"jots" poems
I feel a little confused
Like I have something to figure out
A little twisted up and chewed
My mind is racing on doubt.
I'm trying to put my thoughts
Into words in this writing
My hand it jots
The nails on my fingers I am biting.
It's hard to say how I feel
But I definitely know that I am feeling
Everything inside is real
I just have to find it by peeling.
My skin it itches from nerves
I look sallow and wrecked
I've stretched myself thin and over all the curves
I can no longer object.
I had to cry today
Because I drove myself up a wall
Repressing things I've wanted to say
Has somehow made the mountain I have, to climb, very tall.
It's not like my problems are anything important
But I guess they tend to wear me ragged
It's sometimes because I can be expectant
Of people and things that are jagged.
I have some things I still need to learn
But I'd rather be learning then at a stop
Like how not to expect and sometimes not to yearn
And when to skip, rather than to hop.
I try to keep my heart open wide
But that leaves it to be bruised
I have to let some things subside
And not let myself feel used.
I'll learn to be compassionate
But still protect myself
Though somehow I feel like I'm in debt
To all the dolls on the shelf.
I conclude this work of emotion
Still upside down and withered
At least I've crossed further, the ocean
But I have yet to meet the blizzard.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
Goodbye , . . .
Yes goodbye . . .
(Blah , blah , blah)
In the shortness of his breath
All desperation was taking place
I walk off
Looking at the far off , into space
The game is over
Nobody . . . no one
Scored and won
We all lost . . .
The then ,
In a notebook
While sitting on the park bench
Where he once was
A poet king
The old man jots down
(A poem about lost youth
Past days and dreams of
better days to come)
Meanwhile . . .
The sun crossed the sky
East to West
And the day was never seen
Or heard from again
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
296
One Year ago—jots what?
God—spell the word! I—can’t—
Was’t Grace? Not that—
Was’t Glory? That—will do—
Spell slower—Glory—
Such Anniversary shall be—
Sometimes—not often—in Eternity—
When farther Parted, than the Common Woe—
Look—feed upon each other’s faces—so—
In doubtful meal, if it be possible
Their Banquet’s true—
I tasted—careless—then—
I did not know the Wine
Came once a World—Did you?
Oh, had you told me so—
This Thirst would blister—easier—now—
You said it hurt you—most—
Mine—was an Acorn’s Breast—
And could not know how fondness grew
In Shaggier Vest—
Perhaps—I couldn’t—
But, had you looked in—
A Giant—eye to eye with you, had been—
No Acorn—then—
So—Twelve months ago—
We breathed—
Then dropped the Air—
Which bore it best?
Was this—the patientest—
Because it was a Child, you know—
And could not value—Air?
If to be “Elder”—mean most pain—
I’m old enough, today, I’m certain—then—
As old as thee—how soon?
One—Birthday more—or Ten?
Let me—choose!
Ah, Sir, None!
3.2k
Half of a stale croissant,
A cupcake with no icing,
Partially consumed slice of cold pizza,
A special computer file,
Called old and cold,
Some files nothing more
Than titles on a snowy screen.
A smorgasbord of delicacies,
A mason jar with a lidded hole
To keep the prisoners alive but in,
The insides of my refrigerator brain.
Where the partial poem pastries reside.
Some jots and dashes get microwaved,
Served up instantly, hot n' piping,
Read me read me now for I am
Ready to be served.
Ah, the others, miserable creatures in a
Special Victims Unit,
In a ward where the doctor has no more
Release forms to sign,
Dream on, awaiting a super nova,
A comet tail, a torn screen window corner,
To engineer an escape.
Kitty, my kitty,
Give me your tired, poor scraps of prose
Yearning to be free,
I have a place for them, where
They will reside unhappy, but free,
In good company,
Waiting for the day they get to see the
Statue of Liberty.
Until that day, when,
Your happy love poems yearning to be whole,
Say, "now I have the ending,"
To let them breathe...
Now I have the closure,
That is the opening,
I will guard them closely,
As if they were fragments of mine own
Blood, sweat and tears.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓
Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.
Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.
Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.
Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.
A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.
If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.
Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.
Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.
Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).
Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch
compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.
(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”, since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)
Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
I am writing a new story,
but don't look here for the narrative,
because
I am not writing it with these words you think you are reading,
or the patience that I have found.
I am penning this new manuscript,
and all the illuminating circumstances that make those reading
wish they were the characters in the joy-tear-jerking plot,
the parts everyone passes eyes over in order
to make their own lives richer...
I am scribing my way through to the end
not with words, letters, jots, tittles,
but with
actions.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
I hover over your words
not for perfections.
*don't paint me an azure sky
cotton clouds
a field of sunflower
gold crests of afternoon waves
dark labyrinths
inner demons
or even angel faeries*
for my life of half drawn images
half digested joys
faintly lit phantoms
rough edge
rugged walkway
write me out
a flawed poem
imperfected to the hilt
no structure
no style
wild jots of your thoughts
just like you and me
flawed but heavenly!
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Joseph's sons are still in Egypt
All is not fulfilled as yet
The elder child, Manasseh
calls himself a Christian these days
and still seems mightier than Ephraim
as foreseen by Israel
but has this small problem
keeping Father's commandments
having been suckled on
papal leaven
with that false gospel
girlfriend he likes to call
prosperity ...
I'd rather remain a gentile, thanks
Invite me to the wedding
I'll come visit every Sukkot
He really needs his younger brother
to come of age and stop fussing ...
to stop copy-catting Judah
and feed Yeshua's lost sheep
from that double redeemer's portion
Jacob blessed him with ...
that which speaks of BenDavid
and the keeping of true Torah
which is the tittles and jots
'Jesus' said would remain
a blessing till all is fulfilled
till His Torah shines forth from Zion
once again
Jealous Judah awaits him too
Prays each day the prodigal will come home
and tell him who Meshiach is
There really are no Gentiles or Greeks
except in diaspora
No, not even Jesus freaks
Just a faithful, obedient remnant
in Jacob's trouble
going to the promised land
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:38 PM UTC
The shadows get frighteningly long,
he watches in silence like a painter
whose mixed up colors in the palette
are found to be of no use, the pictures
are muddled by inept handling of colors.
once colorful skyline is suddenly
pecked in to pieces by winds,
the belligerent evening birds in discord;
the child playing in the park now gives up
her carefully structured house,
receiving cues from swarms of darkness,
looks at her mother as if she isn't interested,
anymore, as if feeling the encroaching loneliness.
"Evening is a spoiler of beautiful things"
he jots down on the page of the day in his mind
"it's enticing beauty is just a masquerade"
a truth he would vouch as a fact of life.
It's time to be back home, the dusk falls
holding mom's finger she goes
back to the lighted space of warmth
that has an assurance of kiss any moment,
on his way she sends a smile, just a stranger
till two days before, as if saying "See you tomorrow"
this little one is a fresh guest of breeze
a pure blessing, sunshine rare in winter.
This rusted garden bench knows him well,
the fragrance of mango blossoms from a land distant
in a season long past still spreads the scent of musk
touches somewhere deep, brings
memories from a land so far, a land where
evenings were spent under the shades of mango trees
in exhilaration, awaiting the mango fruit season.
A change in the lighting of sky overturns everything.
time administers it's hidden poison drop by drop,
the memories of an evening from afar asks in a feeble voice
"Will the child come to the park to play tomorrow again?"
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
Or afterlife I can't remember
*Let's take a trip
Just go for a stroll
Down this hellhole
Old ravaged soul
Fear not my friend,
For lo and behold
You've been here before
Time after time,
Spent breaking the mold
Value of life cajoled
Blindfolded by fool's gold
Then a jolt
of electricity
jots down your spinal chord
Now you're on the threshold
About to enter a portal of some sorts,
No?
Only to discover
You're living the life of another
And the sum of every misgiving
makes you suffer in discomfort
Living the dream
To wake and repeat
Routinely existing
One day at a time
Feel it yes shudder
Over your head pull the covers
Dream of a place elsewhere
But beware your worst nightmares
As a slaughter is awakening
Pharm entrapment for mass brainwashing
It's one global chess-game
While pawns are laid to waste
Archons duplicate an assumed fate
Deception whispers into the hearts of the wicked
For certain they're rendered
by men lurking
shadily behind curtains unspoken of
I'm ashamed
Prayers fall on deaf ears
when a reckoning is ravenous
Assuredly glimmering in extravagance
Whilst you traipse about like savages
Poisoning our brains
Tainting the terrain
Reign supreme putrid filth
For bloodstained money &
Squandered wealth
Lengthening our debts
Molesting children
Who'd like to place their highest bet?
Just stay conditioned
For the daily grind
The hustle and bustle
Stick with consistence
And reminisce of better times
You're dead inside
Is the end just contingent?
Why won't society just crumble
Keep living the lie
Greener pastures
lay just beyond the hillside
Am I right?*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Left out,
a foreigner at home,
and back home a foreigner,
friendless in the company of many,
fulfilled in the company of myself,
writing pad on knee,
the pencil involuntarily jots,
randomness to paper,
I think I’m a poet,
an endangered species,
a typewriter amidst laptops.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
A deterioration of thought
As time progresses
Words turn to scribbles
Jots, lines, scratches
Knowledge hides away
Between the ink blots and
The misspelled words
Nonsensical terms
Incoherent definitions
Nothing makes sense
But simplicity shines through
Common sense saves the day
What is common about it
Questions
Is it shared
Question
Common sense
Common knowledge
Common non-existent thoughts
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
The cracks in the tile, the foam
on the glass, coalescing iotas,
joined jots, and I see your face.
Mis-en-scenes of sweat, alone
in my room at morning, the
second time I've seen your face
today, and I want to leave some
on my chest.
This is for you. This is for you
And it's all I'll ever be.
So have me taste you - and
consume me. And glut over the
sinewy linings of my edges. Let
moments on the insidde of my
eyes. Show me.
So have me feel you - and splinter
me. And love me til I shatter.
Let me watch, as hands that smell
of honesty and your roughness
press knuckles into my thighs
and bruise them. Show me.
So have me worship you - and
condemn me...
Have me a heresiarch of human
days. Grand me an opprobrium
from sense. Let the scars
that I be you to place upon
me never fade back into the
ideas of my flesh.
Show me, and please, show me
that I'll see your face not
only in the small, but in the
larger death for want.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
I gazed at the moon that night
My eyes looked on at that light
A welcoming shine was that sight
The urge to keep staring I tried to fight
Would I miss such beauty of creation?
Not my own wandering sense of imagination
Can create such enchanting beautification
I laughed at my own artistic limitation
Look! There comes those twinkling dots
Little, but amazing in all sorts
They fill my lingering turbulent thoughts
And tales of theirs I write in jots
Darkness engulfs the vast land
Nighttime brings down its hand
The beauties rise in their lovely band
All made and placed by the Creator's hand
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
In my room by old window,
As turn lights are dimmed,
The face of new shy moon
Presents a dream genuine,
Simply the light of my love,
As you haunt me enthralled
I hear the sweet doves coo,
In the morning stillness call,
Your photo beams a shout,
As it whispers from my wall,
Silent, as the sun lights out,
Under the moon at nightfall.
Memories swirl in my diary,
I remake what has now fled,
What simple pleasures cry,
In jots for moony tears shed,
Window to worlds now sad,
In faintest light beyond true,
My black haired, lovely lad,
I will always remember you.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
Tenderly, sympathy, each stroke of the pen
Tears in her penmanship, writing again
Tragedy entangling beautiful stories
Fallen angel jots down faded history
Slicing apart dreams with which she's well-acquainted
Sweat and blood compose the pictures she's painted
Frail in her beauty, so silently she writes
As pen presses to paper deep within the night
Starving eyes met and stirred conflicted hearts
Realizing the pain and sorrow that flows into her art
And on they read until she transfers tears into our eyes
As she whispers such tragedies, a goodnight and goodbye
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
My hand rests here upon this blank form
the pen nuzzled, cozy and warm between index and thumb
and I but await, the form that it should bear
The little para-sail of thought that swiftly entails
By draft of conscious reason the play, the lines
That shall stem and grow upon this paper.
Sometimes, I am not here at all
It's like a vagrant character takes hold this form
and drifts the banks of faded memories to etch but theirs to mine
Till ink flows like a non stopping spicket, pouring out
Soon digested to the whole phenomena I lay blank
Like pagess upon which the words desire to embrace.
Little child like figures wave between the interplay
This game of margins and thought, marbles clutter
where the revenue of the flow but draws
Upon these hopscotch and I caught the weasels
momentum springs but it's eternal sight
to peer over and across the facade of time
And jots a line or two of verse.
Here, Aye here is the bereavement of the writer
who's image fades to the mighty word
and pounds ever so deeply the elemental cries
That reason holds no power here.
I chuckle at the notion that ever befalls
some faded harmony of a promised bliss
that vanishes amidst the shadows of night
To leave but it's haunting cry.
There I peer down the lane of the centuries
Those famous writers and scribes of literature's ghosts
That forever within our minds haunt us to the passion of a word
And leave us but whole and naked to the deliverance of truth.
I wonder how their pens but scribbled
How they filled their own inconsistencies and ravished the thought.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
Late night scribbles
with late night riddles
maybe morning made dribbles
with half thought out middles
whether it's wood you whittle
or a cello you fiddle
it's never too late to jot down those scribbles.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
somewhere beyond
my ego...
lies the poet
who writes for,
the love of the sound,
of pen scribbling thoughts
upon fine lined paper.
the writer,
who devles into
the murk of the
morass of thoughts
rowing across the swamps
of the disordered mind.
the scribe,
who takes photographs
with words
deftly framing light and shade to produce
thought provoking images
so good, yet,
so hard to define.
the racounter,
who can spin a tall tale
on the edge of a dusty dime.
the truthseeker, soothsayer
not afraid to speak,
even when speaking
is condsidered a crime.
the jonguleur,
who plays with words
of six syllables or more, keeping them flowing, creating rhythm and rhyme.
somewhere...the earth mother lies
distilling truth into jots
and tittles
and sowing them into
lines...
somewhere...beyond
my ego...somewhere
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
Is Greek needed
to depict God’s vision?
Can repositioned prepositions
confuse the divine?
Will mislaid iotas
smear godly wisdom?
Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
The Truth’s been guarded
regardless.
Repositioned prepositions,
jots and iotas
all serve to convey sacred wisdom.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
Let me paint a picture within your mind,
There is a picture on the wall with two bodies mid fall, they are positioned in a decaying building with widows just behind them, cascading then in a ominous light.
There is a mother and daughter, and a in training service dog with gold and black fur and a purple vest with poo bags on the left, the mother, short grayinh hair wearing a grey sweater, and pants to match, jots down information as the daughter, pink and blond hair wearing a black cardigan over a blue with white striped dress and a hat black with a variety of colored paw prints separated by hearts, recites information found on her phone.
Over a frozen lake, glides a white sail with a green rim, it's stands out against the pearlescent background caused by the haste of the setting winter sun.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC
i found this little poem
sitting unattended,
alone,
on a bench at
the bus station.
when i said hello...
the relief and elation,
on this little poem's face,
made me feel protective
of this, orphan creation.
so i took this little poem
home...
no longer lost,
it thrived
from three lines to five
and before
we wished it
happy cinquain
it had doubled in size,
again.
full, rounded verse,
in cursive copperplate.
as it entered puberty
its moods swung,
between...
love, anger, hate
and then struggled gamely through
depression angst and fear..
all jots and tittles,
with future, unclear.
but eventually it matured
as we all do....
into a thoughtful expression
of beauty and love,
a strong and independant
statement of grace.
and then it was time,
to say goodbye....
the little found poem,
needed to leave
and find it's place,
in the wider world.
needed to find
and impress a girl.
it said it needed,
to make a splash...
grab some cash...
it promised not
to become, just a jingle...
and to write when
he could....
but til then.... anon...
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
I met this girl that jots down her feelings
On packets of Sweet'n Low
She told me she thinks
Her thoughts look pretty in pink
And it also helps to sweeten the flow
She leaves them on trains dining car tables
In hopes the commuters will read
All that she has to say
That it brightens their day
And also will make people think
That life can be full of surprises
No matter where you find that you are
Like next to this girl of course
With Sweet'n Low stuffed in her purse
In a moving trains dining room car
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
How many warnings taken as possible lies
shall we dare, if
first time, we were right?
Feel it? You know?
Not dying when, you know,
you could have, you know what dying is,
and
this
feeling,
that's life. Wanna risk it? What if we agree,
whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us. In the most
straight-forward intuitive way you comprehend:
whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us.
Virtually impossible to let such an idea free,
safely.
I'm good, three score and ten plus a few extended
journeys through
history and myth at the speed of thought
brings us here, just short of where we'd have met
in the final analysis
which
takes ever and a day
during which passings of times we breathe,
peacefully.
we troublers of our own house,
heirs of the wind and all its
princely powers,
subject
to right use, our
bhering
clear answers, affirming ever
oboroborobo oboe riffs on electric bass\
backed by Feynman pounding Djembe
drums through NAND
gates tittling jots of
rythmic swirls
in
backward 720s, time
and again,
as Sisyphus
ever rolls, happishly,
random
rocks,
laughing at jour yoke of yesteryears job titles.
Our final task, in every mortal moment,
breathe peace, and pass on.
Or that's my plan. Y'think it'll fly?
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 7:51 PM UTC
Hovering over his desk
Fingers cramping as he jots words
with a shrinking pencil
As time goes by
papers rise into cluttered stacks
Spreading around him
Creating a castle of paper
Eyelids growing heavy
as the light from the lamp
glares down at him
Mumbling motivation towards himself
He keeps writing
He stays awake
Until everything is finished
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC