"jostles" poems
At a time when every movement
jostles my brain inside my head
and each sound ricochets off
the walls of my skull,
a few certain things are excepted:
The tone and flow of your voice
as you tell me you love me,
bringing comfort with words
when sounds are pain.
The rhythm of your heart
as I lay my head on your chest,
a beat I can succumb to,
and cease all thoughts.
The steady in and out
stream of breaths you take
that assure me you're here,
right where I need you most.
And the pressure of your arms,
wrapped tight around me
and hugging me close,
making me feel your love.
So I tilt my head up and say
"I love you,"
never having meant anything
so much as I do those words.
And I snuggle in even closer,
because I can't imagine
a place more perfect
than simply here with you.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
The withered gorse
gives a glint of her golden hue
amongst Winters cumular invitation,
whose ember leaves mire
neath the creaking boughs.
The forge in the village
with its hard working blacksmith
presides by mornings emerald gown
of aconites blithely swaying in the churchyard.
The dormant headlands'
silent yearnings jostles,
with the arcane wind ;
plying against the piebald sky,
whose tales refuse to ring hollow.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
it is difficult to write in a hammock
not to find the words
the words are children hiding
desperate to be sought
fickle wind jostles
ecstatic chimes
traffic sounds like the ocean
if you listen
and that smell
fresh rain,
grass
a barbecue ignited
this hammock holds my heart
it is my lotus
supporting me so that I may be
in the world, yet not of it
floating higher and higher—
glimpse her now before she is
but a speck in the sky
swaying, yet somehow perfectly still
tress rustle
leaves spackling the air, don't miss a spot
fill in the cracks
a raindrop kisses my lip
Welcome Home I've Missed You
if it weren't for the chill in my back
I'd stay here forever
no one wants the hammock
on this dreary afternoon—
lavender ice clouds
carved out with silver streaks, axel lift
you see, hammocks are not just
for sunny days
in fact, you won't learn a **** thing
from a hammock
on a sunny day
their secrets aren't safe
in the sun
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
The black mariah takes four to a side and it jostles my spine
The window is small so no light can force through so no one looking
In can look in and see you.
Got picked up again on bogus construction.
Going down to the castle for chaos and ruction.
Just cant seem to waylay my certain destruction.
So bad boy. Bad boy wacha gona do.
Wacha gonna do when they come for you.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
afternoon's glint on the mirror-pond,
a whirling specimen of fire,
ocher-speckled, Sun's insignia
vessels deep into the clammy water;
furiously swaying like a pinned down
beast reluctant to be held—
Makati traffic jostles the silent grieving
of the asphalt. simultaneous burst of
chrome on the metal bodies,
oh, the coming and going,
children laughing vibrantly without
memory of scathing pasts and
boorish origins— tossing coins
beckoning the heaven in pursed lips
and clenched fists tender with years
dwindling along with the turning of
the calendar's page, the sudden leap
of figure lamenting the absence
of language;
i walk the street festooned with dried
leaves and forlorn seasons,
hurling no amaranth to the entire
Makati cityscape.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
i remember again why i hate the summer as the jeep jostles on the bumpy dirt road to the river
my shorts ride up over my knees and i have to keep my hands splayed over my thighs so you won't see the godawful things i carved into them years ago
the music blares and skips like my heartbeat does when we hit a pothole and you go flying into me
you laugh, leaning against my shoulder like it's nothing to you
i laugh, the heat of the day creeping into my face because you're everything to me
i stammer out something dry and everyone laughs
you look at me, the glitter of the sun against the river quite clear in your eyes and in your smile
you tell me you smile with your eyes and i believe you
i adjust my sunglasses for the third time but by the time we arrive in a cloud of dust and laughter the sun is already behind the tree lined mountains
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
Broken girl
Folded over the curb
Neon pink wig
Halo on her head
Vomiting in the street
"Lose a contact?"
A smart *** says
Lost
She has lost more than that
Vodkas, beers, lemon drops
Spin her head
Completely around
Sea salt spray
Mists on her lips
Clears her mind
For a brief moment
Memories try to sneak back in
But the liquor swirls them away
********* on unsteady feet
Jostles her way
Back into the Riptide
Crowded with Halloween revelers
Sits, then slips off the
Retro bar stool
Asks for more punishment in a glass
Anything to make the pain push away
Even if just for a few hours
She's now had her fill
Halo a bit askew
Pink wig in place
Friends gather 'round
She's incapable of walking
Arms around each other
They make the long journey home
She gratefully passes out
On the cool, crisp sheets
Oblivious to the pain for several more hours
Avoided until she wakes up
To the cold, hard truth
There's no escaping it now
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
The city bus jostles down the street
On every other seat a *** rests
As I glance around I see shoes
Instead of bare feet.
As I glance around I see pants
Instead of shorts.
When I look down
I see my gladiators, fuchsia accented
When I look down
I see my ten piggies with coral paint
I ascend up to my loosely pleated
Polka-dotted, monochrome smock
Sliced in half by the strap of my
simple, salmon, cross-body satchel
Sitting ever so obediently at my hip
I reach to eliminate a treacherous itch
Feeling my perfectly formed pleat
A pleat adorned with a moss rose
Itching without disturbing a pleat
Is always a tricky task to undertake
I find myself asking if it's in my head
If it's floating through my mind
like the smoke of the mind altering substance
That floats through my brain
I glance around the stopped bus
No one is moving, we are stopped.
So why am I still jostling in my seat
Like the bus is jostling down the street?
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
jasmine jostles
leaves fold
I watch
steel and glass contain
assuaged by structure
the wind blows
but not here
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
The pressure builds and builds
until I've ballooned so big
that a piece of me jostles loose
and begins
floating
off.
I
leap
after it, aghast,
and clutch it firmly to my chest.
Only when I go to place it
back in its rightful spot
do I notice
other remnants gone
missing, floating
wayward.
Gasping, rushing to catch them
all before I'm completely lost,
I hurriedly put them back
and rush to grab more.
Only after securing the last piece
do I realize
that in my haphazard haste
I've put myself together
all wrong.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
I buy a shirt, a blue shirt, a button down.
I drink a glass of wine, a red, a Malbec.
And I watch.
I stand still in the midst
of the St. Cloud Market.
The crowd—that singular being—
jostles and jockeys and talks
in broken English.
I chew gum, cinnamon gum, Nicorette.
I feel my habit inverting, bending, becoming mechanical.
And I must flirt and be moral
with the shopkeeper who looks a little
like me.
And I must revert to an irrational, emotional,
childlike state as I buy three pirated DVDs.
The crowd forms a circle instinctually.
Three women dance slowly in the center.
Paper falls from the sky, newsprint, a day old.
Gunfire, the sound of it, its slowing of time.
No one says a thing
and no one's feet make a sound and
every child is perfectly behaved
for one relentless moment.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
steeping by my feet
blowing wind that jostles me
against my faded seat
worn gray knitted sweater
khaki shorts and cold green tea
lightning cracks and thunder drumrolls
rain tip-tapping on the screen
and sudden warmth
as his hand rests on mine
bare feet, cold iron,
lounging in the mist
with his fine, strong fingers
fumbling my hair into a twist
-10.05.13
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Cruisin' the highway of life
Nothing can get in my way
Radio up, tunes I adore
I couldn't ask for anything more
Suddenly, I start to swerve
Euphoric poison jostles my nerves
I'm losing control, and I can't feel
Somebody please take the wheel
It started as a bit of fun
The race unfinished I had won
Soon enough I'd sense false glory
Would I live to tell my story?
Somebody catch me, I'm falling
Harsh realities now appalling
Don't you know I could be bawling
Instead these words I'm duly scrawling
A million projects unfinished
Sense of time diminished
Sentiments overdue
Self-assuredness gone askew
Perhaps the most productive time
Still I would rather be just fine
Than pacing, racing, sleep deprived
Just glad I made it out alive
In the midst of all this rambling
I'm sure glad I'm not out gambling
Not for money, but survival
Bless my sanity's revival
First came the ocean's bottom
Next, the top of the world
Then, I was numb, dead
Now I am myself instead
At first it was a paradox
I couldn't understand
Drugs meant to resurrect me
Could render me so bland
But that was just a phase
The gilded Age was brief
Not long 'fore I could smell fresh air
Salt's not a stealthy thief
The seasons change
Friends come and go
But I outlast
And won't let go
To anyone who's in a bind
Keep fighting, see it through
There's sunshine once the clouds are gone
It's waiting there for you.
post nubila phoebus
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
Sidereal gaze enriches casual lays beneath the shimmering firmament
Glorified passions is the indignity of benighted scars and brandished armaments
Scour with the owls proctoring over the night for signs that penetrate the tight
That ooze new light and wage an epigamic fight
Temptress like a mainlined ecstasy enlivening a heightened empathy
Our love towers above suburban muses and urban ruses
It showers with meteoric power and consummate flowers that it chooses
The misfortune of star-crossed affections
Is the serendipity of empowering but inclement afflictions
Impenetrably vast like a cavernous space
To make us tremble in insignificance at the petty rats that race
Our lambent passions erupt with paroxysms immune to an unbuttoned snooze
Oneiromancy glistens with prophetic eternities dreamed awake with inordinate *****
Playful jostles and succulent pretended jilts lionize our blessed fates
We reckon with eternity by adducing modernity at its current rate
We disavow transient objections just like gravity impounds its own weight
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
In a busy street,
though familiar,
somehow seemed very strange,
in every sense,
where, in milling crowd,
each one pushes and jostles
to inch forward,
they came face to face;
different planes of time
seemed to collide, in one second,
was it deja vu strike
in the wrong way?
They both froze in their tracks,
"I am married" she whispered,
from a time in the past, it seemed.
As if his dream shattered
he felt a jab of pain in his heart,
brushing aside his sense of loss
he quickly asked
"With whom?"
as if the answer would change
something somewhere.
*A rush of guilt, quickly
took him over,
his voice like a cloud in the sky
dissolved in the cacophony of life-
went out of hand,
"Isn't it me?"*
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
In a half empty house, lying on a half empty bed,
I find that the half smoked cigarette, jostles for half an inch,
with half a smile that has crept onto my lips,
when with half the night gone, I realize that
more than half of my thoughts are about you.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
Every once in a while the sun stages an intervention;
Sunshine jostles its way through a crowd of raindrops, to find me.
Swathed in the golden glow of inspired light, I dance in the rain;
Safe in the knowledge that my bit of sunshine is lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump me.
In that moment of perfect light, thoughts explode into a million little pieces of scattered dreams, basking in the brilliant afterglow of sun kissed love.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
to feel the ocean move through you
swimming out
the strong rolls of breaking waves
jostle you about
and you can see the height
under the water
as they roll forth and past
and you bob
up
down
dive down
to where the water meets the
deteriorating sand
the line is blurry
as each wave
picks up each grain and
jostles it about
but if you dive down
the surface sway
doesn't affect your body as much
the world seems to drop away
and you are alone with your thoughts
and breath does not seem important because
it is all so still
you are still
swim up to the surface
and chaos begins
again
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
It is day in the night,
When the lights are kicked on,
On a hope filled night.
Ropes are pulled,
And pieces are moved,
Before the actors begin to prove,
That they are someone else to you.
The play flows effortlessly,
From scene to scene,
While the crew jostles,
To make it look good to you.
As the play starts to wind down,
The day starts to die,
As the lights slowly start to dim,
As the curtain closes,
On this glorious day.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Einstein-Rosen Bridge
"A wormhole can be visualized as a tunnel with two ends, each at separate points in spacetime (i.e., different locations and/or different points of time), or by a transcendental bijection of the spacetime continuum." -Wikipedia
UFO
A metallic or translucent disk with
little people, gray skin, large eyes
also translucent or ephemeral and
moving within a fixed space.
Ask yourself;
"What do people from the future look like?"
"What would someone see if they looked through the other end of your tunnel?"
Think about it;
"In the future our Sun becomes destabilized altering the physics of our local space therefore an Einstein-Rosen Bridge is possible once the star begins to collapse."
Our Sun is dying
We are studying the past...
not physically here,
craft move erratically
because they are not physical.
The other end of the bridge.
They are us.
The tunnel moves, jostles
as physics, space-time, change.
Who watches The Watchers?
Physical beings cannot
travel through time,
Can they see through it?
Can you?
You're traveling through time right now,
in your mind,
with your imagination.
What does the other end of your tunnel look like?
A
UFO
?
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
she jostles under the vine serpents,
knees scraping trees,
green light bending onto her skin.
she’s a dirt daughter
shoeless, careless
the breeze reinvents her smile.
she arrives
her toes press hard against the sidewalk,
and she takes a clinical step forward
her pale moon face
begged by the wilderness to return.
on the other side of the street he bursts from
the subway, his feet neatly clicking up
the stairs.
his briefcase swings
tightly on his hand
his dazed green eyes scurry across
tuesday’s bachelorettes
and they fall in love at least a dozen times.
he arrives
when they stumble into the same civilization
their eyes collide.
they could be blinded.
or they could catch it.
it would run under their skin
like voiceless hummingbirds
awakening their architecture
and electrocuting their blood.
yet love doesn’t just happen to
to the yin and the yang,
or the bird and the bee.
people aren’t perfect puzzle pieces.
love happens best to the disbelievers,
to the fighters, and the skeptics.
it happens to those who know that in order
to make a spark,
you need some friction.
it’s a howl of wind:
constant and spontaneous.
it can vanish and evolve:
always new.
it can braid lives together
like a man with green eyes
and a woman with a pale moon face.
maybe its all been done before.
but there’s something about the way
he juggles a sentence on his lips
and how her face rearranges into a smile
that seems new.
the story doesn’t always sound like this
but humans are like destinations
intersected and scattered
life comes and goes
and sometimes
Love arrives.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Her home of a tree,
She jostles down,
As if height were but a myth.
She hobbles up,
And greets my hand,
With kisses of a little black nose.
She rustles up to me,
Her soft fur comforting me,
As all of nature sways.
"I haven't seen you in ages" I say,
Feeling as though too many years,
Years have passed since I have seen her.
As I think about my time as a child,
Naive and dependent,
I think about my adulthood.
She makes no noise,
But the ruffles of her feet—
My smile hers as I brush her.
After all this time,
I feel differently about this place,
This changed, familiar place.
She is the sun of Nostalgia's light,
A memory of the past.
I reminisce about the fallen trees,
And wonder how long she has waited.
"I'm sorry I neglected you so long" I say to her,
"I simply had to grow up".
Her whiskers warmly tickled me,
Her thoughtless happiness saying,
"I forgive you" in some way.
I think about the stretches of time,
In which all has changed,
Yet I stand in the back of the mystifying yard,
A slice of altered past, long swept by the seas of time,
Where she affectionately acknowledges me.
As her soft, large, round, greyish, white-brown face,
Pushes against my ankles as I squat,
I forget the strain of my body's weight.
She lifts my spirit into the air,
Leaving behind my grounded form,
As we gaze at each other from eye to eye to eye to eye.
"Come back any time", she says,
"And I'll be here.
I'll never be lost to time".
I open my eyes, sitting amongst the grass of a lonely yard.
The encroaching forest chirps with lulled noises, as I look at my hand, extended for naught but the short stalks of green that rise from the ground.
I feel my adult self, my life, pouring through my head.
I know, from within the realm of my heart, I know that I can always return.
I can always return and feel her again.
Nostalgia.
© 2019 t.v. Amaryllis
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
Violent Death of shooting to death
by the official police in America
of one : Brown Mike, in Ferguson Missouri
is not mere case of another nigger dead,
it is impeachment on universal humanity
in its classically misplaced dint of evil racism,
as Ferguson jostles with all racist mighty
to shoot the poor folks out of America,
why poverty Irritates the Americans,
is a classic question devoid ready retort,
when its social policy is the ****** buttocks
from which the poor of Americas are sired,
don't **** the poor because they are poor,
give them frame work to move up,
as the poor will never go , whatsoever,
no force of ill will can remove the poor
from the elegant face of rich America,
shooting and shooting wont clear the beggars,
pan handlers or whatsoever the wretchedness
from the wallowing mire of American democracy,
Give the poor a chance to leave
their time for succour will come perhaps
not obviously from American governance
but God of the poor has time for all of us.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Flickering like a tentative alpenglow corraded from profaned time
A whisper jostles through a crowded rumpus prescient of teleology and design
Jolting with pangs of panic a screech emanates from the brontides of tomorrow
A chagrin outpaces the gingerly apprehension of a peevish sorrow
Among the ruffled plumes quaffed from pedigree and put to disuse
A banausic electricity galvanizes the ****** of the amalgamated acuity pinched from the sordid, the obtuse
Refracted like off a darkened moon that clenches the darkness in an abstruse tomb
Combs through sentience of Saturn presiding over ineluctable doom
A silence louder than a plangent ****** of phantasmagoria debased
A looming victor erodes with the putrefaction of sworn and utter distaste
How to obtrude on the evening with triaged fulmination
Is an affront to the rudders of a piecemeal civilization in tatters with exacting doddering calculation
Graveyards bustle with the eidolons of scurrilous spite
Congregating around a blackened epitaph on an alabaster palace gilded in the swanky pinnacle of light
Scuttling the outmoded flanks of an abortive war
Against a henchman of state too ostentatious to hardly ever ignore
We clamber with insistence hoping on fortuitous deliverance
Yet we are deranged of the clasped distance between the crevasse of the clerisy and the satisdiction of futures passed with meticulous diligence
Absconding with furtive furrows on a wizened guild an entrusted world we helped build
We witness the silence creep over us like a trepidation contained as lethal killers of the cartel willed
That which frightens a self-fulfillment is a fatalism gone awry
Someday soon omens excavated from immolated tombs will beseech a more universal backlash, an alienated sorrow that will one day cry
But until that fetched disaster occurs
Let us meditate only on the process of emanation among wayward words
That dance with a destiny that the hegemony of momentary circumstance much prefers
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC