"jazzing" poems - Hello Poetry

Only until this cigarette is ended, A little moment at the end of all, While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, And in the firelight to a lance extended, Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, The broken shadow dances on the wall, I will permit my memory to recall The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done. Yours is a face of which I can forget The color and the features, every one, The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; But in your day this moment is the sun Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

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18.1k

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended

Only until this cigarette is ended, A little moment at the end of all, While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, And in the firelight to a lance extended, Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, The broken shadow dances on the wall, I will permit my memory to recall The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done. Yours is a face of which I can forget The color and the features, every one, The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; But in your day this moment is the sun Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

14

We played blackjack taco until the early mourning sun singed the obsidian sky into submission singling the onslaught of dawn rising like ravishing wildfire over a horizon of jagged glacier crafted mountains peaked with diamonds coal and gold We flipped stacks and stacked flips Pushed coins and collected IOUs Spilled ink and broke pens Too many hours in the Night Jazzing about youth and the repercussions of aging in a time when aging was an agonizing sin we cured with creams and needles The table was deliberately a mess with scattered tea leaves half smoked sticky icky sticks full of inspired inspirations, drained drank empty wine bottles and other alcoholic deviances, and incoherent ramblings cauterizing the senses uncompleted poems full of scribbled and scratched out words poke out from anyplace not covered by crumpled origami cash resting like a weird paper green zoo of swans frogs and paper airplanes. The suns rays manage to find that one area in between the window shades and curtains to shine brilliantly into our darkly kept stygian tomb Illuminating a night of lexicon ****** broken handed betting, and passion only poets and writers aspire to conquer We rubbed out our sleepless crusted eyes and gathered our ink stains and haunted dreams and left into the morning that we found in some skeletol low rent motel room on the side of this deserted desert highway...

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Jul 11, 2012

Jul 11, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC

TonguesOfOthers

A Low Rent Motel Room (on the deserted desert highway)

We played blackjack taco until the early mourning sun singed the obsidian sky into submission singling the onslaught of dawn rising like ravishing wildfire over a horizon of jagged glacier crafted mountains peaked with diamonds coal and gold We flipped stacks and stacked flips Pushed coins and collected IOUs Spilled ink and broke pens Too many hours in the Night Jazzing about youth and the repercussions of aging in a time when aging was an agonizing sin we cured with creams and needles The table was deliberately a mess with scattered tea leaves half smoked sticky icky sticks full of inspired inspirations, drained drank empty wine bottles and other alcoholic deviances, and incoherent ramblings cauterizing the senses uncompleted poems full of scribbled and scratched out words poke out from anyplace not covered by crumpled origami cash resting like a weird paper green zoo of swans frogs and paper airplanes. The suns rays manage to find that one area in between the window shades and curtains to shine brilliantly into our darkly kept stygian tomb Illuminating a night of lexicon ****** broken handed betting, and passion only poets and writers aspire to conquer We rubbed out our sleepless crusted eyes and gathered our ink stains and haunted dreams and left into the morning that we found in some skeletol low rent motel room on the side of this deserted desert highway...

11

On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.

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Feb 5, 2013

Feb 5, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC

tread

The Mythical Michael Thurney Barnet

On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.

1

Don’t, don’t touch me,I can’t believe you hurl next to me trying to harass me. Wasn’t it enough that we exchanged our vows in matrimony, And you frotted off to another woman’s sack the day that you met me. Remember how we met, all head over heels for you, happy that you made a commitment; talking and jazzing it up leaving our conversations unrested. We travelled the world, but you left me behind and travelled with words,yes you. You left me behind thinking I was deaf, blind and unnerved, you lied. You were a liar, a thief and a drunk all mashed into one. Oh how monogamy changed you! Our child came, she was beautiful but you didn’t turn up in the delivery room. Who was there to support me? I gave birth; you gave me no backbone. She grew up, you grew too and I stayed still working my life away incessantly. Appreciation? No. Depreciation? Yes. You moved away thinking you could get away, you took her away from me and into your care, but there was no care. Now I was stuck in another country trying to support this family, but who do I find out you were caring so eerily? Another woman who underestimated me, spending the money I sent for my daughter in her education, for her own reclamations. When I went home she was estranged from me, oh how she’ll hug me next to daylight just to get a whiff of my scent. We played, we fooled, I showed her what it is to be a lady, but I didn’t know the worse of it as she was being held hostage, clammed up into a little shell having no hope and no glory by those that I left her behind with the trusted reveries.

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Jun 15, 2012

Jun 15, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC

cruz-krish

Baby, Born this Way

Don’t, don’t touch me,I can’t believe you hurl next to me trying to harass me. Wasn’t it enough that we exchanged our vows in matrimony, And you frotted off to another woman’s sack the day that you met me. Remember how we met, all head over heels for you, happy that you made a commitment; talking and jazzing it up leaving our conversations unrested. We travelled the world, but you left me behind and travelled with words,yes you. You left me behind thinking I was deaf, blind and unnerved, you lied. You were a liar, a thief and a drunk all mashed into one. Oh how monogamy changed you! Our child came, she was beautiful but you didn’t turn up in the delivery room. Who was there to support me? I gave birth; you gave me no backbone. She grew up, you grew too and I stayed still working my life away incessantly. Appreciation? No. Depreciation? Yes. You moved away thinking you could get away, you took her away from me and into your care, but there was no care. Now I was stuck in another country trying to support this family, but who do I find out you were caring so eerily? Another woman who underestimated me, spending the money I sent for my daughter in her education, for her own reclamations. When I went home she was estranged from me, oh how she’ll hug me next to daylight just to get a whiff of my scent. We played, we fooled, I showed her what it is to be a lady, but I didn’t know the worse of it as she was being held hostage, clammed up into a little shell having no hope and no glory by those that I left her behind with the trusted reveries.

19

Intro Words in play without meter or rhyme Is poetry without respect for sounds or time Like a military bugler playing his morning song But jazzing it up, which for the morning sounds wrong. 1 Poems short of prose serve to play the edge In which the abstract thought can its verses wedge Poetry's an art - that can't be denied But when ripped apart, leaves readers in divide. On one hand we have free verse with all its liberties Its flows, like ocean waves, give in to subtleties The other hand holds form where order and beauty lie Its sound there calms the mind and guides the reading eye. Well, how can art transcend if it's to be confined? Ask the poor man painting, what keeps his strokes refined. Ask him what is richer: materials or mind- How he affords true art: in color or design. And could he paint with passion if he were also blind? To what limit does art flow, that could liberty unwind?? 2 If sentences were laid and in stanzas fitted to form, The simplest thought now sparks, the layman poet is norm - -A hand that holds a pen.. its wondrous poem adored Ha! That relic sonnet lost 'cause the modern reader's bored. The talentless recites: his poetry: my rage.. Where then is the poem, in the words or on the page? I'll credit that the form of poetry can change: Like ocean waves on shores where waters rearrange And subtleties lay washed whence art can have a fad And for a moment last despite what I think bad. Words without art, conveyed for art-less brains The verse that freely speaks as the older school disdains.. 3 But rhyming, timing schemes of ancient preference What novelty they yield in these times of rhyme suspense.... Just the thought of it and one can hear a beaten drum, A percussive, tired sound for ears tired and numb They're artifacts of effort that the ancients then called art Confined to rhyme and metered verse, the caged poems impart- Shakespeare, Wilmot, Behn, these are but forgotten names A pantheon of "poets" whose works of words too tame Did not taste the "modernness" that free verse giveth to thee... The ghosts of poems past singing their songs but never free. How lucky for us rebel writers, we laugh at silly rules! Rule-less, ruthless poems we write with rhyme nor time as tools!

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Jan 15, 2017

Jan 15, 2017 at 2:26 AM UTC

jrc

Free Verse

Intro Words in play without meter or rhyme Is poetry without respect for sounds or time Like a military bugler playing his morning song But jazzing it up, which for the morning sounds wrong. 1 Poems short of prose serve to play the edge In which the abstract thought can its verses wedge Poetry's an art - that can't be denied But when ripped apart, leaves readers in divide. On one hand we have free verse with all its liberties Its flows, like ocean waves, give in to subtleties The other hand holds form where order and beauty lie Its sound there calms the mind and guides the reading eye. Well, how can art transcend if it's to be confined? Ask the poor man painting, what keeps his strokes refined. Ask him what is richer: materials or mind- How he affords true art: in color or design. And could he paint with passion if he were also blind? To what limit does art flow, that could liberty unwind?? 2 If sentences were laid and in stanzas fitted to form, The simplest thought now sparks, the layman poet is norm - -A hand that holds a pen.. its wondrous poem adored Ha! That relic sonnet lost 'cause the modern reader's bored. The talentless recites: his poetry: my rage.. Where then is the poem, in the words or on the page? I'll credit that the form of poetry can change: Like ocean waves on shores where waters rearrange And subtleties lay washed whence art can have a fad And for a moment last despite what I think bad. Words without art, conveyed for art-less brains The verse that freely speaks as the older school disdains.. 3 But rhyming, timing schemes of ancient preference What novelty they yield in these times of rhyme suspense.... Just the thought of it and one can hear a beaten drum, A percussive, tired sound for ears tired and numb They're artifacts of effort that the ancients then called art Confined to rhyme and metered verse, the caged poems impart- Shakespeare, Wilmot, Behn, these are but forgotten names A pantheon of "poets" whose works of words too tame Did not taste the "modernness" that free verse giveth to thee... The ghosts of poems past singing their songs but never free. How lucky for us rebel writers, we laugh at silly rules! Rule-less, ruthless poems we write with rhyme nor time as tools!

46

jazz so happy, so happy dance dance so quickly, so quickly jazz jazzy jazz, jazz dancey sole my dancey dance, my dancey soul so dancing dancing, go dancing me jazzy jazzing, my jazzy flee jazz go dancing, so dancing jazz jazzy dancing, go dancey dance jazz so quickly, so quickly me jazzy jazzing, jazz jazzy me

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Dec 29, 2021

Dec 29, 2021 at 7:00 PM UTC

diesel

Samba Verse

jazz so happy, so happy dance dance so quickly, so quickly jazz jazzy jazz, jazz dancey sole my dancey dance, my dancey soul so dancing dancing, go dancing me jazzy jazzing, my jazzy flee jazz go dancing, so dancing jazz jazzy dancing, go dancey dance jazz so quickly, so quickly me jazzy jazzing, jazz jazzy me

10

I could stare st myself Endlessly Never knowing who I am This body This mind uncontrolable Like the sea Who am I Who am I Endless thoughts Like the aquatic sea

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Feb 9, 2016

Feb 9, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC

BR

Jazzing

I could stare st myself Endlessly Never knowing who I am This body This mind uncontrolable Like the sea Who am I Who am I Endless thoughts Like the aquatic sea

11

jazzing in the sun withering flowers swaying tune of the autumn

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Sep 13, 2013

Sep 13, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC

ha

Jazzing

jazzing in the sun withering flowers swaying tune of the autumn

3

by the sea i saw her there, lost on another voyage; i hope she finds her way home floating on the notes between the bars of the road bopping along a scale frozen in time until the asphalt weakens under the sun and rain and snow; washout roads lead to washed out souls but conditions have never been better. i was saved by a martyr self bundled in boxes and shipped off to my sister — my keeper; rescued by captain fantastic, sleeping with myself, saved in time tonight and every night and winding it down like the brown dirt cowboy you always knew i could be. those songs came over the waves sailing through my musical bones, electrified; neurotransmitters like piano keys jazzing up a well-strummed soul, fingers plucking heart strings without resistance, and i am at the mercy of music you’ve made - that mesmerizing melody in the inflection of your voice and the movement of your body against mine; rhythm. don’t **** this song and dance when the curtains just opened let this harmony take us home and resonate.

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Dec 4, 2019

Dec 4, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC

Afrotastic27

fantastic strikes back

by the sea i saw her there, lost on another voyage; i hope she finds her way home floating on the notes between the bars of the road bopping along a scale frozen in time until the asphalt weakens under the sun and rain and snow; washout roads lead to washed out souls but conditions have never been better. i was saved by a martyr self bundled in boxes and shipped off to my sister — my keeper; rescued by captain fantastic, sleeping with myself, saved in time tonight and every night and winding it down like the brown dirt cowboy you always knew i could be. those songs came over the waves sailing through my musical bones, electrified; neurotransmitters like piano keys jazzing up a well-strummed soul, fingers plucking heart strings without resistance, and i am at the mercy of music you’ve made - that mesmerizing melody in the inflection of your voice and the movement of your body against mine; rhythm. don’t **** this song and dance when the curtains just opened let this harmony take us home and resonate.

40

Longing for the escape Lost in the dreams Missing the adventures in your eyes I shall become a mystery The long rides the great new people jazzing streets and sweet loving rivers. but where will i go? I'll be there waiting to be found so unwillingly. Where is there exactly. That my love is for you and I to find out.

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Dec 13, 2015

Dec 13, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC

rivers-kay4s

lost out the window

Longing for the escape Lost in the dreams Missing the adventures in your eyes I shall become a mystery The long rides the great new people jazzing streets and sweet loving rivers. but where will i go? I'll be there waiting to be found so unwillingly. Where is there exactly. That my love is for you and I to find out.

11

Mario snarl Artsy gain groups A Taste of a vast lustiness Let us write and create Let us make no sense Come on honey and Tune In Hop in and let's ride for tonight we can't Die ******* are Ahead We feel altruistic & alone Take the next left Head down to Midtown Let's use terms like "cool" "groovy" "bread" "bugged" because they are cool Don't blow the Jets honey We gonna Blast the Edison And head to Beatsville Spend the night listening to some crazy cat Some chilled out Jazz vibes Corner Cafe or some Smoked filled dive No cheap creeper gonna crash our night you dig? you dig? Cause when this night ends we will be naked in the moonlight Jazzing to some crazy tunes

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Jun 9, 2017

Jun 9, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC

GarethLemley

A Date with my Girl

Mario snarl Artsy gain groups A Taste of a vast lustiness Let us write and create Let us make no sense Come on honey and Tune In Hop in and let's ride for tonight we can't Die ******* are Ahead We feel altruistic & alone Take the next left Head down to Midtown Let's use terms like "cool" "groovy" "bread" "bugged" because they are cool Don't blow the Jets honey We gonna Blast the Edison And head to Beatsville Spend the night listening to some crazy cat Some chilled out Jazz vibes Corner Cafe or some Smoked filled dive No cheap creeper gonna crash our night you dig? you dig? Cause when this night ends we will be naked in the moonlight Jazzing to some crazy tunes

32

the one bit of capitalism you won't engage with, no matter what pressurises you to compete, you won't engage with it; and if you do, you're a fool. **** like drinking in Polish (70cl of whiskey, a bottle of wine, a few beers) is called jazzing in slavic slang; we drink till me drop, and when levelled we decide to do spasmodic dancing techniques resurrecting both Lazarus and Leviathan.

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Jul 4, 2016

Jul 4, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

jazzing / dzazować

the one bit of capitalism you won't engage with, no matter what pressurises you to compete, you won't engage with it; and if you do, you're a fool. **** like drinking in Polish (70cl of whiskey, a bottle of wine, a few beers) is called jazzing in slavic slang; we drink till me drop, and when levelled we decide to do spasmodic dancing techniques resurrecting both Lazarus and Leviathan.

10

Skipping town And jazzing blues Finding summer Blissful nights and palpable vibes Flying blues catching fever Tumbling magic and smiling moon A night of memory A time of wonders What a lovely way to fly

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Mar 2, 2021

Mar 2, 2021 at 3:41 AM UTC

Friendwithherpen

Last one

Skipping town And jazzing blues Finding summer Blissful nights and palpable vibes Flying blues catching fever Tumbling magic and smiling moon A night of memory A time of wonders What a lovely way to fly

10