"jotted" poems
Imagine my disappointment when,
on discovering a tiny door
in a hollow tree,
locating its miniature key
beneath a buttercup,
unlocking and opening it
I found not a world of tiny folk
not Tir-nan-Og nor Avalon,
but a spectacled man in a white labcoat
holding a clipboard
and making notes on my reaction.
"Initial shock", he jotted,
"followed by anger and suspicion.
"Likely to require counselling
"within a year."
I closed the door as politely as I could
and went back to my books.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 7:01 AM UTC
Sometimes i wish i could write poems
with all the similes clinging to your thoughts like barnacles.
And describe people with metaphors that wrap around the actual meaning like weeds grow on to other, more pretty plants.
It would be nice if i could use edgy things like cigarette butts, half filled bottles of beer, and lipstick stained papers with a number jotted down
to describe mundane things like sadness and fear,
although lipstick stains and cigarette butts do leave an awfully mundane stench behind.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/
Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/
Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/
Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/
Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/
Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/
Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/
Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/
You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/
An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/
Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/
Not just a part of me but all of me/
I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/
It's just the opposite actually and factually/
I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/
I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/
Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/
Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/
One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/
I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/
And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/
So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/
With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/
Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/
Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/
Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/
Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/
To let these words mold me into someone you could never be/
©2018
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 4:00 AM UTC
Humble gestures of chasten
Crumbling meek shifts to jotted chivalry
Into wrongly seemed semi-finite basins
Grim faces accused by chromo authority
fault at last by accursed impalement
days into mourn and far bliss
and darkness zeal in snide basements
thawed searing into crest
how is chaos' show Humble gestures of chasten
Crumbling meek shifts to jotted chivalry
Into wrongly seemed semi-finite basins
Grim faces accused by chromo authority
fault at last by accursed impalement
days into mourn and far bliss
and darkness zeal in snide basements
thawed searing into crest
how is chaos' show
deepened to cyro void
gone to confluence row
Yearned by those overjoyed
and quip smith's crooked dagger
lanced from pure ways
pride into back alley's sober
goodbye love of sparked days
deepened to cyro void
gone to confluence row
Yearned by those overjoyed
and quip smith's crooked dagger
lanced from pure ways
pride into back alley's sober
goodbye love of sparked days
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
The originality manufactured naturally,
strength gained without any body building,
hard work born with no need to learn it.
Rising and falling known from first sight.
Being a refugee has now become a norhm.
Watching the sun set on empty stomaches like some soup opera.
Poverty unplanned has been
jotted in the caleneders.
Always ready to take to the heels like some marathon race fleeing from wars.
Carrying a spiritaul shield to protect their lives because not even any asurance can cover their deaths.
So many cries nobody knows if they are of joy or sorrow,
but i know that most of them project a message of pain.
Learning to be a doctor with no degree only because their societies need to be saved.
Little boys carry heavy battle machinery and are forced into war without any military trianing.
Poor Africa you are projected as helpless,
but nothing is so rich as your soils and every other thing that crawls on you,
the preys and its preditors so firece and cunning clever than those pets that trained at some fancy school.
Your landscapes so unique they all are amazing to glare at.
Nothing makes you Africa so beautiful
than the golden rays from the sun departing to its sleep.
Giving everyone that chance to grasp a smile.
Africa is rich not because of money, but beacause of the natural resources extracted from it.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
**One late night in Seattle I had an out of body experience.
I jotted down this love letter from my deceased mother.
She told me a long time ago she'll be living in my heart forever, here is proof.**
You have to be patient with yourself. Know that nothing comes easy. You're going to fall multiple times throughout life but doesn't mean you can't stand above it. You'll have people who will break your heart having you searching for answers that you may never find. But know when it's right to let go. The more you look at the past the more destructive you'll become. I want you to be happy, I know you're more than capable of that. I remember you being a little girl that used to laugh at the little things. Understand life has it's ups & downs, that is something you'll never be able to escape. Remove yourself from anything negative or harmful to your heart. You are who you are & no one can alter that. Experience living but take advantage of the tangible things in front of you. Life doesn't always go as planned. The choices you make can only lead you to what fate has already decided. Love yourself like I did when I first met you at birth. Keep me close to you & never forget how much I love you.
- Mommy Dora
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
Too many expert voices lay a claim on your shape,
You are either too full, or
You have gone too far,
Too many moulds get thrusted at your face,
To some you resemble a pear,
But they feel your should look more double cherry,
And whichever fruit you succeed in turning into,
You still, are a tad too hairy
But then does anyone ever tell you,
That sometimes ice cream will be the only answer
And that is just fine?
That a bedtime prayer can be enough night-time routine,
Which needn't include expensive lotions and creams,
That you need fats as well as you need protein,
As also each little gift that Nature crafted lovingly
For this marvel of a creation that is your Being-
So that your skin is fed and living,
And your knees are lubricated and sprightly,
And your blood is rich and active,
And your soul-
No one will give you
"How I brightened my soul in 4 weeks" tutorials,
But you ought to set your happy soul-goals,
A tummy rub in a sunny lawn on a lazy winter afternoon/
A drenching bath in heavy July rains/
A spontaneous poem effortlessly jotted down on a napkin
Level-happy!
And when you're that happy you will know
That you aren't a cut-out on public display,
Not a fruit,
not a diet,
not a fad that peaks and wanes,
You are an everlasting uniqueness,
You are an undefined shape,
You are that collection of rare energies
That only comes custom-made.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Waiting on the other side
Of an equal sign.
An equation left
Unsolved.
I'm supposed to be a sum
Her + Me = Eternity
Yet I'm still waiting
To be solved.
Left in a textbook,
Unnoticed and unloved.
Trying to ignore the groans,
The glares, the words.
Jotted down repeatedly,
Still no one sees,
I want out,
I want a life.
Forever hoping and believing
That my real question will be answered.
I'm left as a problem,
Impossible to solve.
I lay on this piece of paper,
Eager to know,
If I'm true,
Or hopelessly false.
So I'm waiting on the other side
Of an equal sign.
And equation left
I solved.
I'm sitting and wondering
If there's anyone home.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
Vacant. Empty. Twisted. Lacking.
Chills shoot though my body filling the cracks whatever is left
Let go of the Meaning of LIFE and one is lost
Worried. Angered. Freaked. Spinning.
Words jotted down upon an empty page to show giving proof to rage
Reality is no kind reminder in correction of humanness
Stupidity. Irony. Pathetic. Foolish.
These eyes have absorbed from the outside world all which is meaningless
Vibrant life left behind to retrieve if one is wise
Hope. Love. Joy. Peace.
Never take the God-given gifts taken for granted or hard ways shall teach
Throw them aside as ******* and despair will find what's left
Trash. Pathetic. Waste. Shameful.
Such trash is how I perceive some to view my vehemency
No integrity do they see in what these eyes hold scared
Purity. Integrity. Honesty. Valiancy.
Which spring from the soul and mind diluted from ones first breath in the flesh
Access to God diluted from what cannot be achieved
Sovereignty. Omniscience. Omnipresent. Agape.
Witness madness for what God has been met first hand is just in righteousness
Full of grace and mercy to those who Seek Him
Loving. Wise. Holy. Eternal.
To those Who serve Him He gives of Himself correcting those He loves
Comfort is naught promised for character is His measure
Sanctification. Tried. True. Loyalty.
Purifying His people through teaching His ways is the foremost goal
As choice gold refined and proved accordingly
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
swim until you can’t see land
until names etched deep in cardiac tissue blur
and fade, scored over with seasalt and creases of a million maps,
a secret stash of maps. absurd and hoarded and crumpled under carseats and
rolled neat
and boastful in umbrella holders or worse, framed and hung
Maps jotted freehand on napkins stained with tea and mustard and left
to be bused with the crusts and pocketful of change.
swim until you can’t read the maps.
the lines to here from there are arteries
on your fresh, clean heart.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Opening new chapters and revealing new strengths only to find a weakness to diminish any ending of the chapters that’ll come.
The chapters are uncountable and the beginnings are unthinkable as for the endings are extinct, for there is a never ending cycle of disappointments and evil that don’t stop to allow the good to outweigh the bad.
These chapters are never ending hurricanes with a slight light trying to shine down through this chaotic reckless world.
Every thought every movement is jotted down into this never ending cycle of memories, it almost seems as if god gave up on me and handed my book into the devil's hands to punish me for the sins I’ve done and the never ending outlook of evil I would see.
I now see that my chapters are full of never ending storms of the negatives I see and dead of all the positives I fail to find, but who can find any positives in pitch black darkness.
For now my story lays in the dark with the chapters never finding an ending for its a continuous battle of evil against evil.
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 8:16 PM UTC
Unappreciated, taken for granted, unwanted & thrown away
Disappointed & blindsided by lies
& unnecessary verbal abuses
Broken, badly bruised & forever scarred
Meaningless words were all you'd ever say
Have it your way, peace out with my deuces
For you, the decision wasn't even hard
But giving up on love forever, not even an option
I know my love is still wanted the feeling, once found again, is quite amazing
I'll be able to tell this time if it's real
There's no doubt at all
We'll skip right over an introduction
This is so memorable you can bet in my notebook it'll be jotted
I've finally caught what I've been chasing
& he's the one worth letting pass my built up wall
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Flittering feathers write sonnets
in soaring frequencies;
taking in the ocean at once,
I felt ripples brought to standstill,
damped by second's refrain,
curled back into the
picturesque blue written ahead,
but
no cloud harbours the ceiling,
no late words shown, jotted down
by the
indifferent and
invariably disappearing breeze.
The latterwork of these days took it up,
and hung it out
on lines stretched across skies and time,
betraying tender surfeit, in moments
torn out,
and,
leaving only
vague traces of
woodworn prose,
spilling out my last sentiments:
*"we, once,
were alive,
if only for a moment."*
In dreams she holds small collections
of sandy flowers,
above the shoreline,
as the dichotomous cluster takes theirs,
behind a fragmentary grain
in the blacksmith's hide;
written, again, are those seasick letters,
wrung out
in the dead heat of the forge,
the demands of strangers,
in stone buildings by the fireplace,
electric heater, off,
the inbetween reeling
of slightened accomplishments,
the scent of oil,
left over, from the husk of noon.
Miss and want, over again,
missing beguilement in afternoon's repose.
"come back...",
but she ain't the one gone.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC
I tuned into my FM this morning
& heard a strange transmission,
some background noise.
I recognized the code
from my army days,
it was written in dots & dashes,
a series of instructions
for those who have
already arrived.
Jeanie, the mystery-girl
who sits in the desk next to me
jotted something down in her journal
then bolted to the door for lunch,
she was out quick like lightning
& hasn't returned.
Strange, nobody's
come back yet.
Right now,
there's an eerie silence
in the workplace,
explosions
out in the street.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
I leaned in towards her, mimicking the curve in her back and the squint in her eyes. I rested my chin in my hands, completing the final touches to creating a mirror between us. A mirror. I smiled to question which one of us was the reflection and which was the reflector. Or, perhaps, we are inertly tied together at the wrist. The definition of reflecting written in my scars, hidden beneath my cardigan. I smiled, and she smiled back, no longer questioning me, no longer doubting any part of my sincerity. I leaned back, and she followed me, relaxing into her new role.
I knew that I had her now, that I had all the power. With this, I formed promising words on my lips. Caressed careful tears down my cheeks while her head nodded and her hand jotted. I weaved the world I lived in, colored it red and black, or blue and pink. I brought her to the edge of the cliff side, and nudged her in, to be ****** under the carpet of waves and disappear in the waters and the wild. But, I brought her back up, nestled her in my arms and drifted back to Earth and to the warmth of the desert. I braided her hair and fixed her mind to the glorious battlefields of my youth, the stunning victories and the ****** defeats. I was the hero. A shining beacon of light in the dismal landscape.
I could tell be the way her lip quivered at the end of my story that I had won. Like wrinkled silk clinging to a bedpost, she hung onto every word I said and gazed in awe at the girl who overcame all odds. Victory was mine indeed.
But I take no prisoners.
Carrying her scalp, I left her screaming body in the office, next to the box of tissues and the thrift-store couch, which was still warm from where I had sat.
And I went on to the next therapist, a new story already brewing in my mind.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
Maktub saw the light at the end of his tunnel
It approached him with a barbaric screech
Doppler shifting to piercing, painful pitch
On the wrong side of tracks he watched the train charge past
In his new freedom, he explored the station
Wandering through the grimy halls by
Too-busy roaches scurrying from the bright
A burpy crumple lump sat propped against the wall
Reeking of sick and
Filth and dead liver
Maktub bought him a sandwich
And left it on his lap, with a dead president
On whose face he had jotted a blotted
Don’t drink me
The *** woke to this, and
Bless you friend, jaundiced beam
Bless you back, sir
Restored faith in (chances) chances
Some teens whizzed unpaying under turnstiles
On rolling boards, lying on their backs and holding bags
Maktub found them clever and pursued
In a secluded spot they made aerosol spray mural
Mischievous hands intricately crafted as cans blasted
Through their mist emerged a mighty orb of life
And in blackness round twinkled possible worlds
He admired their vandalism; art is everywhere, he thought
At sound of step the mural makers
Dashed, leaving colors and can
Maktub raised it, unfamiliar, and finished the wall with
We are one
Returning to his platform, he saw that more had gathered
And a strumming bard, milk eyed, fluttered notes with dancer’s grace
Her voice sent shivers down his spine and lifted him in spirals
I would recognize the
Song of God, he thought (and I know where he is)
The screeching came again, and Maktub
Leaned to watch, eager for his light
His train had come to take him home
He was calm
He was ready
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
I sat in a room full of people today
I didn't or barely knew at all
I sat there the whole time thinking, wondering,
Staring blankly at the wall
I jotted down a few notes here and there,
Mostly nonsense with no real purpose,
Now here is the interesting part my dear,
Someone else sat there, you've got three guesses
It wasn't Ronald of the McDonald
Or Mickey Mouse of the club house
One more guess, Oh! You've got it,
It was a couple, the very one I wrote about
My god, were they ever happy
I ******* envied them, hated their smiles
It made me sick to my stomach to watch them laugh
And I had to watch them for a long while
You may wonder what made me so angry?
Well I suppose I forgot to mention,
My boyfriend was also present in the room
But instead of happy all we felt was tension
An old routine I'm quite sick of
But the only reason for it is me
Knowing this while watching them
Well, it was plain misery
Oh lets play one more guessing game!
Come on, can you guess what I'll do next?
Well I'm going over to my boyfriends house
And I'm going to talk, talk, talk off his head
Wish me luck, I hope this goes well...
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Any-Her has a name. Had.
It was the title of a travel book.
Any-Her had a
name tattooed along her spine.
You search and read her
up, down, sideways.
She was a work of fiction,
a ghost story. You read her
under the covers
by the beam of a flashlight
against your chin for dramatic
effect. In a flash, she's gone.
You flick the lights out and sleep.
Any-Her is a dream.
Was. Bright eyes, pierced
lips. You'd recognize her anywhere,
in the travel aisle of a library.
She had a name. Her signature
was jotted in the margin
of a catalogue card. She was
a name on a list of borrowers.
You'd wait your turn, check her out.
Any-Her is a number.
She writes it down on
the back of a bar napkin.
You skim details,
fill in blanks.
Any-Her is easily
(mis) read, goes by
an alias based on the
date. You name her
after obscure holidays,
like, "Winter Solstice '20",
or, "Funny Valentine '21".
You celebrate her coming,
the -where and the
-when. The -who is
irrelevant, the -how,
irrational. And -why
is what you keep asking
the next morning
while waiting for a reply
that never comes.
Any-Her is a city
far from home,
you decide. You don't
remember the name.
Don't need to.
You're just one
of -any, passing
through.
Mar 5, 2021
Mar 5, 2021 at 9:46 AM UTC
We were never a fan of dialogues.
At the other end of the street I would watch her
Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.
I didn't like to read.
I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.
The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup
And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.
I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables
Producing a different piece each time.
Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.
At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?
She was a song, I was a poem.
She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,
Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.
I was a poem.
I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.
Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.
I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,
Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,
A waste of time,
Flawed.
She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
...it's been long since she migrated to heaven, for a sinner like me to be her son is amazing she kept composure & her level
...coming to terms with punishment being the biggest part of forgiveness & all I gotta do is to forgive me
...punishment is for the creator & I'm just a son to woman who died loving a man that made me
...over a decade later she's still comes to my dreams
...this morning I told her I'm in love with a woman & she just smile
...deep in her eyes I saw pain she felt from my past & in her voice I heard certainty of this future of mine
...a man alone can't make a family & so is a woman
...bless me this morning again by reading a poem jotted down for just a dream
...maybe not, it is for the lost trust & believe in love
...it is for the eyes that only choose to see darkness
...for the heart that chooses to remember only pain
...sorry for not being the ideal man but a heart can't choose who to love
...sorry for not knowing you well enough for you to be @ ease
...teach me how to love you or how to forget I ever loved you
...I know you're not my mom & loving you wasn't by choice
...if it was by choice it would be easier to leave you @ peace without any caution of tying a knot one day
...waiting for Mr Right shouldn't be pleasure if we're all the same
...from me to you, a man is made by his life's pains
...And in my dream this morning my late mother came like she does every now & then
...I told her I found a woman, I fell in love & she just smiled
...I wonder why she just smiled if it left me so unsure of me!!!
You don't fall in love with only those you know, some people just fit in your puZzle like they were made for you
...we only choose what we want to see but not feel!!!
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
Even when blank
you flash with memories.
Mindless doodles,
quickly jotted poems.
Stains of past lessons
still remain.
How many eyes
have gazed out at
your white vastness?
How many hands
have nervously fumbled
with your squeaky markers,
scrambling for answers
inside their own minds?
Do you see us?
Some racing to
take the notes
scribbled upon your
pallor surface,
and others facedown
on the desk,
trying to recover
sleep that was lost.
What have you created?
Perhaps a scientist,
or a few?
A lawyer, a doctor,
maybe two?
Without you,
oh ever-present whiteboard,
I doubt our teachers
would know what to do.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
The women
isn't for U-turn!
She means it
jotted it down
deep in the heart.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC