval, purgatorial.
Red, a more frightening colour than black,
Red, the colour of life and death
Red, the colour coursing our veins.
© JLB
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who's the fairest of them all?

Is it me or is it you?
But you are me and I am you.

"Magic mirror in my hand, who is the fairest in the land?"

It's not you, you're too bland, like the bear's porridge,
lumpy, thick and grey. I think you were unplanned.

"Mirror mirror please understand, I need to know who's fairest in the land"

Oh, please take your pleas and understand this, if I were flesh and bone I'd give you a miss.

"Mirror mirror tell me true, do I look good to you?"

I'll tell you this you needy miss, I have no potion to cure your ails,
and wails and needy questions,
your face and body cannot be endured,
(not even by the big bad wolf, and he likes wrinkly grannies)
If I were you I wouldn't hesitate to put my head into the oven
I'll get Gretel to shove you in.
"You ungodly witch to be burned to ashes"

Mirror mirror on the wall why are you cracked?
© JLB
03/04/2015
03:22 BST
Where do you go when you stare?
Am I there?
What are you looking at?
Is it me?
Why are your eyes vacant,
and your mind so full?
Do you remember?
Do you want to remember?
Are you in the past?
Are you in the present?
Are you remembering?
Are you forgetting?
Remembering running, walking, playing.
Remembering loving, singing and dancing in the rain?
What are you looking at when you stare?
I can't answer I'm not there.
Copyright © JLB
02/07/2015
12:53 BST (Spain)
Bitter is the taste of regret.
I know, regret is tattooed on my heart.
Like a bayonet every time I catch a thought of you.
My breath catches, my face freezes, my mind decays
back to our days, when,
I held a flaming torch, you held a match!
I look back, you probably don't remember the girl that made you
her world.
Felt possessed just at knowing you.
Hated the fact that she was too much of a coward to let you know,
that friendship was not enough.
You were put in a box, lid on tight, but you crawl to me
every night.

I dread looking at what you are now,
I bet your silhouette is the same, but your contents have changed.
Am I in a box of your regrets?
It's ok I know the answer.
I just torture myself as it's better to feel pain than nothing at all.
Is she as funny as me?
Is she as happy as I once was?
I bet you have kids. I don't. I won't.
I'd like to reset my regret, but life won't let me.
Bitter is the taste, bitterness grinds at my epithet.
I lay my head down in dread knowing that I fled.
A wretch full of regret.
But, before you open my box of regrets tonight, remember,
*Always kiss me goodnight.
© JLB
09/10/2014
17:17 BST
The thought of you clings to me like a half remembered dream.
Wisps of memories floating only to be lost on awaking.
Dream you versus the real you never add up.
In my dreams we are one.
In reality we are two.
In my dreams you are mine.
In my reality you are hers.
© JLB
25/04/2015
02:25 BST
H.P. Lovecraft's most famous quotes about the horror genre is that: "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land, T.S.Eliot I. The Burial of the Dead


As a child I was never fearful.
Not of the dark, spiders or ghosts.
In fact I was wilful.
Hard hearted, cold.
I liked that about me, it was a barrier to the outside world.
I was the loner, the malcontent, the strange spooky one.
I loved it more as a teen, embraced the Gothic, elevated the bizarre.
I smoked, it was cool, I drank, it was cool, I was nihilistic, it was cool.
Popular meant conforming, how that repulsed me.
Why? Because conformity meant no individuality, no soul.
My Grandmother said once "be careful what you read, it becomes you"
Yeah right, look I'm Pennywise the clown!
But she was right in a way.
I became repulsed by myself.
I had no compassion.
No true love to call my own.
I was alone with my fear, my fear of loneliness. Irony.
I had no true identity, I hid in horror, then became horrified.
I didn't know what was coming, where I was going, who I was.
I was afraid. Truly afraid for the first time.
Afraid of my shadow, of not knowing, of returning to the grave.
Fear is a loathsome creature, devouring love and hope.
Yet, know this, we are born to die, the clock runs down, no appeals.
So fill up on love, fill up on warmth, for Hell maybe hot, but alone,
it's cold*.
© JLB
23/06/2014
Literary historian J. A. Cuddon has defined the horror story as "a piece of fiction in prose of variable length... which shocks or even frightens the reader, or perhaps induces a feeling of repulsion or loathing."
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." - John Keating, Dead Poets Society (1989)

*As a child I loved you Mork, as an adult you taught me the fine line between laughter and despair.
© JLB
11/08/2014
Unstable, used, she picks up the bill
and walks out.
Looks to the heavens
no miracle tonight.
At least she looks good,
no clown eyes.
No, running mascara
Just a woman emerging
She, snorts at her inner monologue
'Emerging' ha, in more ways than one.
The palatial house, gone,
the unfaithful spouse, gone,
the demon on her back, gone.
Her mother named her well
Sable 'heraldic word for black'
The darkest colour
Jet black, ebony.
Bonnily she steps out, ironically
clad in a Sable
she drops the coat to the floor
wearing nothing at all.
No need to conceal anything
she does as the flashing lights tell her
(Blue lights)
gets down on the floor
© JLB
He’s reclined the sofa
Eyes closed as he listens to music
I don’t like his music
I love him
He’s relaxed his body
Eyes closed and far away in the past
His past
I wasn’t there, he didn’t know me
So different
He’s reliving a time before me
Can you be jealous of a time?
I can. I am.
Like salt in a wound I sting at being absent
I’ll distract him soon
For now he’s lost to me.
© JLB
04/02/2018
00:49 GMT
We are broken, were broke,
barely whole when we started.
We, became one, thought as one,
we were whole for the first time.
We gave and received love,
we gave and received our bodies,
we made a religious act from our one-ness.

I should have been aware that into all happiness,
a snake entwines around a heart.
Envy, caused it.
Into our sanctum it slid, and never left.
All by myself in what was once our haven,
I made plans. Cut the head off the snake and it dies.
But my heart still bleeds, you cannot un break a heart.

I cloistered away feelings, allowed you your freedom,
martyred my sanity in the name of our withered love.
Anchored my memories to our sanctum,
took refuge in the knowledge that I strongly held
the belief that we were still one.
And, we are my darling, still in our inner sanctum together.
I in the many rooms, you in the basement.

Fitting I thought, since 'base' desires took you.
Took you away from our sanctum.
But now your back.
The snake is now headless, actually she's more quartered,
and placed on four parts of the compass.
You see darling we are stronger as one, we are whole,
even if you are in the hole in the basement*.
© JLB
06/07/2014
When did we become finely divided?
When did we get to the hinterland of love?
When did we divide into particles finer than silk?
When did our love become bland?
We are sand.  
We are non renewable.
© JLB
26/11/2017
03:24 GMT
When I close my eyes,
I picture your lies.
Vivid colour, bursts from your mouth,
lies painted by your tongue.
'Work kept you late'
'Traffic was a state'
'You had a headache'
When I open my eyes,
I see you mixing a drink,
I've had time to think
'Do you want one?' you casually ask
I shake my head no, plaster a smile on my face,
lace my fingers together and feign interest.
You suddenly jolt, grasp at your throat,
I sit and wait like a dutiful wife
as you gasp and try to keep your life.
You're out of time my 'darling'
Thallium has been quietly seeping into you,
growing and building inside.
Just like my baby, growing in me, one you'll never see.
Our girl with sapphire eyes
© JLB
13/07/201
You left, and I
lament the
remnants of your
scent.
© JLB
Vermillion lips smile knowingly
across the room, so at ease it's
almost angelic to see.

He grips his wine glass to almost breaking point,
what the **** is she doing here?
More to the point ,How is she here?

Relationships are like cats, let them out,
and well they'd better be neutered.
That's what gramma said!

Slowly, sensually almost, she sashayed
over to him, she could see his tension,
but not his fear.........yet.

Face to face they smile, but her smile never
reaches her eyes, he stammers, drops his glass,
'Here, she says you need air'

Outside, he's composed
'No one knows, no one knows' he keeps repeating
Who are you talking to darling? She whispers

Not me,I'm dead, you shot me,
I was there, then kicks him hard
Vulnerable alone with his red mouthed wife he screams.

Guests rush out, to their host babbling,
Incoherent, confessing to ******,
screaming over and over, blue lights in the distance

Closer and closer, guests now witnesses.
Host now completely within the pain of a mental
Eternal mind slip.

She, moves closer to him, soothes him, sirens closer,
reassures him as he screams,that yes his wife is dead
appeased he looks up in bewilderment.

Oh, me, oh darling brother in law did you forget?
Jo's twin, the one au-pairing abroad when you married
Pleased to meet you
© JLB
There is a department in my heart
that deals with sadness.
This department is non-inclusive
a strict code is adhered to.

This department in my heart
has collected and collated all
The pain, malice, despondency
this broken heart and soul has experienced.

Sadness has my soul in handcuffs
hapless, anxious I retreat into
myself, seclusion, on lockdown
starkest bottled pain is shook.

Harnessed, hardened and shelved
with madness the sadness is in retreat
It'll return though, it has to
It's been called depression

I'm a weather front!

With gladness I'd take the pain
the badness from my heart
and send it away
but there's more room in a broken heart.
© JLB
****** me. Yes you, You
reading this poem, this plea.
Come take me, fill my senses with
sights and sounds and smells
Come hear me moan
hear me coo
See my blood quickened pulse
throb as you stand close
****** the whole of me
nibble at me, caress me, taste me
honey sweet I lie at your feet
I no longer want to be an ingénue
I want to be reborn, seduced by you
Crush your lips to mine
Crash into me
© JLB
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