"knotty" poems
I'm in that desperate mood again
Where me, myself am not my friend
I pull my hair, I scratch my skin,
My feet? Too small. My waist? Not thin.
I want to scream, be someone else.
With softer hair, a nicer face.
I hate this stupid mirror
I wish I could just run away.
But from yourself, you cannot hide.
With my less than perfect body.
With my less than average brain,
My need for makeup, hair that’s knotty.
I know I could be better
Or you never would have left.
There MUST be something wrong with me
Some bad thing left unkept.
Or maybe you did look past my face,
Though ugly as it is.
Maybe I'm just a stupid freak.
With weird ideas. A downright geek.
Times like this I wish I could just cut my wrist.
But I cant. Too many promises.
But I dream about it night and day...
I wish I could just fade away.
Not like anyone would notice,
Or wonder where id been.
Nobody would ever question
Why I was never seen again.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
A ten foot high
sunflower man
gold capped
tooth in
his mouth but
there ain't no plan
yet him wearing
them knotty
dreadlocks again
walking himself
through
Black Folk's yard
in bebop-style
no doubt
along the
avenue road
smoking himself
some of that
sweet sweet gunga and
him full of himself
rasta man
young rapster
you rapscillion
did you bring
the juice
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 10:05 AM UTC
(I Could Not Knot a Knot.)
My tale is one of tortuous frustration,
when two ropes caused me aggravation,
and my every effort resulted in a situation
that left me in a state of angry indignation!
Oh, what a knotty problem I had got,
when I found I could not knot a needed knot!
Though needing help on how to knot a knot,
no one I knew, knew how to knot my needed knot!
I had two short ropes - which I’d a need to knot,
and which I’d knot together with a special knot,
but it never worked, for the knot did not knot,
and my knot came undone! I felt such a clot!
Firstly, I took the ropes, which I twisted tight
together, but still the end result, was not right,
for when I tugged, the knot, not only fell apart,
but showed no sign of a knot! Making a fresh start,
I took one rope, and placed it firmly under
the other. This was so easy, I did wonder
if my actions should have been reversed,
for it too fell apart! Oh, how I cursed!
Seems tying knots is not for faint hearts,
for any knot, that’s not knotted, soon parts
when it’s put to the test! That I’m not a knot
expert, you can tell. Truly, my forte is not
that of being very good at tying knots,
for I do not understand what knots
need, to keep them from falling apart!
Tying a knot right, right from the start,
is important, and that’s why my knot
was not reliable, but why I did not
understand. Yes, I’ve tied many knots.
but they’re knots known as Granny Knots.
Other knots are what folks call a Slip Knot.
Then there’s the Turk’s Head - a special knot,
as is the Cat’s Paw, Clove Hitch,and Bowline.
Truth to tell, - none of these resembles mine!
Then there’s a Timber Hitch, which is a knot
that truly puzzles me, and not an easy knot to knot!
There’s many other knots, that need the greatest skill,
such as the Hangman’s Knot - a knot that’s made to ****
Whilst the sheepshank? That’s a tricky one to see!
So many knots, but they’re not knots for me.
Methinks of all the knots, the one true knot for me,
is the “Lover’s Knot”, which I have tied successfully!
Rhymer. April 24th, 2018
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
if words are food for the mind,
then here is a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then here is why i'm so pained.
abandoned, abhorrent
abnormal, absent
abstract, abuse
addicted, anxious
betray, bitterly
blank, blasphemy
bloodless, breakdown
breathless, brutal
captive, casually
catastrophe, cautiously
change, cigarettes
crucial, clueless
damaged, dangerous
deadly, disastrous
disheartened, disconcerting
dramatic, dreading
eager, eccentric
ecstasy, eerie
effete, effortless
embittered, excess
faded, failure
faintly, fallacy
faltering, fatally
fearfully, finally
garbage, gawky
gibberish, gloomy
gone, goodbye
graphic, gratify
hallucinate, harshly
hazy, heartless
hectic, helpless
hesitant, hit-and-miss
idiotic, idly
ignorant, intimacy
illogical, imaginative
infatuated, intoxicated
jealousy, jittery
journey, journal
joylessly, judicial
junk, juvenile
keen, killing
knavish, knocking
knockout, knotty
knowingly, knowledge
laborious, lacking
lame, languishing
lifeless, literature
lovelorn, lugubrious
madness, maintenance
make-believe, malaise
mean, melancholic
mellow, melodramatic
naff, naivety
nameless, naturally
nauseous, nebulous
neglected, nervous
oasis, objectionable
obliged, obliterate
oblivion, obscurity
obsolete, one-and-only
pacifist, pained
pale, panicky
paradise, paralyze
passionately, passively
raging, ranting
rationalize, raving
realistic, reasonable
rebellious, reckless
saboteur, sadness
sake, sameness
sanity, satisfactory
scar, steady
taint, tangled
tasteless, tearful
telling, temperamental
terror, theoretical
unaffected, uncanny
uncommon, unconsciously
undesirable, uneasy
unfortunate, untidy
vaguely, vanish
vanity, vanquish
versatile, vicious
violence, voracious
waiting, waking
walkout, wanting
wasteful, weary
withering, wrecking
if words are food for the mind,
then you've seen a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then no wonder i'm so pained.
-djs
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
i dream of a soft release
a gentle letting go
of responsibility, duty, life, love
the vintage film flicks and flickers through my mind
knotty, spotty, black and white frames
me, hiding behind long strands
hair, shrouding like a confessional booth
a pale, slight hand
a glinting of metal
an intake of breath
a waterfall
a lifetime of pain
pouring
flowing
slowly fading
gently falling
ending
pain, fear, finally ending
i'd finally end
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC
Mummy used to buy me hair grease,
for my hair was a seismic wave of crease.
The scalp crying sweat,
the tantrums were the onset.
Wide tooth comb have mercy on the nots,
nests of lies and cheeky clots.
The flurries of dandruff deposit,
the skeletons in the closet.
Mummy brought out the blue magic,
the long strands thirsty to become ethic.
Such a wave of moisture,
like the silkiness of an oyster.
A perfect layer of braided Cornrows,
blended amongst the tropical mangoes.
Mummy says to me you’re a woman now,
be prepared and ready to plough,
the knotty hairs of your little ones.
Go and buy the same hair grease,
to ensure their naughty traits mature into peace.
Justine Louisy
Copyright ©Justine Louisy 2016
All Rights Reserved
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 1:38 AM UTC
This branch, this life, the tongue to taste
the bitter of the pinecones. Best
to request permission for my heart to skip a beat,
dare me in February from here to west.
Woodstove fire - ash and flying ambers -
dries the musty grain of cedar essence.
Dancing smoked perfume is rising
Slowly - an inverted lava river.
Its sharp soft teeth the alphabet dismantle
back-taking life to its primordial matter
as history became the final institution.
Why did the idol have to burn, its thorns devoured,
Knotty eyes of wood in mind imprinted -
starry firmament on my sub-conscious?
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
Broken for some time now,
As the abhor is no good to me,
Proved me a counterfeit personality how?
Feeling bilked, she said to me.
I wanted to regret to her,
But she won the argument with the same technique,
Asking questions, made me felt reprehensible,
But her expressions were so unique.
She left me in the dark holes of the universe,
When I needed her the most,
Kept waiting for her to absolute me,
But the time had already gone.
Took time to plaudit myself,
But ended up making things knotty,
She was my lovely talisman,
Who made me realise how hypocrite I'm.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?
My father's voice in the back of my head,
saying, forget that I'm dead and if you
can not do that than pretend.
I am standing
just outside the gallery
beneath the shadowy bough of a birch.
The moon is floating in the sky's dark lap.
Faraway I can hear the ocean sigh.
Now father, I am asking,
what smile are you wearing?
What color are your eyes again?
How many teeth have you lost?
Don't you think I want a kiss.
Perhaps I don't. Perhaps I don't
want to stand and pretend you
not dead while the wet, champagne
mouths of the living tell me how wonderful
your paintings are.
As they crook their fingers and strain their necks,
lose their vocabulary inside the artwork's depths
and colors.
Father, I want your reputation to outlive the pursuits
of others with their iron-on reviews after an hour's
worth of browsing at a lifetime of your work.
Father, are you crying?
Stop that sound.
2.2k
She gets impatient
so quickly,
even though
I've told her
things worth
cultivating
take time to grow.
That she's always unsure
is all she really knows.
God had already
given her a sick
set of six strings,
so she sold her
steel body to the devil,
to do what he will with it.
Now they
resonate
together,
one howlin' wolf,
all through the night.
*Haughty,
naughty
necked
girl,
Why would I
write you a jewel,
or a star,
when you already
are one?*
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.
The rain starts to fall.
To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
Her bag and telephone
would
match
but for a shade.
The rain starts to fall.
Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
the under side of an old mattress.
The rain starts to fall.
Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.
The rain starts to fall.
The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.
The air is cool.
There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.
Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.
Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.
"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"
Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture
why is everything matching?
(they got off at the same station)
Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.
I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******
I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.
This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.
The Art of Conversation.
An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.
Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.
The train conductors voice is boredom.
I mistake ambient noise for music.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
Two wandered brazenly up the hill
and trip-tumbled down
faster, faster still,
while sheet lightning licked
at its manicured toes.
Once at rest
one woke up,
the other not yet,
waiting for a signal
of safety, safely he sleeps.
She waited on him
noon and night
as raindrop breezes blew by
from short summer showers
and cream daffodil skies.
They're laying in the field
awaiting the arrival
of Eternity:
she sits cross-legged
while caressing his brow.
"It must be fear," says one.
"I'm just comfortable here,"
comes reply.
The truth is,
he wants back up the hill,
wants to descend in butterfly spins
again, 'til spiderwebs and weeds
fill his knotty chocolate head,
and his sweet lover sings
of everlasting green.
She dead-still waits
while golden trees die
and powder begins to fall
on a hill never to be tumbled
the same way again.
She dead-still waits
while he heavy slumber sighs,
ear cupped for the call
on the hill never to be tumbled
by the two of them again.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
cease awhile
and hold commune
with his fabrication
and admire
every cordant note
of a symphony yet unwritten.
t’was a nymph
saw i a-Maying
her comeliness
beggared the reach of art
outreached my arms
to touch her tidy traces
alack, gone she
in the mists of morn.
the moon-kissed bed
was light and life
with verdant dewy leaves
astride the speechless
mountain tops
a journey was begun
to rain again
his darts of gold
to every waiting one.
the blanket of
the skies was azure blue
on limpid waters seen
along her hurried way
she dropped those
gaudy flowrets beam.
saw i her locks
in every nodding palm
‘neath the tropic sun.
t’was birds do counterfeit
her melody the
rustling bamboo stole.
they utter now
sweet words of love
as winds doth
beat and blow
the roar and rush
of the swollen river asks:
what is it to you?
sprightly now
the winged ones
from bud to bud alight.
athirst, searching for that
self-same delight.
the crown of earth’s
flowing seas of grass
its mighty arms apart
attentive to the
incoherent whispers of
the breeze that chances by.
what now
messengers of the skies?
what saw you beyond
the floating clouds?
what find you at the
end of the rainbow?
what secrets lie hid
in yonder hills?
pray tell this
to the hurling spar
of the ever-running brook
for down and down and down
she goes to her anxious
ocean-brother.
could she have paced
the grotesque shore
to appease the bleating sea?
now she laps up
the sand-white beach
now she beats
the rock-bound shore with
shrill indignant murmur.
the shore and plain
nod assent
nay, my search is done.
twelve knotty hours
of day are gone and still
my find is none
to tease the gloomy
brow of night
aflame is all the west
in its expiring redolence
my happy nymph adieu.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
~
two, knotty, tongue tied bights
outlast a loosely untied blight
~
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
Imitation is the ******* of creativity.
So where for art thou romantic silopsisms?
Meta-physical lotion, rubbing Prufrock's
bald head. Where are the errors, syntactical?
Intimation is the blow job of canon,
The body, electric, ******* on Mt. Abora's
Cliff face. Short syllabic thrusts put the pallet
in trouble. Sharp edged thoughts caught in the throat of the speaker, leaving them mush-mouthed,
Sentimental.
The poor rhyme scheme, literary analysis 101
feet, and meter abandoned for fun,
Or played with weakly piling on what will
Fit neatly enough in the bottom swill.
Unrequited love notes, star-crossed cries,
Knotty tangled sentences to explain the deep ties,
Out of focus snapshots of pixilated lives
Even this bad poem, escaped the editor's knife.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
Ignorant; not a care in the world (~)
Holy socks drag on cracked sidewalks
She had a pink shirt,
Or what seemed like it was once pink
She wore a smile & talked to her friend
I never saw him, but I’m sure he’s nice
I swear, her jeans never came with holes,
She’s too young to sport that fashion
Her face was the moon, not the cheesy one,
but pale & distant
Her hair, matted and knotty like dad’s unused
twine ball sitting in his toolbox
Did she have a brother?
Where was he?
I’m sure that unclothed Barbie in her hand needed a Ken
(~)
Reclined with their hands dangling over ashtrays,
where the only entity in their mind calling for their attention
is a liver-punching depressant.
Where eyes open for another hit,
and close to the cries of their children
Tonka trucks make snow angels in ash covered carpets,
Walls inhale secondhand sadness; stained with the tears of neglect,
Unmade beds and unfolded clothes shower their unpaid apartment,
Eviction notices pinned to the fridge with
crayon drawings of “daddy”,
Her request for another beer echoes the empty room
& it crosses her mind
“where the **** is she?”
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
A cabin den
paneled in knotty pine
slick with thick varnish
jellied in mid-ooze
& running down the grooves.
A festive group gathers
around an electric fireplace
talking up old work stories
in mid-December.
My dad sits dead center
for the camera
wearing the face he wore
when in the company of adults
his long sleeves rumpled
and his collar askew
one arm straight up,
a bottle of Blatz in hand
commending
the buzz.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
Father, part of his double interest
Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me,
His jointure in the knotty Trinity
He keeps, and gives to me his death’s conquest.
This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath blest,
Was from the world’s beginning slain, and he
Hath made two Wills which with the Legacy
Of his and thy kingdom do thy Sons invest.
Yet such are thy laws that men argue yet
Whether a man those statutes can fulfil;
None doth; but all-healing grace and spirit
Revive again what law and letter ****
Thy law’s abridgement, and thy last command
Is all but love; Oh let this last Will stand!
1.4k
i wait in Skye
with eyes singular
nil feet in tides
my mind in rapture
when you do come
i shall be got hearing
lost in knotty shell
under the stars crying
*i hold in tides
deep as love will drown
at edge of night
a moon in Skye to be found*
with tides who *****
where invisible birds
break to the shores
in blackness of hope
lunge for dearest light
that opens in dream
real as my not body
waiting to be held
*i hold in tides
deep as love will drown
at edge of night
a moon in Skye to be found*
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC
My Dad built a whoopee room in the basement of our house, that's what we called it back in the fifties, basically it was a free barroom; he worked tirelessly, tiled the floor, knotty-pined the walls, built a Formica-topped bar, with foot rail, and a pool table center stage.
At one end, he pasted and framed with the utmost care, a life-like mural, a bucolic scene of mountains, pines trees, some guy canoeing across a deep blue lake, right underneath an eight foot, padded bench to sit, toss a beer, gab Red Sox, Pats, Bruins, Celts.
The guy could make anything, fix anything in his neat as a pin workshop, totally in control, competent, a rack of tools, his innate ability to figure out, you name it, he’d fix it, in hands-on kingdom this man did it right, measured twice, cut once.
In the Mr. Fix-it realm my father welcomed me, drew me in, shared his man in the know ways, I fetched his tools a quick study daughter, I observed knew ahead of time, like an operating room nurse ready to assist the famous surgeon at his work.
But then without prior notice he’d grow silent, retreat, drink copious whiskey shots, get mean, angry, tried to outrun the never good enough farm boy he once was, this love starved kid would engulf my honest, hardworking, overly sensitive, insecure father, then we all suffered his childhood trauma all over again.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
As for me
Forgotten whispers of a
Brown-eyed hooligan
Penetrating ancestral burial grounds
To the twisted knotty roots of
Redwoods that tickle the
Earth's core
Til glacial groaning
Wakes wind and waves
Til tickled crusts of
Ash and earth
Burped bubbles of biologic froth onto
Forest floors
Fertilizing forth-coming fruits that
Fell once more to the floor
In the motionless dance:
The return to the Source
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
Reckoning gaze, learning ropes, knotty pine encasement, knowing what the box looks like from inside is preeminent inimitable. I was so certain last year would be it. Likely even, I thought the same the year before and years before that, all whilst whittling away, planks of this coffin, scratching to get out. Sealed in a fate, this vampiric rising, doomed to eternity of night crawling. Yet, by no means has glamour of Hollywood realm flickered any sheen, this direction. Not all vampires can afford tuxedos. Grosgrain lapels, and red satin lined capes do do wonders for former stars of silver screen, but this succubus prefers his naked lot. Apparently, malignant rogues who lie amongst worms don't always have the wardrobe to go with it. New Year's resolution: a tuxedo, perhaps some tails, and somewhere to wear them.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
Step One
Feel the bare mattress scratch against your thighs
and moan in self-pity ‘cause it hurts like a-
Rub broken knuckle stubs into your temples.
Stretch out one two three toes and pretend not to taste ashes on your tongue.
(Forget to brush the cancer out of your mouth again?)
Step Two
OPEN YOUR ******* EYES
Oh don't be so ******* self-righteous.
Use scarlet nails to probe Scarlett pupils,
wipe away the morning slime and marijuana high, because
quite frankly, no-one wants to see that.
Step Three
The carpet has another puke stain.
Lovely.
Step Four
Walk around Carpet’s new addition.
Choose to be Superman- leave lights off.
You're not Superman.
Bump in T.V. stand, dressing table, fan.
Jesus Kid. How many more bruises do you want to acquire?
‘Sal right though. They’ll fit in just fine.
Step Five
Bathroom.
Violet fluorescent bulb-ly lights that nobody likes.
Twitchtwitchtwitch.
Come on now- when’s the last time you’ve changed them?
Yellow **** not surprising.
Step Six
Wow. You have not gotten any better looking.
The poetically inclined ****** with knotty curls
and a brazen face your mother likes to call
Darling,
is staring from that cracked up mirror
into your pink, anemic eyes.
And man.
Even your ******* reflection wants to jump ship.
Step Seven
Where are your shoes?
Socks?
Step Eight
High school really is Hell, huh?
Keep your head up Kid; or down…
Last night’s hurrah is still evident
in those washed out, glazed eyes rolling
around in your head.
But don’t worry-
you’ve got a small token of the American Dream
in your back pocket!
You didn’t forget did you?!
Ah- Happy Birthday Kid;
enjoy your ******* oxy-
and try to stop shaking.
You look a mother ******* drug addict.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
Personally, I think we Australians and Guests
Have lost the War against the Terror of Coffeeism -->
The sheer, unadulterated Facts on the Ground
Indicate to me a whole new Generation of
Spoilt little brats and bratettes immune to Reflection -->
A Generation of "Can-Doers" and "Will-Doers" and, my favourite:
The "F**K-you-I'm-going-to-try-to-do-it-4-myselfers."
Bully Beware ==>
I may have stuffed up when I wrote the
"Poem" about nothing leaving the 20th Century -->
What I meant was that WAR (my God-given special
assignment/atonement) needed to be contained
within the struggles of MCM - MCMLXXXXIX.
All the Great Inspirations and Fundamental Studies
Had/Have/Will Have already been scrutinized -
Only the Fine-Tooth'd comb was needed to untangle
The knotty issues and remove the well-hidden
Vermin infecting our consciousness through the
Trapdoor of the sub-conscious -->
Eventually - and I certainly didn't think it would take so long -
Not only should we by now have Tagged and ID'd
The Parasitic TICKS, but also rid ourselves of the more
Communicable LICE at the end of the School yard.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
~
*she's thunderstorms.
she's asphodel meadows.
I fall outside of her
into the suburbs of askew,
where she hides behind
happy occident, where she
lives with the afterlife of a man,
but is in love with a scientist.
a jaded thing, she likes
to drop anvils on her
husband's head and blame
her fragile scaffolding,
she wears the wreckage
on her face, it's far easier
than admit her own fallacies.
before the children came along
she was able to pour some
of her own frustrations
into these knotty tussles.
now the midwives have left.
now misadventures in her
own backyard commence.
no hiding place down
the front of her,
the remaining secrets
come from underneath.
but if you trust her
and go along, she knows exactly
where to lay her hands.*
~
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 12:36 PM UTC