"juvenilia" poems
Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river,
Took the embankment walk.
Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam,
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.
A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart,
Preserved classic decorum,
Deployed our talk with art.
Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait,
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late -
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.
So, chary and excited,
As a thrush linked on a hawk,
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk:
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk.
8k
Why does attention so fondly take hold
when ever new moonflower buds
on lonely land cleared of the last's marigolds
that long masqueraded as love?
Will arum give way to hydrangea?
Will heartsease yield lavender's bite?
I cling to mad dreams of hibiscus
conceived in the moonflower's light.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 12:36 AM UTC
The hole spews out disease and rot
devoid of fleshy substance
Engrossed by such a gruesome plot
I gulp the zombie's pretense
What makes the morbid fascination
justifying obfuscation?
Now, I see there is no sense
in coining truth that's hardly grown
One thing I've come to understand:
exploit their fear of the unknown
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC
User Rating:
7.7 /10
(31 votes)
0 Print friendly version
0 E-mail this poem to e friend
0 Send this poem as eCard
0 Add this poem to MyPoemList
Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river,
Took the embankment walk.
Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam,
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.
A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart,
Preserved classic decorum,
Deployed our talk with art.
Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait,
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late -
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.
So, chary and excited,
As a thrush linked on a hawk,
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk:
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 7:29 AM UTC
Born free,
what have you been branded to buy as truth?
You couldn't help but consume the prime conditioning,
angelic thing, they manipulated your blank, slated value with price
Impressionable infant, deficient heuristics anchored in tradition
were all you were given, they represented trend's definition of right
Blind to blinders set by frames,
you will never long for sky you've never seen
While you've been growing, who's been leading?
Who's been sowing, who's been reaping?
Now you are as you're told.
Now you are as you're sold.
You didn't see how your movements were determined: causal reinforcement and cogged belief systems
Hunters exploit the needs of the herd and they traded you meaning for all you were worth
Customerary compliance made you meek and the markets less violent
Your standardized schema had felt so secure, while their fashion pruned passion's significant core
Blind to blinders set by frames,
you cannot be free if you don't see your cage
While you've been growing, who's been sneaking?
Who's been sowing, who has been reaping?
Now you are as you're told.
Now you are as you're sold.
They'll come as salesman, promised happiness in their wares
They'll come as preachers, with taxing cross for you to bear
They'll come for your time, your money
They'll come for your life, and your sunny days
will be grey without that which you never knew you needed
No, you never ever needed
What have you been branded to buy as truth?
You won't choose to see your reflection on the discount shelf,
reduced to pelf, you let them establish the goods so you could be saved
from spending efficient economy, it's ironic that you're their battery
and though their floor is your slaved ceiling, you give your Self away
You won't see your light inside
if you're guided by other selfish minds!
How did you begin?
What have you been?
Who are you now?
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
Light creases the pavement
like ruddied cheeks on a pillowcase,
warms the scrappy reeds,
the goldenrod bunching
on hillsides,
the tired, waterless crop
and their juvenilia tenacious
and cambering over field -
(and with present as marked past)
all realigns
and is overwhelmingly
simple
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Midnight dreams of Arsenic
& somewhere a lone trumpet calling
when you shut the door
on us somewhere a star fell down & cried
& a fox stumbled gently
into the undergrowth
I gambled
away the last Angel I had
for tall tales, breaths of fresh air
& torn stacks of juvenilia
an old broken doll
they called by my name
& some said I was
in between syringes
whilst somewhere
a jazz band played
in a city of freedom
I once called my own
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
If precious time to freely spend
is all that you could offer me,
with a great deal, I must contend;
I don't feel the fairest harmony.
My mailbox needs fixing.
My muscle is burning.
My value is changing.
I'm tired of hurting.
If precious time to freely spend
is all that you could offer me,
I wonder why I'm so content
to whine of overdue upkeep.
Why must work be so hard?
Why should work be so hard?
Now, without further adieu,
I'll prove from you what I have learned:
I can love what I'd like to!
I'll make every moment beauty earned.
My mailbox needs fixing!
My muscle is burning!
My value is changing,
I'm tired of hurting!
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 4:44 PM UTC
After all that toil, my journey is through.
I am home, to wander no longer.
My success has born such rich rewards.
Isn't comfort what we all long for?
My skin is satisfied, but my insides itch.
Embers call for me to blaze onward.
I'm growing bored of these restless hands.
I am not content with contentment.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 8:26 AM UTC
Prelude:
How could this have come to be, this life, so ever-changing?
these laws that pushed the smallest things to pull the greatest mountains?
and what could cause the chance to think and wonder why we can?
Sophia flowed through mystery where Logos formed a plan.
Act 1: Epigenesis
First Interlude:
At the heart of sacred grounds, a man claims what is righteous
with ****** standard pointed proud and conduct that disguises
a savage pulse, an ancient thirst; is Cronus set in stone?
Impressing eager, weaker men, Saint George goes on and on.
Act 2: Saint George
Second Interlude:
Where the wood once bloomed unbound, a shaft of ivory rises
and reigns above a throne of clouds, where veil of white disguises
a wilting rose, a potted plant; did Gaea plan her fate?
Behind the stained-glass window's view, Joanna meekly waits.
Act 3: Joanna
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
The room is empty, save the leaves of what was weakly grown
Parting way with pain and grief, new hope is hardly sown
Lonely sapling greets the light and cautiously unfolds
but is eclipsed from welling eyes by with'ring leaves of old
Fear has made the sapling pine for comfort's calm embrace
But oh, how better petals shine when love has set their pace
and as its blossom only stems from stock already grown
the sapling hopes to love again but grows as well alone
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 12:12 PM UTC
This problem is all too familiar,
my ignition unstarted and still.
Can you find it and fuel it and startle
foreign gears and uncharted wheels?
Will you put life in this husk?
Will you come as the jilt of a lover,
or perhaps her sincerest embrace?
some extrinsic and chemical other,
catalyzing more confident state?
Will you find life in this husk?
I wonder how those with no questions
seem to draw from somewhere so much fruit.
My answer waits for me to liken
my own source to the fawn's and the root's.
Will I see life in this husk?
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
She raised herself with elegance
above the scathing sea,
and from a splendid mountaintop,
her strength shines down on me.
But I see the waves are rising
as the clouds conceal the sun
and choke her bright horizons;
will hope be overrun?
My heart is moved to action!
I can't let beauty fall!
If ever hope is lapsing,
I'll always heed her call.
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 9:45 AM UTC
Day
Day after day
after day after day
Day after day
the dawn will wake
and so will I
From a dreary, dull escape
I'll find the strength
to open my eyes
Through the midday height
I'll guide myself right
for better, brighter ways
(a better, brighter way)
When the weary dusk sets
I'll reap due rest
with honest, easy grace
(shameless, graceful, sweet senescence)
Night
Use the day
Use the day
See, the light
never dies
it hides away
Why not try?
Let life thrive
against decay
Star echo
seems hollow
but don't despair!
(oh, use the day, use your love and hope)
Love and hope
shape our world
just as well
(to shape our world just)
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
I can't undo! I'm too taut to lose
a shameful strain, a wired, painful memory
that stresses me to cringe away again.
I know too well what they'd all say:
"Better safe than sorry!"
If I let them down, they'll turn a way,
damning me with folly.
What did you expect
when you held me with regret?
Oh, how could I forget...
How can I forget?
I can't undo.
I can't undo.
I can't undo,
but I can work through.
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
Dearest Heart, won't you assuage
the beat that sweetly plagues my days
and changes them to tearful nights
that blur the dawn's idyllic light?
Cruelest heart, I've had enough
and you don't seem to care!
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
Kitchen appliances hum softly,
logs shift in the stove, an uneasy chorus.
The shower sings too, softly, faintly.
I wish you and I were tangled together
in this inky night.
All of the others would cease to exist,
even the body dancing under the cascade of water,
the body which may or may not have been invited in.
The fire flares up, burns with an indescribable vibrancy.
I can almost see your face close to mine,
lit up by the flickering of the flames,
a shadowdance with all the intricate details of you.
Liplocked, bedlocked, lovelocked.
I have never wanted anything so much
as I want this profound happiness with you.
Even here, alone in this dingy room, I feel it,
the shapes it creates in the staleness of the air,
the near-tangible texture that it holds.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 3:06 AM UTC
The new wind threatens
the structure of what has been
the wisdom of tradition
all our rigid, reverent ease
How can I hold?
Oh, how can I hold when
the freedom from control can expand
chance for wild reaction
naked in the savage ocean
Where did we go?
The new wind could mix
flowing wisdom with this
safe and steady freedom
Preserve what's passed to
help the future last in
any way they see fit
However we hold!
Jun 17, 2011
Jun 17, 2011 at 8:57 PM UTC
Wait just a little more.
Wait for the sun to show.
Wait just a moment more.
Rain makes the flowers grow.
Hold on! Don't lose hope!
Wait just a little more.
Wait for the sun to show.
Wait just a moment more.
Pain makes the hours slow.
Hold on! Hold on! Hold on, don't lose hope!
Wait just a little more.
Wait for the sun to show.
Wait just a moment more.
Rain makes the flowers grow.
Hold on! Hold on! Hold on, don't lose hope!
Don't let this break you!
Don't let this sweep you away!
Patience is virtue when you must choose to shoulder the weight.
Just a little more! Just a moment more!
Hold on, don't lose hope!
Don't lose heart!
Don't lose hope.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 2:41 AM UTC
O! what enthralling beauty!
This love was quite a catch!
And though our dawn burned through me,
those feelings never last.
The edge that I had felt you with
has dulled and lost its shine.
While, once, I wore you well,
something new will suit me fine.
(or)
Fancy leaves an open space
that's turned to Love or left with haste
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 1:43 AM UTC
Through a winter, long and sullen
I've waited for the weather's change,
for songs of love that sit unspoken,
for spring to bring me joy again.
And in my fading ember's light
I chance upon a gem so bright
with heavy heart and fiery eyes
I dream of what could be!
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 7:03 PM UTC
I wrote a haiku, like we did in elementary school
that was forced writing,
syllables counted and not meant
now they are the oars I row with
amidst this sea of gloom
and hormones
and worry
-cj
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
i mean i started writing poetry young
too,
but most it is lost to time,
i haven't kept any of it - the overpowering
surge to become that old cello
player prodigy who just said:
'i'm still only practising,
it sounds good, but i still have to feel
armchair leather with the bow and strings,
or like routing out circles using
the index and thumb to feel a gentle
tickling sensation of skin upon skin
with each finger eating up the other's
fingerprint valleys for champagne sparkles.'
and what i've noticed is that
a poet in youth is primarily trying to
overcome pronoun use - juvenilia output
is primarily about that - obviously the use
of pronouns in any form of writing is
unavoidable - but to overcome a certain
awareness of them is what proves to be
the rolling snowball to spur anyone on -
ever deeper, ever more like a lighthouse on
a rocky shore, rather than as a ship with
many sailors apprehensively readying themselves
to either sail on, or shatter against the waves
should someone not mind becoming the lighthouse;
the sailing on is equated with an abandonment
of writing poetry - the new crew with the same
dilemma of overly using pronouns at first,
later abandoning them to stand firm as a honing
rotation of light.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC