"jailing" poems
I like cussin’
I even researched the word.
It ain’t cussin’
There’s an R that is not heard.
We’re talking of cursing,
The taking of God’s name in vain,
Back when it was blasphemy.
Those days will never come again.
It ain’t the same way
Like it was back in those times
When spitting on the sidewalk
Was a jailing crime
And black people had to walk
Down in the gutter.
There were words back then that
Decent folks didn’t utter.
Well, I ain’t religious.
I don’t go to any church at all.
It ain’t that I am evil;
I’m not riding for some fall.
But there are times
Like when you hammer your thumb
That saying “Oh fudge!”
Sounds just plain old **** dumb.
I am not sending
Anything or anyone here to hell.
It’s just helps
To say hell or **** or fuckaduck
When you have to yell.
A shuckydern don’t fit the bill like
A shouted ****
When you are ****** off, raving
Ready to spit.
I totally understand
That some words have a place.
Calling people ********
Can be seen as a huge disgrace.
But I still insist
That many times in a conversation
The word *******
Just fits the momentary occasion.
So, scoff if you will.
I’ll try to play by your nicey-nice rules,
But there are people
What are nothing but ******* fools.
I do hope you pardon
My not liking any more pleasant words
When someone says
The dumbest **** I have ever heard
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
*je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...
While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...
You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?
worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...
so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity
Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect
these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*
Sept. 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
I grasp for you,
But if I handle you too much you dissolve.
You are far and I welcome you into me.
Your white face used to be so good to me.
Now I’m burned by your look
And fade into nothingness in your presence.
Thinking of each other is safe
As long as we don’t put too much attention there.
When we cross that line my heart is left foolish
As though I’ve broken a law or moral code.
Nothing is so sweet as when I think of you with a smile
Smiling back at me.
Was it something I did to merit your happiness?
Flesh and bone
Commitment and honor
Are all gone now.
What is left is the emptiness we show each other
And happiness for now.
I no longer long for your hand,
But long for your happiness
Even in a hug from you if you are happy.
But if you are cold today a hug will cause pain.
What did I make you think of?
Was it my insanity or jailing that you remember now?
Or was it that all the pain is gone and that you’re glad I’m no longer close?
This gladness is bitter anguish – not being liked.
But you tolerate me, something my sister and friends do as well.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Life was an upward battle
Of intense personal frustration,
As we were treated like cattle
With unabashed discrimination.
And those of us who existed
Without rights or respect
We had a stronger hope
Than we had reason to expect.
When some of us reminded
Jesus said love your brother
They made up ***** jokes
Used ugly names of our mothers.
Some invented a phrase to use
That said God Hates *******
They seemed to imply that God
Treated some children like maggots.
Rights were something given
At birth to regular human beings
To other people who were living
But justice we were not seeing
Because justice was not for us
It was for heterosexual whites.
The rest of us had few rights.
True, it was not legal to **** us
But in court things went elsewise.
Police and judges carried on
And covered their acts with lies.
With them bad could be good.
They behaved themselves oddly
Jailing and imprisoning us
Claiming it was all very godly.
And, today, with communication
Such an instantaneous entity
Things have gotten a bit better.
We’re still surrounded by enemy
That quotes a bible they don’t read
And block those any attempt to heal
Wanting instead to make hatred
And legal discrimination real.
Brent Kincaid
4/7/2015
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
Surrounded by obscurity without gloom:
the depths of calignosity suffocate every speck in ebony ink.
Yet, every molecule breathes with ease.
It is the crushing, bewitching hour of eternity in nightfall.
A sigh exhaled is impassively terminated by the midnight dusk;
sound is silent here.
Emptiness gapes as the leviathan's gob
thick with gelatinous mucus,
vast, however jailing:
closed and unknown to the living universe.
The saliva sparks in a moment, as a release of static charge,
even though no solid is sensed, never-mind two touching
loaded with electric friction.
And then again, as a sparkler of summer's independence
now holding for just more than a whim.
An explosion.
Flecks of bright stains scattered within the physical aura breeze past;
they ripple like wave crests under a kaleidoscope moon.
Colors arc in the resistant free current: endless lightning.
The vacuum is an overpopulated city
of which the blind could never take census
and the ignorant believe to be mute.
Visual speech fills the void of sound.
It is the starlight of a body.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
But a love quake changed me, got me out a fix as soon as we met and I forgot about the jailing maze of my past and moved on.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Time to concoct something the doctors can't counter
Callous my temper with imitation, an elation that makes an earthquake feel a bit sounder
If I told you I was a chameleon you would think I'm a laughing sensation
Like a small town crowd of people with personalities no deeper than flounder
But if you hit me I temper like brass in a manner of class saturation, trying to become a metal that cannot be bent or shaken by voices that are louder
Your mirror's can't see me, only you
I copy and pasted your binary in my caffeine induced computer architect blues
If I told you the color of envy was green, would you see right through my chameleon mirage tailored J. Crew
My scales aren't slimy, although you'd figure so by the way I march around in the conviction of my intelligent muse
I'm so perfect in being perfect, it's almost a clue
But paint me another color of your choosing, to mask the mask I'm wearing over my bruising
You wouldn't know what I scream behind all that I'm hiding because it's sealed under all of the mumbles of my crying
I'm calling your faintest noticeable attraction to grow to know my horrendous transaction interactions
When you sit in your desk chair with your tobacco relaxion, judging every crescendo of my orchestra tastes and core reactions
What say you demon for your jailing taxes, and your horns and your perfect brand named wood stained glasses?
Your cuff is off, your deliverance remarkable, you're becoming a ******* classic just by the stale look that your grin passes
Im not ready for aerobics, I'm not elastic, most will tell you if you try bending me into fantastic, I'm not very static
That's why imitation is suicide when you're not dynamic, looking down the barrel of a factory stack of envy plastics
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
The poisoned soul, tainted--
victim of its owner's own hand.
Twisted;
tight and coiling as a filth soaked rag;
contentment, elation's enchantment,
wrung like water clouded the filth of grey--
cast from the fibres' binding
binding life to purpose. Worthless.
Popping pills
to cure an invisible ailment.
Smartphones, gems, unhumble hovels,
ineloquent words impotent
to wash the essence sickness--
treating symptom rather
circumstance. Jailing the spirit in
sedation's purchased trance.
The cure found not in
possessions procurement but
by moments in time too brief.
A loving embrace, the hand of a child,
smiles and laughter--
relief to soothe
the poisoned soul poisoned by
sadness.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Of the silence in this mind
Life once taken isn’t sacred
Staring at a mirror with one’s self, half-naked
After learning to accept the pain, there’s was nothing to escape it
One could make it better than fate ever did
Can’t understand what one was doing; just escaping
Jailing one’s self with their own personal hate and
Hiding away from the mental wardens that one stayed with
Discarding one’s self to remember that one had a very hand in
The destruction to the very world one was contained within
One believed it’s right, so the argument is always **** off-*
*go fix your life before you act like you’re a **** God.”*
It’s a long way from accepting all the blade does
But it never fails and the lines eventually fade off
Could be a saint and come to one’s defense
Or shut the **** up and watch from the ******* fence
Worn this mask so long, one tends to forget to fake it
Disillusioned to one’s self and all the things that make it
More lines to breathe across the skin appear soon
A novella of pain with no words to read through
Handling a smile like accessory to hide instability
Always showing through, but truly just a shell of ‘me’
Despite the calm you see
Through laughs and jeers
One still feels lost and uncontrolled
Everything warm when one’s heart turned cold
No chance to correct it, just craving an exit
Took the knife last night, now the demons are rested
Took the chance last night, now dried and decrepit
Relapsed again tonight, and one’s mind is repressive
Wrote about a horrid time, and now it’s all depressive
Happy stars and pussycats, unicorns and other ****
©2015 Neal Emanuelson
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Petty crimes have become felonies. Youth programs have been replaced with the jail house. God has been replaced with do what you feel. No one cares what happens to a generation lost. Drug addicts are warehoused in cell blocks, instead of being offered programs to get clean. Forgetting that some of our neighbors are human seems to be the grand scheme of things. There are those who will not change, but some can be saved. It is time to throw a lifeline to those who want out and time for us to stop throwing our children away. Return them to the knowledge of God and give them back some hope. Instead of jailing America, lets find a way to bring them home.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
When I ate with you
in Merrion Square,
flicking rain
from my eyes
as it wandered down
from the jailing trees,
had you already decided
to leave me?
There I sat, thinking
I was Orpheus,
come to Dublin
to return my lover
to my world,
not looking back
at what she did,
not ever looking back.
There you sat, knowing
I was Eurydice -
to be given one last longing look
before I was pulled
from Merrion Square,
from Dublin, raked over
the sea changes,
until all I had was the dark,
the jilted dark
of the bedroom
that doubled
as a hell.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 9:42 PM UTC
Ink dabbed on empty sheets
Jailing behind lines
Almost lost memories
What a perfect sublime
Ink and pages
Of almost forgotten memories.
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 4:33 AM UTC
*The cares in the world are as little
As the arcs your eyes make
When you smile--
Whenever you smile.
This interaction--soul to soul,
Silly, with both stares bending, ending
In laughters. I cannot pair my thumb
To the lower detail of your lips.
I cannot cuddle your pains
In the past. I cannot quite conclude
How your hips sway me
Towards hope than to surrendering.
You are the type that needs
Chasing, after falling for.
I have to be happily ever after you
Or be sad forever.
I am the lovesick
Wanting to be the one
Who feels for you,
For your forehead, your neck,
Assessing for fever
In vain.
The little I do understand
About love,
I forget little by little.
Little by little, I petal you
To the glory of such force,
Of such feeling, its truest,
Simple and bravely.
Slow is the death we die for love;
Forever is what it takes.
Dear, in the darkest days of life,
My love, my only, I want you
To save your life
That is also mine. I want you
To take everything necessary,
For you to start a new one.
Leave sorrow. Take air away.
I won’t be selfish of all-you
For all-me.
I won’t be jailing your heart
For me,
For the best things in life…
…are free.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
Things Worth, Or Not, Remembering:
T.S. Eliot, O.L. Poetry and the Passage of Time
<>
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.”
T.S. Eliot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
<>
Only in a world of speculation, but what if,
There was no such world, one speculates,
Where safely looking in both directions as
We cross the alleys and boulevards of now is
NOT required; living in series of moments,
a steady spasming of venturing, and always,
something gained, something lost, but never,
additive, cumulative and more sensational
than experiential and we have no memory,
and thus no prejudice for or against!
Living with constant aspiration, not reckoning what are
Things Worth Remembering, is that not more than
no footfalls, only footsteps, to new love, renewed love,
possibilities of all doors opened, and we take each day
as it is given, banishing longing, jailing regret,
believing round every turn is a new fragrant, radiant rose garden,
or not…but perhaps means eternal, forever looking.
O. L. Poetry
May 28, 2023
May 28, 2023 at 1:51 PM UTC
Spot deals,market steals and the poor man feels the pinch,
we ought to lynch the lot of them,
those jolly brolly grinning swagmen.
The bank brigade with brown suede shoes use your cash,lose,and then cut a dash or cut and run
it's no wonder that we think they're ****
I never won at monopoly which is what I see when I look at them,the hotel,motel,tell us all to go to hell men,
**** them.
I'll bury my pile in the ground,sod the compound interest rate,you can kiss my **** or wait and see when monopoly crashes what will be.
weeping and wailing? they need ****** jailing and we need our heads looking at,at that.
****** the lot of them and ***** to the brollymen and tell me when the cashier comes to say,
'there's no credit in your account,maybe later today'
and that's futures trading,more ****** raiding of the shilling,too ****** willing to rob and to steal and another spot deal hits the mark.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
It was one of those days
Started with the shower
She wanted to join me
Which in any other day would’ve been great
But her best friend was sharing it sort of to speak
It was a sympathetic sort of share
Which was true
The wife did leave me on the Friday
To visit her mum
Coming back on the Monday
So technically she lied
Coming back on the Sunday
A good lawyer would pick up on this immediately
Granted, when I told her best friend she had left me
I maybe forgot to mention it was only for the weekend
Anyway, back to the problem at hand
The shower has packed in love
Okay sweet chops, I’ll be naked waiting for you
Right love, oh god don’t go into the bedroom
You *******
She went into the bedroom
So anyway, since it was Sunday, I popped out for the rolls and papers
He did this every Sunday the Lawyer explained
Two Police cars, sirens blaring flew up towards the house
So as the Judge stated, jailing her for 90 days, taking into account the mitigating circumstances in this sorry affair
Could have been a whole lot worse I suppose
So I was at a loose end, and a visit to the hospital was long overdue
Naturally I took the obligatory grapes and flowers
Technically she was still the wifes best friend
But my god, if you could’ve seen the venom coming out of that one good eye
I swear, if she could speak through that wired jaw
I would have got a right ear bashing
So i sat down on the bench eating my grapes, thinking
I do hope they two can put this behind them
Probably laugh about it in 83 days.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Mirror, mirror,
By the wall he hungs,
A little flame on a melting candle,
Dancing beautifully within his cornered edges
She whispers, asking,
"who's the fairest of all? "
"In this room drowning in darkness,
And of the night, young and calm"
His voice vibrating and clear,
"truly in this room, you, above all"
"But of this night, lone and quiet,
The bright star besides the shadow of her moon"
"Gracefully they travel many nights,
Across valleys and plains,
Beyond deserts and thick forests,
And over endless covers of unknown waters"
"Together, I have seen many seasons,
Through the freezing cold of a jailing winter,
And the scorching heat of a summer hell
As like always, glancing through that window from this wall"
"Attracted to her beautiful twinkles,
From the beginning of this world,
To this very moment, with each passing second,
And may be, to the world's end"
She dances once and twice
Bitter, broken by the weight of his words,
Before, finally, blown out of life,
To rise as smoke, into the milky way
Painting a dark cloud
That even in her despair,
Her tears shall fall to soak the earth,
To soften, and swallow her beloved mirror
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
Taking my affections for granted,
Laughing in the face of my feelings,
Jailing me in the friendzone forever,
Ignoring my obvious sufferings in this matter;
I can barely face the sun,
Praying the golden ball never comes through,
The darkness has become my companion,
Not interested in any other opinion;
Until I found something quite interesting,
Never knew I had it all in myself,
There, in the corner of my resolve,
The mustard of strength to evolve;
I shall outgrow this phase,
Loving you is not a criminal offence,
Now that I have turned this corner,
I really do not have any bother.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 11:35 PM UTC
South Africa
The rainbow paled in South Africa
the end of apartheid has ended, freedom for all.
Not quite, the poor in Soweto are getting poorer.
The difference it now consists of white poor as well.
The new leadership behave like the old one corruption
and shade dealings.
South Africa is practically a democratic one-party state.
Or was democracy and equality brought on too early?
It takes time.
What is there to say when people riot and burn down
the places where they buy their daily bread and have to walk for miles
to buy milk for their children, other than an act of despair.
Big business is doing well, thank you.
But nothing has been done to alleviate the suffering of the poor.
The rainbow state has lost its lustre.
If you wonder why the poor ran amok was the jailing of Jacob Zuma
Despite his failings, he has an African heart, which the new elite, dipped in white culture,
failed to see.
He is the chieftain dethroned and Africa bleeds.
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 5:05 AM UTC