"jostling" poems
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
stars and the Humorous
moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
your voice
84.3k
My feet sweat, my shoulders burn
But I am indifferent.
Nature plays around me.
Close your eyes. The last thing you see
is a white butterfly dance past the tree-line
into oblivion blue.
Bush leaves crackle above you in branches
and below you, let loose through brittle grass.
A light wind conducts a symphony in which
Each shrub plays a part.
Each dry branch, kindling ready to explode,
Itching to snap its dangerously perfect note.
Thorns whistle sharply - reeds hiss and hum.
Every breeze is a clown, taking up instruments
And jostling melodies to play all at once.
The grass rushes to its queue, dry as a bone.
Leaves follow behind in vague harmonies.
I wait on the edge of an eventful storm.
The sky is blue.
A storm of events - something big,
Behind the horizon, behind the mirage.
A rhino.
A microlite .
Electric fences, purring.
A wan nation celebrates, then groans behind the hills.
Natures orchestra sings to no one in particular
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
buzzzzzzz
The bus engine idles
Intensifying the hammering of little gnomes
On my skull
Their tin mallets **** dinking* incessantly
Throbbing
Painful numb as waves crash to escape
The confines of my head
A small clownfish throwing his tiny body
Against the walls again
And again
And again
ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump
The bus hits three large bumps in a row
Jostling and jolting me into excruciating confusion
So tired and so alert
Drifting off to consciousness
I have got to escape this headache...
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
in imperfect creases on fabric of time
like colours jostling about in a kaleidoscope
and in eyes of seamless auroras
we all long to be freely blooming dandelions
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
I like it here.
Damp air clinging to my skin, clinging to my clothes,
Grey skies laughing at pewter water,
Wind tossed seagulls reeling passed
Individual calls demanding attention; their joint voice hushing into the soundtrack of this place.
Buildings cluttered together for protection from blasting winter gales,
Yet all jostling for a glimpse of the harbour.
Guess in their own sleepy ways they like the thrill of danger.
Their red tiles roofs so reminiscent of Mediterranean towns,
But inescapably speak of home.
People traipse past, creating the shifting landscape of this place.
Their own lives and concerns mingling to create a vast sea of humanity,
Mirrored by the roiling sea...
Just beyond the safety of
This harbour.
This bench.
This packet of vinegar soaked chips.
I'm glad it's you here with me
Glad I can feel your soul soar with mine at the salty air and eroded stone.
Beside me
Hunched into your coat
Gazing out.
We don't touch
But I feel you there
With me.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Today my long tall tulip fell
His pearl-pink bulb had dared to swell
But blushen hung now like a bell
His slim and slender stem once towering
Arced to earth with posture cowering
Burdened by his glory flowering
How quickly he had seemed to climb
To bask in sudden sunlit prime
The longest flower, the shortest time
His adolescent orb once closed
With youthful promise, then exposed
More beauty than we all supposed
And eager straight he stretched to see
The furtive squirrels’ revelry
And blue jays jostling high in tree
His handsome head became a hand
Outstretched to welcome wide and grand
We who’d pale beside him stand
But now his palm points to the ground
Where loyal subjects once were found
A fallen king with withering crown
I saw you flower – be sure of this
Your scented cheeks I bent to kiss
Nor did a day of beauty miss
Though brief your waxing and your wane
Your colours left the purest stain
That in my mind’s eye does remain
In all the world where flowers grow
We sallow souls rush to and fro
Preoccupied, we miss the show
But when we pause to smell the blooms
Held captive by arresting plumes
Forget the sundry that consumes
Thus precious harried minutes take
Our reverie to gaily break
I noticed you -- make no mistake
I studied you that rare of gift
You gave my care-worn spirit lift
Then cut its soaring hopes adrift
Today my long tall tulip fell
Surrendering to Nature’s knell
And left us where he deigned to dwell
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
Your birthday is soon
The air is ashen
Scented with burning leaves
I ride this shaking yellow chariot without you
Passing yellow-green crops and empty ditches
It’s rather lonely, really
You’ve finally gotten a car
Though you don’t like it all too well
It’s old and used
But there's no need to worry
It will take you where you need to go
Your birthday is soon
You’ll be an adult
If you could truly call eighteen years an adult
But I’m proud of you
You’ve grown so much
Even taller than me, now
Maybe someday, you’ll love yourself as much as I love you
I wish I could do the same for myself
Soon, it will be my birthday as well
I’ll be an adult
But you know I’m still a child
Small inside and immature
Thinking about the childhood ripped away from you
Of laughter and joyous grins
The large hands of a father that gently grip little fingers
The one we both deserved
Your birthday is soon
And we’re almost off to college
And though you don’t believe you have a future
I know you do
With your graphite-stained palms
You manifest entirely new worlds
I find it beautiful
And you take yourself for granted
Your birthday is soon
And as I write these words
This terrible jostling machine slows to a stop
Peeling my body from navy leather seats
I dig out my keys
I will head home
Just like I always have
Sep 7, 2022
Sep 7, 2022 at 1:47 PM UTC
For at least a week now,
shrivelled leaf-like globes
of heliotrope and platinum,
umbilical cords
caught on the top
of a lamppost's ***** finger,
jostling, huddled together
in the breeze
like players in a scrum.
I go past on the top deck,
see those wrinkled baubles
skirmish, wish to leave
and drift in mist
before rasping
with a whimper,
an out-of-breath splat
of colour caught
in some tree.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking
Towards the horrible world:
Let us say 0 poor people
How can they help being so absurd,
Misguided, abused, misled?
With unsifted saving graces jostling about
On a mucky medley of needs,
Like love-lit ****
Year after cyclic year
The unidentifiable flying god is missed.
Emotions sit in their heads disguised as judges,
Or are twisted to look like mathematical formulae,
And only a scarce god-given scientist notices
His trembling lip melting the heart of the rat.
Whoever gave us the idea somebody loved us?
Far in our wounded depths faint memories cry,
A vision flickers below subliminally
But immanence looms unbearably: TURN IT OFF! they hiss.
2.9k
Walking the strip
As though I were a pinball
In a giant arcade game.
Showgirls posing,
Gamblers jostling
With over-sized flasks
Hanging around their necks.
The streets are festooned
With picture cards,
As numerous as confetti,
Advertising all the pleasures
And prices of escorts.
Vegas, Baby?
Keep it there,
Not here.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Somewhere between the dream of what it could be
and what it wanted to be, this poem hightailed it
out of town. Down the road it went, careening into
hedgerows, jostling small birds from their resting
time. Running for all it's worth, out to the sea cliffs
then arrested, stock still, before all that immensity.
Chagrined by such a rash attempt at escape, even
blushing a bit, it wondered about strange things:
What would it be like to be a badger? To always be
dressed in all those lovely stripes? To never have bad
wardrobe days? Or what about an otter, with such
strong muscles, and an utter delight for swimming?
To never really feel the cold? These are the things a
poem can wonder about, when it isn't quite sure, just
right then, in the present moment, how to be a poem.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
London,
Beating heart of England,
Charismatic time-capsule thrumming to its own rhythm,
History looming, akin to massive waves splashing down,
Drenching all, the unwary, the scholar, soaking it up,
Savouring every scintillating droplet, blissful, hopeful,
Weaving through lives, changing with every moment,
Variety of race and creed, intermingling, jostling, noticing,
Sharing sight, sound, colour, scents, smiles and frowns,
Pulsing soul of people, thriving and alive, buzzing with spirit,
In Camden, easy-going, a friendly riot of textured-hazy-peace,
Artful structures of Belgravia, magnolia temples of affluence,
Lauding architectural finery while mere mortals pass through,
Mind swinging through centuries, flowing along the river artery,
Bridges carrying us home, keeping their own dark secrets,
Cranes rising high, creating modern palaces, new beginnings,
Old lives wreathed in the foggy past of legendry deeds,
Embellished beyond reality, ghosts crying out, warning,
We can never own this city, never know this city, not really,
Guardian dragon allows us entrance, pours herself upon us,
Takes our love, progresses while we observe,
All left behind, knowing, feeling, sensing,
We are but shadows in her Light,
Dust on her famous streets,
Blessed to know her,
To breathe her,
Love her,
London.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
GHETTO GOSPLE.
You aren't born to please anyone, neither accepted by everybody.
But your purpose is to make sure you live good making better thangs, making thangs better.
Spreading love across to each and every one wisely. You're born to rule not ruled. Everyone is meant to live fee free. But it takes bravery to make a living, on the field of struggle, busting and jostling, in search for fortune, get yours, I'd get mine. living in dreams,
getting goals accomplished unyielding. Thinking of living again tomorrow,
when we hadn't none reaped ou'ta momentum. Is there future promised to us at all.?
When we had spent perhaps even the half of our lifetime , achieving nothang.
Stagnated, disdained, and denounced crazy sage, labeled mad. Does it not mean we were plagued? God forbid! Sango in the altar.
History's mystery new testament era. Jesus is Lord a slain Saint sent from above.
Make a melody 🎶 sing to the world, lengthening fasting season.
Faithful journey along with Supreme omniscient ghost. Awe! - C9fm
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 7:40 PM UTC
Stars jostling whatever wishes
Nets cast upon heedless fishes
To do or not to do the dishes
Just is what is all this show biz
Putting flowers in a vase
Something that might give you pause
All that is and ever was
Much to much such harm caused
To be still and to never utter
Chrysalis' desire to ever flutter
Simple wanting and none the other
Bind a dream and watch it smother
How should Spring be so cruel?
Fledgling discarded as a fool
Not all adhere to golden rule
Who'll you'll find inferior saccule?
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
There's some sort of magic between the eyes of a resting jaguar. Their languid yawn, opening the gaping maw that lies between their strong teeth, more energetic than their tired paws.
Still and regal, wearing muscles like fine silks, their fur like that final kingly cape and their ears their crown.
A zoo jaguar once met my eyes and in a deadlocked stare, saw the camera in my hands, and turned his head to pose. A prince always knows when to please his peasantry. As a pleased peasant, I snapped pictures and nearly cried at his serene posture behind a wall of glass. There was some sort of uncharted beauty in the way he spoke without words oversaturating his meanings. It was a way I wished to speak. He was a comrade behind glass, silent yet observant and knowing. Though my head might be a good fit for a maw, I nearly wanted to keep him close company.
The dark spots that adorn his body are the only betrayers of the fierce undertones of his monarchy. Well, except for the teeth, of course.
Though I try to unlock my gaze and detach from the gossamer threads that were beginning to tie, the jaguar eyes and jaguar prince incessantly seep into my brain, for when I close my eyes all I can see is theirs staring back at me. All I want is just one hand, a single touch, a gift to feel their crowns and robes, to experience the powerful royalty beneath their quiet eyes, even if being taken by their maw may end up being the price.
My affection becomes jarred by the human hand jostling my wrist, and I blink for the first time since seeing the posing feline prince. My head turns, trance averted, and I'm looked at with perplexion as my body has sidled up to the glass, and the Jaguar, now alert, is swinging its tail and staring in wonderment at me.
My eyes magnetize back to their rightful place, his green eyes on my green eyes, and I wonder what lives we would live like if I could see into his mind and know what's he's like. Perhaps we would be friends, or family, or hunters, or partners, in that other life.
Or, perhaps he'd want to eat me nonetheless.
One more camera shot of my jaguar prince, and a silent nod as he situates himself back to his pose. Restful, regal, serene. Turning away, I feel myself leave a part of me that always stays with him and taking that part of him that stays with me.
Every wild eye does, and our secret we will keep.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
Antsy aardvarks all
accept ants accordingly
as an addiction
Bamboo bayonets
bought by barbaric, beastly
barons bite beatniks
Cloistered cobblers can
color candy-cane conches
concealing crooners
Daffodils doodle
daydreams down, debauchery
demons deafening
Every eon each
electric elephant eats
eleven elk eggs
For fun fantasies
file films filosophic'ly
filling filaments
Go get greens
Get grass grayer gal
goonie ghoul
Hello high hammock
how hooligans heave haddocks
heathenly hecklers
Igloos ixist in
icy islands interning
internationally
Jello jam jizzy
Jacks jostling jewels juney
jump jump joop jail
Dec 27, 2009
Dec 27, 2009 at 9:11 PM UTC
The city falls away, gray, as I rise,
my ladies cozy in the glass lift – to seven.
Ten to four. Spot on. No need to worry.
You’d think it were High Tea – be late; no break.
Between five and six, the blasted thing stops!
Me, stuck in a fog, with the Barrister’s waiting.
Before they moved in, taking up all of seven,
I stayed in the mezz., tipping my ladies to the cups.
The lift jolts, jostling the ladies, rattling their tops.
I move out; cups, cakes and savories in rows, like ducks.
“English Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earle Gray”, I say,
wishing the solicitors away, in court today.
A pinched-face woman, aghast at her clocks, rushes in.
I made inquiries today; for the lease of a storefront next door.
Lin Cava ©
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 3:55 PM UTC
deepest length, a truncated obesity, abruptly gradual: a stem pops gently to present colors damp. a pavilion of ugly columns, the streets a budding promise; akimboing in gross pleasure. and the jostling laughter of serious music says to languor apathy a locomotive steeply belching roses.
. .
?
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 11:32 AM UTC
Shouldering the Load by Himself seemed like toil that He could Easily accomplish. However, The Assignment required at least a Minimum load of that which was EQUAL to One's Body weight! ! " But Child's-Play" He thought, "I can carry my Own Quite Easily ! So,__He signed All the required documents , Applied his Fingerprints in the Appropriate Places, Affixed His Seal and took the Pledge. He then, went over to Stand in the Waiting line for His turn to come ~~ While waiting in Line, it gave Him the Perfect opportunity to Totally review the Upcoming Event ! With Heated Anticipation, WAS how He would LATER describe it ! Just Imagine, To carry the Assigned Load "All by Himself". Should He first Squat with back ***** to get a Better Grip? Should He First put one knee on the ground in front of Him, OR, His foot only, so as to better Stable the Load? He was Really looking forward to this New Adventure, "W O W ", Shouldering the Load ALL by Himself ! This is NEATER than he could ever begin to Imagine. "GEE" He had already moved Up twenty spaces, He MUST be getting Close! Everyone was so Courteous , Absolutely NO Jostling was occurring in the Line. This was,he thought " YEAH, it really was Very Neat!" Maybe, Just Maybe in Attempting his First lift, His feet should be Directly Under His Shoulders ! *Made Sense !~~ The Assignment was to "Shoulder A Load ". Even if He backed under it, His feet could be Directly beneath His Shoulders, That too should Work ! The ULTIMATE Goal could be Achieved, BY GOSH, He could do it ! ! What an Opportunity , He continued to Ponder, as He Moved up another Twenty Spaces. ALL He had to do, was to Shoulder His Own weight ! ALL the Paper work had been put into Action, All the the Necessary Preambles, Done and finished. ALL He had to do WAS, Take On the Task. GEE=Whiz how exciting,,,He was NOW Next in Line! " I, AM NEXT , Good golly Miss Molly, " I AM NEXT" ! As He saw the Task Before Him, A Tugging from His Heart went out for those Behind Him, As the tear formed in His Eye , Should *He-Stay" and help His Friends "SHOULDER A LOAD " .......
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 7:03 AM UTC
**Just one touch as He moves along,
Pushed and pressed by the jostling throng,
Just one touch and the weak are strong,
Cured by the Healer divine.
Just one touch as the He passes by,
He will list to the faintest cry,
Come and be saved while the Lord is nigh,
Christ is the Healer divine.
Just one touch and He makes me whole,
Speaks sweet peace to my sin sick soul,
At His feet all my burdens roll,
Cured by the Healer divine.
Just one touch and the work is done,
I am saved by the blessed Son,
I will sing while the ages run,
Cured by the Healer divine.
Just one touch and He turns to me,
O, the love in His eyes I see,
I am His for He hears my plea,
Cured by the Healer divine.
Just one touch by the Saviour great,
He will hear thee, upon Him wait,
Own your guilt and your sins forsake,
Cured by the Healer divine.
Just one touch by His mighty power,
He can heal thee this very hour;
Give sweet peace , though the tempests low'r,
Cured by the Healer divine.**
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
.
I am the one who walks at the edge of the herd
noting and observing the crush.
The jostling and positioning, and re-positioning.
I see, I watch. As the participants dance,
desperately seeking to be sorted, boxed, stamped and labelled.
The reject of the herd, I document.
I can paint a flowery picture.
I can write an apocalypse.
But its not like that, its not black and white.
Its complex. And it is moving.
Constantly. The only true organised motion.
Infinite individual minds, racing.
Racing towards oblivion
carried by the herd.
The weak, trampled; helping elevate the strong.
The strong, elevated; trampling down the weak.
The battle for posture.
The psychology of a single entity
split, schizophrenically, amongst the countless.
The herd travels as one. Inexorably.
United and scattered, evolution incarnate.
I see the hate, the love, the conflicts within.
I see the pain and misery.
There is danger here, on the edge.
I am the one who walks apart from the herd,
finding my own path.
©Pagan Paul (20/06/16)
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
All the glitter and the baubles and the fake razzamataz,
Forced jollity and bonhomie berating me by turns;
The jostling and shoving in the shops and all that jazz,
The same unwanted present where the giver never learns;
And I will dream of summer, tidal ripples in the sand
An evening's float of thistledown adrift in hazy sky
The small face of a daisy, lying cool against my hand
The vast coastal horizon, where the seagulls swoop and fly.
You can keep your holly wreaths mourning your lack of taste
You can keep Sir Clifford, all the mistletoe and wine
You can stuff the turkey, lay the hangover to waste,
You can keep your sentimental dreams, leave me to mine...
Just let me dream of summer, how I miss its warming light;
The soothing breath of lavender, the grass beneath my feet;
The bright palette of verdant greens, the shorter hours of night;
I'll deck the halls with roses, daffodils and meadowsweet.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 3:51 AM UTC
I am from a rooftop garden
That smell like fresh guavas
And hard, wired fences
Behind which lies a foggy skyline
A dreaming city
I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed
Tucked between rural green fields
Where two little girls defended the world from evil by
Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set
I am from a row of townhouses
Where no matter how late the return
Warm lights inside glow
Beckoning
I am from strong rocks
Against which foamy, icy waves crash
Leaving behind grass
Soft to touch
And hard to uproot
I am from eating overdone fried chicken
From short-lived patience
From a voicemail
That will always say
From Lucy, Tulu and Samah
From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests
And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.
From too many whys
And not enough faith
I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh
From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside
I am from Limerick, Ireland.
From rustic houses and quaint parishes
I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From suburbia and inane boredom
From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends,
The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan
I am from feeling sad if you do
But wanting to make you laugh anyway
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
Jostling with the plate leaves,
old plastic bags, empty
cigarette packs, chocolate wraps,
and late evening light
breaking apart on mellow waves,
this lone lily smiling
like a street kid, a slum urchin.
The wonder banyan that has
roots everywhere; the yonder
village, morning mists, distant
playgrounds, idling cattle,
all gone but in paintings now,
and the latest specimen perching
by the vestiges of a once-lake.
Out in the park, with old
plastic bottles, cold coca cans,
well-grown weeds, pigeon
crusted icons, rusticated chairs,
and torn billboards for
company: time out in nature,
manicured to industrial glory.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
gritty electric pulse,
trench-veins, headaches
grime and polished wood,
scuffed shoes jostling,
sweet honey whiskey, **** that
i want pain. give me burns
under my pulse and i smile
and sit
by the window,
take a cab home
in lucid stupefaction
her legs draped
on my lap,
and we laugh
and laugh and laugh
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC