"jetting" poems
Hidden Weapon
By: James Desire
See me walking on the vacant street
What’s your first thought?
Black kid up to no good
See me- surrounded by others, my brothers
What is your second thought?
Black kid in some gang
Must be tattooed and tough
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
See the clothes I am wearing
Big baggy pants, dark Du-Rag and Ripped shirt
What is your final thought?
Poor old ****** living in a ghetto
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Now Listen,
You see me jetting through the silent streets
What would you assume then?
Arrest!
Call the cops
Must have been a ****** a robbery,
Another black boy crime
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
I am just a black boy trying to survive
Trying to enjoy-just to stay alive
On the street
People judging me cause
The blackness of my skin
The types of clothes I’m in
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Unsuspecting black child taunted, haunted…
Fearing that one word-nigga
Should I be blamed for crimes committed in the past?
Choice-less decisions made
Pressure reaches ******
Everything seems lost
At the end
I feel blamed
Nevertheless, I blame you
Whites
Rejecting
Hurting
Me- hopeful
Pride-earned-not given
Defending
Defending my dignity
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Should I be judged/blamed for past generations?
Then, blame me for…
The jazz of Louis Armstrong
The voice of Billie Holiday
The poetry of Langston Hughes
The photography of Gordon Parks
The character of Martin Luther King Jr.
The power of Coretta Scott King
The dignity of Fredrick Douglas
Finally, the individuality of James Desire
You seek evil in blacks
The past has also proven a positive…
A positive outcome
That helped the development…
OF OUR WORLD!
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 11:07 AM UTC
Upper East Side
The Hamptons
Aspen, Colorado
The plastic people
Follow each other
Moving in herds
Like cattle to the
Slaughter
Drifting
Floating
Shifting focus
From one charity event
To another
Whatever’s trendy
Whatever’s fashionable
Whatever’s happ’ning
Whatever’s the need
Tainted new artists
Society’s rejects
The film-maker who fits in with
The flavor of the month
The disease or the cause
That captures the moment
Stigmas overlooked
Deformities relieved
By one hyper exertion
By one pseudo good deed
Changing bedrooms
Changing partners
New alliances
Noblesse oblige
Mrs. Astor’s
Four hundred
Reinvented forever
Reinvented with fervor
On the edge
Of hypocrisy
Keeping up with the Jones’s
Maintaining the houses
Paris, Rome, Cote du Jura
Malibu, Palm Beach
Couture fashion
Madison, Rodeo
Worth avenues united
Avenues of the liege
Location, location, location
The right address unspoken
Dinner in the right places
Sporting events to be seen
Three martini luncheons
Halcion evenings
Business is business
Where money’s retrieved
Look to plastic people
For fashionable guidance
No matter the moment
No matter the need
Remember to catch them
While jetting to Santa Barbara
Saint Maarten, San Troupe
San Marco, warp speed
They live in their milieu
Can’t function outside it
Can’t follow a shadow
That others believe
It’s easy to find them
They leave behind footprints
But barely a mem’ry
Or singular creed
Other than finding
The latest in fashion
The latest persona
Or new plastic breed
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
Planes fly into the towers
Planes fly from out the craters in the towers
Black plumes of smoke choke the sky
Windowless planes flying into the towers
And now another, now another
The towers rattle
Planes take-off from in the fire
And go off into the city, into the stars
into our minds.
Planes like laser-lights, jetting off,
imprinting themselves
into our minds.
Over and over and over and over
and over and over and over
There were as many as 1,000 planes
or more.
Desks, glass-shards, people
High-heels, telephones, people
Falling, smashing down from the towers
A Warholian dream
Dying icons on every TV set, 24 hour access
On every channel
For months on end
On end
Headlines recoiled by an antichrist
Rumors he was in Pakistan
In Switzerland, at the mall
In your mind.
The towers burn forever
The towers burn forever
Frozen in pixels online
In our minds.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
Black dress,
Black lace shawl,
Red cherry violin,
Black frets and strings,
Black bow, white mane or tail,
Tensely poised
To move along the strings
In dances sensuously slow,
Tantalizing strings
To vibrations sublime,
Singing listeners to sway
Eyes closed, adrift, in
Streaming consciousness.
Other movements quick and sharp,
Impossible for any heavy-wielded harp,
Dancing pirouettes of sound,
Jetting needles sharp,
Then reeling tremulous...
These caterwaulings of a horse's tail
Held tautly on a stick.
A deaf man here beside me,
Only seeing, reads about
The music that I hearing, feel...
Somehow feels the Muse,
Sways to the dancing bow.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
Jackrabbits jetting
joyously through Juneberries.
Jovial jumpers.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 1:14 PM UTC
Log floating in the green stream:
jetting away in the flow,
now I'll stop in the thicket,
uncovering the cricket-song
trapped in the reed-locks.
Splash! that's a tadpole miss;
The trouts, they are laughing.
Gone! that's an angler's bait in vain.
Cranes have got their picking.
There's a hundred suns around.
This is a bubbly babbly morning.
Onward forward I flow, reed in tow.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
The air has begun to adopt that
damp and coppery hint of decay,
every breath a syrupy drop of autumn.
Each morning
the chorus of birds that greet the rising sun thins,
its members gradually cashing in on their accrued vacation time
and jetting off to winter homes in Florida.
Tourists.
All birds are tourists.
They won't be here to see the snow
turn to viscera under the tread of our lesser travels.
No,
they'll be tanning by gated watering holes,
discussing the downward trend in early worm returns.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
I should’ve had a hedonistic summer, a roundup of long, sun-kissed days and even longer, undulant, kissing nights.
There are no riviera pics this year - set against the blow-out backdrop of Saint Tropez or Heraclee - with their sunlit-deliriums, cracked plaster beach bars, aromatic trailing Jasmine, lavender, umbrella pines and baking Socca.
No nights of dense, optimistic nihilism on neon-painted open-air dancefloors, or gritty, underground raves, in dark, brick-clad, light-strobed basements.
And no timeless, sun-drenched, beachside early mornings, with their moments of stillness, beauty and reprieve.
Summer feels can’t be vicarious - you have to get out there and get ***** hmm, sandy anyway. Are there ethical implications to basking under a climate-crisis sun? Maybe, but if so, do we care?
Let’s wax poetic..
Summertime often sees us jetting off to different places.
*If I could travel anywhere
let it be outer-space
not floating in darkness,
for years and years
let’s find a better way.
I’ve traveled to the moon
- on a little friction -
that isn’t even science fiction.
I’ve traveled simply by turning pages.
It didn’t take fuel and it didn’t take ages.
That was travel at the speed of thought,
but better yet, let’s travel at the speed of sight
- that’s faster than light.*
.
.
Songs for this:
Relationships by HAIM
Summer Sun by Koop
Summer Girl (Bonus Track) by HAIM
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 10:57 AM UTC
I won the bloomin' lottery,
Cor blimey so I did!
No more scrubbin' socks for me,
I've won ten million quid!
I'm goin' on a ******
Nuffin's gonna bring me down;
I'll be the biggest spender,
Gonna buy the whole **** town!
My new found wealth is awesome,
Have you seen my mansion pool?
I play tennis in a foursome,
And my coach is really cool;
On Wednesday's its Pilates,
And on Sunday's it's Judo!
Now I'm jetting to the Maldives,
Toodle-pip -- I have to go!
One finds oneself most indisposed,
To do this interview;
One's butler will be swift deposed,
For letting you get through;
One will accede to your request,
Tho' Sir, this is your lot;
Despite the wealth with which one's blessed,
One has not changed a jot!
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
She rises at dawn, chilled
by the lost embrace
of her sleeping pills, brushes
summer's blown ashes
with the shuffle of footsteps
on old stone floors.
She thaws her hands
around a coffee cup,
sits at her desk,
******** Ariel arrowed from
yesterday's tide hoof-printing
ocean waves jetting barnacles
telephone wires a man's black boot
routing them through
cold English mornings,
a gold Sheaffer pen.
Words seep
across the page,
trail toxins of grief.
Light edges
between churchyard yews,
fingertips the curtains.
A thumb's worth
of breast-milk
stains her nightgown.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Sat idle in my stand,
watching,
waiting,
on the rest of the band
A quiet wooden box of strings
Humble and shining, just ready to do my thing
They plod through the acoustics, oh such a bore
It's time to let rip baby, gimme some power chords!
As the hits keep coming, soon to take my bow
Let's deafen these crazed punters, let me start this row
As you thought that noise was Mr Marshall all at the wrong settings
Uh-uh dear listeners, it's my veins just over jetting
Pick me up you freak, finger me into some heavenly patterns
So let's rock,
let's roll,
and let this frustrated cut out do its feedback chatting
🤟🏼
JJB
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 7:26 AM UTC
Jetting away to your far away home
I'm left with your fragrance and image alone,
To sit on the chair with a scotch in my hand
Miserably aware that I can't understand,
Why you left, why you cried,why you sped for the door
Leaving pungency there in the sheets on the floor.
The aching emptiness, hollow inside
The confusion and rawness of pain, I confide,
That I'm lost. Tomorrow is pointlessly there
When I wake up to find that your gone, in despair.
Just yesterday, we lay spent on the bed
Entwined and sated, unseemingly spread,
And now the ghost of passion's done
When then, we were so wetly one.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
26 October 2009
- From "Watching the Ripples Radiate."
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
chlorine cool w/o chlorine clear far out
monuments of home sized rocks
which my aunt said had to be whales
blue vested and jetting while the rest
took their hallucinogens to the dunes
and i was (laughing)
so sure that the lake had turned salty.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Neelam Gill showed off her figure in a very risqué gown with a split running from her shoulder down past her bottom.
How cheeky - Neelam Gill went all-out on Wednesday night as she flashed her *** in a rather risque dress.
The stunning model - who is rumoured to be dating former One Direction man Zayn Malik - stunned at a glitzy event in London this week.
Wearing a floor-length green gown, Neelam gave onlookers a bit of an eyeful with a split down the back of the outfit, revealing a hint of her bottom.
With layers and a front split showing off a lot of leg, the 20-year-old certainly made an impression during the party.
She stepped out at the London Evening Standard's Progress 1000 Most Influential People launch, and showed why she may have grabbed Zayn's attention .
The star - who has made her catwalk debut for Burberry - is reportedly planning on jetting to Los Angeles, where the singer is working on his debut solo album, so they can spend some time together .
According to Mail Online, Zayn and Neelam first met in London back in March, but nothing happened because he was still engaged to Little Mix star Perrie.
They bumped into each other again at the Asian Awards in London a month later, with Neelam later writing on Twitter: "Congratulations on your award tonight zaynmalik, catch up again soon!"
The pair reportedly stayed in touch as friends until Zayn and Perrie called it quits at the end of last month.
A source told the site: "Neelam doesn't know if she wants all of the drama that comes with dating someone in the public eye. She is going to LA to spend some time with Zayn and see how things go from there.
Last month, the model, who worked with Romeo Beckham in Burberry's Christmas advert last year , wrote on Twitter: "to live and die in LA, it's the place to be..."
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
All the pretty people in their wind up cars,
Go wandering past with their handlebars.
Don’t you go on down to the merry go round,
For it is high time that you heard the sound.
All the birds are flying up into the clouds,
While you sit alone and watch the rain coming down,
Time’s a wasting if you really want to get things done,
And you really want to come and have some fun.
Look around to the people who fall on the floor,
Wont you tell them they don’t have to worry no more.
Seems the more I tell them, the less they know,
And we’ll all wake up together if we all decide to go.
Come on lay your weary head upon my shoulder
Won’t you stay with me in the cold of the night.
If you just be here now you won’t get any older,
But you’ll stay young forever ’till the morning light
Inside your mind you know that you can fly,
High above the others up on the wire.
You believe you’re going up to a higher plane,
But no one seems to really know your name.
Ten thousand days and nights you’ve cried alone,
Sitting in the boardroom on the phone,
Jetting off to see your friends in Rome,
When you don’t even know your friends at home.
Tip toe up the stairs into your room.
You know that she’s coming home all too soon.
You’ll never ever let her get away,
Even if it takes you all your days.
Align with all the colours of your dreams,
It’s easy when there’s nothing as it seems.
Together we will fly into the night,
Oh little blackbird let me see you take flight.
Total glory is never around the corner.
It’s always lying just where I would warn her,
And she climbs the stairs so naked and so free,
Until she’s upstairs so permanently.
Light up another match if you still can,
They are signifiers of exactly who I am.
Remark to me that I never knew your fate,
When I watch you walking through that gate.
The test of time is all that I know best,
When my head is lying in your breast,
Enticing me with your lovely sounds,
That echo even when there’s no one around.
Fortune is the way that many fools take,
And never a single cent do they often make,
But me I know there is a different way,
Than to be a slave to just another day.
******* thieves will rob you willingly,
And you will give them exactly what they need.
Put away your saving for a rainy day,
You’ll never use it as you wish to anyway.
Come gather up all your things and throw them on,
The fire is burning well into the dawn.
Two thousand books have met their fate,
Their text in time will never be erased.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
Hot August winds
Blows across dried yellow grass.
The shimmer of heat.
Rippling off the blacktop.
At a roadside Motel.On the
South Dakota Landscape.
I see the arrival of
An Amish family all,
Dressed in Black.
Arrive dragging their
Simple bags into the room
As the door closes.
I head inside to escape the heat
The smell of sulfur.
Rises from the water faucet.
Mixed with the smell of
Bacon and Eggs frying
In an electric skillet.
I head out under the overhang.
To escape the heat and my parents.
Down the way, a boy in Black Hat
Black shirt open,
White Tee showing.
He walks over to meet me.
I show him toys I brought,
Bored in the blasting heat.
We hop across the hot blacktop.
Barefoot trying not to get burned.
Off to the park, We find
The hollowed out carcass.
Of an F-16 Fighter Jet,
We bonded as pilot and copilot
Jetting across the Badlands.
We strafed and bombed.
Enemy installations.
Cutting off troop Supplies.
We blasted the afterburners.
Breaking the sound barrier.
On a hot August afternoon.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
she does not speak to me often in this way
she is the virile silence of walking truly like meadows
their time is always perfect and infinitely perfectlessness
how skies do not sing birds but are only masters of truth
but she is tender and fierce she shows me that they are innocent
when, I, confounded, aswirl with origami of things past,
she shows me a bestilled flapping silence of forgotten things
she does not speak often in this way
when her hands are like eagles tending planets
there is a secret river her eyes are filled with
these pupils of newborn seeking first sight
its graves and their strolling kisses no clock dares lie another tick
she is brightly curved; night seeks to master her sleeping motions
there is the skin of all salads I imagine I came from
when she is gone I feel rain graveyards feed to oceans
when water braided through myths and legends and lies
is truest perfect lover, but no perfect lover is so tender and fierce
she has taught me in this way how I am
if I am a perfect child, then I am a perfect man
but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with sleep"
I know why the wind is the slave of kites
and why balloons are thoughtful, secretly joyless,
but filled with bad dogs and hope
when she touches small flowers and leaves them be
I know why birds are most beautiful in flight
gracefully jetting terrifying rivers
she walking strums wild instruments into me
I wish to play like birds but only newborns are masters of truth
but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with laughter"
.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
we were in love
i remember you pulling me closely, your hands secure around my waist
you kissed my nose and the butterflys surrounded us
they danced and swayed to the song of our laughter
like the one time when we were walking to the car and it started raining
instead of just jetting to the car you grabbed my hand and said "dance with me."
like that one time you waiting by my window until i would open it,
i still remember that song you played for me
how i just wanted to jump right then and there and let you catch me
you mustve saw it on my face because you laughed and pouted "cant catch you here baby, but we can try"
it wasnt just the feeling of love
it was the feeling of someone caring about you
to no extent
i never understood the concept of love
until i met you
once i did.
back then
once i did.
back when.
once i did
back when u were here
once i did.
now its you i fear
you turned that love into hate
in one simple state ment
the one you left on my doorstep
a goodbye wouldve been better
but i guess the thrill is what always got you huh?
once i did love..
you.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
How many lights do you see?
There's one to say that night has come
And there's one that guards this jagged shore
And there's one to call the children home
And there's one to light the path they take
How many lights do you see?
There's one to keep the shadows off
And there's one that tells me she got home
And there's one to read his novel by
And there's one that warms this dreary room
And there's one to watch the baby sleep
And there's one to count the blinking stars
And there's one that I just can't forget
And there's one that I remember too
How many lights do you see?
There's one that waits for closing time
And there's one that gets left on all night
And there's one that marks the western sky
And it shines down on the quiet street
And there's one that floods the darker parts
And there's one that hurts my tired eyes
And there's one that says she's not asleep
And there's one that waits for her to wake
How many lights do you see?
There is one that spills out on the beach
And it sparkles on the jetting rocks
And there is one that waits for tired ships
That sleep within this tired port
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 10:52 AM UTC
Jetting away to your far away home
I'm left with your fragrance and image alone,
To sit on the chair with a scotch in my hand
Miserably aware that I can't understand,
Why you left, why you cried,why you sped for the door
Leaving pungency there in the sheets on the floor.
The aching emptiness, hollow inside
The confusion and rawness of pain, I confide,
That I'm lost. Tomorrow is pointlessly there
When I wake up to find that your gone in despair.
Just yesterday, we lay spent on the bed
Entwined and sated, so seemingly dead,
And now the ghost of passion's done
When then, we were so wetly one.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
26 October 2009
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Tiny ankles hang down from a wooden bridge over the bayou-
and my friend and I stare at the black water
and point at all the furniture legs jetting out of the blackness
as if they were Cyprus knees—
and he says to me “Someone said there’s at least a hundred bodies in there”
and without hesitation or a moment of silence
for the uncertain yet forgotten Dead
I say, “Bodies float, so we would see them if that were true”
and he replied, after a brief moment of thought,
“Maybe they’re tied to all the couches or stuffed in the refrigerators”
and I couldn’t believe how many house hold appliances
have been repurposed to host all these passed souls
in the bowels of the swamp
and with a swing of my leg, too swift—
my left shoe dropped and hovered on the water
where lily pads should have been
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
Beneath the chin
of your BK brownstone
we’d sit
bodies slung
across steps
eyes
flung
across skies
city simmering
in northern fog
concrete cradling
a northern frost
the backdrop of 86th
jetting
above
our
heads
you asked me
if I still thought
New York was all
it was cracked up to be.
Yes.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
I will conquer the cities in my mind you destroyed. I am rebuilding them and making them shine brighter than before. There are gates around them, and moats and jetting mountains.
Stay out.
I am strong. I don't need you. I don't need anyone.
Wild flowers grow tall in my gardens, with each stem come thousands of thorns. Don't you dare touch me,
For I have changed.
My tongue will spit words I feared to before. Ones that strike a soft spot within you and make you wonder what happened to me as my eyes dig through your exterior.
No longer will I cater to every need, fulfill every desire, and be left a broken mess on the ground. Never again will I love and trust so easily, leaving my heart out in the open for another and giving them all the power to completely destroy it.
I refuse.
I can smell a lie from thousands of miles away now.
Your betrayal has given me power, a fire burning within me.
I'm different. You don't know this girl.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC