"juts" poems
There, in the corner, staring at his drink.
The cap juts like a gantry's crossbeam,
Cowling plated forehead and sledgehead jaw.
Speech is clamped in the lips' vice.
That fist would drop a hammer on a Catholic-
Oh yes, that kind of thing could start again;
The only Roman collar he tolerates
Smiles all round his sleek pint of porter.
Mosaic imperatives bang home like rivets;
God is a foreman with certain definite views
Who orders life in shifts of work and leisure.
A factory horn will blare the Resurrection.
He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross,
Clearly used to silence and an armchair:
Tonight the wife and children will be quiet
At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.
4.8k
And I sit here once more,
Sun beginning to fade over the makeshift
Horizon of wooden plank fences and shingle
Roofs, glued to the homes with tar whose
Invading smell has long since passed.
On the shore I sit, a shore made of
Overgrown weeds whose leaves look no different
From the eruption of water that juts out
Of the center of the lake,
The ripples seeming to roll over themselves,
As if they are trampling over each other to
Reach me, and looking away from the metallic
Distraction in the center of this pool of wonders,
It's as if a river is to be flowing in place of the lake,
Lapping across rocks and echoing splash of ducks and
Geese dismounting their current of air,
Swiftly gliding along the filmy surface,
Like a mirror smeared with lubricant,
For the reflections this lake cast cannot
Easily be told apart.
Dark beckons the lights' full departure,
And with it the warm is swept solemnly from
The land, and my bare hands burn like the
Approaching summer's heat.
I thankfully clutch my leather coat against
Myself, and I gaze upon the lake, wishing
Its limited stretch could further.
As I trace my eyes across its
Waves, a young woman in a pink sweat
Coughs roughly and spits in the water,
As if it's beauty must be destroyed along
With that miserable soul of hers.
The willow tree I sit under,
Oh how massive it seems, its coarse bark
Digging through my jacket and on the verge
Of penitrating my skin, but, it is worth it.
Its vines hang down wearily,
Like an old man, reaching to grasp the
Water, leaning so close, its reflection can
Be seen from shore, and its desperate vines,
Swaying in the wind ask me to come closer.
I shall not, of course, for it needs to
Grow on its own, and needs to rid of
Its reluctance if it ever wishes to achieve
Its reward.
This, somewhat reminds me of myself,
But, this is only yet another wonder,
Collection of thoughts,
From under the willow tree.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
As the mind wanders.
It does so with the promise it will take you along
Along rolling hills layed under crimson sun set
Whispering soft promises entangled in the crisp breeze
For certain you are the companion
In this endless search
Where the road bends sharp rock juts
Violently from the ****** ground
Now the cold light of the moon breaks
Your silhouette against the mighty stone
Your search continues
But what part do you play in this search
Walking along side each other
The ever changing landscape
Entrenched in mystery
Joy, love, sorrow, and at times peril,
Is there virtue in your search for truth?
Or is there burden in the truth that the wandering mind
Was well travelled and you were along for the ride
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
i appear with boots and a saucy smile on
in the doorway while she's cooking the women
gossip over the sizzling pan of hot butter
under her heaving chest on the stove
i'm wearing a magic cape mimicking a windmill
with my bright pink ***** standing *****
big as a barn in the morning sun
lusting after dominance
fat and wrapped like a chorizo sausage
she sends a half-wave into my
direction of space and says--on the counter
i'm ******* an older latina lady with a chiquita banana
deep in my mother's kitchen with
the sticker on the tip of my **** for reference
as the sun dances and rises just
before pancake breakfast
her dank breath smells like
pollo broth and fiesta cigarettes
but her **** is wild soft and new
like a banana being peeled and sliced lengthwise
warm ***** hanging on either side
fat enough to be chewed on
psychedelic salsa blares
on the radio all morning
and i'm holding her skirt up to
reveal beautiful hips and thigh muscles so
i can **** her harder and faster
at her request
hands fly and the big bowl of
seeds spray downward in gravitational collapse
she's singing mexican gypsy secrets
with a cigarette lit and just hanging lopsided
off her lipsticked marshmallow lips
she's holding a yellow crayon in one hand
like she'll be scribbling notes shorthand
and dribbling cane syrup over my naked body
with the other as the floor begins shaking and
the walls shed plaster the cupboard doors creak
on their hinges and mom walks in the room looking at me
like i'm the crazy one
but the cataclysmic miracle is done
senorita is kneeling and wiping my ****
with an authentic mexican flag handkerchief
her sweat and my *** cooling on her thighs
working holes in her new blue kneesocks
and i'm re-zipping her dress over the
glistening expanse of her brown back
she stands trying to fix her freshly ****** hair and
we both light a cigarette try to forget the whole thing happened laughing at our secret as her cherry toes finally uncurl like an ember drifting in campfire smoke she just juts a hip out licks her lips again and smiles
"bueno."
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
frozen in time he was quite the spectacle
thick rimmed frames traced rigid lines
projected from kaleidoscope eyes
sharp with the corners of unknown dimensions
caught hot handed
both in expectation and reminisce
so awkwardly present
most nights
he spins fairytales
double-dipping moons in molten watches
skewered with his arms
these wooden poles
stirring the coals buried in ashes
he steps lightly.stomps
dances with the rings of saturn
then rolls like thunder
chasing Zeus's sore words
zig-zagging down to earth
ooohhhh…..
he may not melt hearts with that shoodoop
that bebop
but they break for his habit of
making promises
he who holds time in the cave below his tongue
which now juts left off the reef of his lip
slip into
trip - - - skip
fall.into.this.
go mad for the pitch of his sweat
glaring at the spotlight
Dalí
painting worlds in the moments
between your ears and soul
he is god to their populations
and their hymns excite
rhythms ignite
visions of hard candy
tumbling your teeth smooth as river stones
he does not belong in a gallery
no high tipping wine sipping city slicker big wig
should ever feel comfortable in his blast radius
he makes bombs from tribal instruments
wigwam concoctions
set to test resting souls for pulses
paradiddle defibrillator
triplet stent for arteries
he is tall
and now thin
pressed against the wall as if under interrogation
splitting breath from its carbon
asphyxiated by the frame
he spells his words with motion
I find him
mute
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
-
Tracing the cosmos
In wide open spaces
Only to face
The dreams that I wander
A lonely existence
Among constellations
Orbiting my desires
Now eclipsed by you
Gazing down
The earth below seems faded
As this distance counts
Light years like glazed donuts
Tempting from a window, as a kid
Licking the glass,
Never tasting the prize
Lunar phases
Become poetic phrases
Cosmic dust descending
Caught in gravity’s pull
Rocketing towards a target
Programmed for a safe
Reentry into your heart
The craft juts and jolts, screeching
Amidst the desolate silence of space
“Houston, we have a problem.
She needs to know how I feel,
how much I love her...”
Static echoed frequency hums
Transmission ended
All hope burned up
Crash landed
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.
I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,
waiting.
Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
by Arcassin B & Wolfspirit
AB :Trying to pull myself out of this hole
of a downward prosperity,
confide in me or confine me,
I'm dead inside either way,
don't know how much I can take if I stay,
Down the drain,
down the drain,
down the drain,
down in it I go , from the story that was never told,
locking me away for money, this isn't charity,
lie to them , speak your mind to me,
I'm dead inside either way,
I just keep sinking more and more,
Down the drain,
down the drain,
down the drain.
WS : got my survival kit built into this psyche
pulling myself up with each downward tumble
ain't gonna let no lifetaster heart waster
selfish bleedin' souls pull me down
too busy making the best of this go round
time to take up slack and draw a new direction
upward trajectory, merely seeking perfection
this constant self effacing doubt will surely **** me
no longer waiting time to let the world thrill me
i'm a lover..i ain't no killer
juts gonna have to be my own chiller, thriller,
AB : hopefully won't drive me to being a dealer,
coiling my toes,
keeping temptation away in every step,
when dirt from the ground arose,
filling us up to be the stringy ones,
up on desire as I crept,
downward I go to an endless cycle of falling,
making me so so so so so so sick of everything,
I can't keep screaming,
down the drain,
I filled the void for days just to feel a pain,
down the drain,
you needing confirmation just seems pretty lame,
WS : no time to waste on commiseration
i walk proud, upright, secure in my station
belie the pomp and circumstance
get on with the joy, to live for the dance
this thing called life, we need only the living
to share the warmth of caring and giving
let sleeping dogs lie just where they fall
drop the issues unimportant and heed the call
each one has a gift, something to offer
instead of selfishly filling their coffer
it's like this and like that, when we get down to it
it's like that and like this, so let's just do it.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
welcome
she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea
calms my busy light without a single word
smiles at my bright aura
a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth
blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy
no noise
no waste
no haste
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand
dry and warm
a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man
who carries a child on his back
there’s a red blanket what flies on the line
soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill
nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore
her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles
her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago
discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors
now hanging in clusters, newly unfound
dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees
where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on
she of terminalis
lives on eternal
in brook and vale and bush
in veins of progeny bee
and also
in the crickets of the field
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Earth below and sky above,
This the place I truly love.
Where looking out to vision's end,
Heaven and earth begin to blend.
The earth juts up in jagged heights,
Creating these rugged sights.
Snow capped peaks, white as flour,
Dazzle the eyes this morning hour.
The crest of the sun begins to show,
Casting shadows on the valley below.
The luscious grass still this morning,
Drops of dew, still adorning.
The hand of God paints the sky,
Oranges, yellows, reds all fly.
This, the pinnacle of perfection,
This, the source of my affection.
-For Kelly
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
If you are falling in love with collar bones,
Defined abdomens,
Back dimples,
Visible rib cages,
Thigh gaps,
Straight, white teeth,
Long, endless hair,
Spakling eyes,
Dainty fingers,
You are doing it wrong.
If you are falling in love with the way his collarbone slight juts out,
How his abdomen flexes when he's stretching in the morning,
How his back dimples are indications where you can rest your hands,
How her visible rib cage only means you have something to strum your fingers across before bed,
How her thigh gap is just apart of her exterior,
How her straight, white teeth look when she's smiling,
How her long, endless hair is perfect to run your fingers through,
How his sparkling eyes are always fixated on you,
How her dainty fingers always find yours,
You are doing it right.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Tremble
by Michael R. Burch
Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.
Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******
juts.
Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.
Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.
Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse
Keywords/Tags: Tremble, predator, raptor, hawk, eagle, falcon, talon, beak, wing, preen, preened, preening
Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch
Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way
and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.
Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say
we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
i stand in front of you
smaller than how
you remembered me
yes, i've been shrinking away
and my parents
throw worried glances
at the collarbone
that now juts out on my chest
like a sneering grin,
lifting on the edges
my father asks,
"will you waste away to nothing?"
and all i can do is shrug
i stand in front of you
and i wish that you would
open up your chest -
grab the sharpest thing
you can find and cut yourself
wide open-
just so that i can crawl
back inside
where i once lived
within your core
i want to feel the
damp warmth
that puts a strange
feeling in my nose,
for i can't decide
if i'd like to throw up
or **** the air in
deep into my lungs
again and again,
surround me, once again
i don't care that it
may **** you to open
yourself up to me
or that once i'm inside
i may find myself clawing
at the walls until
i've rubbed off
the skin on the end of
my fingertips so
that no one will
ever know what
has become of me
my selfishness
blinds all sense of reason
and innate want takes
over now, for
the one thing
i would like the most
is to be as close
to you as i can get,
without ever having
to look into your eyes
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
I have hair that grow like wild weeds.
Fresh and untrimmed,
Right from the scalp of my soft head.
My eyebrows are thick, but not enough
To be as dark as
the pools of black my eyes are.
Huge lips,
give sweet kisses,
and blows them to you if you're my fancy.
Tall enough to hug you and smooch your little cheek.
Short enough not to see that I'm blinded by this blackening
of reality.
I always like quirky things
and be that rock that juts out of all unusual places,
looking like it doesn't belong but indeed, it does.
A special rock, a treasured rock,
one that all shall behold and hold their breath before.
I like to eat many things sweet, a kick of spicy
and some pieces of meat.
A person quite interested in the arts,
from painting to poetry to acting,
deemed herself worthy of being called
A writer.
Sometimes, this person can only see
What her feelings show.
Not the most important thing is at the top of her list,
A poor judgement girl, lost in love and full of sheer hope.
Too cheesy, eh?
Welcome to the cheesy part of my life
Which I hope to quickly pass
And shut the door behind me
So it won't catch up and haunt
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
She's a model of imperfections,
Flaws fall on her face in ways that define grace,
She's a goddess without direction.
Her words encourage and lace dreams to a place you can reach if you just believed.
Her upper lip juts out a little too far so her teeth can clink yours in toast to good times when you kiss.
She's a little too short only so you can sweep her off her feet with a little more ease.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 8:45 PM UTC
I can’t be delicate,
small, sad-looking and innerly folding,
my legs will never oragami-fold themselves
over my tired tired fat chest .
I am blessed to be big, though
my *** is a curse, how it juts and forces
itself to be known by peoples’ eyes and
rudely introduces itself to chairs, knick knacks,
anything unfortunate enough to exist
within its gargantuan wake .
I am blessed to be huge but small,
I am blessed to warmly ******* and spill
my flesh over everything I touch & taste;
I am forced to give myself up to
the world, to give my huge body up as
comfort to the multitudes of humans
I love and crave and want and dream up
because they will never find me small and cowered,
will never offer their bodies
to comfort mine, assuming instead that
my huge warmth can sustain its
own flame .
My own body can’t contain the
sad swells and lovely lakes that surge
and bash against its own hide --- - ---
that’s why my stretch marks
leak and tendril their way
around my arms,
my belly folds,
my underloved thighs,
and I wonder why we both want
to tender my fire
to a low smolder
and let it fade out
do we
think that trees with thick
lush, curved and pink
foliage are somehow
whole-er
than trees with paperthin leaves?
my bark still craves
the sun, which sometimes
comes in the form
of human flesh
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
He sits on a porch-swing dying of heat.
The midday sun is merciless.
It juts out a golden face to ****
To test
To accuse.
He strokes the side of his face.
There is misery here but not remorse.
Sweat runs down the hollow of his neck
Traces his neck
Falls away from his neck.
He closes his eyes against the day.
And more besides.
The sky burns in opposite colors now.
His eyelids play the stars and scenes of an afternoon.
After a time, blackness swallows the image.
He is perfectly closed.
Off past the gate sound cicadas,
Locusts, call them here,
Like an African choir concealed to chant
Concealed to slough away
Concealed from commentary.
He hears the door and feels her weight
on the swing. The cicadas seem louder.
She's come outside to speak with him
To speak at him
To speak about him.
"I hate you," says a voice but not in words.
"I love you too," sounds the other with a tone that says more,
Much more besides.
The dusk is usually far more perfidious
But not tonight. The weather is still,
The sun has nothing more to declaim.
She is perfectly closed.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
It was June 19th 2013, Tia and Jay just finished their freshman year of high school. Summer was starting and the sun was bursting flare heat into the school. Jay and Tia met a while back in the beginning of school. Bio is when they set it off. “So what are you doing for the summer” Jay asks, “Nothing much, I may juts chill this summer” Tia replies. “Well do you want to go to a water park with me?” Jay says in a nervous tone, “Sure.” They hold hands and walk to his locker. Tia sees Drew at his locker taking out all his junk from August. “Drew what’s all this garbage?” Tia says with a disgust look on her face. Jay replies before drew, “It’s probably just a bunch of game cards lol.” Drew is Tia’s best friend. They met earlier in the school year (English). Drew just gives Jay the look of an annoyed person and gets back to his work. “So Drew wana come to the water park with me and Jay this summer?” Tia says, “I’ll see, I’ll have to ask my mom” Drew says in concern.
After going to everyone’s locker saying the good o’l goodbyes and hugs, Drew, Jay, and Tia walk outside. They meet up with other friends. Trey, he’s the sarcastic funny, smart, out pointer of one of the friends and he always has to carry his art journal. Then theres Boe, he’s just the one they call “old guy” with his fedoras and old fashion coats, always in style. And last but not least Lula, she’s more of quiet and deep dark person. She doesn’t show a lot of emotions like the others. They all meet up with each other in front of the school. “Does any of you guys wana hit the water park this summer?” Jay says. Tia tugs on Jay’s shirt and pulls herself close to his ear and whispers, “You know we can’t invite everyone, that’s too much!?!?,” Jay just looks at her in confusion and tells everyone never mind. “What’s up with you?” Jay and Drew ask. Tia replies in a quite low but annoyed voice, “It’s just” She stops then replies again, “Nothing.” She hugs Drew and kisses Jay and goes on the bus. “She’s hiding something from us” Jay says in a tone of suspicious. “No she’s just being herself” Drew replies and hits Jay on the head with his lunch bag.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
she _pouts and juts out
he,r bot'tom l;ip and you fight
not to ca.tch it be-
tween your aching teeth.}
[she's pouting because you
wouldn't say i love you back
when she knew ****
well she didn't ca re.]
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 3:18 AM UTC
just the outline remains
like a silhouette of happiness faded
like a footprint of a past joy
in the dusk cannot perceive where it has gone
only mark its point of passage
in the soft cold sand
where the brittle rough edge of concrete
juts out from the tangled undergrowth
now just a rain soaked ruin
now just discarded shell someone called home
the rotted planks and shattered glass
litter the ground a maze of pieces
like some lunatics puzzle box
spread for contemplation's amusement
there amongst the jewels of rot
a single small face etched in the grey weatherbeaten stone
the detailed portraiture done with
adorations care
a young woman with long hair flowing
a young woman with captivating smile
now fading slowly in tropical sun
etched on the worlds edge
here amongst the spoiled walls
and broken windows
moonlight now casts its otherworldly light
down through the torn roof
like it is fishing here for mens dreams
which it hungers for
to speed it on its journey
i cast it the morsels of my once loved
i cast it a trail of hearts crumbs
which the moonlight follows on down
the silent street
like a small boy returning home late in the day
with a pocket full of strange treasures
i lay here fitfully dreaming
as mornings heat intensifies to full blown day
jaundiced by the seabreeze i crawl forth
and sit once again
to stare at the etching of the girl
as it is slowly eaten by sea and sand
time may not heal all wounds
but it will consume all the wounded
as it consumed her
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
I sit and look over the Basin of Minas
Still waters reflect as fine as an optical mirror
The Cape juts out as the prow of some ancient ship
Eternally pushing its way through the long, slow tides
Acting as a wall separating Fundy from the Valley
It stands silhouetted against dark clouds that may hold rain
A white blanket of fog wraps itself slowly over the Cape
Standing out as bright as clean, white cotton
Molding itself over the land
As a blanket molds itself over a reclining person
Emotions are relaxed by the sight
Calm enters the soul with this view
Eternal beauty for all to see
Overlooked by the many
A sense of belonging envelopes me
Just as the fog envelopes the Cape.
Dan Gray
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
I
steep & sheer denial
juts from tender kisses on the breast
i offer this lament
rehearsed until my soul is laid to rest
Failnaught!
i shoot 7 flaming arrows toward your chest
only my lackluck
would will each one to miss you
II
my heart is seeping sweet sappy kisses
my brain was washed ashore
the sea had granted all my wishes
Goodcall!
3 rings?
i say "best wishes to you, my Wizard"
yet i wield darkness in your way
to emulate my own lightless blizzard
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 7:35 PM UTC
There is the tree--
it juts out of the earth,
a sword in the stone.
Alone in a field
of green grass, alone
amongst the flowers,
the emboldened
plumage.
The leaves, greeny finery,
ancient and reborn
age after age,
sag beneath the weight
of the breeze
and the clouds.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Black stone juts out over greying ice,
A mass of alpine greenery,
Half bare, half masked in white;
The motion of a turner painting,
Colours cast through Lowry's eyes.
Camouflaged upon a riverside
With no sign of Lutheran ambition,
As faith faltered, medieval to Christ,
A small church modestly mirages,
Casting simplicity into Nordic pride.
The excitement of the northern lights
Over the precipice of these continents,
American and Eurasian plates collide.
The Langjökull Glacier screams
Witnessing its own untimely demise.
The remoteness captured in the landscape
Starkly contrasts to us who bear witness to it
And in the mirroring of the landscape
A lonely civil dwelling knows nothing
Of war between nature and humankind.
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 7:36 AM UTC