"joanna" poems
I search for some decor
to pretty up my house
A headboard, some dead boards
or maybe a couch?
The said so to do it
on public TV
my kitchens not pretty
as pretty as can be
But what will the neighbors
think of my design?
they'll report to the magazine
that it's beautiful and sublime!
Some ship lap, some sconces
all wrapped in a bow
i will trend till tomorrow
then die all alone
Rip it all down
Says Chip and Joanna
They are more popular
Than Hanna Montanna
They live on a ranch
an take millions to make
a spectacular suprise
for a couple to take
We all laugh an cheer
at Chip's child like antics
Which makes great TV
as Joanna gets Frantic!
Do Chip and Joanna really
care about you?
As long as the station
gets ten million views
They tell us to fix it
even though it's not broken
go shop till you drop
and spend every token
Buy that cool sign
made from cheap yellow plastic
The richer get richer
but, our wall looks fantastic!
Do not give in
to the big corporate greed
there are sick, hungry people
and starving mouths to feed
so every cent spent
on the corporate wealth
helps the richer get richer
and we go to stealth
Wake up and see vanity
is causing distress
don't give in to pressure
of this corporate mess!
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
Dying--you wouldn't do that to a cat.
For what is a cat to do
in an empty apartment?
Climb up the walls?
Brush up against the furniture?
Nothing here seems changed,
and yet something has changed.
Nothing has been moved,
and yet there's more room.
And in the evenings the lamp is not on.
One hears footsteps on the stairs,
but they're not the same.
Neither is the hand
that puts a fish on the plate.
Something here isn't starting
at its usual time.
Something here isn't happening
as it should.
Somebody has been here and has been,
and then has suddenly disappeared
and now is stubbornly absent.
All the closets have been scanned
and all the shelves run through.
Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing.
The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered.
What else is there to do?
Sleep and wait.
Just let him come back,
let him show up.
Then he'll find out
that you don't do that to a cat.
Going toward him
faking reluctance,
slowly,
on very offended paws.
And no jumping, purring at first.
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Joanna Trezecia
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
Johanna, Joanna,
Ella paga mañana
Volver para un frente
Teniendo la mente
Sin ropa, sin aire
Asfixia sin despair
(Johanna, Joanna
She'll pay tomorrow
Come back for a front
Having the mind
Without clothes, without air
Choking without despair)
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
Writing a new book...
With new characters...
And new story line...
I have been fooling myself...
Holding on to an older book...
With past characters...
Which have already wrote new chapters...
Without me...
May be it’s time for me be part of a new book...
And not the rusty old book...
Even though the rusty old book was once my life...
Let you be reference for my new one...
Not my griefs or broken promises...
— Joanna Adam
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
I didn’t knew you too was missing from me....
That you were my childhood fragrance...
How l lost you...
I don’t know...
I remember the times where I hated sweet smell of perfumes...
How the smell of flowers irritated me...
How it brings up a headache....
And you came back to me again after a long long time...
Thanks to my better half that he bought me your fragrance soap...
I didn’t realise it that then...
Suddenly I started to carve for your fragrance...
That I bought perfumes and powders of your fragrance....
Still I didn’t realise that you were with me before....
Only when my sis heard my pondering thoughts about you....
And told it’s bcoz you were used to it for years...
In your childhood days...
Made me remember you...
How I waited for my father to get your perfume on my dresses...
Don’t know when I stopped using you...
As it was still there in many more years...
Still I didn’t touched you...
And forgotten....
I don’t know whether to be happy that you came back...
Or sad and angry that I missed one more thing in my life...
May be I can be both...
And I do hope you will be with me always...
The sweet fragrance of Lavender...
— Joanna Adam
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
You are someone special in my heart
The kind of love that will never part.
A women so strong and brave.
Some may ask what's in a name?
This name is special old chum
This name alone
Joanna
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
intermission with the UMSL Orchestra
The backstage hall was wall-to-wall smiles.
Just moments before,
Barbara Harbach had charged the stage
after we premiered her joyous Jubilee Symphony
screaming at them all the way,
"That was spectacular"!
The Arianna Quartet's Kurt and Joanna
stormed down the steps
spewing out pieces of their minds
in no uncertain terms
"excellent" - "great job" - "beautiful".
I preferred to hang out on the edge
wrapped in the silken echoes
of Tchaikovsky's Andante cantabile
(so eloquently sung by our youthful strings).
Intermission was up and it was
back to work time.
In the abyss of despair
over his dying ears,
Beethoven flooded the world
with the blazing sunglow
of his prophetic second symphony
and it was now up to us
to pass on the word.
Just call me,
"Grateful (underscore) 1".
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
The bells of a million bicycles fill the air, townsfolk amble without even a care.
Atmosphere of dozy dreams.
Tulips on the bank side pout, kissing away at the pure ****** air.
No traffic, or trafficking.
They sit, enjoying their trip.
Toking on the hookah, or toking on a ****** that choice is yours.
They roll a spliff, oh sweet Mary Joanna.
A dingy back room in a dismal dark corner.
Don't ever say that nobody warned yer.
Oppressive atmosphere of sullen death.
Addiction takes control of the lonely soul, who needs to escape.
Who may never get old.
Found slumped, laid out ,cold.
Torniquet locked up tight.
The buzz of the day, that ended the life.
Of the poor soul.
Had nothing better to do.
Attached to the end of the body that's fixed, shot up, sky high.
The world ended, not in that passion filled cafe.
(c) Livvi
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
I offer a few quiet
words under my breath. (1)
“I wish you a tongue
scalded by tea.”(2)
“I was born
of the fist. The hot Irish
Temper.”(3) “I am a master of Escape. Show me a body,
I’ll show you an exit ramp.”(4)
(For,) I want everything
to call me night.(5)
This is the dream where I play
God. And the front door opens(6)
In lakes, floating
logs ignite, burn. All the
fury is finally here:(7)
Once wayfaring strangers(8) as tall as steal as the New York Times(9)
that once they sang from our dark street (10), the song goes: Heart.
Ribcage. Envelope.(11)
____________________
(1) Adam Falkner, Poem for the Lovers at Pickerel Lake, http://friggmagazine.com/issuethirtysix/poetry/falkner/pickerel.htm
(2) Jeanann Verlee, Guilt, Not Grief, http://www.wordriot.org/archives/4780
(3) Jeanann Verlee, The Brawler, http://www.radiuslit.org/2011/04/09/radius-roger-bonair-agard-jeanann-verlee-adam-falkner/
(4) Joanna Hoffman, On Learning to Open My Eyes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/three-poems-37/
(5) Kallie Falandays, If Morning Never Comes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-75/
(6) Benjamin Sutton, Notes from the Daydreaming, http://anti-poetry.com/anti/suttonbe/
(7) Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Treasure In Timber, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-74/
(8) Lauren Yates, The World According to My Heart, http://usedfurniturereview.com/2013/03/20/the-world-according-to-my-heart-by-lauren-yates/
(9) Robert Gibbons, These Mean Streets, http://www.poembeat.com/fall2011/RobertGibbons.html
(10) Michael Lauchlan, Unseen Larks and Immeasurable Intervals, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-michael-lauchlan.html
(11) Leigh Philips, Dear New York City, Learn Gentle, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-leigh-phillips.html
(*) Jeanann Verlee, Good Girl, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/january-2013-jeanann-verlee.html
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
whose flowers are these?
who brought them to the gravesite
and arranged them with such care?
placing each flower individually
every week a kaleidoscope of color
pastel petals wrapped in green stems, leaves and ferns
bouquets speaking softly from the heart
conversations of love and respect
unspoken words of connection and affection
painting a picture of impressionistic serenity
amid grass and tombstones
who cared about him this much, besides us?
who cares about him still?
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 7:42 AM UTC
On Valentine's Day we think of those
Who make our lives worthwhile,
Those gracious, friendly people who
We think of with a smile.
I am fortunate to know you,
That's why I want to say,
To a rare and special person:
Happy Valentine's Day!
Joanna Fuchs. 2/14/2016.
❤
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
Prelude:
How could this have come to be, this life, so ever-changing?
these laws that pushed the smallest things to pull the greatest mountains?
and what could cause the chance to think and wonder why we can?
Sophia flowed through mystery where Logos formed a plan.
Act 1: Epigenesis
First Interlude:
At the heart of sacred grounds, a man claims what is righteous
with ****** standard pointed proud and conduct that disguises
a savage pulse, an ancient thirst; is Cronus set in stone?
Impressing eager, weaker men, Saint George goes on and on.
Act 2: Saint George
Second Interlude:
Where the wood once bloomed unbound, a shaft of ivory rises
and reigns above a throne of clouds, where veil of white disguises
a wilting rose, a potted plant; did Gaea plan her fate?
Behind the stained-glass window's view, Joanna meekly waits.
Act 3: Joanna
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
The skies, flowers, rivers, and sea
Your beauty never cease to amaze me
Even on land where our feets are free
You ran at the horizon where the sky meets the sea
And there I witnessed
The bearing of a true beauty
Harmonizes with every image that I can see
Your smile is just so perfect to me
Luv, I'll be keeping you with me
In my heart where you are with me
And then let's live for eternity
Even if death comes knocking
I'll give him a hard beating
I'll never surrender anything, for you are my everything
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 7:50 AM UTC
As I stand before you today, on Valentines day
I can’t help but feel my knees still shake and buckle, when I see that Sparkle light up the center of your beautiful, brown eyes
My love for you has never died, I’ve always been head over heels
Since the day you ripped off the disguise that kept the insecurities dwelling inside of that mind of yours
And I’m sure you’ve heard it come out from my mouth before, but I really do love you Joanna
From here, all the way to Savanah
Just so you understand that,
I’m a man who speaks his love with certainty
And I’m no hopeless romantic, but I do understand the semantics of love So it’s spoken above, all as more than just 2 consonants accommodating 2 vowels
Love isn’t just about writing vows
To be wed for life, through sickness and strife
It’s never alright for just these 4 letters, to be the only justification for people like us to stay together
There is no universal definition given
Although hallmark will tell you different
Giving advertisement prescriptions to those experiencing affliction from solitude
So rudely turning love into an addiction
Completely missing the point of what it means to share yourself with someone else
Love was when I saw demons inside of your eyes that you never felt obliged to hide from me
Because you saw mine too
Right through every facade I built up, consistently falling right back down
I always wanted to be around someone I never had to hid a frown from
Infatuated with the sound you created, from my heart palpating around you
I just knew
That what we had was not something superficial
It was official, so we made it that way
And today, I tell you how much I love you
Not only as a lover, but more so as a friend
Because time and time again, you never fail to be there for me
As far as the eye can see, what we have puts the definition of love to shame
In my opinion, it deserves it’s own picture frame
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Hand write
( Hands right
Sinistral kid)
Me a love poem.
(A sonnet?
Whatever)
Make me feel like a queen,
(Like Joanna of Castile?
I know who she is, you ****
Like I am worshipped and adored.
(Like Imelda Marcos then?
I have more shoes)
Make my heart flutter
(Arrhythmia
Whatever)
And swell until it bursts.
(Be careful what you wish for
......................)
Treat me like a princess
(Shanti Rajya Lakshmi Devi
I've Googled her as well)
And make all my dreams come true.
(I dream of a loaded gun.
So you can **** me?)
"No, just myself.
All I want is for you to ******* feel something".
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
*My sister as a child and my sister as adult
we are not the comparison and contrast kind of people
Her outlook on life and my lifestyle never clicks
I said more sugar
She wants less, I add more nutmeg,
She adds more cloves,
I am hot; I stood there and watch her shivering
She love Drew and Jonathan Scott from HGTV's
I love Chip and Joanna Barnes the stars of Fixer Upper
I am the caramel base; she is the creamy yellow coated
I have lived so long, with loneliness, it became a part of my family tree
I love the peace and quiet,
I detest the invasion of my personal space.
Under my white tray roofing, I accepted my lifestyle,
But to have my fluffy rug under my toes,
On a cold winter morning is a great start to my day.
Oh, how, I breathed a sigh of relief,
holding on to my cold glass of spiked eggnog*
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
~(by Joanna, "The Backroads Girl")~
Somewhere between the millions of years
it takes for light to reach earth
and our first glimpse of the stars
there is a promise.
Somewhere between the humility
of a young girl's heart
and her baby's first cry
there is life.
Somewhere in the passing
of precious oil and gold
into a carpenter's rough hands
there is obedience.
Somewhere between the bustle
of a small dusty town
and the stink of its stables
there is a miracle.
Because somewhere
between the heavens
and our small, open hearts
love came
no, love still
comes down.
~
*Postscript:
This is not my poem; it‘s arrival in my Facebook inbox a few days ago was a welcome event and I have read and reread it countless times since. Some poems are just too precious to keep to ourselves… this is one of those. I am publishing it here with the author’s permission for all of you to enjoy. (I prefer to not post nameless poems, so in that it was posted without a name, I took the liberty to give it one.)
Joanna, thank you for letting me share this with my Hello Poetry friends. I have no doubt that I speak for others here who would welcome more of your writings here on Hello Poetry. Consider this your invitation.
From Joanna’s Facebook bio- “I am on a journey- I travel with a suitcase full of of outrageous blessings. I'm an artist, a writer, an explorer...”
https://www.facebook.com/BackroadsGirl/info*
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
in the back of Joanna's Volvo, she devours me -
she tells, her full mouth, that her specialty is geography
she's going in -
and biology. deep.
she wants no church to confess, her wet lips to mine is enough to tell / for this story:
encyclopedia before butterfly
the chrysalis dissolves
a moth, a mess
her mouth of silk.
a pretty place to fall apart -
Joanna says, between breaths not sure mine or hers:
she needs me to be one
I don't see her anymore. She transfers quickly thereafter.
Breathe, chrysalis breathe.
they spin but do not drop away
I think of her. inside, soft mass and waiting.
she never told me how they fight their way out -
what cuts through the thick?
she never told:
how they must feel, spread and magnificent, when they'd been ready to die
how cold and bright, the sudden belonging.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
There was a time you threw a party
And forgot Joanna's birthday
And went raging down the river
With your next best boyfriends
Left our baby bird stranded in the nest
Dropped acid and showed some chest
There was a time the boy you claimed to love
Had to beg for your attention
And you wouldn't pick up the phone
Even when you were carving things all alone
And a time when we went to a concert
And we rushed you home to rage with
All those new and improved mountain kids
There was a time you called me crying
Screaming songs about leaves and
For a night You Missed that Band
And through heaves you recalled
A night spent on a razor's edge
Thrift stores and throats raw
The old September
And you promised to call Joanna
And no surprise, you never did
Deities die, babe,
But I didn't dare to
Predict your demise.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
Then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear.
You, send out beyond your recall.
Go the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
And make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
-A poem by Rainer Maria Rilke 1875 - 1926
Translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
1978 Liebfraumilch on the road to definition
with Joanna,
she danced in 1971, un shy with fringed mini skirt
to yet indeterminate future carousels,
but the years have button holed her
executive responsibilities
glass ceiling you see,
but there's always the possibility
that without the drink she'll smile discretely
parfait
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Gasping inward, I awaken
To overwhelming thoughts of you.
Within my dreams, had I mistaken
This ethereal kiss for true?
"It simply cannot be!" I exclaim,
Upon this revelation.
For I find my racing heart aflame,
By in-the-flesh creation.
But were it fire that tugged my mind,
or something more concrete?
Indeed, your eyes the gods designed,
To make a loveless man's heart beat.
And though, from the sight of your gaze, a man may walk away,
From the thought of those green-brown eyes, they may never stray.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
Another day for Jonathon James
Eyes open in tiny smokey slits
Hoping , all day will stay in gloom
One drink did this to his head
Yeh one more drink than eight
Just one little drink couldn't wait
To split his stupid ***** head
Chaining him to his lazy bed
He dares not smoke his last cigarette
In case he coughs away his heart
And his fat head leaves his body
Looking up from beneath his bed
Ha has to make a few little steps
He has a crying desperate need
When he does , he'll feel so dizzy
But away from his bed he must go
He needs to build his caffeine level
But wonders how it will be done
Then he turns to the noise at the door
And in comes coffee on a tray
He and his girlfriend Joanna May
Sit up together slurping away
The day's getting better and better
Another day for Jonathon James.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Joanna hurt me
She broke my heart torn apart
Now I am less whole
Oct 9, 2019
Oct 9, 2019 at 4:59 AM UTC