"jailor" poems
The cottage is old and the garden trees have overgrown,
The long missed smells of mother’s food…
Oh, what joy to eventually come home!
Shrill morning breaks to the call of crows
As the sun rises from behind prison walls.
A reminder yet again, Light alights in sleeping hours,
Daylight brings hell, the unvoiced tortured wails
Which cry out for the Light.
But it plays tantalizing games at night
And leaves the mornings in the hand of the jailor.
No friend, no foe, no merchant nor sailor
Will ever come to see…
We’re alone in our six square feet cells
Us, and the haunting drum roll of the surrounding sea.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman
strap on a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released
a one way only sign
time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word leave just this:
where is the in in
intimate?
are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?
you swear never again
until committing once more,
a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,
and the greater toll taken and paid for,
and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity
happily
<•>
9/17/17 10:55pm
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
The solitary reminder,
a sole survivor,
hopeful-placed,
forgivingly encased
in little boxes decorative
hidden in plain sight
throughout our home.
Single and incomplete,
the lonesome leftovers,
openly hid upon bookshelf,
desk corners, fireplace mantels,
storage units of the
I am unlost,
I am unfound,
Raise your hand,
stand up and say
that is me,
that is me.
Minor treasure chests,
of carved wood, seashell real,
acquisitions of trips
to faraway places,
these boxes, they themselves,
visible but unremembered,
just there, no cares,
no one knows,
when or why.
that is me,
is that me?
Space fillers, memory taunts,
grandchildren's playthings, delight,
when they someday come visit,
weather and parents permitting,
finding keys for locks, doors,
from three homes ago.
Can they unlock me too?
Boxes hoard the things
we have lost, but cannot discard,
can't sacrifice, gotta keep,
an admixture of buttons,
dried flowers, faded notes that
once upon a time mattered,
shook someone's world...
Some kept in hope,
others, sequestered, lock-up,
jails that we are both
jailor and jailed,
the joke being on me.
Should we, you and I,
exchange these
cases histories of lost hopes, memories,
it would not be surprising,
if when opened,
the contents identical,
even if you are in Manila,
Leeds, places of need,
and yet,
we would be shocked,
asking,
*that is me,
is that me?*
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
How dare society make us women feel like
Our very own bodies is a prison,
To be locked up behind the metal bars of our *******
Tied up by the chains of our curvy figures
And the sentence lying between our thighs.
And the sentence is brutal.
Consent is no longer existent
When the *** is too tempting for a man to say no
And for you to say no.
Our butts slapped,
Chests groped,
Cheeks pinched,
Thighs squeezed,
In this prison we had the decency to call our own body
We are handcuffed to the degrading appetite of a man.
Women are not a display of things to touch
We are not a dessert menu for a man’s hunger
To be ordered by catcalling:
Want a taste of a woman’s behind?
**** that ***
A taste of ****
Oh, baby, put on a show for us!
Or just the full course meal-
Hey girl, ow ow owwww!
It is about time we strong women break free.
The jailor of men- I stole the key.
It is about time we change out of our prison uniforms of
Bikinis and mini skirts and stilettos
And break down the locks that confined us.
Our prison sentence is just about up,
And when we are let loose,
Us women will no longer stand for such debasing behaviors.
And when we’re free,
It’ll be time to teach the men a little lesson
This cage of our body does not define us, boys,
Maybe try finding the prisoner behind the bars-
Her personality,
Charming smile,
And brilliant intellect,
Instead of demeaning our existence,
Objectifying our importance-
We are not your tools, your toys.
We are humans, too, you know,
With- get this- feelings.
Try manners and kindness rather than
Feeling and groping your way to a woman’s heart.
We are not a play museum- we are the artifact,
The masterpiece- Mona Lisa, Starry Night, the Sistine Chapel-
You must stand behind the red velvet ropes and perform
What the English language calls respect,
With a thing also known as consent.
This- my body- is also known as my body,
It is not his, it is not hers, and most importantly,
It is not yours.
Please try to understand this- I know, it’s super complicated.
And if you gain anything from this, let it be this:
We are not here to satisfy you-
Women are not prisoners to a man’s every need.
We are not objects- no-
And we deserve to be heard.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
There's a small vice on my heart
that you turned incrementally since the day we kissed
Always there was space to manoeuvre
wriggle
a gap to shift around in and say, 'That's better'
to comfortably fool myself that I was not caught.
But now, my dear....
Now the grip leaves me gasping
and that metal feels cold
and I cannot ignore it.
The trouble is
I kissed your elegant, beautiful face
and I guided your hand to that vice in my chest
and enveloped your fingers with mine
We turned those keys together.
I was so enamoured
and I wanted your love.
I told myself I could get out at any time.
Too late, my love
It was always too late
For we're kindred souls across lifestyles
and lifetimes
and my body knows yours like the taste of my tears.
I resign myself, then, to bleeding.
I resign thee to Fate and what she may decide
knowing only that never shall I be your jailor.
I refuse to allow
that wild tempest soul to be anything but free.
I am happy to be caught.
Though I writhe with this pain
and slumber eludes me in my misery.
For one thing I have realised
is the depth of my cowardice.
Although yours came out as tenored and trembling
you still had the bravery to speak the words emblazoned on your heart
the ones that threatened to fall from your lips
as my head lay perfectly in situ against your collarbone
and my heartbeat and breathing lined up with yours
in our quiet symbiosis at 3 a.m.
I danced around the words
flitted lightly, noncommittal
and said 'I think I'm falling in love with you',
which was a lie.
You are far braver than I
and to this day I've run
but you deserve far greater than that which I have meted out to you.
You deserve honesty.
You deserve the breadth and depth of what my heart aches to tell you
though I am frightened beyond words that the vice can go no tighter.
I love you.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
I ran out of verses
They are all... spent
Of things of love and life
All things are... said
And is there a saddest creature
That a man who wishes to write but can´t?
Words trapped inside him like a prison
My own jailor, without the key in my hand
And they wish for freedom
To escape the torment and the silence inside
But in that silence they die
They die...
The words die...
They die alone...
Every death a cut...
To the mind...
To the will...
To the soul...
To the mind and the soul, the guilt that was brought
If only I could have written it before!
I could have done more!
So many stories! So many feelings!
No more...
And the corpses of words
And the messages they had
Rot to form a mire
A putrid, fetid swamp
Maybe something can be salvaged
Yes, maybe something of worth
lays hidden in the muck
Is it worth rescuing
Or let it fester some more?
And the mud keeps growing
Swallowing everything of worth
And it saps the will of writers
Like a pipe with dirt is clogged
And it´s blotted, and it´s roars wishing to be free
But again, they are denied their wish
Warped of the thing they used to be
This words...
They are no longer verses...
They are just ****
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
My brain ticks with a different kind of vigor
My brain licks at time, tasting new flavor
My brain thirsts for what isn't mine, nor my neighbours
My brain bursts at the dreams by a prickly Jailor.
Hail her, she mounts the mountains in attempts to see thee.
Completely unphased by the fountains that writhe beneath me.
I turn my back in revenge, revenge that bleeds me,
Dry of my vigor, dry of my fire for I am clay. See?
Mould me she said, with eyes deeper than gold strewn caverns in the beyond.
They perplex me, so, oh, so greatly they vex me, they stress me of concern.
I burn, nay, I am clay, so I yearn for this. Fair lady may I ask for one last kiss?
In my stead she kissed a statue instead, and left a mark, a deep copper red.
Goodbye she said, and she left the statue be, till the earth caved in, and so did the sea.
I cannot tell you how, or even of when. Or of when, or even of how can I not tell you?
Wow, I can tell you I saw a sky blue.
Or black, after Jailor's attack. Halt!
Stop dreaming! Oh please, do stop it henceforth!
I am mightily weary, must make trip to the north.
Lonely I have been, for you have not been.
So wake up and walk with that lop-sided grin.
Oh, what a tiresome companion you are,
Since I have made haste to journey thus far,
With you left behind after I had begun,
So pick up those feet, and away wierdy one.
Off we went, with my dreams in tow.
Whether I will have chance to taste them, I do not know...
But I know one thing, a something so grand.
When I next feel weary and dreary of hand,
I shall await to journey, that dreamer's land.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
Your judgement
is your mirror.
how often do
people forget that.
Throwing sentence,
after sentence
deciding guilty
with out hearing
their pleas
Your judgment
is your constriction
You thought you're
the jailor?
when you're really
the prisoner
Stuck in a prison
with cells full of distiction
Right or wrong
ignoring shades of grey
you're sentencing your self
We often forget,
there is a price
to be paid,
in judging another
That is putting
your self up
for others judgement.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
Sour, my attempt to write –
the flavour lost in every bite.
Undecided words, unheard,
but seeping out, expelled,
disturbed; a self-invaded,
cornered bird, un-winged
and clipped from flight,
while
I rumble with poetic temper,
my bleeding soul,
in part, dismembered;
blank, un-whole, alone
and undefended.
My belly full of passion,
yet, my appetite untended,
and
expression jailed and flawed,
dissolving quicker than it pours;
a vat of garbled, bubbling
troubled thought
that rivals typed impression
sought to pillage mind
and spill from core.
Scored, the days it takes between,
in floor and wall,
to key the lock that binds
this isolation door,
ancient finds arising
in my lust for seeking more
and more;
buried words upended
with surprise, and unintended,
for,
from I, the Jailor,
baseless accusations rise,
lashing, fast, acidic wind
that primes the rhymes I tongue within.
Never one to coat my words
too thin, too dry, too weak,
it seems (by definition) I resist
to drown (at best) or leak,
while anchored here, existing,
in unblinking frozen speech,
but
the accidental draining of my
purpose-tended bed of prose,
is waiting hand on foot
with sweetened
suicidal pensive throes,
as I,
with mocking rows
and rows of written doubt,
release, in lines,
my stomach
churning through and out
demands to hasten
one true last and final shout,
so,
this filtered care
that stains my lungs with ghostly stare
and soaks my throat
as vomitous
as stinging air
that leaves me rendered,
flailed and flared and wounded,
brooding, undeclared –
through THIS
the words escape,
an icing on the freedom cake
all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked:
a timeless meal to share
without the food to waste,
the friend to taste,
the key to exit,
smitten,
from this solitary mind-induced
persisting empty prison space.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
I long for you
but I feel like I shouldn't.
He's been the kindness
That you couldn't
But you touched my soul
In a way
He never has.
You are the air
that I am breathing
Yet you choke me
And I feel as though
I'm suffocating
Trapped in an endless maze
Of need
How sad
That he is not the one
To whom I profess my love
Everynight while I am sleeping
That he is not the one
Who makes my heart stop beating
Just by the simple thought
Now I am stuck
In a prison I have built
With solid bars of fear
And a frozen floor of guilt
I am my own jailor
For I still hold the key
But I do not have the courage
or the surety
To make myself free
And so I sit
My choices have drained me
of my words
my freedom
my self.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 6:33 PM UTC
*What Has Gone And What Remains
In the silence
of fresh fallen snow,
In the dark night;
stars shine after the storm.
Clouds veil the sky
and obscure some star-glow –
There, above this Northern land,
to reveal a Southern Cross.
I look to the sky,
not by will of mind,
but by the pull
of a heartstring.
My breath catches
amazed at what I find.
I shake it off –
Free myself from superstition.
Once more, through strength of will
I push down yearning
strangle desire, and know
it is my will who is my heart’s jailor.
In dreams, I know I am free.
While unrestrained,
my love searches for his touch –
lost to me until I sleep.
In my waking hours
I know my sanity is forfeit,
should I dare to believe.
Yet my heart searches for him always.
Iron bars of rational thought
contain a love beyond capture.
A flame of desire, else unrestrained;
its heat calls to me; cries out for him.
Though I try to push it aside
In my denial, I admit I have fallen.
I had let irrational love capture me
and rivet my mind behind iron walls.
But Jailor Mind broke through those walls
a burning effort, aglow so hot
as to leave not even an ash behind.
It could not destroy a persistent remnant…
After the forest has burned
and the Mind has broken, insane.
After all that was is in ruin
Love, remains.
Lin Cava
10 – February - 2014*
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Dusk and Dawn,
Back-Streets and Alleys,
A portrait halfway Drawn,
The center of a Valley.
I like the In-Betweens:
Things which have begun but not yet Ended,
Where things are not always what they Seem
And our belief is Suspended.
A jagged Mountain grasping for the Clouds,
Not quite there-but well into the Sky
Like a prisoner Unbowed,
With a jailor to Defy.
The boring, uneventful Days,
Which alienate and leaves us Whirled.
Manifested, tangible Displays,
Of Space between Worlds.
Life is the greatest Halfway,
It’s not so long a Route.
So I will resolve to Stay
To see it all play Out.
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 5:54 AM UTC
Dull public speakers,
Everyone is prisoner . . .
. . . Jailor loves yawning.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
if there was a way to get back home
to get away to sleep
to move out of this room
self seclusion is just as real as forced
the only difference is you are the jail and the jailor
but I need to do well on this exam
it seems thats all I ever think about anymore
and these words aren't supposed to reflect that part of me
and for that I am sorry
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
oh dear o dear
im late im late
Im sorry dear
By loving heart and dying ear
i learn from teeth spilled on concrete
linoleum is scary?
and without you i am early
I left myself bleeding in the street
but most of all
most of all I turned to the jailor and asked about
the sea
he told me it was salty
and added so was he
His wife a younger woman
shes cheating with the warden
the warden, she loves women
and women they love her
shes never seen the ocean
but shes tasted salt between their legs
and still im late
a lying *****
on accident
defendant
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
*I think no matter how distant we grow
no matter how far apart we go
no matter the success I achieve
or the length of life I live
no matter the many I meet
deeply fall in love with and admit
You will always be here, in my heart
no matter the amount of hurt.
No matter the many lonesome boulevards I walk
and the words I hear and those I talk
even when time comes to steal these memories away,
or heal the wounds and scars
I pray
she discerns the wounds and scars are stars
pointing me due north because
without the memories of our together am a lost cause
which is the absolute truth, you were my radar
and I can't move on for you were my bridge
that despite the number of bottles I empty
I just can't touch the sky; no quantity of liquor can get me high.
How can I without you? you were my stairs and ladder
without which my very reality is under siege…
You are my jailer, and only you have the keys to set me free.*
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
Rain taps the landscape.
Its soft touch creates
A tender drift of mud.
In it is nature trapped.
She is her own jailor.
Alas the worms emerge
From the slow-moving slide.
The ensuing birds will purge
Yet through the air they glide.
A cloud engulfs the scene.
The spruce stands sentinel.
Mice begin to chatter between
Themselves; a peaceful hell.
For he who destroys
The scene so sculpted:
Rots among the angels
And demons who await
The devil himself.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
From liquid glass to boiling foam
moody sea can gentle be
or scream out her commands.
With restless need for exclusivity
she drowns attempts to flee her reprimands.
Savage mistress she.
As Neptune's wife she skuds the coast
with smiles that tease
the most unwary to beguile.
Her fickle heart loves age-old tricks
well-performed and slick in saline fury-style.
Savage actress she.
Watch how in fever she unchains
hellish wave-charge
with such terrifying shock.
On one whim tempestuous sea evokes
yet when transforms to calm she is hypnotic.
Savage dancer she.
Sea-fever has a strangle-hold
on men who know
addiction more than gold is this.
A life-long love of sea remains
like mermaid's kiss unyielding yet alluring still.
Savage sweetheart she.
Go in your ship you coastal child
but beware her
siren's call will make you listen.
Should you wish to quit her iron
will can cleave and salty-hold will you imprison.
Savage jailor she.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
The tracks of my tears
** Tearing**
Lines of lies down my face
Like bars on a cage
And I'm trapped
And escape is so far away
I can't see a glimmer of hope
But rather, shades of grey.
I remember birds
And how far they can fly
But my wings are broken,
So why bother try?
And when my jailor comes I hide.
Because I know
Who.
He.
Is.
And I can't bear it.
So I hide.
But I can't lie, not to myself
I can try to deny
But in the end I know
How useless that is.
Because under that horrible mask
Is not some monster in the dark...
But, I suppose it is.
And under that mask
My disguise
Is a cage of lies.
Where I sit and I cry
Because I know.
I put myself here.
and I can no longer escape
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
I take all the wolf from my smile,
spin her back into sheep
let flowers grow from the cotton of her body
and revel in the softness of snarl
I have been killing chickens in my sleep,
sneaking out and slashing tyres
there is a breadcrumb trail of bones
leading to my closet, and i won't open it
i'm not brave enough for the mirror my monsters are,
i can still taste the marrow on my tongue
but i promise i've been brushing my teeth
drinking rose water and smiling
trying to sand off all my edges
forget the taste of anger and violence
and its hard when i've got foxgloves for kisses
all poison to taste, but they're pretty,
i tried stepping softly and felt the slip-shape
of prey back to predator, relearnt the padfoot
felt the great black dog inside me stir
had to rummage under the bed for the shotgun
put my cheek to it until she stopped her howling
i cried down the barrel for hours,
tied lace around my wrists and become jailor to my heart
**** her with kindness*, but i couldn't, not quite,
all soft touch and lilted tongue i lull her back
to those creaking bars of my ribcage
peg her to my spine and place the ****** carcass
of the last boy we bit at beside her
grow sunflowers in my room and black out the curtains
we can stay here until she learns peace
learns to cry over his body like i did,
forgets blood and hate and their taste
we will learn tenderness in a dark room
howl at an empty sky until the stars take pity on us,
two-step to earth and bring the light back
open the closet, spin skeletons back to cloth,
the slate-grey dust of us has grown flowers,
rage trapped in pink-ribbon dreamcatcher wishes
her lips don't lift from her teeth anymore
and i can sleep with door unlocked
i can sleep with the closet open
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
Arresting the future
as well as the past
Time the great jailor
its prison precast
A graveyard of victims
in temporal loss
Destiny preying
—perdition the cost
(Dreamsleep: March, 2023)
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 12:08 PM UTC