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Kite Aug 2012
I am like a firefly in a jar
Never feel that I am getting far
My light burning out, flickering
My screams turn to shouts, slowly, bickering.

I am like a firefly with heavy wings
Around my eyes lay dark rings
I can't lift off, my light is fading
My skin will forever be your shading.

I am stuck in a jar, gravity killing any chances of flight
And lately I have noticed that I never get things right
I am destructive to myself and to you
A deadbeat firefly with nothing to do.

I set up this jar with my own mind
You look for me but will never find
I'm sorry I don't fly for you
I want you to know that this love is true
But you deserve better than a firefly stuck in a jar.

I thought you had mended my wings
But now I see the broken things
No one can change
I don't want to lose you
and everything you do
but you deserve better than this firefly stuck in a jar.

It's not that you aren't good enough
It's that my cracked skin is too tough
Like a second firefly stuck in the same jar
I hold you back when you can go far.

I want you to know that you are the best thing that has happened
But my light will always be blackened
Nothing unjust has given me this
My thoughts lead me spiralling into an abyss

It's not fair that you have to look after this firefly stuck in a jar
After all, I am not going far
You don't have to be stuck with this firefly in a jar.
L Jun 2015
You gave me a glass jar
We collected fireflies and put them inside
We admired them every night.
Only the two of us understood
what the flicker of the tiny lights meant.

Only the two of us understood.

One day, we walked down the beach
We walked by a stranger whose eyes
sparkled like our glass jar.
I lost my mind
I dropped our jar
I gave the stranger our fireflies
I thought he was worthy.

You ran away with tears in your eyes
and wounds in your hand
from all the broken pieces of our glass jar.

As I tried catching up, I stepped on broken glass
I hurt myself
I stopped chasing you
I let you go and went after the stranger with the sparkly eyes.

For a moment, I forgot about you and our jar and our fireflies.

One day, it rained.
The stranger left and I felt my wounds fresh again.
I thought about you and our jar and our fireflies.
I missed you.
It hurt and I cried and I promised
not to collect fireflies anymore.

I haven't seen fireflies or sparkly eyes since then.

Six hundred and seventy three days passed
I went back to the ocean and saw the broken pieces of our glass jar
The wounds are now healed but I still miss you
I picked up the pieces and glued them back together
I sent them back to you in a box with a bow
"This is yours", I said
I did not wait for a response.

One day, I saw you holding our empty jar
You were looking at me
I looked back, holding my tears
I moved close and I saw
There were no tears, no pain, no anger in your eyes anymore

I moved closer 'cos I thought I saw your eyes sparkle
I thought about our fireflies
And in that moment I realized

It was you all along
It was not the stranger with the sparkly eyes
It was you
It is you
You are my fireflies.
Miru Eirudy Apr 2018
I had a jar filled with chocolates that I keep for myself.
It never ran out of chocolates - I always refill it everyday.
For I am such hungry, addictive, craving for more.
And only my chocolates in my jar and fill my needs.
For each I take, it fills itself another two.
Every piece I take is another to fill.
Oh, how I love my chocolates in the jar.
It fills my my stomach - I could eat it forever.

I already had that jar since  was a little.
I found it from nowhere, I can’t remember where.
Ever since I can’t stop eating.
Knowing that it would never ran out, I eat endlessly.
Day by day, night by night.
Every year I make, I ate, and ate.
The jar is also getting bigger and bigger.
More for me to eat and take.

But there came a time where the jar gets large.
I couldn’t get it out, it is now heavy.
And too big to get it out of my room.
Therefore I stay inside with the jar of chocolates.
I couldn’t leave my chocolates.
I need it more than anyone.
My chocolates is my life.
My chocolates is everything for me.
A year later, the jar is too big.
It blocks the door, I couldn’t leave.
Nevertheless, I keep eating and eating.
My beloved chocolates, it  is really my everything.
I ate it all day long.
I ate it like there’s not tomorrow.
I ate it until the chocolates on the jar overflows.
I ate it until my room is filled with chocolates on the floor.
Continuously eating, one chocolate at a time.
But my hunger is strong, I take as many as I can.
Grabbing every chocolate, I eat as fast
I’m in love with my chocolates - I want to marry it now.
More, more, my body is filled with chocolates.
All I could think is my chocolates, nothing more.
I don’t care about anything, I just want my chocolates.
But my room is now full of chocolates  -  and I’m getting drowned of it.
Too much of anything is bad. :)
PrttyBrd Aug 2010
Gramma always had cookies in her cookie jar
No one ever ate them but me
The jar was her self-portrait
The silvery bun was it's lid
The slight clanging of it as it opened or closed
The smell of it
Even the thought of it,
filled me with joyous anticipation
of its internal goodness
When I was sad, or did a good job
When I worked hard, or was a good helper
When I was sick, or had a rough day
But particularly when I was in trouble
That is when it was most special
She would sneak me off to the kitchen
With a steady hand, like that of a surgeon
She would lift that lid slow and steady without a sound
A feat I have yet to accomplish
Then, in silent winks and sideways glances
When the coast was clear
I got to choose a decidedly undeserved treat
It was in the belly of that cookie jar
That I learned that she would always love me
No matter what

That cookie jar, abandoned and dusty upon a shelf
Recently found and cleaned
Laid in wait upon the table
It had been weeks sitting silent before my visit
I noticed it the moment Ma opened the door
Before the hugs, "hello"
We reminisced about that old empty jar
The jar that never matched her kitchen
The one that was poorly painted by hand
To her its beauty was hideous
She obviously did not know the secrets it held
Our secrets, mine and Gramma's
Happy to be rid of it,
The torch has been passed
As it takes its place of honor in the center of the counter
I notice that its yellow dress and red apron
Match my yellow walls and the red flecks in my curtains
It is at home in my kitchen
Even if my kitchen was purple
Now, its lessons of unconditional, eternal love
Are to be bestowed, unknowingly to my children
They will learn just how much a cookie can fix
And the secrets that are kept deep within
The belly of the cookie jar
copyright©PrttyBrd 18/08/2010
Ashlyn Kriegel Apr 2013
When you decide to love someone,
You decide to make an investment.
He sits there with his glass jar,
Waiting to marvel at the heart placed inside.
Some run to this jar
And place their entirety in his possession.
It is bright,
It is lively,
It is a shiny new heart
Regardless of the scratches or dents of previous users.
Some quietly walk by his jar
And tear off tiny pieces of who they are,
Placing them in the jar for him to look after.
The heart may not seem lovely at first,
It is shredded,
It is broken,
It is ragged on the edges,
But it still glows as bright as a full heart.
When you decide to invest,
You decide to grow,
You decide to allow wisdom to come into your life,
You decide to become more conscious of who you are as a person.
However, sometimes we find the desire to move
Our hearts to a new jar
So someone new can marvel at our beautiful heart.
We go back to his jar and may take all our heart out at once,
Or slowly in those little pieces.
But when we get to the bottom of the jar
The final piece of our heart is fixed,
Immovable regardless of how hard we attempt to rid the jar of it.
Although you made a good investment
And learned to try new things
Or become a renewed person,
That one last piece of you is machéd to his jar,
Which is his to treasure
While he watches you place your heart
In a new glass jar.
st64 Mar 2014
plea of oddities: bring the tinkling back
its bell lies silent

Existing (not entirely) alone
entertaining itself with nightmares witnessed from long ago
It waited and waited
until the neighbour-orb grew to a level sophisticated enough
to house that lovely assortment of fine specimens.. of females
       that flock of dusted-crystals so long dreamt of
       that mould of sensibility, that plug of warmth
       that banner of softness
which all mirrored the opposite of their ways

they fled in quiet-rebellion from inhospitable hands of the boor-males
altogether, in a ship.. down into the bowels of their breaking planet
subtleties long abandoned by the barbed-wire handling of  rough hands
these gentles could take no more and *uncoupled
themselves for good
burning, like the bridges behind them
               they disconnected and slid into a nether-sphere

When the males woke in stupor to find them gone
                 they flipped and fed in anger
and with access to goodness gone and unplaced voracious appetites
It decided to encase them.. in a giant glass-jar, preserving them in ire
until the time was right.. like a tea awaiting perfect steeping
In stasis, they remained for what seemed aeons
the glass-jar which held this army of men, was reduced
became small, like a coin.. which Foog summarily swallowed
and waited . . .  

The sun turned its face in blank-horror of severe sights
                                                               splayed across the surface
forests shrank to toothpicks and died
         blue seas curled and dried
                                 meadows melted to greyish slush
every flying creature lost gravity and got ****** away, too high..
                                                        into harsh deafening-holes
when the tall sentries of oxygen.. twisted and became wiry-distorted
the sky sank and folding itself up.. hid in a black corner
                               behind the crumbling mountains

Foog hid beneath a crater made of ice, on the dark side of said planet
and once every millennium
        it felt the colliding-smack of a passing planetessimal
and it swore that somewhere, somehow..
        that punishment awaited new life

So, it shut its senses to the bay of life
       while hankering viciously for the scream of warm blood
The bell-jar inside, silent and
                        also somehow.. obscenely waiting in its oblivion

Then, came Earth spinning round in flourish.. oh, the day on hand
Yet, veryyyyy far away.. an eye slowly opened
                      / /  roused by the smell of fressshhh life . . . / /

A popping sound and the bell-jar was birthed from a slit on its forehead
It looked nearly quizzically at this odd creation beneath the silent-glass
this assortment of creatures trapped in the folly of Foog:
                                                                ­     oh, shall I, or not?
A cosmic joke, almost.. with so few revisions
The lid lifted and with proportion righted once more..
                                they came, oozing out in droves
Roaring from their milleniac-slumber,
                               crazed in half-remembered wounds
But alive with burning-purpose - - to find the equivalent
those soft-crystals

To melt the iron.. inside.

(unsolicited but self-warranted visitations:
camouflaged abductions.. secret prodding..
subtlety re-learnt.. poverty rehashed..
Fugue in a glass bell-jar.. unleashed)  

But alas, when sweet-sounds are closed again
see at whose smart-hands calamity befalls Life
Yet.. who are ultimately the ones
picking up the pieces after devastation wrought?

st, 27 march 2014
woke from nightmare.. to find this on my waking-plate.

sub-entry: day to dawn

It came in a dream.. and told me so
a day to dawn
for reckoning.
Manda Clement Jun 2014
My forgiveness *** is a jar
That lives inside my heart
Filled with all the forgiveness I have
It looks like fairy dust, glittery and golden
When someone needs some of my forgiveness I take a little from the jar and give it to them
Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot,
Sometimes more than I feel they deserve

The jar is refilled by the forgiveness others give to me
For I too need forgiveness sometimes

Right now my jar is running low
I have given away far more than I should have done
And to people who I think should receive none at all
The cutting insults he made
The selfishness she showed
Were two this week alone which emptied over half my jar
But that's what we do, isn't it...Forgive?

I am now wondering what other peoples jars look like
What shape, what size, how empty, how full
And what colour is their forgiveness? Red, silver? Gold like mine?
Do some peoples jars never open?
Sealed forever, never giving, unable or unwilling to receive?
Do some people really not care about the importance of forgiveness?

I care
I take care of my jar
I hope that when it is almost empty it will fill back up with
The forgiveness others do not want
I like to think forgiveness isn't wasted
Finds a home, a jar somewhere.
I think about things like this all the time. Am I alone? haha. Enjoy! x
Aira G Manalo Sep 2015
You are my little glass jar
So precious though so small
You are my little glass jar
So careful not to fall

You are my little glass jar
I want to fill you with all things bright
You are my little glass jar
I wish you best with might

You are my little glass jar
You are, oh yes you will always be
You are my little glass jar
Though you may not always see
Randy Johnson Jun 2015
I'm a Gungan from the planet Naboo and my name is Jar Jar Binks.
Senator Padme put me in charge once even though I don't even have the ability to think.
George Lucas brought me to life with a computer, I'm a product of CGI.
Because many Star Wars fans find me irritating, they want me to die.
Many people hate everything about me, they hate my voice, my six foot tongue and my orange skin.
Now that the prequels are over, those people are thankful that they'll never have to see me again.
This poem is based on the Star Wars Prequels.
howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
Teresa Magaña Jan 2012
My Sweetness
My Fruit
Little bits of sourness that I have felt from dealing with boys ,..that I’ve let come, …in my life,…and just pass on through,
Like Tita from Agua Para Chocolate
Pouring her energy
Her feelings
Her heart in every dish she made
I poured and poured
10 bottles of red wine…Passionate red vibes
Into that Sangria containing my sweet fruit
And just a little bit,…little bite of lime
That little bit of sourness I hold inside
My energy flowing through every smile, word, and laughter that floated in the air
And bounced from vibe to vibe
And what did I get in return?
Not only the satisfaction of seeing and feeling everyone have such a great time
Giggles from buzzed and tipsy steps of folks passing me by
But the collection of singles, overflowing in the cute bartender’s tip jar
It was your singles
And his singles
And even her singles that filled up that jar
The collection of singles that fed the creative force of souls that night
Fed the souls
Fed the minds
Fed us with creativity
But most importantly
Fed us with awesome tacos at 2:30 in the morning from a place we happened to find right around the block
My Sangria bought us tip jar tacos that night
tamia Oct 2016
a little girl once wanted and thought she could keep the entire world. every night she cried at the sight of the stars, her heart burst whenever the flowers would bloom, she'd dance in the rain whenever it would so much as drizzle.

one night, when her little heart began to overflow with so much yearning, she walked to a cliff by the sea with a jar in hand. she opened the jar, holding it up to the sky and watched the delicate universe make its way inside it all so gently. immediately, she capped the jar and was amazed that she held the world in her hands. for many days she took it around with her, leaping through rivers on stepping stones and walking through sea shores in the light of day.

one day, suddenly, the bottle fell from her hands and her heart stopped. she could not believed she had dropped it. she picked up the jar, and suddenly it seemed as if the universe was wounded. she could not believe she did such a thing.

on the night of that unfortunate day, she made her way to a mountaintop with a heavy heart and her vision murky from tears. just as she was high enough to touch the clouds, she carefully chose a spot and stood firmly, still sniffling a little bit.

"i did not take care of you when you trusted me. i do not deserve you, universe." she said, her voice shakey as she uncapped the jar. "i am sorry."

in the same manner she caught the universe, she held her open jar towards the heavens and watched the universe pour out the bottle in wisps—the stars and planets and all of space and time dispersed before her eyes and again, she began to cry. she wondered how she was even able to keep such a beautiful thing and how she had failed it.

days passed and the girl was lonely again. as she strolled past plants and vines, they would wilt in sadness. the sun would shine so palely in the morning that even the moon could not console it. she was so sad that even nature joined her in silence.

on one morning, she woke up feeling a different beating in her heart. she stood up from her flower bed to look at her reflection, and to her surprise she found something shining just right under her left shoulder.

there, she found the universe had come back to her—not in the same jar it used to be in, but in her heart.

"do not ever think you do not deserve the world just because of your shortcomings," she heard the universe whisper, her hand in her chest. "i have found my way to your heart and here i will stay."

and that is how the girl began to carry the universe she had so loved in her heart, forever.
the universe loves you
Kerri Mar 2015
I saved up all my butterflies
and put them in a jar.
Soft and steady searching.
No aggression.
Only a girl aware of the flutters that whirled by.
With one cupped hand I fill my jar.
Sealing the top to prevent majestic escape,
but giving air, and the capability to flit.
One glorious day, I willingly hand you my jar.
Gentle release.
Butterflies float.
Butterflies fly.
A plethora of colors swirling in the atmosphere.
A new world.
A new start.
Intoxicating beauty.
Rainbow fading fast.
Melting into the promise of night.
Empty jar.
The jar is shattered.
Jagged shards sparkle in the dirt.
The remains of hope and patience.
New jar. Fill it up. Suffocated beauty.
Goodbye trust.
I'm left with an eternal jar of carcasses.
This is obviously a figurative poem with the butterflies portraying love and ultimately trust.
berry Aug 2013
keep my heart in a mason jar
above your bed
take it down and look at it
from time to time

then watch with a frown
on the day the jar slips through your fingers
and plummets to the hardwood
with a crack & a shatter

"sorry" you'll mutter
with an almost interrogative inflection
but you won't pick up the shards
you'll stare blankly at the contents - my heart
it's messy, not what you wanted

stains from the girl with the mason jar heart
will haunt the floorboards and echo in the walls
and you'll wish you'd been more careful
when you had her in your hands

- m.f.
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around; no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing. else in Tennessee.
Alyssa Beddoe Aug 2012
The Jam Jar
Breakfast taught me a lesson this morning,
As I waited for my toast I watched my brother
Struggle with the jam jar,
He squeezed as hard as he could, he shook the
Bottle wildly, trying to get the jam out.  
The air bubble in side popped and the jelly pored out.
I watched as he smothered they jelly on his bread,
Just staring at the pile left that he didn't need.
He had more then enough but did not share with me
Instead he through it in the garbage.
It made me think of life when people work there
Buts off and get more then they need and they don't
Know what to do with it all so they just throw it away.
He handed me the jar that was now almost gone.
I shook and shook that thing I scraped the walls
Clean, but I didn't even have enough for one piece
Of bred. It made me think of all the poor people out
There that work there hardest and barley get anything
To survive on. I was about to give up when m mom walked
In and gave a full jar of jam. She reminded me that there are
Caring people out there watching out for us.
Johnnie Rae Aug 2013
Being home is like
being back under the bell jar
(To quote the great Sylvia Plath)
Back under the bell jar, where the air
is stale and ***** and before long
you begin to suffocate.
You feel trapped as would a firefly,
on one of those warm summer nights
where you run around in the grass
feeling the moisture on your bare feet
as you catch as many of the twinkling lights
as you can before they hide for the night.
Trapped, slowly suffocating because in your nightly
adventure, you are careless and free, and this
causes you to forget to put holes in the jar
where you imprison these wonders for the night.
But only for the night, for your carelessness has caused their demise
while you sleep beside these living night lights,
they begin to die, their lights not shining so bright
anymore, yes they die.
Their death symbolizes your depression as the bell jar
closes you in and you become claustrophobic
gasping for the air you know waits just outside your prison
but it's not really there for you will never escape
this horrible place they've put you in
Yes I've twisted catching fireflies into a murderous action
but believe me,

It always was
Lara Mari Jun 2019
Breathe in
Greet people, laugh at other people’s jokes, smile.
Breathe out
Wipe that smile off your face, you foolish child.
Have an internal rant at yourself, go on!
Hate yourself for your grades, your personality, your life.
Kick the door in, shatter the glass, destroy it all, but when you
Pretend to be normal, okay? It’s not that unbearable, or is it?
Yes, it is unbearable! Your smile has become a wince, you ******, you idiot, you maniacal stick in the mud!
I want to put myself in a teensy little jar, painted black so no one would be able to see me.
I do not want see the world and the world does not want to see me.
I can do whatever I want, say whatever I want, think whatever I want.
Sometimes, I’m afraid people can physically see my thoughts and fears.
So they force me into my worst nightmares, kicking and screaming. Begging.
I breathe in
When the air fills my lungs, I have to dream the best things. I have to be normal. I value everything.
But when I breathe out
I feel suffocated. Space and time no longer matter. I’m in my jar again.
I close my eyes, and I see a butterfly, clear and crystal blue. It’s striking boldness catches me.
I wish I were a butterfly, but the foolishness of such naive imagination reprimands me. I open my eyes and I’m back to the darkness of the jar.
I feel it spinning.
I feel it shaking.
Someone’s trying to hurt me. I just hope they don’t take me out of the jar— my home.
I inhale again, the smell of fresh air acidic.
I have to see the blinding mundanity of my life once again. I stifle a cry and turn it into a laugh, I conjure a smile.
Exhaling, Exhaling, Exhaling.
Now I’m safe, now no one can see me, no one can see me.
My own world, the space in the jar is all I OWN, but it’s all I need.
If the world is my oyster, I am trapped in it. I cannot get out.
But do I need to get out? Do I want to get out?
People try to penetrate the thin glass walls of my jar.
But I try not to let them.
They do anyway, and I shun them away. I don’t need their presence to make me alright. The silence is comforting. Because in my jar, I cannot hear a thing, not the faint voices of others, not a murmur, not a whisper.
Inhale (possibly for the last time?)
Ugh, I’m back again. I wonder if I stopped breathing, would I stay in the jar, forever??
I will just keep shoving the stupid ******* air out of my mouth until there is no more air left.
Clindballe Sep 2014
I feel like a pickle in jar.
Drowning in salty tears.
Waiting on a shelf for
someone to want me.
To drag me out of this
lonely jar and take a bite
of my tear soaked body.
I am waiting for someone
to tell the difference between
a cucumber and a pickle.
Written: September 16. - 2014
Yellow specimens in a jar,
like plump yolks bulging
in a jelly like substance
They are so weird,
Give the jar a little wobble,
and they jiggle against each other,
they are so weird
I want to touch them.

They are egg yolks,
I've got egg on my hands,
the mystery has gone,
I liked them better before,
now they're slippy sliding between my fingers
and oozing to the floor
who put's eggs in a jar like this?
That is just weird.

I wonder if they will notice,
the two I took out;
one slipped from my fingers and
one I tasted just be sure.
better ***** the lid back on the jar and
Oh no! It slippy slid out of my goopy hands
  and landed on the floor,
didn't smash, that's impressive,
there's still ******* eggs all over the place though.
Andrea Zapiain Nov 2013
Silence disrupted by a silent thump

Will it stop pumping blood?

The professor looks up
The student drops her gaze


She bites her lip
It doesn't make sense

But how...?

The professor looks up again

It is not dead

He says simply and looks back to his papers
The pumping increases

But where does the blood come from?

Exasperated, he looks up again

Where does anything come from?
Look at it, gaze into it
For it is not just flesh
Every fiber meant something
constructed for a purpose
Why did his owner leave it?
Why destine it to exist in a jar?
I know no such thing
And the invisible blood it pumps
Seems to ask the same question
The same ****** question
Why, oh why is this heart destined to a jar?
Is existence easier without it?
No feelings at all
And yet, look at it, this perfect machine
Still beating ceaselessly
Boats against the current, is that the phrase?
Rationality is also a jar, do not forget
And too many of us keep our hearts in a jar
I lied at the beginning
It will, eventually stop pumping
In this case, at least, the heart will wither
Behind glass walls
But when it is still inside a body
What comes of it?
The heart dies, and then what?
Oh, the person lives
The person breathes
The person goes on
The person is as good as dead

The beating stops
The professor drops to the ground
GailForceWinds Mar 2015
I wish I wish
Upon a star
I had a magic cookie jar

Inside the jar would contain
Peace and love and happiness
No war, no crime and no more pain

I’d open the jar and let the rays out
To cross the earth, flutter all about

Touch everyone and everything
From the smallest grain of sand
to the Majestic Eagle’s wing

Until I find that special jar, I’ll bend down on one knee
And pray for that day
When all our troubles go away

What a wonderful world it would be
When I close my eyes, this is the world I see
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
Holland Feb 2018
My body spun
From one side of my garage
to the other.

In between the pillars of poles
creating space between the cars
parked in the two car garage

perfect family, right?
not even close

I unlaced my skates
tossing them in a case,
unorganized as my chaotic brain

I leaned down to pick up
a mess of what looked
like plastic

like a broken water container
crushed by the weight
of a basketball tossed without looking

being the good girl I was
I picked up the charred plastic
placing it in my hand to
throw it in the trash

I dropped it in the can
letting the pieces fall

As I wiped my hands
I found a piece I had forgotten
it had the label of Prego on the side
I realized then
It was a broken spaghetti jar

I ran upstairs
to help with dinner.

I asked my mom
what I could do to
She said
"You can run that blood
under a cold water faucet"

I looked at her confused, saying
"Where am I bleeding?"

She turned my arm over
showing me the cut
glazed over my forearm
I hadn't even felt it

I didn't know
that was the moment
I would find an advantage
to not feeling pain

and an interest
in the impure
that bleeding
wasn't scary...

that it couldn't hurt me
as much as the rest
of my life could.
Lunar Apr 2016
we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.

three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.

him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.

hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.

him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.

we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.

after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.

sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.
wjh, you, and loving you, is the definition of my art.
you and only you are the meaning of my muse.
you and just you are the artist
On Hellespont, guilty of true love’s blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin’d by Neptune’s might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer’d as a dower his burning throne,
Where she could sit for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and border’d with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reach’d to the ground beneath;
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives;
Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,
When ’twas the odour which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
Which lighten’d by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Buskins of shells, all silver’d, used she,
And branch’d with blushing coral to the knee;
Where sparrows perch’d, of hollow pearl and gold,
Such as the world would wonder to behold:
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin’d,
And looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true; so like was one the other,
As he imagin’d Hero was his mother;
And oftentimes into her ***** flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And with still panting rock’d there took his rest.
So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus’ nun,
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft:
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer’d wrack,
Since Hero’s time hath half the world been black.

Amorous Leander, beautiful and young
(Whose tragedy divine MusÆus sung),
Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none
For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,
Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,
Would have allur’d the vent’rous youth of Greece
To hazard more than for the golden fleece.
Fair Cynthia wish’d his arms might be her sphere;
Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.
His body was as straight as Circe’s wand;
Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.
Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpast
The white of Pelops’ shoulder: I could tell ye,
How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;
And whose immortal fingers did imprint
That heavenly path with many a curious dint
That runs along his back; but my rude pen
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,
Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice
That my slack Muse sings of Leander’s eyes;
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
That leapt into the water for a kiss
Of his own shadow, and, despising many,
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,
Enamour’d of his beauty had he been.
His presence made the rudest peasant melt,
That in the vast uplandish country dwelt;
The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov’d with nought,
Was mov’d with him, and for his favour sought.
Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire,—
A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
A brow for love to banquet royally;
And such as knew he was a man, would say,
“Leander, thou art made for amorous play;
Why art thou not in love, and lov’d of all?
Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.”

The men of wealthy Sestos every year,
For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,
Rose-cheek’d Adonis, kept a solemn feast.
Thither resorted many a wandering guest
To meet their loves; such as had none at all
Came lovers home from this great festival;
For every street, like to a firmament,
Glister’d with breathing stars, who, where they went,
Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem’d
Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem’d
As if another Pha{”e}ton had got
The guidance of the sun’s rich chariot.
But far above the loveliest, Hero shin’d,
And stole away th’ enchanted gazer’s mind;
For like sea-nymphs’ inveigling harmony,
So was her beauty to the standers-by;
Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star
(When yawning dragons draw her thirling car
From Latmus’ mount up to the gloomy sky,
Where, crown’d with blazing light and majesty,
She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood
Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.
Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,
Wretched Ixion’s shaggy-footed race,
Incens’d with savage heat, gallop amain
From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain,
So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,
And all that view’d her were enamour’d on her.
And as in fury of a dreadful fight,
Their fellows being slain or put to flight,
Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken,
So at her presence all surpris’d and tooken,
Await the sentence of her scornful eyes;
He whom she favours lives; the other dies.
There might you see one sigh, another rage,
And some, their violent passions to assuage,
Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late,
For faithful love will never turn to hate.
And many, seeing great princes were denied,
Pin’d as they went, and thinking on her, died.
On this feast-day—O cursed day and hour!—
Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower
To Venus’ temple, where unhappily,
As after chanc’d, they did each other spy.

So fair a church as this had Venus none:
The walls were of discolour’d jasper-stone,
Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head
A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,
Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung,
And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.
Of crystal shining fair the pavement was;
The town of Sestos call’d it Venus’ glass:
There might you see the gods in sundry shapes,
Committing heady riots, ******, rapes:
For know, that underneath this radiant flower
Was Danae’s statue in a brazen tower,
Jove slyly stealing from his sister’s bed,
To dally with Idalian Ganimed,
And for his love Europa bellowing loud,
And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud;
Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net,
Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;
Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy,
Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy
That now is turn’d into a cypress tree,
Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be.
And in the midst a silver altar stood:
There Hero, sacrificing turtles’ blood,
Vail’d to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;
And modestly they opened as she rose.
Thence flew Love’s arrow with the golden head;
And thus Leander was enamoured.
Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed,
Till with the fire that from his count’nance blazed
Relenting Hero’s gentle heart was strook:
Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.

It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is over-rul’d by fate.
When two are stript, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should lose, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
What we behold is censur’d by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight?

He kneeled, but unto her devoutly prayed.
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
“Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him;”
And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.
He started up, she blushed as one ashamed,
Wherewith Leander much more was inflamed.
He touched her hand; in touching it she trembled.
Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled.
These lovers parleyed by the touch of hands;
True love is mute, and oft amazed stands.
Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled,
The air with sparks of living fire was spangled,
And night, deep drenched in misty Acheron,
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon
Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid’s day).
And now begins Leander to display
Love’s holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears,
Which like sweet music entered Hero’s ears,
And yet at every word she turned aside,
And always cut him off as he replied.
At last, like to a bold sharp sophister,
With cheerful hope thus he accosted her.

“Fair creature, let me speak without offence.
I would my rude words had the influence
To lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine,
Then shouldst thou be his prisoner, who is thine.
Be not unkind and fair; misshapen stuff
Are of behaviour boisterous and rough.
O shun me not, but hear me ere you go.
God knows I cannot force love as you do.
My words shall be as spotless as my youth,
Full of simplicity and naked truth.
This sacrifice, (whose sweet perfume descending
From Venus’ altar, to your footsteps bending)
Doth testify that you exceed her far,
To whom you offer, and whose nun you are.
Why should you worship her? Her you surpass
As much as sparkling diamonds flaring glass.
A diamond set in lead his worth retains;
A heavenly nymph, beloved of human swains,
Receives no blemish, but ofttimes more grace;
Which makes me hope, although I am but base:
Base in respect of thee, divine and pure,
Dutiful service may thy love procure.
And I in duty will excel all other,
As thou in beauty dost exceed Love’s mother.
Nor heaven, nor thou, were made to gaze upon,
As heaven preserves all things, so save thou one.
A stately builded ship, well rigged and tall,
The ocean maketh more majestical.
Why vowest thou then to live in Sestos here
Who on Love’s seas more glorious wouldst appear?
Like untuned golden strings all women are,
Which long time lie untouched, will harshly jar.
Vessels of brass, oft handled, brightly shine.
What difference betwixt the richest mine
And basest mould, but use? For both, not used,
Are of like worth. Then treasure is abused
When misers keep it; being put to loan,
In time it will return us two for one.
Rich robes themselves and others do adorn;
Neither themselves nor others, if not worn.
Who builds a palace and rams up the gate
Shall see it ruinous and desolate.
Ah, simple Hero, learn thyself to cherish.
Lone women like to empty houses perish.
Less sins the poor rich man that starves himself
In heaping up a mass of drossy pelf,
Than such as you. His golden earth remains
Which, after his decease, some other gains.
But this fair gem, sweet in the loss alone,
When you fleet hence, can be bequeathed to none.
Or, if it could, down from th’enameled sky
All heaven would come to claim this legacy,
And with intestine broils the world destroy,
And quite confound nature’s sweet harmony.
Well therefore by the gods decreed it is
We human creatures should enjoy that bliss.
One is no number; maids are nothing then
Without the sweet society of men.
Wilt thou live single still? One shalt thou be,
Though never singling ***** couple thee.
Wild savages, that drink of running springs,
Think water far excels all earthly things,
But they that daily taste neat wine despise it.
Virginity, albeit some highly prize it,
Compared with marriage, had you tried them both,
Differs as much as wine and water doth.
Base bullion for the stamp’s sake we allow;
Even so for men’s impression do we you,
By which alone, our reverend fathers say,
Women receive perfection every way.
This idol which you term virginity
Is neither essence subject to the eye
No, nor to any one exterior sense,
Nor hath it any place of residence,
Nor is’t of earth or mould celestial,
Or capable of any form at all.
Of that which hath no being do not boast;
Things that are not at all are never lost.
Men foolishly do call it virtuous;
What virtue is it that is born with us?
Much less can honour be ascribed thereto;
Honour is purchased by the deeds we do.
Believe me, Hero, honour is not won
Until some honourable deed be done.
Seek you for chastity, immortal fame,
And know that some have wronged Diana’s name?
Whose name is it, if she be false or not
So she be fair, but some vile tongues will blot?
But you are fair, (ay me) so wondrous fair,
So young, so gentle, and so debonair,
As Greece will think if thus you live alone
Some one or other keeps you as his own.
Then, Hero, hate me not nor from me fly
To follow swiftly blasting infamy.
Perhaps thy sacred priesthood makes thee loath.
Tell me, to whom mad’st thou that heedless oath?”

“To Venus,” answered she and, as she spake,
Forth from those two tralucent cisterns brake
A stream of liquid pearl, which down her face
Made milk-white paths, whereon the gods might trace
To Jove’s high court.
He thus replied: “The rites
In which love’s beauteous empress most delights
Are banquets, Doric music, midnight revel,
Plays, masks, and all that stern age counteth evil.
Thee as a holy idiot doth she scorn
For thou in vowing chastity hast sworn
To rob her name and honour, and thereby
Committ’st a sin far worse than perjury,
Even sacrilege against her deity,
Through regular and formal purity.
To expiate which sin, kiss and shake hands.
Such sacrifice as this Venus demands.”

Thereat she smiled and did deny him so,
As put thereby, yet might he hope for moe.
Which makes him quickly re-enforce his speech,
And her in humble manner thus beseech.
“Though neither gods nor men may thee deserve,
Yet for her sake, whom you have vowed to serve,
Abandon fruitless cold virginity,
The gentle queen of love’s sole enemy.
Then shall you most resemble Venus’ nun,
When Venus’ sweet rites are performed and done.
Flint-breasted Pallas joys in single life,
But Pallas and your mistress are at strife.
Love, Hero, then, and be not tyrannous,
But heal the heart that thou hast wounded thus,
Nor stain thy youthful years with avarice.
Fair fools delight to be accounted nice.
The richest corn dies, if it be not reaped;
Beauty alone is lost, too warily kept.”

These arguments he used, and many more,
Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.
Hero’s looks yielded but her words made war.
Women are won when they begin to jar.
Thus, having swallowed Cupid’s golden hook,
The more she strived, the deeper was she strook.
Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still
And would be thought to grant against her will.
So having paused a while at last she said,
“Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?
Ay me, such words as these should I abhor
And yet I like them for the orator.”

With that Leander stooped to have embraced her
But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
And thus bespake him: “Gentle youth, forbear
To touch the sacred garments which I wear.
Upon a rock and underneath a hill
Far from the town (where all is whist and still,
Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand,
Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land,
Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus
In silence of the night to visit us)
My turret stands and there, God knows, I play.
With Venus’ swans and sparrows all the day.
A dwarfish beldam bears me company,
That hops about the chamber where I lie,
And spends the night (that might be better spent)
In vain discourse and apish merriment.
Come thither.” As she spake this, her tongue tripped,
For unawares “come thither” from her slipped.
And suddenly her former colour changed,
And here and there her eyes through anger ranged.
And like a planet, moving several ways,
At one self instant she, poor soul, assays,
Loving, not to love at all, and every part
Strove to resist the motions of her heart.
And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
As might have made heaven stoop to have a touch,
Did she uphold to Venus, and again
Vowed spotless chastity, but all in vain.
Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings,
Her vows above the empty air he flings,
All deep enraged, his sinewy bow he bent,
And shot a shaft that burning from him went,
Wherewith she strooken, looked so dolefully,
As made love sigh to see his tyranny.
And as she wept her tears to pearl he turned,
And wound them on his arm and for her mourned.
Then towards the palace of the destinies
Laden with languishment and grief he flies,
And to those stern nymphs humbly made request
Both might enjoy each other, and be blest.
But with a ghastly dreadful
from my book 'How To Write Pro$eperly

LESSON 18: Marketing Your Product
Get outside and box.

How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Keep up the volume
Then they have to buy all the books
And go looking
For something good

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

*** angles
in relation to women’s personality gauge it
chart it
*** angles
Canadian research grant

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Rhythm-in-a-jar, and it vibrates when you pick it up
or could be handwritten
with desperate plea
send money
fax phoney part
please pleas
should colour of lid
indicate mood of poem
should label
indicate word topic theme
or what of material
metal lid or plastic
* Replace the safety seal so they have to punch cover
Note: if freshness seal broken, do not consume

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet
dead poet cookbook
dead poet cookbook


limited edition collector poetry
signed by author
artist proof worth more
more worth more
per line $1 $5 $100 sky’s the limit
self-effacing charity:
give-drop poem-in-a-jar to bums to sell
use as tax write-off full retail + “costs”
have party supporting charity more tax write-off
wheee! thank you, taxpayers
mmmm! tax write-off

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Verse libre
Convince public that your random scratch ins
have deeper meaning social import
esoteric ****** meaning
make it plainly oblivious for them
doubletalk and doublewalk
run at them
when you recite
a poem
attack poetry
possible sales to war department
note when publishing do not include how to make money poet stuff proprietary secret

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Poetry Repair
Fix other peoples poems
Putter with their pitter-patter
Charge per word (or line) no word
Fix their lines
of poetry and charge them for it
Could franchise this idea
Have walk-in shops around the planet
Poetry Repair;
Pete's Poetry Repair; friendly sounding.
Come down to Pete’s, we'll fix what’s the matter with your pitter-patter
Could increase sales by charging for coffee and downnuts
when they bring in their poems for repair
(Making money as a poet is a joke, easy living man)
Pete’s Podium of Poetry Repair
Poetry Repair
There's gotta be money in it somehow

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

In the backs of magazines *2007 or spam
Now you can make EASY MONEY AT HOME
With the fastest growingest gosh-**** bestest
Poetry Repair
Can you spot the error in this?:
Twinkle twaddle little star
How I wonder what you are
Yes. You saw it. Easy, wasn't it? And in no time at all
you'll being doing this to even some of the greats:
Romeo, Romeo,
Oh where for **** thou Romeo
Editors pay big bucks for this stuff
Poetry repair
do it at home

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

1 book = poems + free towel inside
free towel inside your book of poems
poem and a free towel
could be symbolic message
something about a towel and a poem
maybe the beach
maybe the *****
something about a towel and a poem

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

very goth
sort by flavour
poem-of-the-month club (with underwear)
poem *******
poem *******
******* with poems on the ***
maybe women will let me write on their pantied ***
and charge them for it
(I'm voting for poem *******)
***** Poetry
I’ll be rich
fifty bucks a toss
Painted-***** Poetry
for fifty bucks a toss
I'll come to your house
and paint a poem on your *******
We'll discuss each poem
over tea and cookies
so you'll get what you like
get what you like
poem on your pantied behind, painted
fifty bucks a toss
Call now!
SBohl Nov 2011
This room reeks of apathy,

but the overwhelming smell,

the horrid stench creeps,

seeping from the jar.

I have crammed too much


into it.

This stuff of angst


damaged pride

biting regret






Pa­in crammed into a jar

shoved into a corner of

this room.

The room that used to

reek of apathy.
betterdays Mar 2014
to be a speciman in a jar
inspected from all angles
not freedom,
no hopeful view
inspected for your shape,
your feelings, your i.q.

to tip and tap scream and
yell for help to free oneself,

to pace cyclically while the beat of
your innerclock ticks your
precious time away.

to watch the watchers,

hear them whispering,
gossiping, laughing,
pointing at you,

curled feotally, as far as
possible from the incessant

to want one thing,
but have another.

to desire,
to emire oneself
in a,
crooked point of

to be confused, restrained
by sundered synapse,
fixated on rythmn, numbers,
rhymes in order to get through.

to be  black ink stickmen,
an ink black room,
with a black dog,
chasing you....
growling out doom.

to be living a hell private
and encompassing while,
working  in uniform
oh so neat.

we are one and all,
the specimans,

the glass jar is there,
all who stumble in defeat. be a speciman
in a jar
judged for ....

is a living death,
a soundless living hell

a far cry from heaven,
more an automated shell
walking, moving, talking,
             in a jar...
                        ..... on a shelf.
with a big nod to, miss plath
and her bell jar.
but also from personal experience
Ash Mar 2016
I'm like your Swear Jar.
Whenever you mess up,
And let naughty words slip,
You toss a nickel in.
And everytime you lie
Everytime you cry over them
Yet another nickel will go in.

I'm your Charity case.
Filled with blind hopes and dreams.
Living on faith that things will get better.
Yet always knowing,
No amount of nickels and tears
Could clear the air
Of the words you've said.

I'm like your punching bag.
Catching all of your blows,
Easing your pain
Trying to bring you
To tranquility again.

But sometimes

I'm your pillow.
Soaking up your tears
The only one
Who's heard all of your fears.
Day after day
I bear your weight.
Because. ..

Making sure I can NEVER ESCAPE.
TRAPPING me with your soft embraces.
And PROMISES of what we'll do,

only wanted when your
Alexandra Askew May 2014
It happened.
It happened.
It happened.
It happened.
No more fighting against the truth
No more of the denial.
It happened.
It happened.
It happened.
It happened.
Life push me forward.
World steady my feet.
It happened.
It happened.
Focus, hold it.
It happened.
It happened.
Open up your palm.
Memories fall into a holding jar.
It happened.
It happened.
Lock the jar inside.
Darken the lights but remember the presence.
It happened.
It happened...
3 out of 4 of "Stages of My Grief"
Come, come, awaken all true drunkards!
Pour the wine that is Life itself!
O cupbearer of the Eternal Wine,
Draw it now from Eternity’s Jar!
This wine doesn’t run down the throat
But it looses torrents of words!
Cupbearer, make my soul fragrant as musk,
This noble soul of mine that knows the Invisible!
Pour out the wine for the morning drinkers!
Pour them this subtle and priceless musk!
Pass it around to everyone in the assembly
In the cups of your blazing drunken eyes!
Pass a philter from your eyes to everyone else’s
In a way the mouth knows nothing of,
For this is the way cupbearers always offer
The holy and mysterious wine to lovers.
Hurry, the eyes of every atom in Creation
Are famished for this flaming-out of splendour!
Procure for yourself this fragrance of musk
And with it split open the breast of heaven!
The waves of the fragrance of this musk
Drive all Josephs out of their minds forever!
1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
JB Claywell Oct 2017
We walked the Topeka zoo
yesterday and looked at
all the animals being held
against their will.

The angry zookeeper
told us about the bear
that got its head stuck
in a peanut-butter jar.

“It’s not a laughing matter.”,
he said.

The children laughed anyway.

“This bear would’ve died,”,
he said. “if we wouldn’t have
come along and taken him out
of the wild, removing the
peanut-butter jar, and nursing
him back from starvation.”

The bear was asleep in a thin tree
above our heads.
He’d climbed up there to be closer
to the warm sun,
my youngest son advised.

I wondered if he hadn’t climbed
up into that tree to sleep farther
away from the din of his jailer’s
voice as he shouted to the herds of us
who’d paid our six bucks to stand in
the cold and listen to his angry
voice tell us about peanut-butter jars
removed from the heads of bears and
how that’s what it takes to save lives
around here.

No one asked the zookeeper
or the bear if either one
of them still liked peanut
butter eaten straight from
the jar.

No one asked if either one
of them ever missed their

We just watched the bear
sleep in the crook of the
highest branch of that
thin, leafless tree.

His head lulled into the
crook of his elbow and his
*** dangled in the chilly

I suppose he was dreaming
of escape.
Maybe he pondered, dreamily,
what that zookeeper tasted like.

Perhaps he dreamed of peanut-butter
eaten straight from the jar,
knowing his head wouldn’t get stuck

But, I bet he was dreaming
of his mother.



© P&ZPublications
A Bukowski-esque story poem about a trip to the zoo with my family. (I have mixed feelings about zoos.)
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
Emmy Jan 2014
Dark clouds shadow my world as coldness seeps through my frame
Nervous energy blooms inside
intertwined with thoughts of shame
My hands shake and my breathing is fast
There is no reason, this has nothing to do with the past
Heavily burdened with a bell jar of thick fractured glass
I've found myself beaten down, having discovered this will not pass
I watch fatigued by it all
the colors and sounds
the landscape
the rise and fall
Placing my hands on the frosted barrier
searching for a leak of warmth
a possible carrier forth
My hands fall in defeat
I sink farther down and blackness I solemnly greet
I close my eyes waiting for it wash over me again and again
to crash on my shore then retreat
Moon tide controlled in my mind, incessantly forever beat
I wish with rapid fire desire for the fall of the bell jars empire
My heart thuds
blood rushing sound in my ears
I stare straight ahead filled with a commensurate of fears
Darkness descends and I am captured in my bell jar yet again.
Sydney Ranson Jul 2013
I feed my appetite with your voice. Your fricatives pirouette on my tongue. Each sibilant hangs on my teeth, then slides off and leaves its wax to pile up in my throat. I cough it up and collect it in a jar. It sits on the shelf in my basement and becomes familiar with the musty cloak of yesterday’s wet laundry. On the shelf, there are jars of swollen strawberries and gritty half-skulls of pears, blackberries like bundles of balloons. But in your jar, suspended in their own sugary liquid, are ripened vowels that arabesque when I give the jar a shake. I wipe the damp film off the metal lid with my thumb. Now I’m sitting in bed at 2:00 a.m., scooping your words from their glass house with a sticky index finger, speckled with seeds, semicolons, ellipses. Each dig gets me closer to your older, sweeter language–closer to what I’ve been craving. The last drops cling to the jar’s lip until I tilt it to mine, and I’m full-bellied, staring at an empty jar. In the bathroom, I slide a finger in my mouth until it reaches my throat and the words come up and fill the toilet and overflow onto the floor, puddle around my crooked toes and stain the linoleum.
Sometimes you have to try and explain love in weird ways. This is one way of doing just that.

— The End —