"adjusting" poems
a cerebral grasping of existence’s resplendence
is insufficient
tenuously treading bereavement’s tide
i cradle life
twinkling moments spent on this planet
are hallowed time
i walk in quiet reverence as tears flow
at innocuous occurrences
god’s face aglow in each instance
perspective revived
a bumblebee drifting gently settles
evoking awe
i stand pensive aforetime unaware
in cathedrals we stand
eyes newly uncovered awakened discover
celestial dimensions
people replete with infinite spirit
are all that surround
my senses abruptly adjusting their focus
‘tis an earthly angelic realm
©2016janetaylor
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC
the future was a tunnel
with no pinprick of light at the end
and i stumbled blindly
sensitive fingers keeping balance
by the roughness of the walls
eyes never fully adjusting
you tore the roof off
sunlight is a powerful thing
to someone who is used to the dark
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
She had hung it up from the mantelpiece in her bedroom, so when he entered the room there it was. It was suddenly lovely and he immediately imagined her body flowing into it, flowing from it. Standing close to the dress he brought his fingers to the fabric, touched gently, stroking then, as though it already held her form and substance.
Stepping past thoughts of her that so stirred his body he entered the pattern of the dress. It was a meadow in southern Ontario. July, when already the sun had bleached the profusion of grasses: water chestnut and papyrus sedge. He had stepped from the untidy veranda, past the pond, and down the rough track between the fields unmown, uncut, left fallow. As he entered the breaks of woodland between these swathes of grassland, deciduous leaves, dry and brittle from the summer's heat, were strewn on the path, and between the trees clumps of bramble bushes with berries of red and blue, black and purple.
There was no wind. The only sounds an underlay of crickets, his footfall, and the sharp mournful cries of geese on the now distant pond.
He saw her like an apparition standing motionless at the woodland’s boundary; her dress at one with all that surrounded her. When he came close and placed his hand on her shoulder he could smell the sweet dry earth mingling with her body's sweat, a hint of her *** as he placed his cheek against the shower of printed pollen amongst the leaves on her back.
Back in the late afternoon bedroom he heard her move about in the kitchen, and the spell broken, he turned away and went downstairs.
Several days later, as they prepared for bed, she slipped the dress on. As she stood in the lamplight smoothing it against her flanks, adjusting its fall across her ******* he felt himself faint that such a thing of beauty could be a joy forever . . . and beyond.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
These 4 years drove your memories away,
but i never knew you'll make me write someday.
"Love at first sight" exists,i knew then,
I reminisce,12th April at dehradun railway station.
I hopped down the train,
whining children,seperating lovers
loving families,pleading beggars i saw,
Searching for coolie,my eyes glued
on a boy,leaning on a pole,
An absolute treat to eyes
casted a spell on heart of metal.
shapely body,white skinned,
curly hair,lips like petal.
Yellow t-shirt on the skin of gold,
dimple-dipped chuckles,widened his charm fourfold.
unsure,if it's just my eyes or it was him
who resembled the Greek Gods.
Talking over the phone,he burst into laughter
His playful,lively voice
husky deep baritone,
bringing my dead senses alive.
Mindlessly,I pictured us,together
laughing profusely on a riverside.
He raised his hands for adjusting his hair.
I felt his fingers brushing
a strand of my hair behind my ear.
The morbid roar of trains ,
turned into the symphony of my heart.
abruptly,
breaking my spell called a girl from behind,
long haired,beautiful,leapt at him,
no sooner he grabbed her tight in his embrace.
Mad Lovers,my heart soliloquised.
and here came all my wishful thinking to an end.
I turned and walked away a little heartbroken
before i could win him,he was taken .
You gave me nothing but trust me
for those minutes i wanted to be your everything
I scrumpulously stole those seconds from your life
which still make me skip a beat.
I'll think about you again after a few days,
for now,enough of nostalgia.
and which ***** said,
Love at first sight saves time?
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
“Love is a serious mental disease"
we're all trapped thinking before our needs. Wishing life wasn't always taken by the thieves, but they're just dressed in black
because its easier to deceive.
Not that they need it,
their tongues will do fine,
but it's only because we have to listen
when they wine.
We can be friends
sure that sounds safe,
but who really wants to be loves
second date.
You're only worth it if I try,
and time doesn't
********
I can't lie.
We're taught to open doors and be polite,
smile
tuck in our shirts
you know that right?
If she wears something tight,
she won't be the only one adjusting herself tonight.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
After all this compression, perhaps I am becoming something after all. Crawling away from my potential worth I feel myself writhing my way from between the rocks, taking quick, shallow breaths —learning to breathe again after all this time. Each inhale still feels heavy and constricted, and every exhale still brings a sense of dread for the rise and fall of my chest but I am moving forward. Even relieved, my ribcage is adjusting painfully to the freedom, coping with more lung space; a gift I received from you.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
You’re frightened but, there is no need for fear.
Your eyes are barely open.
Your vision is blurred beneath your thickened lashes.
Blinded, you are.
Hazed, you are.
Sick, you are.
Lying on the minted tile floor,
back arched and your cheek pressed to a faded rug,
you roll on your side.
Tilting your head up, you moan.
The vicious pulse begins pounding your wounded head.
You roll again on your shrunken stomach,
bubbling over with an ocean of alcohol.
You drag your eyes up to the piercing light above you.
Adjusting yourself slowly,
your hands fumble for the floor beneath you.
The muscles in your arm strain as you push yourself to sit.
No strength.
The stained bathtub provides something stable to grasp.
Smeared makeup.
Hair stuck to your hollow face.
Memories scattering in the wind outside.
More pounding, but this time it isn’t in your head.
It’s booming outside the door.
Screaming and movement is caving in on you,
suffocating you.
Who’s outside?
What’s outside?
"It's okay”, he says “You’re fine now.”
You turn and stare.
How long has he been here?
He’s been watching you the entire time.
He knows something.
He’s done something to you.
That’s why your in this frightening room below the ground.
He stands and walks towards you.
You must stay strong.
Don’t flinch.
No weakness.
A gentle arm glides just under your leg
and the other behind your waist.
He lifts you up and a small whimper escapes your lips.
There’s pain.
He carries you into a familiar room through another door.
The pounding from outside grows softer.
Shoulders relax.
Forehead cools.
Sleepiness comes.
He sits on the bed with you in his lap.
Suddenly your alertness fades and you feel comforted.
“How much did you drink?” He asks timidly.
You lean your head back.
Funny.
“Just a little”,
your words slur from your swollen tongue.
You start to giggle.
Arms begin to sweat.
Stomach tightens.
Puke.
Tears.
Hushed.
“Shh now. You’re fine. It’s alright. Breathe. Breathe.”, He coo's
and slowly strokes your spine.
Tensions released.
He stands and walks to the door.
“No! Come back!”, You cry.
He’s leaving.
Why?
You reach your hand out,
like a child,
but draw it back quickly.
“Haven’t I always come back? This time is no different.”
Only a second passes and you’re out.
Not all the way.
Eyes closed.
A window opens.
The fan goes on.
A blanket covers you.
He’s there.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Saying “Women of the Night”
Might be alright
As a description for some girls,
They stream eastward
Along the bank,
Checking for marauders and adjusting curls.
Yet courtesans are different;
They came as swiftly as they went,
Called on by important men.
From house and hotel they are borne,
In carriages, and in finery worn,
For those who have a yen.
Yet others still elude one name,
Of condemnation or fame.
They do not wander at men’s whims.
They deliver terms to him or him.
And live in dwellings finer still,
Until the payer has had his fill.
But with the latter does he ever
Tire of the source of pleasure?
For some the need outlasts his want,
And he becomes the supplicant!
Then woman’s wit becomes the master,
While her body wields a whip.
The sinner’s desire speeds still faster,
As she the body’s scale does tip.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
A month ago I sat in class
in a New England School for boys
Now, I'm in a bomber group
Adjusting to the noise
I made plans for Harvard
A doctor, I would be
Then my life would turn
In a way I didn't see
The war was on in Europe
We saw in the press
But, 18 days before Christmas
we were pulled into the mess
Future plans were put aside
Our country we'd support
We'd forget all of our future thoughts
We'd join, though not for sport
We signed up down in Boston
Young men flyers, soldiers all
Preparing for a battle
Many would not live till fall
We thought not of our future
Our present, all we had
Many dead by Christmas next
The thought is truly sad
You do not what you want to
But, what needs to be done
You go from boy to man so fast
You've barely walked...now run
Think back on those who made it
Remember who did not
Young men they are forever
They deserve a longer thought
The air is pure and holy
It is scattered with young souls
Boys, now men who went to war
And put aside their goals
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
What could be worse
Than a garden
Full of gnomes and trolls?
Is it:
Lawn jockeys and yardells;
Chuck adjusting his carb every Sunday afternoon;
Bathtub ****** Marys beseaching us to love;
Metal flowers on outside garage walls;
Fish ponds with gills in the filter;
Red gravel flowerbeds with little white fences;
Cosmetic door knockers;
Swimming pools without diving boards;
Mirrors on fences;
Burning ******* in fire pits;
Backyard landfills;
Icicle lights;
Weedy neighbours and an east wind;
The screech of tires;
The thump of metal;
The sound of screaming;
The absence?
Yeah. Plenty could be worse.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
She thought her outfit was beautiful when she put it on this morning.
And it was.
She donned the skirt with care,
Kitten heels polished and perfect.
Adjusting the turquoise blouse in the mirror,
She brushed her hair,
Put on her makeup,
And left her apartment early for a stroll.
She walked down the city street,
Head up, shoulders back,
A faint smile on her fresh face.
But as she neared the crosswalk,
She noticed the looks.
First came the looks from the men.
"Hey there, beautiful," one said.
"Nice *** said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to cross to the other side of the street
So that they couldn't try to touch her.
Then came the looks from the women.
**** she couldn't fit her fat *** into a minivan," said one.
"Who does that ***** think she is,
Walking around in that outfit?" Said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to keep her head down,
So that they wouldn't think she was promiscuous.
Finally, she noticed the looks from her co-workers.
"Does that violate dress code?" Asked one.
"If we had a dress code, it would," said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to head home early
So that they wouldn't laugh at her.
When she got back to the apartment,
She took off the skirt,
The polished kitten heels,
And the turquoise blouse.
She pulled on a pair of sweats,
And decided to watch Netflix instead of
Facing the cruel outside world.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
i can hear my brain screaming
taking up another mischief
making another sound of hit
adjusting another kind of yelling
what is this? a disease? or another routine?
it got rid of my will and wits!
father i hear it screeching
it's not coming from my ears!
but it's okay since they're not real
or at least if that's what you think
i feel like **** stop with the sense of guilt!
i can hear it screaming
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
silly siren
perfectionist nymph
lay languid
adjusting to the realm
of awkward itching
manic laughter
frenzied fictions
where the dead lay awake
a miniscule matter
both sailing in ***** grey
and laying in wait
on one end
a microcosm
opens to infinity
and any further action
is unnecessary
and tepid
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
I don't know how to quite fit
in this skin I've been given,
so I take my time to slowly
oh so slowly
cut it open,
figuring that maybe
it just needs some adjusting.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
It is a terrible thing this flesh that wears us
Being makes us
Slaves to atomic thought
Particles possessing some consciousness
Dreams stream from the undermind
To undermine
All we thought we were
From the sub-atomic to the atomic
On into the protein patterns of our thoughts
Neurotransmitters flood and fulminate
Filling our minds with strange things
Receptor receiving impressions
Leave strangers believing instincts
Animals evolved to understand but ignore
The gifts we have acquired from millions years and more
A talent for analyzing then adjusting ourselves
And after the fact constructing a model
That makes continuity out of all of the chaos
Now most take it for granted
Become carbon copies cut in granite
They give in to the impulses
And waste said potential on fulfilling the illusion
The desire to be grander is subsumed
By their fear of non-existence
Which is what they become
Not after death
But as cogs in the machine
In a factory of robotic human beings
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
I wanna marry a chav
that looks just like
Britney Spears,
now, not ten years ago---
Barefoot & pregnant in yoga pants,
Barefoot mother slipping
into black stockings---
She idolizes her rivals,
Wants to be her own evil-twin---
I wanna marry the **** out of her
& watch her belly grow
in the sundaddy-o---
I want to take her ***
To the ****** Islands---
And watch her beached,
She is the opposite of who she is---
Completely manic up & running
She who stays within reach
Of images drowned
Between an old lady’s thighs---
Mother slips on black pantyhose,
Adjusting the waist over her *******
On Thursdays, sunnyside
every other day
---
Mother 8 months preggers in yoga pants
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
To you I maybe just another boy
I might not be high in your eyes,
I'm just some other toy
To you I might be a monster who broke your heart,
Someone to file under "heart breakers",
Someone you shouldn't have trusted from the start
But to me
You'll always be my first love
The girl who kept me up all night,
The girl who made my heart flutter on sight
To me you'll always be the hidden princess in classes,
Playing with your hair and adjusting your glasses
To me your the girl who will forever have a place in my heart,
The girl who I trusted from the start
You had me shouting for joy
Dancing in my room at the end of the night
You had me blushing in class
Stuttering on my words, scared of your flight
To you
I might be a monster, and a heart breaker too
But if I could see you one last time I would say
I was lucky to meet you
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
I drafted my dreams out on a string from window to window
Where they could see some sunshine
So that they could feel the breeze that whipped the willow trees
I lay on the grass for hours hoping something would change
Everything seemed so strange and sadly serene
My dreams used to be such a large part of me
I finished my cigarette as the wind writhed, breathing
Pulled down the preliminary principles made of follies, folded them quietly
Walked inside, adjusting my somber eyes to darker lights
I open the closet door gently, hands full of my old fabrications
I keep lying to myself & trying to tell myself I'm
putting them away for
'safe-keeping'.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Will my heavenly wings be splendid
Will they sparkle like the dew?
Will they be rhinestones and pendants
In my halo all shiny and new?
Will my halo need adjusting
Or will it fit like a glove?
I better get my order in early
To the great shop up above.
Will they likely be tarnished
Smudged, dingy, or singed?
Soiled or possibly rumpled
Without and maybe within?
Might they be too heavy
Or even a little too tight?
I am hoping and I'm praying
They'll fit and be just right.
March 16 1993
2.4k
Lately I have been hanging your voice on my wall.
It came in ten different frames,
and I spent hours adjusting them
until they hugged the wall at the perfect angle,
their gilded bodies pressing against painted emptiness,
whitewashed space.
And when I feel nostalgia
twining around my veins like wild ivy,
I only need to reach out and –
“Hello. My name is –“
“Hello. My name –“
“Hello. (Stop.) My. (Stop.) Name. (Stop.) Is. (Stop.)”
“Hellomynameis –“
Do you remember that?
Did you know my hands shook,
that I tripped over words like I do
with miniscule cracks in the sidewalk,
that my heart stuttered
thumpthump thu thump thuuump thumpthumpthump
and how it hasn’t quite been the same ever since?
“I love you.”
“I love (rewind) – love (rewind) – I love (rewind)– love (rewind)– I love you.”
“I love –“
“Iloveyou.”
You thought you could pry me open
and tear down my walls
and then suddenly you did.
It only took three words to start a hurricane in my heart.
Did you ever notice the aftermath,
the broken homes and homeless souls?
I am still rebuilding.
I hammered this one into my soul,
can still feel the echo of your words
pounding away in my bones:
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.”
“Good…(clickclickclick)… bye.”
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious like her ancient self.
Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics,
strange enough to be noticed but not doomed.
Their only burden is imperfection.
She’d die for these people, but they don’t realize omniscience is boring.
In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason.
There’s no sense in spiting the inevitable,
so she gave away her quarters at bake sale.
Her mother would say, “That money is yours.”
The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls,
“If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?”
In the future, when repeating this story to a potential motif,
she’d know he’s The One when he’d say,
“What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism?
Thanks to Walt Disney, they want to conform
and follow their hearts at the same time.”
She’d get off on his grumpy, and then notice his ring.
If he had met her first, would he still have married his wife?
It’s not worth hoping for divorce. He’s built to mate for life.
Instead of turning twenty-six, she’ll choose a chair in purgatory—
trapped between what should be and what is.
As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking.
It’s a fine day for oral fixation.
At least she doesn’t smoke Parliaments like the counterfeit eccentrics.
She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner,
covered in what she was meant to destroy.
It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy,
too easy to cry genius for discovering what works
when for so long, failure was the only place to go.
She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen.
The day before her first existential crisis,
her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.
You must want to be depressed.” Her response:
“I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.”
She owes her life to a fear of hell,
knows we all experience hell differently. Hers is a banquet.
The proceeds will go toward ending world hunger.
At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains
that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
*Mirror! Mirror! On the wall
Though art the cause of many a fall
What with them endless hours adjusting and re-adjusting
Visages to desired perfection mindless of the misgiving.
Wearing masks in a variety of color
In a bid to entice a bachelor
With whose heart she’ll most disconcertingly hold ransom
Anticipating a blossom
Of a methodically engineered relationship
Minding her speech lest a Freudian slip
Nips at the bud
Her good “fortune” exposing her as a fraud.
Perfect imperfections, perfectly mirrored
By an imperfect mirror…*absurd.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Downtown lights glow through an avenue of trees
The dark haired girl sits outside on her balcony again.
Inhaling the cold blue air
And Tangibly
Hot city concrete mingles with night rain on a ***** pavement.
I stalk the streets
Headphones jammed in, jazz floating around in my head,
The girl turns and blows smoke at me, adjusting her radio,
pulling the hem of her shorts down.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC