"jaunty" poems
Angry apes arguing
Odd owls ogling
Extravagant emus eloping
Slimy slugs slithering
Wandering worms wriggling
Jaunty jays jumping
Testy tigers thundering
Grumpy giraffes grazing
All animals amazing
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
Fuzzy ol' neck beard
Tips his jaunty fedora
Self proclaimed nice guy
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.
I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.
Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.
But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.
But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.
Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
He struts down the sidewalk
With a hint of a frown
His spoon swings beside him
Jaunty hat as his crown.
Childers peep with a gasp
As they watch him strut down
The musk that follows him
The stains on his gown.
There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef, they say,
Of this Badass Town.
He pounds dough to a pulp
Whisking eggs beyond shape
Beets up on the salad
Stomping vatfulls of grape.
Skewers meat without thought
Chops neat through a bone
Flays sharks without care
Needs no sous, works alone
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.
He hangs up his cleaver
At the end of the day
Dripping droplets of what
None have courage to say
He blows out his flambe
Spoon back at his side
Turns back to his war zone
Fists clenched with quiet pride
There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
A sudden evening rain over the rice fields,
memories wake up from deep sleep
of long years, take a walk once again
along the narrow ridge parting green fields
on a rain soaked evening of yore.
She, a jaunty young woman had changed
the quiet world of a village boy
with big curious eyes, just in few minutes.
his innocence, vanished a yearning
for something unknown until then,
started its torment
love, dabbed its fragrance
on his being with its slight of hand,
a spell cast over him made his head spin
like he drank heady wine, how strange!
Under her spread umbrella he came
by chance, only once in his life
walked with her till the door
on his way to the temple of Krishna
for the evening worship,
walking along the zig zag, slippery path
had he slipped a bath in slush was assured.
When the rains came unannounced,
rushing ,with her anklets clanging
frogs spiritedly croaking,
all this mingling with
the orchestra of myriad insects,
she came as if from nowhere,
from a wild growth of banana plants
on one side, down to his path.
She smiled at him as if she knew him well
a lush young woman, who took him by his hand,
brought him closer to the protective
wrap of her sari, that smelled lemons and oranges,
that fragrance remains sweet in memory,
was it jasmine scent from her long black tresses,
that made him feel that the world has suddenly
become, a place, full of luminance,
has he quickly grown up to her age?
She didn't ask him questions,
called his pet name surprising him
about that knowledge of her;
that made him think that
she was someone so close once,
but forgot as he grew up.
Reaching in front of the temple,
she gave just a wistful look,
and vanished from his life for ever.
Not even aware that she just gave,
the best fragrant moments
for a boy on the first step to adulthood,
he stood looking her go on her way.
When he look back and remember,
this delusion, he realizes, stays with him:
"I am under your umbrella ever since"
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
In toasting Mike I recollect
His steady watching gaze,
I recollect his calm
On a thousand stormy days.
I recall his jaunty humour
In his funny cockney style,
And the rationale behind it
And the pleasure of his smile.
And the quiet determination
In the steeliness within
And the love that emanated
When his Jules laughed loud with him.
When he held her hand and strolled
In the life they shared as one,
In the racket of the grand kids
As they shout and leap and run.
Through the years of hardy seamanship
From England's chalky reach,
Across the ocean's vastness
To far antipodean beach,
To the soft greens of New Zealand
And the promise of this land
And the shining eyes of Jules
When he offered her his hand.
And the life they shared together
Through the joy, the strain the tears
The utter joy of baby Kristin
And her beauty through the years.
The seamlessness of craftmanship
In tradesman's art supreme
And the pride of his achievement
In a sweet successful dream.
A chasm has appeared in life
Where old Mike used to be.
Dreadfull death has exercised
It's right to set him free.
But I can't feel bad for Micheal
For the brilliance of it all
Is celebration of his life well lived
And my toast to judgement's call.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
10 January 2010.
Jan 10, 2010
Jan 10, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~
*"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity"
waking/walking in
careful pacing regular lock steps,
like new cadets, counting cadence,
in perfect silent, almost motionless,
except for the minuscule quivering of
slightly parted moving lips
these two elders,
still now plebes,
freshmen
but of a latter, graduated stage,
demonstrating robustly
the slow shuffle-along,
a well practiced dance conjured
'in tandem'
her arm, crooked in his,
his other hand,
in protective custody of a
knight's armored chain glove
encasing hers,
he, shuffling just,
a precise, intended half-a-beat slower
lest she ever think
that she, ever be a drag upon him
hair, his,
threaded with daily,
new arriving grays,
proudly accepted
as the privilege of
graceful aging
hers,
disguised with periodic outings,
outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks,
conceding nothing ever to
time's lunatic desire to separate them
modest in dress,
styling hints of pasts' elegant,
the man's hat defiant,
daringly jaunty angled,
a small scarf to handbag knotted,
matching his Windsor knotted tie
the passers-by, all smile,
the signal charm of an
end game processional,
thinking so sweet,
yet mine eyes detect more,
something
hardy and radical
a fierce, fierce fierceness,
both fighters in the resistance,
armed with tandem tenacity,
ground given,
but only inches surrendered,
wounds resisted by
scar skin toughened
by the caress of ions bonding
under the pressure
of atomic level mutuality
worn out,
well past Purple Hearts,
no capitulation feared,
to the ever changing,
enemies' new disguises,
they,
a two person platoon,
each,
having the other's back
and I burst into tears on the street,
a train of out loud moans,
even groans emitted,
like a string of perfect pearls
breaking,
clattering on an asphalt terrain
weeping
not
from visions of the inevitable,
sighing
not
from the certitude of a
cycle's uptime ending*
but jealous furious by this reminder delightful,
angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years,
mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the
fierce tenacity of tandem
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
~~~<€>~~~
mammalaria
has a jaunty magenta wreath
on her tight grey curls
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/2/2015
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Contents of the lockers lay in a pile
A flask, a Marlboro box, a thousand
textbooks, pills in an orange see-through bottle
One item, unique to the others,
is a notebook
Full of confessions and Sexton and Plath
Sad yearnings and accounts of complete moments
This notebook
Surrounded by the cigarettes and concealed ***** and mathematical equations
Shows the other world
within this world
That spins in time with this world
But gives and takes
for lovelier sakes
-cj
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
From a pavement bistro, enjoying an alcove espresso and jam scone
After fresh rains, scenic smiles yet the road is of red sand
Young children play ball in park adjacent, some teen skaters pass by
Skirt-tugger hangs on for dear life, while she perambulates the baby.
The little, old man places with care, two stones behind his back wheels
His car stuck on the muddy, wet road
A small, slow push by stranger passing; it rolls easily from soft, red ruts
A wave of thanks, a friendly smile and off he goes.
Anna steps in ruddy hope, septuagenarian in jaunty hat and Sunday best
Ready to meet the one of a lifetime, widow of a decade
Correspondence long-time with namaste-man, final reward
Ribcage busy, beat in mouth, eyes flit eagerly, hearty salutes.
But nobody knows that someone is being watched,
From across the distance of the park, a clutch of strangers
Their beady eyes, hooded expressions, they wait
Fate is sealed when car drives by; irrevocably red.
S T, 11 May 2013
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
*sense is seen
when scents on scene*
1.
jaunty-laddie walked and grabbed the sun out the sky
hid it leisurely in his back-pocket
while the candy jumped out the sweet-jar
and the farmer fed the dog to the food
2.
an elm-tree nearby coughed nervously at the encroaching-air
as the letterbox chatted lively to the ivy-hedge
the wind popped by and whistled out a papery-sigh
that the clouds caught and flung into a blue swing-lasso
3.
working out moves in ab-struck-shin
sweaters and jumpers at the local gym got all scratchy
and went on strike to protest against the über-cool fridge
and gravity took a break
and we all
flew
a way..!
woof-woof
S T - 26th of October, is it?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
on a nudist beach
there was a man wearing shorts
they were yellow shorts
and a jaunty hat
which despite their cheerful airiness
the chipper summer colour,
he felt alone, down and shunned.
the mere thought of those dear shorts
invited des amigos and an invitation for tacos
a sombrero night he thought as he picked them out in the store.
but now
alone on the beach
he caught disdainful glares directed
at the winsome shorts
he had arrived at the beach so vivacious and jolly
but walking along,
the rough, hot sand blistering his feet,
he was
morose
forlorn
sorrowful
and wistful for those dreams
those empty shells.......
.............
............
............
sombrero
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Shoutout to the unsung heroes!
Whose noble swords still rise higher and higher
In this world where broken shields are dire
We disregard our weapons of steel. Oh,
And bards who sing of loot and money
Gems, precious stones, and gold a-plenty
Perhaps if I sing of these unheard vigilantes
The world would be so very jaunty!
Fame, loot, tales and territories;
Unsung heroes have never earned any of these
Despite all efforts to bring about justice,
Despite dispelling all forms of avarice…
Alas, no recognition to lay up front!
No form of appreciation, only gaunt…
Gaunt expressions, an unwelcome chanting of desolation
That's what an unsung hero faces - tribulations.
But look at the bright side!
The future isn't dark, nor no grim eventide
I will sing of these unsung heroes
In short, sweet verses as mementos
For that fleeting moment in time
When they took up the courage to halt crime.
So again, I'm calling out to all the unsung heroes!
Who rose from the bottom the others called zero.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
The surgeons listened to jaunty be
bop while they cut through his cranium.
A metal plate was inserted,
dissecting memories and thoughts,
causing confusion between
his now and then.
He left hospital with a funny taste in his mouth
which he could not name
or shake.
During the period of convalescence
his children tried to cheer him up
by attaching fridge magnets to his head.
a cow, a banana, the Tower of London,
a badge reminding them to Give Blood.
One fridge magnet secured in place a drawing,
reminding him of childhood pictures which were
seventy five percent blue sky
and twenty five percent thick
bands of green grass
and all the family stood outside
where sunflowers were bigger than houses.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
The little surprises that make me jaunty
The little hellos that make me feel the polka-dots and smiles of yellow
The little gestures and gift cards
That make a trail to a big, bright smile
The little hellos to patch the gap of time for
A friendship we built to cherish
The little surprises maybe packaged small, but it's compressed with
A bond so strong because true friendship should never perish
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
A taste of the future has come to my lips,
Sickly, but then, I asked for it
The droplets forsook me and went to my eyes
But nobody living has taken the sips
Like I have drunk deep of the pit
And the water was refreshing, to my surprise
I fortold the blessing, like a hand to the brow
I carried the scars, like lines on my face,
But ones that aged me more quickly
I heaved at the thought of the then and the now
My make up was dark, but light at the place
Where I applied it more thickly
So tell me the truth, all those from beyond
Explain the shadows under your eyes
I don't understand how you sink to your knees
A cowl of cold on me has been donned
It never could bring me to rise
For me and for life, we do as we please.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
I may have not known you for long.
But long enough to feel your warm
Embrace, jaunty smile and bright face.
You cradled me when I was a baby-
If only I could have that in my memory.
You came to my new home: smiled because you couldn't smile at yourself: inside.
You spent your days by the beach with your dog, confused at Life, lost.
If only I knew you had no one to turn to. I was here to offer love, more than you could imagine.
I was here if you needed a shoulder
To cry upon, a body to sink into.
I'm glad I didn't see you like your end.
I want to see that happy, joyful girl forever inside my head.
I still feel in touch with you; parallel universes, tying your thoughts on to my dream catcher...
'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree... with her hand in her ***** and her head upon her knee...'
And as time passes on and you have passed on, you linger
still
Walking rounds among the streets, the country lanes and by still waters.
You were forsaken for your beauty
And now in your name, I will live my life truly.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
*On the blue black paper, western sky spreads,
mirthful white storks in a formation write-
a poem that steals every heart in an instance.
When the colors of dusk infuse meaning, it gleams,
cumulus clouds above are flush with goosebumps,
below, the green trees start a spirited samba dance,
evening breeze translates it, in to a jaunty song.
Oh! celestial poet, thy immortal verse, comes alive
rings aloud, without words and none reciting it.*
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
they come into your life
leaving everything important
untouched,
in its place
but certain things they change
like picture frames
at jaunty angles
these magnificent creatures
flit into our lives
and back out
so fast
you barely remember them
until drunk summer nights
at the river rock festival
they seem to line up
beneath star specked
inky skies
and the heavy blanket
of summer humidity
girls with hugs
and guys with great roars of joy
as if they had been searching for you all night
memories are remembered
new experiences embellished
before the thread of your lives
untangle once more
and they are gone
off into the chasm of darkness
indefinitely
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
sometimes it's a shuffle; sometimes a jaunty stroll
it depends what he's found that day
sometimes it's a smile he gives; sometimes a bit of a scowl
it depends whom he's seen that day
sometimes he does something new; sometimes the same old same old
it depends who's joined him that day
sometimes it's a warm evening ahead; sometimes a storm
it depends on the weatherman that day
but it's always a slow walk home...
… to his cardboard box … every day
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
Hard frost and treacherous footing.
Nobody wanting to admit
that the new year
tastes an awful lot
like the old year.
None of our heroes
have been supernaturally resurrected.
There's the same
rank toxicity to our fears.
The jaunty carnival of ****** and maiming
continues unabated.
Death remains as senseless.
The corridors of power
are still slippery with slug trails and viscera,
and all the janitors have been
indefinitely furloughed.
It's cold, and
the bus is late again.
Still we persist in believing that
today will be different to yesterday,
that all those wrongs will be righted,
that the proper order - as we each individually, as
thin-skinned gods of our own personal
nuclear universes, perceive it -
will be perennially restored,
the buses will all
run on time,
and no one good
will ever die again.
But the truth is, this year
tastes an awful lot like
the old year.
I could be wrong, I guess.
Maybe everything will
turn out
fine.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:25 AM UTC
There once was a blues man
as skinny as could be
who went by the moniker
of Boney Bones Dupree
He was the worst singer
I ever had heard
sounded like an alley cat
who done choked on a bird
His guitar wasn't tuned
it whined and it wailed
as he struck it with a
sharp and rusty 'ol nail
His teeth were yellow
his eyes were gray
his hair looked like
stray bits of hay
Still people came
from miles around
to listen to his music,
his haunting sound
He danced on the stage
in jaunty puzzle steps
you could hear the *****
comin' off of his breath
He'd scream one verse
until his face'd turn red
then he'd whisper the next
while he stood on his head
He'd jump up and down
and slam his guitar
throw the **** thing
right over the bar
Then he'd look to the crowd
and playfully smile
and thank us for
sharing his crazy awhile
After taking a shot
and waving goodbye
he went and jumped
back into the sky
He painted those evening
clouds with delight
as we watched him
sail off into the night
Outta sight.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
In the dark of the night
a stranger appears from the shadows,
in his hand
a golden chalice.
The stranger approaches.
I sit alone
under the only lamppost in the park.
I gather my wits.
The stranger draws nearer,
cold breath smoking from his black hood.
He stops in front of me.
I tremble.
The stranger reaches out his bony hand
grasping the golden chalice
and whispers,
"Choose the chalice for life.
Choose not and wish you had."
My mind becomes chaotic.
Thoughts of triumph and regret
flood my consciousness.
My legs are numb.
My feet seem to mold to the ground.
I feel my very existence
begin to slowly fade.
The stranger,
who is he?
From whence does he come?
Why does he choose me?
The lamppost above me begins to flicker.
It casts a shadow over the silhouette of his face.
His face?
My face?
Can it be?
I lift my arm
to reach for the chalice.
My arm is heavy,
my breath short.
The lamppost flickers faster.
The wind howls.
The temperature drops.
My heart races.
My fingertips are just to touch the chalice when
the light stops flickering.
My breath becomes long
and deep.
The breeze,
soft and subtle.
The stranger,
gone.
I sit there
attempting to rationalize.
An old man comes strolling by
humming a jaunty tune.
As he passes,
he stops.
He looks into my eyes.
I feel again unable to move.
The lampposts flickers twice
then goes out.
I jolt up,
fear looming.
Then a flash in front of me.
I look up.
There is the old man
holding a flame atop his lighter.
"The light will always show the way,"
he says.
I stood there
dumbfounded.
And the old man continued to walk down the path
humming the same cheery tune
and holding the lit lighter over his right shoulder
all the way
until he disappeared from sight.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
*She was a picture of monotonous monochrome.
She was deathly quite in one jaunty home.
She lied in wait of eyes that could see through her bleakness.
One who could see the beauty in her , beyond her illusory mess.
People gazed at her and noticed the lack of chroma.
Then a man , destitute of vision , approached and followed her aroma.
He gazed at her with the touch of his finger.
And time stopped as he started to linger.
His gaze took him , in the depths of her beauty.
And she spilled colors and made him sooty.
With no vision he espied her coloration.
and world was hysterical
at their love in
such
excommunication*.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC