"leafing" poems
Lids open like blooms,
Blush of lips on skins,
Light sparks as we feel
Each touch of impress
Out of dark, into a sol,
Morning on the shores,
With hands leafing new
We branch over water,
Palms unlatch on lochs,
Tied bodies unhidden.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
oh
you
remind
me of a leaf
with each season
you change your colour
until one day you fall to
the cold, bare ground
it may seem sad, but
you add pigment
to the lifeless
soil, still so
very
a
l
i
v
e.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
Counting young women in black leggings
and baseball caps, with ancient letters inscribed on the tops of them.
One-thousand, three-hundred, thirty-five dollars
and fifty-four cents,
for half a year
of friendship.
The damp sidewalk is the stage,
the crushed orange leaves a platform.
Rubber rain boots have only existed for three or four decades.
Holes in an umbrella, holes in mother's boots;
Whatever that man said last night,
whatever that was,
it wasn't an oxymoron.
Leafing leaves, neon green with orangish tips
shake subtly with a light breeze,
and madly with a heavy breeze.
Or is that a squirrel?
Foreground, background, juxsta-
positions;
And I,
just in the right position.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
a person on the metro, six stops from their destination
leafing through a brochure titled How
To Get Rich Quick -
sighing in disgust,
"I was never allowed to go on the metro
when I was young," boasts the woman
sitting beside them, an accessory of
The Scene. a prop
(voice is loud and nasally, and the person - five stops - considers moving)
quick smile, polite:
which means, go away. or, at the very least, don't talk quite
so loud
okay? okay?
a softcover Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is under the seat, discarded,
Sharpie skidding through it (four stops) at every jolt
of the train.
this is normal, all trains are jerky sometimes, and the loud woman
expresses her concerns.
an old man, older than both people,
older than anything really - coughs.
wet coughs.
the person frowns, but quietly, so
the woman and man won't notice.
(they are well-practiced in the art of subtlety)
three stops. the woman leaves
but the smell lingers
and the dictionary, having slid back
one or two rows for effect
a flock of tourists board. kids in the seats
parents hanging tiredly to safety holds
(be still be quiet keep your hands to yourself, mandy
a little boy of six clinging to the person's jacket with
sticky warm fingers)
two stops, and the boy asks why they look so sad.
what they're reading.
they have perfected the art of silence
but little boys don't understand silence.
the mother hovers in the background
sneaking ***** looks at the person,
wax smudged smile going crooked at the edges
one stop,
the boy asks where they got their hair
(my head;
he is unimpressed)
he is kicking the lonely dictionary
providing it with company,
or maybe unaware.
they leave, and the mother hisses something at them as they pass -
clutches the boy's arm.
the dictionary has been stuck on the word spectral for three days,
and the train hums to life.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
I saw her crop a rose
Right early in the day,
And I went to kiss the place
Where she broke the rose away
And I saw the patten rings
Where she o’er the stile had gone,
And I love all other things
Her bright eyes look upon.
If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree,
The whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.
I have a pleasant hill
Which I sit upon for hours,
Where she cropt some sprigs of thyme
And other little flowers;
And she muttered as she did it
As does beauty in a dream,
And I loved her when she hid it
On her breast, so like to cream,
Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone;
Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.
There is a small green place
Where cowslips early curled,
Which on Sabbath day I traced,
The dearest in the world.
A little oak spreads o’er it,
And throws a shadow round,
A green sward close before it,
The greenest ever found:
There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove,
Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.
1.9k
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
1.9k
Rhythmic
Tearing
Cow on grass
Settling rooks
Cross sky
All around
Sound playing
Scent
On wind
Descending
Sun
Gold leafing
The horizon
Obscuration
Veiling arc
And furrow
Crop
And shadow
Poplar lined
Fields below
Quiet here
Above
A moment
Passes
Contrast sharpens
Trees recede
Into darkness
Sun bleeds
Into Earth
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 7:18 AM UTC
Our milky way galaxy floating thru space
its translucent circling orb alight
alive prana the dots of energy minature Stars
holding hue beings space travelers
in the darkness of space revealed
as prana we exit the womb living creation
the light orbs milk awaits us
this cosmos existence adores surrounds me
centering life in Earth the Eco-system
apter genick learning cells fighting extinction
imperial magistrates a re-leafing of stress
brought on by diet and habitat pollution
I reach into the sky aware of space travelling
regions the path prana exists in homes of love
to hold the consciousness of life the Universe
allows the roots chosen thru the cosmic life
in the living consciousness of love love
the binding force of all nature reactions living
for the one of all the great quest for Eternity
the beings of prauna sending cosmic messages
for the quest of being a Star is the mighty
life, has no god to rule it forth
ruled by the life creation alive
alining thru time and space all
the the orbs come together
the life energy of the future survivial
the mothers apter genick learning
of cells to reach all of life
to come together as one being
the one for ALL
a story to tell how will we survive
our pranua each life orb a moment divine
seeking you out listen feel the calling
life of humanity eternity the wailing over
you are here to be replaced
just visit to continue onward
life is pleasure open life to receive
live the moment of egg and seed
the burst the rush rises and goes in a second
the prana of life creation memories
that lead to channels of new being
one drop of you or ten moment upon moment
orbs dots of you swirling translucent
being the created in light of a moment
here we are manifested in a body a hue being
of light and dreams working out a scheme
to be eternity prana living the joy
the love of a moment for ever
to travel in time to be renewed
a change from born again
Eternity of love the orb of prana gjmars 6/10/15
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
Heart's cover sealed in burgeoning prime
Fading leaves folded in the book of time
Follicles of love blanched on the pages sublime
Billowy blades dulled with eroding sands that modulate and slime
Bleached, seamless threads spliced in the deep recesses of my mind
Glossy words overgrown, strangled with thistle and thyme
Each, dilated syllable devoid of reason and rhyme
Each segment underscored with a stagnating byline
Every, amorous allusion deconstructed; devoid of design
Each, sterile refrain resounds a doleful chime
Remaining, truncated edition a lapsing memory; requited pantomime
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
did because i well jeez 10:23 farther steeper i'd was a outside 10:24 a junebug
is creaking on the well like a fine cylinder. it's because steeper or 10:27 clunking
a light of amiable is sort of. at 10:31 a common a cool the. into if.
a very sorry long is diacriticly loose with the scab of lunging trees
by the barn 10:31:53 is . it's was almost because i did i well jeez
the june is a crimped fine determined juice. did it seem because or and a breif
i s haloed somewhat or creaking a junebug is big for by the stalls shuffling with legs in the sort of barn by the 10:36 it's gabled a bit. or does it seem a because well did i and meyou. pm well it were 10:37 and longest brown is seemingly. otherwise unmarked a phonetic element. by a 10:39PM leafing softly
the scuttle a. unnerved little scraping. beneath or metatarsaled cadence a the grassed stripping earth went from the basest mouth of timbered certainly to the unskinniest blue. a vanity of wheels or because well did i jeez
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 12:19 PM UTC
The mighty Atlas, father of those seven sisters,
Bears the weight of heaven on his broad shoulders.
And even one of the brothers three, lives eternal;
In Chaos realms, Tartarus' black abyss, in which
No soul returns, to gaze upon life's light once more.
Although, forgive me, I lie; a few, a few selected,
Have returned from amidst heavy woe, pushing
Down their sorrows. Orpheus ventured,
With sweet song, motherly ordained and with divine,
Unrivalled skill on his lyre, seduced Hades himself.
I too, challenge his great powers; and with her skirt
Flapping with speed, ride on Auroras saffron chariot,
Cooking the sky's dark covering wings, to a baking red,
While the sun gallops up, stampeding behind our cart.
I play, not keen, to act the fool, and lay these pale ivy
Laments in front, which my lips have yet not touched.
I place you in the centre, forests following, clear streams
Flowing as crystals sway on its surface; and yet,
I have not put them to my lips; but keep them by.
I praise not this, but sing, because together we sit
On this soft green grass; now the woods are leafing,
Now the year is at its loveliest, the cheeky girl
Pelts me with apples. Presents are laid up for my Emily,
I myself have observed where doves make their nests.
I'll pick ten apples, picked from a woodland tree,
And for you, I'll pick ten more tomorrow.
You breezes waft a word or two to the gods' ears
And to my pure white seraphim, for her to hear.
I love my angel most of all, for when I left,
She wept and said ‘So long, love, so long.'
Wolves are sad for the folds, rain for the crops,
Gales for the trees, and Emily, me for you.
I love my muse, let him who loves you share your paradise.
Let honey flow from him, let roses blossom
From his pores, to pick flowers and earth born strawberries,
To dip you, in springs of tears myself. My love is ruinous
And the sky extends no wider than my heart.
Say, in what lands the flowers inscribe your name,
The name of goddesses; for who fears the sweet,
Or feels the bitterness of love; let them drink their fill.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC
Candied black licorice.
Hair made of silk.
Memories mix dissolve meetings
Of love's labor of leering.
A warning between the moons.
She said her name in a whisper.
I knew by her eyes that I couldn't keep her.
Nightingale look razor strap barren.
Secrets between two torn in caring.
A can full of roses.
Dog dares in a moment.
Build me a fire
With two seats and the stars
We can look off in the distance
Not caring how far.
Since then I've never been able to hold
A thought longer then three seconds.
Leafing through these worn pictures,
Seeing these faces red and blistered,
I try to recall what I was feeling back then,
And what letters I wrote and what I didn't send.
Cabin alone up on the mountains slope
I take my canister and my four foot rope.
The sun's behind me, big and bright.
Gotta' make camp before the fall of the night.
When my name was misery, everyone knew me.
When my name was love, not a soul did.
When my name was honor, no one even bothered.
When my name was jealously, everyone writhed righteously.
Telling doorman upset by the Autumn;
He says it is too cold for him.
I - taking the things from its pockets -
Offer him my black, woolen pea coat.
He huffs and puffs and leaves,
Without even a word being spoke.
A simple sentence can change the world.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
I feel safest wrapped in
Darkness
Solitary,
Voluntarily.
Shut my eyes and experience the
Colors,
Under covers,
Fast asleep.
(I never asked you to be next to me.
I never told you that I couldn't feel.)
And I feel strangest
In the daylight
In the sunshine or the shade I am
Opened like a book
For leafing through.
My ink melts and leaks
Off pages
Until
Descension,
Depths of ages
Passed and to come.
Again I am one.
(I never asked you to
Let me in)
Cloak of blackness
Masks malpractice
Sets me free.
Solidity,
Shattered as the sun
Beats me awake and I am
Shaken,
Naked,
Young, Dumb, Prepared to Fake it
Let me be.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
My muse, my muse,
She’s here right now
She just took a shower and her hair is still wet.
She's wearing a bathrobe, she walks up to the bed and sits
When she crosses one leg over the other I catch a flash of her thighs
Inviting thighs, long legs
She has pretty feet
And pretty ankles,
I always look at feet.
She has delicate wrists
She has long thumbs, here she is
Now leafing through a magazine
With those long thumbs,
Long fingernails.
Her shoes are on the floor, shoes that she wore last night
They've fallen over on the carpet,
My eyes find my way back to her
She seems to have found something interesting in the magazine
Here she is, concentrated on it, her back is straight
In this light, this natural light,
Without make up,
She looks impossibly lovely,
Renoir would paint her.
I get out of bed and walk into the shower.
There’s something strangely intimate
About taking a shower in a girl’s bathroom,
Shampoo bottles and hair conditioners all around me
Water cascading down my bare chest
Recollecting and replaying scenes from the night before:
Unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them off
Seeing her Hello Kitty underwear
And laughing, and thinking it was cute
And saying, umm… so how old are you again?
Humour always works, yes, humour always works.
I love ********** this girl.
It seems as though I'm always ********** her.
At night in the living room, on the sofa
Unfastening her stockings and slowly rolling them off,
Next her skirt, then her underwear…
Sweet parting flesh
I begin thinking of how it’ll be, how it’ll go down
She's always in something classy,
But man, it seems as though I'm always ********** her.
Sometimes I strip everything off her body,
But I ask her to leave her earrings and heels on; they confirm her nakedness
Hoop earrings
Red lipstick
Red heels
I lie in the middle of the bed, lights are dim, she climbs onto the bed
Curls up between my legs, begins by kissing on my stomach...
Great lovers lie in hell, the poet says.
Great lovers lie in hell.
I'm falling asleep afterwards, but not her
*** invigorates me,* she says, tying her hair in a ponytail
This girl, she has the effect of lighting a matchstick in the dark.
She lays beside me and begins to read Jeanette Winterson
And just before I succumb to a deep slumber I remember something and tell her,
Baby, baby, baby, your Morse code interferes with my heartbeat.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
T’was the night before Christmas
And in his outhouse
Sat Ja quietly listening
To waltz’s, by Strauss.
(Really, he was leafing thru Penthouse)
The ******* was fitted
With all manner of lights
That couldn’t be missed
No matter what heights
When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter
Ja, kicked open the door
To see what was the matter
So there sat Ja
With his pants pulled down
His *** in a hole
On his forehead, a frown
He leaped up so quickly
Through the doorway to pass
Tripped over his pants
And fell on his ***
Then flat on his back
His bare *** in the snow
He looked up to see
The roof all aglow
Poor Santa had landed
On that, small, sloped roof
But there wasn’t enough room
For sleigh, and each tiny hoof
Ja had decorated everything
So the outhouse, shone bright
And Santa mistook it
When he arrived that night
The reindeer slid off
Were hanging by their straps
And Santa had saved them
By grabbing, the roof *****
Poor Rudolph fell the farthest
Boy, was his nose beaming
Just then, losing his grip
Santa started screaming
Fly Dancer, fly *****
Fly Donner, fly Blitzen
Don’t let me fall into
This **** Ja was fixin
Then just like magic
They started to float
And Santa, raising his fist
Did this warning shout
Be very careful old man
I’ll get you some day
Stay alert Christmas Eve
Don’t get in my way
Now, each Christmas Eve
Ja, won’t step foot out that door
Cause he knows Santa is waiting
To even the score
BOEMS BY JA 18
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
Look outside with the brightness that is within my eyes.
Taste the tea that is warm and sweet. Vanilla flavored.
Hear the song playing within my ears. It resonates.
As the songbirds fly in the Cloudy skies overhead.
The leafing trees waving eagerly, bidding that we both step outside.
Into the woods and wild lives of other eyes.
Don't be afraid of the unborn seed. It germinates.
Growing us both taller than the trees.
For love is in the sights and scenes which we both have seen.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
If you were a spring without flowers,
probably that all my trees
would be lethargic.
If you were a wind coiling without leaves,
possibly all my trees would be already fallen,
and if you were a sky without its sun,
certainly no other tree could
germinate to grow from seed.
And I could not be able to exist any longer,
for I am the forest.
But in the snowy winter that would follow,
and in the churches with empty bells,
not ringing in the frost,
God would be still existent.
But you were my springing spring,
my whispering leafing wind
and my sunny sky.
And, in the winter,
in your absence,
I did not cease to love you while
craving for the melted snow,
craving for the blossomed trees,
craving for the ringing bells...
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
The forbidden fruit
Plucked by Eve, but ruined Adam
A soft, delicate, luscious Madame
Teasing, tempting
Seduction in a look
So it was covered, hidden
"Try and forget what's forbidden."
And still she haunts
Testing, trying
Tickling the senses
Until he drops all his defenses
How about the fruit
Which wanted nothing but
To be a fruit, not a ****
Leafing, blooming
Ripening in time
To grow warm in the shining sun
One of many, not the forbidden one
And still she hangs
Lovely, golden
Dozing, hoping to awaken
To not be the one forsaken
Once she was
Not the one blamed by all
For every single grown man's fall
Teasing, tempting
No matter what she does
Every motion carefully made
To make sure the game is played
By the rules
Lovely, golden
After all, with fruit so sweet
How could Adam refuse to eat?
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
I will spend
the rest of my days
leafing through pages
to find new words
to describe
you.
And when the words
run out
and the pages fade
I will trust the silence
between us
to be imbued
with every desperate yearning feeling
of amorous love
I ache for you.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
She stood there quivering,
Then about to speak the unspeakable,
Unbinding her tongue she opened her mouth
With a few words and a quaint sob escaping her mouth
Stood there blinking
Not knowing what to speak pain unfurling her heart
She looked at his eyes directly but could not even sound her pain
In anger he broke the silence and without any thought
He pulled out his knife and there she stood with her eyes filled with tears
Trying to speak what she couldn’t express
With her tongue out she uttered o’er there… and stopped
Lost in anger he cut off her tongue
Without being able to utter she stood unspeakable
For ever hidden
Behind the wound she hid her pain
The culprit walked free
He did not know that behind her pain
Was a greater wound than just this wounded tongue
Her eyes pleading to the cruelty of human heart
She held her heart and head high
Lost in thoughts to tell him of her story
She started writing her diary
Often up from her bed late at night
She dotted many a line
Words filled day by day
Lost in pain and writing
She finally grew out of it
Learned that her body is just a sheath
Beneath its layers lies a deeper soul
Untouched and full of promise
Weeks passed by and months followed
And she was fully ready
To tell her story of pain
Nobody was interested
But she parceled her diary to him
He had missed her a lot
And he knew it was his loss
Then this new turning
Surprised he stood in silence
He had her gift
Unbinding he was so eager
To reach for its content
To his surprise it was her diary.
Leafing through the pages
A thousand words buzzed his head
Not knowing what to do
His hands started shivering
And the last page turned open
I was ***** and the man is o’er there
It echoed: oe’r there, oe’r there
Realizing his mistake he cried out his heart aloud
He had wounded her double
Knowing now why it was unspeakable
How hard it was to speak
He begged her forgiveness
With a smile on her lips and warmth in her heart
‘Unspeakable’ she stood watching him.
-------------
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
For her eighteenth birthday,
a gift from the fates;
she knows how she will die.
Before, there was a vague notion—
A shadow cast by a hungry dragon
who roosts on the branches of the family tree,
devouring her ancestors, waiting and unslayable.
Now, the diviners speak to her in pedigrees
and punnett squares, leafing through a deck
of tarot cards, checking vials of her blood
for patterns in the tea leaves at the bottom,
hardening the shadows at their edges and
twisting peripheral horror into prophecy,
a promise, and she sees it all,
she sees everything, laid in front of her
and stretching out like a golden string
towards the vanishing horizon:
The sharp burn of dread at every twitch
and missing memory, jellied elegies oozing
from the center of others’ puffed pleasantries,
years spent watching her soul
get thinner and thinner, trapped
within a broken heap of matter and flesh,
cursed bone, misfiring electricity,
eroding endlessly, self destructing,
never ending, ending soon,
and, at last, alone, gazing back on a youth
spent gazing forward, ****** and dying
and derelict, and decades in the making—
she asks herself, what would she not give
for the chance to unknow,
to trade the dragon for the slow, soft lull
of the indifferent stars,
and to die whole and confused,
like the rest of us.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
I need you yesterday
ripped up from rope burns in my
darkling bedroom and
finally able to get out of the sack with some
semblance around four
leafing already? I asked the twilit
mid-june trees and the
cicadas in their infinite whirring
forgot to answer
all I know is that they spit
electricity like the demons spit
hair lice they
laugh you in the face
a yearsfromnow dream—
the kids playing
fifty-two pick-up
in the garage;
don’t ask me what else
you have up your sleeve, baby
that’s enough
card tricks for one night.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 4:43 AM UTC
#*Today is done
Tomorrow is to come
Life is to Live
Death is to come
Leafing through the chapters of life
Savour every Moment
Sugar and Spice
Recipe for Life*#
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 4:14 PM UTC
The tree stood like a soldier at ease,
Like a slowly exploding electric wire,
Like dendrites grabbed out of the brain and magnified,
Like a shout becoming a thousand whispers,
Like a train track diverging,
Like a telephone pole,
Like a shoelace untying,
Like deaf people clapping,
Like a book with the pages leafing in the breeze,
Like an umbrella defying the sky,
Like a policy splintering into regulations.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC