"jogs" poems
looking out your window
sun kissed hair in my eyes
watching while the wind blows
through the cloudless skies
thinking of our first date
you, in that red plaid shirt
I was so ****** nervous
doesn't mean it wasn't great
the way our legs entwine in bed
there's nothing I want instead
everything feels warm in here
nothing else could ever compare
or that Friday night at the rink
I slipped and scraped my knee
but when I see the scar I smile
because it jogs my memory
walking through the forest all day
sharing with you my happy place
the trees and leaves outside are bare
but not my heart that's yours to take
the way our souls entwine in bed
there's nothing I'll ever want instead
the safest place for me is here
nothing else could ever compare
that Charleston week was when I fell
completely like a southern bell
for the perfect guy I'll ever see
you're everything in this world to me
the fire in your solar eclipse eyes
is something I can't live without
this crazy world is upside down
but all I need is you around
we elevate each other right
the universal beat of life
never felt so high up here
nothing else could ever compare
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
sometimes boys will whisper
i love you's too quickly
and you, anon, will believe them
with your gentle heart, and
capacity to believe in miracles.
sometimes the first guy isn't
the only one,
sometimes you didn't like him
to begin with and that's okay.
i know you wish it was that easy.
people say to look for love
in all places, but love likes to hide
in the nooks of bookcases,
in cars parked under trees,
in his reflection in the rear mirror
as he glances to see you
walk past with your heels too high,
and smile too giddy.
but that wasn't love.
love is mutually shared.
sometimes you fall in love
and it will hurt worse than that time
you broke your wrist.
you will shake with tremors
of madness and you will
remember his name.
it's like hearing a song
you haven't listened to in years.
something jogs your memory
and you still remember the lyrics.
you will list his hobbies,
his favourite colour, with
perfect memory.
anon, you keep finding love,
and you keep losing it,
but be patient, please.
when you are ready
tell love to come another day.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
fell from her home
Skies of ohio
stumbled from a cloud
Grew her wings on the way down
hellboy in the back pew
cigarettes, blue dress shoes
closed her bible, "I refuse"
She said, "To be a mans property"
Honeybee
Honeybee
honeybee spread your wings
Honeybee
Honeybee
neither bird nor angel,
she flys free.
"I'll take the skills to cook and clean
our sneezes will still sound the same
I'll vist on holidays
but don't you ******* bless me"
"I'll be Domestic for myself
clean home and the best of health
Foster bees
a book to read.
But the bible ain't for me."
Honeybee
honeybee
Somewhere in the inbetween
honeybee
Honeybee,
apartment on deering st
she met me
at a speakeasy
"if you want me you better find me
Through the bookshelves I'll be waiting"
I turn the pages
Find her wedding ring
kept under the mattress,
not even god as a witness.
Doctor in ireland, she told me
escape in comic books
while he's away.
"Before we start, you have to know
One day I'll leave forever
Let's live a life we won't forget
In the meantime, together."
"I live with no one to respond to.
I live without boundary.
My ride or die resides in ireland
I'd like to love you while he waits for me."
Honeybee
honeybee
I've never tasted honey so sweet
Honeybee
Honeybee
Honeybee, Come lay with me
A few kisses later
cross legged in an office chair
sipping warm tea
I wake
green eyes watching me sleep
It's these moments
in between
Honeybee
Honeybee
were those mornings just a dream?
Honey bee
Honey bee
you leave
Remember me
in the old and green
honeybee
you were always free
guiness jogs my memory
The little things
inbetween
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC
I am deaf, blind, and mute
Though that's untrue, physically speaking
I still feel it deep within me
Blinding my eyes from truth
From reality
Deafening my ears from hearing others' encouraging words
And their feelings of warmth and love
Muting my replies and true thoughts
From ever springing up
To prevent me from prying my fingers off the cusp of this palpable insanity
Ah, this addiction is overwhelming
I need a moment
Just one second
Of truth to burst in and scream into my ears
Crying and begging me to come to my senses
Reminding me of the past failures
And how I said this time would be different
Just one moment of honest truth
But, you see, I'm deaf
I can't hear anything
Edging on this addiction
Knowing I'll fall
And have to start all over
I just need a moment...
A brief time of clarity
To open my eyes
So I can see clearly
That all the excuses I'm spewing out are lies
A memory I can view
Something that jogs my memory
And reminds me of why I wanted to stop in the first place
But you see...
I'm blind
I can't see even this truth that lies right in front me
The addiction is winning
Knocked me out so hard
My head is spinning
I need to convince myself to escape this battle
Its power is so terrifying
And I can't even speak
I choke out pleas
But they are unintelligible
The addiction hears nothing
And nor do I
But I need just a moment...
Of someone's words to recite
To clear my mind
And be who I was before I commited this sin
Please, I beg of you, Me
Speak, speak, speak!
But I am mute
I can't say a single thing...
...
Oh, what a tragedy
To be deaf, blind, and mute
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
Once upon a time, sweet soldier, we were everything!
We were shy glances and piercing stares,
bitter coffee and sweet cider,
nervous laughter and easy smiles.
We were all-nighters and painfully early mornings,
utter exhaustion and unexplainable energy,
distracted work days and focused only on each other.
We were photographs and video recordings,
magic tricks and storytelling,
Monty Python and Charlie the Unicorn imitators.
(We were total dorks!)
We were late night jogs and wrestling,
motorcycle rides and beach-walking,
seekers of adventure and last minute decision making.
We were short pecks on the cheek,
and long passionate kisses,
fierce embraces and soft caresses.
We were soul-searchers and wound-healers,
dreamers and risk-takers,
keepers of secrets and whisperers of truth.
We were sanity and craziness,
possibilities and improbabilities,
with everything and yet nothing going for us.
We were in love.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
Because I can't literally run away,
I go for jogs in sun drenched days.
Because tragedy is in my life,
I always turn back around.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
A water jug keeps water like how a jug should
But a water jug does not jog because if it did
The water jug's water will spill while it jogs
So what do you do with a water jug?
You may jog with a water jug while it has water
And this is useful because
While you are jogging with a water jug
The water in the jug will be useful after jogging
Then you will thank your water jug and maybe give it a hug
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
.
There’s an ancient duct tape patched
roller suitcase still up in the attic,
scarred by sky miles and undiscerning
indifference; it came to rest like a final breath
exhaled at the end of the long road ―
In the dusty rafters of silent repose
the death of an alter-ego comes to life
and jars and jogs the sleeping dogs
that lay benign as a pothole riddled road
Holding onto memories buried alive,
hidden away remembered ―
sans wings to fly away
laid bare unweighed with the weight
of everything else garnered and saved
subsisting in a shallow grave;
hoarded and hidden away breathing
locked up with the other baggage borne
behind tired eyes
Feeling the ache of blood stained knees
falling down sullied at the side of the road
Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories
linger; stuck to the grey bandage scars,
second guessing should have thrown out
with the permanently temporary
fading plasticized luggage name-tags
back when I was still close enough to care;
too many miles to reconsider ago
Some say: "it's the journey not the destination" .
Some day when its too late we'll know
Some day it will be too late to make amends
for everything i could not be ...
harlon rivers ... 07 06 2018
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Another heady day blooms and gathers pace
Spring dawns at 5 a.m. with a gargle and spit in the dark
Big rain drops and falls
Soft blood red wet cherry stones of bath salts
Splayed across my ageing face
Autumn showers then walks
The spiderweb of ragged birdsong feathers and
Threads through the branches
Of just November trees
Autumnal hymnal
Singing through the dying darkness, whispering
Don’t capture the light
And walking jogs thought
Factoring rebuke as Information unwanted
Proof then reproof
The tarmac fields of youth
Tilled by broken hands with
Broken men mending pipes and wires
Time leaves a presage- a butterfly mark
Autumn leaves their signals sending winter’s mark
Beauty colours death
Dec 15, 2009
Dec 15, 2009 at 1:29 AM UTC
In the waking, in the wrong,
I stumble -- spitting synonyms for love
daring the scattershot night to take control
to steer me into the early morning bedroom
of anyone other than my own,
and over the phone breaking, over with biting
the mimicking face of former promise ring holders
and front pew sitters I ask the sun to emerge gently,
to kiss my forehead, scramble up eggs--
wearing my oversized t-shirt, cotton underwear, and
an apron left behind by the sun's mother,
but as night turns and walks away,
no bright sun replaces--
instead it is that grey, it is that gaunt
overcast haze that never shows teeth,
only hisses, "How's the routine going?"
In the waking, in the wrong,
hands pull denim and throat itches for shouting rebuttal,
but a man never won against the eternity of the sky,
so I lower my eyes, spin madly into why why whys,
a beautiful woman between pavement and sky jogs past
and I see myself drinking coffee with her and grinning
at what our elderly parents don't know,
but before the words fall from lips,
her feet, legs, and hips wisp
into the early morning mist,
the overcast sky whispers to the meadowlark
above my head,
I open the door to my home as the meadowlark begins to laugh.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry
A Yalie jogs before dawn, her senses being exercised,
semi-aware there’s layered poetry out there and it must
be retrieved, for the eyes observe the diurnal arousing of the day,
and this too, must be recorded, part of the ordered duties of living, as the skin cells shed sweat droplets and
words of living, parcels of breathing, a diary of notations,
to educate the brain in ways and things that
professors cannot teach…
every sense operative, interactive, sound off neurotic synapses,
are acrackling, as you lay out the day ahead, calendar and
assignment checks, but the senses don’t care
about that
trivial minutiae of living
nope
the words are now coming fast and you hope your best that
you will retain, retrain the memory to savor save, those
combos of images encapsulated in new word combinations,
that are yours alone, unique, proving to no one but
yourself, that education, science et. al. is a seeded embryo &
you the valedictorian of birth commencement ceremony
so put them trainers on,
and by dawning daylight you are awondering,
now becoming a pondering, and the
question never spoke aloud but oft posed,
is this, this is,
this is why I exist,
and
my identity?
***I am an institution in my own right,
in my own write.***
Saturday Nov 4
8:01am
nyc
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
How many Someone’s lay planked on their waist and stare aimlessly at the candle’s flame?
Who of You is daring enough to close Your eyes and in space alone, simply drive- drive away?
The same Someone’s and Who’s-of-Who’s, on occasion holler at the moon with expectation of a bark back; or is God but a prestige to fools that We allow to wear Normal on Their crummy ******* name tags?
Sometime around Christmas there is a salivating peace, sifting downward on ordinary people, whom really don’t feel like being cold, you know?
This is me, rotting away on the carpet, a blanket’s blanky for the floor, just staring through the shutters on the vent below my brow; in the reality of it, I should probably schedule a spring cleaning…not for the vent folks.
You see- and I’m trying to be as casual as I can- I’m about to ******* pass out, you know what I’m saying?
This is that incredible moment where I’m the Bob Feller of dozing off, 9 innings of shut-eye talent, but at 2 or 3 in the morning…it looks as though I’m bringing in Mariano Rivera to close it out,
I can almost smell the scraps of mowed grass, kicking up from his cleats as he jogs closer to where home is; I never really find out if he makes it to the mound…
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
They say home is where the heart is:
Mine is currently in a car doing one-sixty in a fifty
Beats per minute zone traveling smoothly
As I dance from lane to lane.
This place will never leave me
As I scuttle, plain and simply.
Trying best to crash before I make it to my meeting
In a zone that's not the same.
This town changed long ago
And yet, I remained indifferent:
Idiocy could see right through me
And stupidity would hit a brick wall after I would.
I'm undeserving running through a desert made of wet sand
Whilst everyone else jogs onwards as if it's asphalt.
I am a lost soul:
Save yourself and treat me as a warning.
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 11:28 AM UTC
When the words don't seem to fit
When the spot they just don't hit
I re-visit my friend
Shake him again
Good old Mr Limerick
There is a young woman from Dunbar
Who jogs but never too far
She carries a snickers
Inside her knickers
And a mars bar in her bra
-Stretch limo-
So much length it had gained
To drive it was really a pain
So they put on the wheels
Tyres of steel
And turned it into a train
Mesmerised for a while
By those eyes which so beguile
The men she meets
Fall at her feet
But why such sadness in her smile?
A pretty young thing from Milan
Had a beautiful tan
She enticed married men
Into loving again
And then the **** hit the fan
She used to be happy, fulfilled and carefree
As wild as white horses out on the sea
Now she's no fun
What has become
Of the girl she used to be
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 5:57 AM UTC
status binds us and we are
cutting off limbs with
flat head screwdrivers.
do you hide under the covers like i do?
does the Vicodin block the heat like your air
conditioner?
billiards and midnight jogs do
not swim like professionals do,
but they keep my memory from defaulting
to all the chairs you placed jeans or
leggings
or a hope for a swift removal of pain
inside of a safe with
fingertips stronger than narcotics.
a pass code for purpose is a pig in flight;
we have maps but we will not ever understand how to read them.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Raises his arms to shelter himself
From the cloudless sky
He ticks off seconds with the twitch of his left knee
And the jump of his unhinging jaw
He falls
He falls nowhere
But flat, back, motionless in his seat
Hands cocooning head like a heavy day’s work
And then digging up and pressing down
Trying to rid himself of the sounds
Which splice him like glass shards
Or screaming shrapnel
And mutilate
His view of a pretty English station
And a blue steam engine
Beaming like the moon for which it was named
04:18 and he sets himself straight
Like ***** shoelaces
Or cards on the mantelpiece
Winds a bit of string
Around his wedding finger
And croons
As a man inside a toddler
Re-wired refrains
Lick his lips like soup stains
*Pack up your troubles…
Long way to Tipperary…
In your old kit bag…
I wonder who’s…
My heart’s right there…
Kissing her now…
Smile, smile, smile…*
And from my compartment
I watch him fade like
An ink blot from a pillow case
While a boy who looks a lot like him
Turns with purposeful avoidance
And takes the opposite view
Of a pretty English station
He soothes the angry creases
Of his forehead
Of his uniform
And smiles
Smiles
Smiles
And mutters to himself
And they said it would be over by Christmas
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Jogs his knees
With the obligatory poppy
His mum pushed into the zip of his winter coat
Drooping like a hangnail
He is busied and hassled
By the phone in his palm
It plays an odd kind of game
Where those who die
Are allowed to come back
And press Retry
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
*sitting on park bench
she jogs
a smile
a burn in my brain
a strong breathe
little giddiness
took doctor appointment
he appreciated
for burning so much energy
understood
why people sit on....*
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 7:12 AM UTC
Sometimes people have urges.
To get rid of everyone in their life.
Sometimes those people deserve this.
And sometimes it isn't quite right.
The fact is you can not escape.
Every time something jogs your memory,
You want to jog away.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
FAMILY CIRCUS
Death defying lunch
life in a trapeze show gasp!
fights for ringmaster
PEANUTS
Child's play tricks we played
like pigpen we ***** love,
flights of red baron.
EXCERCISE
Samoan in jeans,
bids me a good morning smirk
chews gum as he jogs.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
he slow jogs on the white sand
parody of a boxer
dose little dance steps as if to avoid blows
the sweat from the fierce sun scatters like rain as he doges
side to side
his hands held at his chest
head held at low angle
were that he was a prize fighter
his life is the beach
with its own world that never sleeps
from lovers entwined in sand at three am
to the devoted worshippers following the sun
in her daily trek across the unblemished roof of the world
he touches pavement as dawn touches sky
and spends his day dancing the waves of sand
the tourists stop and stare
the natives frown
at night he sits under the
monotony noise of an antique fan
its fast ticking is soothing
in his aquamarine blue room
a chicken *** pie and the game on transistor radio
aint life grand he thinks to himself
he's one of the lucky ones
he is complete in his little world
the beach and its teeming life is his world
and he's happy there
i see him sunburned to a golden brown
dance jogging and boxing the air
unburdened by the weight of the world
happy in his blissful unawares
under the watchful gaze of miami beach highrises
to live with even a fraction of his inner peace
one would live a better life
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC
Hypocrisy murdered us.
And I clearly see why.
Some live full with ideals
that will soon be over fed.
So drink your caffeine, take your pills, and chug your beers.
Smoke your cigarettes, take your shots, and puff your joints.
Turning simple pleasures into ritualistic addiction.
So take your jogs, live in health, and make your money.
Act important, wear your trends, and get lost in your image.
Another ego gone in crowds of more egos.
I'm sorry to say your guilty of your own dismay.
Desires will consume the mind so select your path that you wish to pave.
You stress the mind.
Turning you back to mistakes made in honesty.
Wrongfully discrediting the character of my mind.
When I know to learn from the mishaps that time left behind.
I'm Regurgitating at the thoughts of that
bland existence, that could have been.
Zombily consuming, using, and losing my natural soul.
Almost forgetting who me really is.
I don't want your permanence
I don't need your blind mind.
Our minds do not mesh.
Our existences could not relate.
No stars were their to tell me that we were incomplete.
No sign told me things were not right.
My mind is all I need to know that my time is precious.
Experiences separating.
Taboos dividing.
Stubbornness multiplying.
Splitting your mind into fractions.
Leaving you to need more than a simple arithmetic to solve.
But the solution was obvious.
And we seemed to have solved it.
With a simple goodbye.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 1:33 AM UTC
I hope she body-checks your heart
And leaves you feeling broken
I hope she jogs a jaunty jig
Upon the remnants of your ego
Makes you feel confused and lost
And wondering where you can go
The answer is straight to hell.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
Nothing is more beautiful than sipping tea or coffee
While admiring lovely roses as they sprung into view
this beautiful June Morn
Or Even
hanging out on the boardwalk looking out to sea
Thinking of grandmother crockpot beer and beef stew
However, how can it be more memorable?
As old tires buried half way into the front lawn
Suddenly, you find yourself thinking about Dawn
Your classmates ...Cassidy and Tate
who recently passed on
Then you notice stifling weeds babies between the lilies
You bounces back when reality jogs your memory
The stifling **** suffocate the lilies
It’s a life lesson to learn from nature flowers
Unhappy raucous behavior every passing hour
through life little things
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
The wind winds up and smacks
the back side of a newspaper sheet
as it jogs along the gravel of the projects.
There is a cacophony of sounds
but always discernible is a baby's cry
and a young mother singing, ah, la-la, la-la
la-la
an aria.
Crystalline, tentative, sorrowful.
Where did her young man go?
Where do all the young men go?
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
She was only a kid, her
Sleeves always Rolled down
Its seems like a long time
Since her Dads been around
Moms drunk at her boyfriends,
showing up half the week
When she's home. she's always
screaming, her drunk Breath Reeks
She's afraid on the Pavement,
while she jogs down the street
With thugs selling crack on every
Corner, afraid who she'd meet
With all this Pain and Desolation
seem, to be on every side,
And her Life outta Control
Makes her wonder if she died
So she gets out the Razor Blade
and Rolls up a sleeve
And see's the map of her past
when the Hurt wouldn't Leave
The Blade Pierces the skin, And
the Red Snake proves she can bleed
Feeling the Pain is the only way
she knows she's Alive...
The Salvation she finds comes
from a Sharp Steel Knive
In this deep black whole,
its her only way to control
What a shame that its all
for this poor young Soul
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC