"jejune" poems
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power.
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
How I look at the world each day
Is a curious interplay
Of fire and earth, cadent and fixed,
And often my impressions are mixed.
The world entices me from the cocoon
Of my Leo Sun and my Taurus Moon.
How I shine and how I feel…
To find a balance would be ideal.
The goal, of course, is to do what's right;
The nuances are ever so slight.
It's just a matter of being in tune
With my Leo Sun and my Taurus Moon.
Although I'm more complex than this,
Their strong influence is hard to miss.
Understanding who I am
Partly comes from the diagram
Of what occurs when they commune--
My Leo Sun and my Taurus Moon.
It isn't just as simple as that--
My Sun and Moon both having a chat.
It might make me ill at ease
To ignore the many intricacies
Of aspecting planets. Never jejune
Are my Leo Sun and my Taurus Moon.
Add my Rising Sign and see
How other people look at me.
Virgo adds more earth to tame
And somewhat soften my Leo flame.
There's no reason to ever impugn
My Leo Sun and my Taurus Moon.
Finding answers within and without
Helps to dispel the burden of doubt.
Tools to study the self abound;
What we discover can be profound.
Knowledge of self comes never too soon
With my Leo Sun and my Taurus Moon.
-by Bob B (4-19-22)
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 11:44 AM UTC
The circumambient wings of a seraph
Obstrepously monastic within
Dereliction contemning the
Mendaciously obsequious;
The bathos of ablution grittily
Jejune fulgerating the engrossed.
The chaldean lachrymatory
The ligature of the darklings rheum,
Volently acclaimed
The paladin necromancers
Circumfluous wintry orbs
Ardently accosting the chasm
Lasping tarnation fructifying
Acedias roborant,
Heavens ignoble lassitude
The boreal scope of causality-
Hells predacious moil.
ELEETE J MUIR..
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
block me if
you will
for I will never be satisfied
trite me cut with a boredom knife,
hackney me to death with kitsch,
migraine me with banal,
bromide me with the pedestrian,
if you can only sing the exhausted, old familiar,
drain me not with your jejune
write me to soar,
pleasure me with convincing adjectives
of the posterous,
never before heard, untill my lips parse your words
write me to vex
so my sides, clutching
in the most desirable agony
you want to boast of how you cut?
then cut me if you can,
bravo
carve your initials into my brain,
so when I read your words,
I scream I weep I confess
you have vexed me,
in the places where
the very few dare tread,
in the places
where good poetry goes...
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
she
(*her 2am moods
were monotone
dialogue
on the receiver*)
is at her loudest
in sepia photographs;
fake smiles,
like shotgun blast;
her shrapnel days
fall silently
in-between
cheap perfume
bottles on the
night-stand.
in the drawer is
every memento
she seldom mentions
(*empty, jejune...
hushed
frustrations*).
with each exhale,
her pillow fills with
crumpled words
(*embellishment,
a waking hour's only
comfort...
an insomniac's
internal monologue*).
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
There is no floor
Below the water there is sand and dust
My feet disappear below the mist
And below that is a floor of nothing.
Lock and key, relative conductivity
Separation of anxieties
Generally elementary
Universal energy
Scientific inquiry
Empirical discovery
What a bunch of crap.
I bathe in fake white plastic
I swim in silent smiles
Dionysian warfare paintings
Classical textual narrating
Fitness, happiness, soporific movies
Genial tendencies, braced for ingenuity
Waiting for a paroxysm to bring forth neologisms
That test the boundaries of scientific truth
That recapture the errant minds of youth
We could make new buildings or lose a tooth
I hold the latter higher than that
I tilt the ladder there and back
Assiduous and wont, *** for tat
All a game, a joke at that
Your domain, provoked and trapped
Impressionistic spinal taps
On canvases of green and black
All from within cerebral shacks
Wind hammers palm trees on windowpanes
Wind tears down houses, rips apart planes
Wind doesn't move me, yet seems urbane
It's so jejune, it's all the same
I'm tired and lonely, powder remains
Pink like reagents in reactive flames
Quick like catalysts jumping inane
Frontal lobes retired my brain.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
I catch you in the petrichor,
I catch the musk of you-
the dark of you,
the vanishing drought of you
I dance within your jejune dusk-
empty hollow hunger howls,
'no substance here, no substance here'
and in every day that I get to love you-
I'll love you in the jamais vu.
so that I can forget I know how
and learn to love you
yet again.
Felicity, I'll bring to you.
In a basket, on a bike-
I'll wear a fetching hat
with a ribbon down my back
as I sing to you in symphonies that echo in an empty room.
I'll sit delicate on Icarus wings
and love you till I melt-
Knowingly I'll greet the sun
swimming in the candle wax-
I'll have done all these things yet not enough
Till I've loved you when the day is done.
sahn
6/30/2014
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
Nigeria 🇳🇬
A lot has happened to you since 62
You're a year older, and still most of your kin hates you
They forget how they may not exist without you
Yes! You are on the brink of hell,
To say your name has been marred with gutter
An act from most of your children
You have suffered the injustices of men
We hear cries of your children in the North
Thousands of hooligans in the South-West
There is so much bad blood in the East
The Middle Belt doesn't know her role or who to follow
Your name has been berated all over the world
Your currency, at the brink of death with the stock market
Stolen funds for those who can grasp it
Banditry for the suffering Masses
Illegal mining, yet no one is talking about it
You have suffered bickerings from people who want to _Japa_
A fluctuating forex makes it no easier
They blame you for their atrocious behaviour
They sometimes forget how fertile you are.
Nigeria!
From East-West and North-South, you have suffered injustices
For decades, you have been subject to malicious governance
Battling all levels of inflation, subjecting your people to abject poverty
Yet the rich get richer, and the poor? More Jejune if you ask.
At 63, I want to fight. For your children and kinship
Fight for your soil and regain your strength
Battle with these injustices and insecurity
Bring down inflation and take back your crown
Debunk all forms of evil committed with your name
And fight for a better 64.
Nigeria is great, Nigeria will be great
Nigeria is our father's land.
Happy Independence Day, Nigeria 🇳🇬
Bellah.
Oct 1, 2023
Oct 1, 2023 at 3:59 AM UTC
I cannot restore the lakes that teemed with fish,
nor the maples cultivated by the Mohawk,
the Adirondacks now more remote than boyhood,
a lost dark conversation with jejune oblivion.
Events became the storyline of my life,
and events were always stronger than resolve.
My journey took me inward without time schedule,
dredged up expediencies as layovers.
Still, I felt drawn to the people,
who bejeweled my dreams in neuron flashes,
became therapy, billboards along the escape route.
Turned out that vital knowledge would suffice.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for high-brow, White-men polemics
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Based-vulgarity amongst the begrimed-teeth-sucking and homegrown-Jive.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Most poets construct fences
Of ambiguous and lofty blabber
To stagger, ambitious eyes
Clamoring for another
Hit line, that drags the body
to the grave and greets
Your mother with
A bird, contrary
To the--traditional wave
And jejune grief
Instead, I'll facet windows
With various cob-web cracks
And baseball mishaps
Till I collapse
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
twofist head muscle: kineval.
but really iz jus 2:15
shoelacegazing in a prefab park gazebo.
texty fingertip slinger.
chase that dragon.
kickin fake jordans
in a tomb called Khufu
diffuse serial NOONSDAY scenario:
always
cut
the
pixelated
rainbow
wire.
yuh know, that
jejune
box
hero:
from alphabet soup news to
netfizzle huludoodoo,
twiddling its Neros.
V iz for silent
in the actual voodoo
that’s been silenced
with dogooder silencer.
blap.
blargh.
this is all so
hashtagical.
prolly. so
follow me.
anyway resistance is feudal, ‘cause
evil doth hearts a good fight.
“evolve?! nevar!”
quoth the flat noted, dorsal
Dept. of Unkindness
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Turn the tides like you turn unwanted heads
Crystal eyes make everything better
Clear your mind of the dreaded hotel beds
She may crumble down like dust, don’t let her
Watch the paper cranes fall as you burn down
Taking over the once jejune city
Drowning in the tears of a washed up clown
It’s become a way of taking pity
So sit on down in that old, dusty, chair
And look right out the window, what it is
the people, they say with uniform care
Trust us, we are free, in this land of his
When you see a fork in the road, don’t pass
Look to the sun, and walk into the grass
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
In a castle constructed of bones on a mountain high,
our hero sits alone on an ivory throne,
waiting for his current state of jejune to pass.
Whisperings of a voice, mellifluous air,
a singing so beautiful his heart skips a beat
at the gentle murmurings of such an ethereal voice.
And so he vacates his ivory throne
in search of this songbird that has invaded his walls,
the voice instils a certain hiraeth in his mind,
that village once so dear to him that now lies in ruins
due to his incandescent bursts of magical madness.
The owner of this voice, the eloquence, the elegance,
the image in his head that of a maiden on a rock,
as naked as the day she was born
and bathed in an iridescent sunrise.
A scintilla of a break in her voice
and she begins to sob at the meaning of her words.
He finds the source of this angelic sound,
a woebegone but comely creature supine on a table,
her eyes staring into heavenly mountains of madness.
She does not look to meet his wild-eyed gaze,
instead melting away until she is nothing at all,
leaving only dancing embers and phosphenes where she had lain.
He hears this burst of angelic quavers every day
but his madness permits no memory of each
to reside in his brain, comfortable and snug.
Instead, he suffers this delusion every morning,
when his head his quiet and thoughts are oblivion.
This siren swansong has no source in reality,
it is the last vestige of a mind damaged by time and solitude,
where the dawn chorus each morn’s twilight goes unheard,
but the ghostly choral vocalisations of a bitter memory
break his trance and he searches for the only sound not real.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
Who's wearing sundays
Songs jejune peruses;
May her corsage roses
Dress the fine arrays!
And gathered 'round strays,
Each of them amuses
Their eyes with their noses
For depots off ways.
The fantastic plays
Out of them her bruises;
Songs fed by drunk proses
May enchant in rays!
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 11:39 AM UTC
Why so facetious every time we speak
do you not think you appear weak -
willed to be acting like this
maybe the whole notion of you I should just dismiss.
The prosaic way you confess your feelings
honestly the jejune nature makes it feel utterly demeaning!
This lacklustre love I was not meant for
I crave something so deep
and that I am for sure.
No longer can I stand your nonchalant stance
my dear, goodbye,
I gave you your chance!
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
And the jejune...just like that
it leaves my life.
And the mundane of it all?
The looking of both ways and crossing,
The tieing of shoelaces...
the washing of hands.
And the dullness of it all suddenly shines like a sharpened knife
on a darkened shelf
in a forgotten home
That is now just a house.
Glistens like that. Out of place and unexpected.
And all of the sudden
the sun lifts her goddess body
stretching forth her sinewy limbs,
just for me ...playfully fondles my skin with heat.
Undeserving, inconsiderate me.
And without any predisposition
the ocean dredges the finest, tiniest grains of sand
for me,
for me.
Vain.
Reckless me.
Turns over an hourglass glistening with his diamond dust
and just like that...
And I am grateful, yes I am humbled.
And I will clutch it, I will seize it.
I will patronize, I will hoard.
And I will covet it, herald. Proclaim.
And I will know that time? Seconds hands, he stroke me now. Hours wind around my wrist and bind my eyes with red slithery silken sashes-
And Love? Fickle stroke of her pen and just like that
I am chosen.
Moved from the side of the street where a damp mold covers the crumbling bricks...
and the people I pass, they look up at me now
nodding with a secret knowing. Because
we are chosen for this love, We are the elite. Plucked from the remaining pugilists.
And just like that he loves me.
Just like that it swallows me whole
...And just like that, love.
Sahn 7/2/2014
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Since those long ago days in Latin class,
I have endeavored to speak your echo, Crystal.
How I longed to be amongst your trusted inner circle!
Alas, I had no voice then to speak these things to you.
Mrs. Tinkler must have sensed my blocked emotions;
always coupled we two to do textual translations.
I deferred and let you be the intellectual leader
feeling wholly given over to being your infatuated scribe.
It was always your property to be simpatico;
you were the giver of kindness and smiles,
your latent brilliance subsumed by outward caring.
What forlorn chance did my jejune heart have?
And now, at length, I can finally speak these things,
trusting in the smiles that touching substance brings.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
they tell us from a young age
to be ourselves
yet we're expected
to be like everyone else
I made my own
snowflake world
special to me
yet others found strange
they stalked their celebrity crush
and listened to rap
while obsessing over shoes
expecting others to do the same
why do I get looks
for being in my own world?
bzzrtt
-here comes loud obnoxious infomercial voice-
stop diverting
hide yourself
conceal away your desires
you are flawed
we can help
you're just one payment away
from sheep like happiness
bzzzrtt
falling under their spells
i was doomed from the start
i'm like every other teenage girl
dealing with this lipstick chaos
now I am jejune
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
You made me feel like such a **** child and every attempt I made to hold your hand, you shook off and ignored until it was convenient for you.
Everything was so infantile to you. You had already reached goals I set for myself and you were bored. "Small" was synonymous with my dreams in your book.
Maybe I was naive, but you're rigid attitude towards me has taught me how to shed those jejune fantasies and keep everyone I meet at arms length.
I see no point in these frivolous feelings that used to steer me into shipwrecks. I'm too busy drinking bleach to **** these butterflies to answer your calls.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
what if my skin was really yellow but the vision of your mind is telling you it’s brown and you’re convinced to think it’s brown, what if your lover really didnt love you, what if dinosaurs are still alive… would you want one as your pet? words are very strong, but it also depends how you see them as…. what if “talking **** was an honest opinion? is there such thing as a perfect error? so many poems to write, i just can’t gather all my thoughts in one so i scatter them out and write one small one. all the yip yap people say is really annoying but it’s a subject of matter you have to deal with, i wake up anew, and do my do’s, through the pain, i’ll always say the truth.. it’s not about it being about me it’s about me doing what the right thing is. life is a religion, and misunderstood art. the poets are the preachers, the words are the scriptures, many things are jejune, that’s why we don’t keep up with it. so much creativity keeping me stable, and writings. the feelings of expression and people being amazed by it is significant, all of the creativity, it’s allowing us to make mistakes, art is knowing which ones to keep. music, is really complex if you really look behind the meaning. simple if you just listen. i’m a curious person, curious about my mind because it’s capable of so much and controls so much, controls your style and taste levels that determine you, at time you’ll feel useless to the world, but then i realize how many lives i’ve impacted. i’m just passionate about different subject, i can’t really explain it all in words, more i’d like to show people. just to show off and to be looked up to, but then again, well die and rot and 10 years from that you’ll be 1 of billions that died… that simple. i suffer from hubris, tons of it, it’d be hard to understand, yet it’d be understandable if you were me. many people have it, but are ******* to show they’re significance, i go to school to learn fuckery, but i already know what i want to know thanks to the little scenarios i go through on a daily bases. i just can’t stand the fact that people always have to look on the negative side, why can’t they just sit back and look at life like i do and admire. greater things come ahead. what if i was the next ****** a loving kind who loved his people. who knows, so many unanswered questions that will never be answered. artistic visions that will never be shown. **** hate, yet so much violence. a lot of love, but much *** i dont ******* know, just a little thought, got a little lost in the moment. peace. love. "happiness"
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Sweet Angelica,
An overwhelm of your leafy
ramifications, waxed verdure
affections for a wayward wind.
My eyes caught the emerald glint;
now they glisten green
in a poetic apotheosis.
Should I deem you guilty
that 'twas the devil's walking stick
that sired you,
as virid envelope,
so delicate that every leaflet
would blend to a fine herb repast.
So I brave your prickly defences
in my manner of white tailed deer
and nibble of your leafy poetry.
A half mouthed curse that you sting
but your arbour rose
where none grew and I thought
you bloomed especially for me.
Rhizomes spiralled for life,
and the taste of muddied rain.
Other wanderers tried pillage
those jejune early fronds and
you recoiled in thorny armament,
a conflicted poetry I read on you.
Look at you now ...
largest leaf than any other in a North wind,
towering panicles that draw
a chorus of winged angels, quills.
These be the battlements of love
that will shed for life, in beauty
for when Summer leaves, there'll be Fall,
then the long rest of seasons.
Jun 21, 2021
Jun 21, 2021 at 12:12 PM UTC
Among bowing people
Some have their heads down
In the silent transience
Of tunneled sound
From the listeners, the caprice comes out
From Hakagawa bows to cognizant thinking
There's more to life than what meets the eye
There's more to life that's buried under the soil
Free from eternal toil
The ghost is a part of planetary motion
Some of our ancestors' were peckish for the universally jejune
Apparently, they went so far as to leave civilization to understand their place on earth
The human race is like a band running out of inspiration
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
*I was there within a lil tropic dale,
Marrow of one lil 'ol stealthy vale,
I hearkened of a grand titanic tale
'Midst two Midnighters loud speil.
The spat was pitiless & oh! strong;
Faint 1st was their spoken old song,
Then harsh as each bird had swelled,
To rage the strife away which dwelled.
The warbler led the great speech,
Easeful in a nook of a wide beech;
Perched on a pulchritudinous bough,
About her were burgeons florid now,
Utterly in a downy, substantial hedge,
Intertwisted with buds and new sedge.
Happier she was for having the sprays,
Sing she did for gladness in many ways.
Yet was there an old prong lying beside,
Wherefrom an old owl came and cried;
The branch w/ climbing vine overgrown,
And here this owl sojourned quite alone.
The warbler did after not so long espied,
And looked upon her w/ confuted pride.
Many were her scoffings 2 the jejune owl,
For to the warbler was she loath'd & fowl.
The owl stayed in her place till eventide,
Not a moment more did she there abide,
So thrived her ***** with flowing wrath
That she could hardly even regain breath;
Say that I grasped thee in my sharp claw,-
Would that I may do so here in this shaw!
And thou wert torn from off your spray,
Then we shall see who sings a nights lay.
And with that... the warbler stole away.
To hang her shingle and head in shame.*
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC
You know, friend,
the strangest occurrence came before me,
as I was walking under these auburn branches of birch just the other day.
I came across an old man
playing with marbles on a grassy verge, among the tumbling leaves.
So I asked of him,
'Surely there is a better terrain for such a game?'
to which he responded,
'The pleasure of completing the sensible endeavour,
was lost long ago.'
and so I but had to ask,
'Surely then pick a hobby that bears easier fruit?'
To which he said
'If a hobby lies on the praxis of habit, then any newfangled venture is necessarily improper.'
Quite perturbed, I could but reply;
'Is not the wholesale rejection of the erudition of change blinding?'
To which he smiled, and held up a marble
he'd found lost under a strewed leaf, to the light
it's smooth opal contours glistening in form,
and said,
'Babel, too, was built on a sphere.'
And so that was that.
But the days are getting shorter, aren't they?
Or rather, they're the same length, but the colours have faded round the edges
frayed dead leather
binding empty rusted old bones.
Isn't it funny? How something hollow and brittle is thought to be fragile,
while it's only after becoming hollow oneself
that one can drink from the cusp of influence and power.
Age is a wonderful thing; it lets one rationalise and contextualise all ones excesses,
that one felt so uncomfortable about
back when they were actually enjoyable.
But I am so tired of all the moralists;
where we thought we thought on what we ought to have fought,
instead we fought on what we ought to have thought.
Thats the thing about the absolutes,
be they Hegelian or Platonic,
is, if they're true to their namesake,
are scarcely a thing that needs defending.
Not that the opposite is any better;
To both the aged romantic
who sings praises to his mortality,
And the jejune one
the teenager drowning in lust and love,
I can but simply say;
'He who worships living flesh
has a fool for a god.'
for the illusion of form
has a conclusion forlorn.
But, ah no, don't go that way,
the traffic's terrible there..
Though, what way was it to where we live again?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC