"memos" poems
I once saw my Brother in a Mirror
Begged half-score on a Verse; Now it came True
And so it did with my Attitude falter
Neglected the Duty I had for you
This I wanted Gold. God was indeed Frustrate
For the Trailing Ignorance I commit
My "I" the Traitour; In me such self-hate
For Pop's Face-Memos I saw in Good Bid
I was wrong. If the Clock-Father can reverse
And mend my Riches to renourish you
The Ethyl on your Hair; The Lamp on your Nurse
And all Bumps mended on your Friendship true.
You are the Technocrat sworn to a Vow
That you Love me Un-Conditioned somehow.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
I don’t freestyle.
I write my things down.
Though I wish that I could spit when I talk **** and pitch in metaphors so quick they zip right past you with a swing and a miss.
That’s why I pick up my pen and pad, or my phone if it has a charge,
Go to the memos app and find a knife that is sharp.
Crack open my rib cage and pull out my beating heart.
Squeeze that ***** dry till it bleeds the right part.
But this prune has no juice now.
This prune has no use now.
Its beats have no sync it looks gray, old, and used out.
It burned out its pacer, and its fuse just fused out,
It’s excuses?
That I used it when I couldn’t use it.
I abused and confused it.
It gave me all that I wanted but its plasma was useless.
So much material came night after night.
Every time it gave more. I just brushed it aside.
My table was covered with all my insides,
But none of it perfect. None of it right.
I squeezed and I squeezed till my fingers went numb.
The nail on my index was cutting into my thumb.
Desperate for a punch line to make the crowds go dumb.
Screaming and owing these ******* gonna come.
Too caught up on what they wanted I let my heart dry.
Too caught up living their life I let my heart die.
It turned out that turned up turned into a lie.
I turned into some one torn from their real life.
Now I’m resting my heart for a while.
It’s in the hands of a misses that cares for it now.
That’s why I don’t freestyle.
I write my **** down.
-J.Cruz Hernandez
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
I wish you lower your Glasses a bit
Then try to witness what you have Ignored
For Praises Sundry are much apt to meet
Though such Configuration keeps you bored
That you, a Technocrat I'm not surprised
Such Mages and Bards you kindly eschew
For whatever Purpose which you advise
I'll take as the Brother I always knew
And I'll LOVE you still; No Set Values bake
Since your Blessed Genesis I do voice
This is not a Tomb; Nor white-painted make
But another Graced Name I will rejoice.
Now it's up to you, which you interpret
On Pop's Face-Memos the Meaning you get.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
potion lost by unknown souls
effervescent masturbatory master debater
creationism is masochism told from the horses ***
past blast take my soul
make me whole and complete
separation anxiety is ***** envy
memories of mental memos crash past rushing fools
used and abused on cruise control
I misjudged your guided thistle
because missiles are meant for drones not home-oh
listen to the seedless man cry for his dead *****
tediously miserable always unforgiven
what lies hidden within the door
could be a deserted desert dessert
like an after dinner breath mint
or a succinct lunatic on the brink of such destruction
may be distraction fight or flight action reaction
marilyn charles though more bronson than you
Aren’t thou marked for death
broken gasp choked sob
undergod slaughtered in an abandoned euthanasia clinic
euphimistic innuendo more like in your endo
indoor marijuana smoke makes the colors run
my american flag has flown and fled
please jesus save our country bumpkins
napkins go in the lap not as hat
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Moby **** geometry, physics.
Study every subject everyday.
Homework is an indicator of future success.
Success is not necessarily happiness but it helps.
Freedom is to formulate your own definition of success.
Happiness is an imaginary tree, its own reward, and a fact.
Facts and fiction may be memorialized in memos or found in dreams.
The story starts thus: Each summer the honeysuckles and the
huckleberries . . .
The web is that extra brain we've all been dreaming of having.
Like jumping 4 meters or flying without a plane.
To fly like that must one first have homework?
Some say yes, some say don't. It depends on how you vote.
Happiness is what happens when everything that happens
Fits the time perfectly and it's all out of your hands.
Not exactly. You don't let go of the steering wheel while driving fast in
the passing lane.
You look left and right and check your blind spots.
Homework is an introduction to everything you're not
And all you do not know. It's supposed to help you learn to know where
you want to go before going where you have to go.
Otherwise you end up on Ulzana's raid
Bleeding, without a bandaid.
All the achievement in the world won't relieve your loneliness
Or satisfy your ****** longing. What girls are like behind their eyes.
Survival, procreation. That's all there is to love.
But the loved one is the one who can be trusted with your life.
Whether Christ or your wife. The Muslim moms.
On my walk in the woods I come to a sitting spot
Above a small gorge cut by a stream through hemlocks.
Here someone has left a statuette of the Buddha and the flags you see
Flapping in the wind at sky funerals.
This is a pretty good place to sit quietly and think about homework.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC
My dear, it rained last night
And I remember
The alleviated rise into
Lush sobs and lavish emotions
The way your dilatation relieves
Every worry and anxiety
But sometimes when we speak
A violent lie radiates
And last night you were naught
But an alienated virile sot
A view unholy I omit
I remember the tin roses on the tiles
Devastated, shattered.
Sometimes you hum
Your hands delicately miming secret memos
And I can see it in your eyes
Irises shining like teal devils
And the music carries you
White with adrenaline, pupils likes violists
Headwaiters lie, strumming tin violins
Their alienated visions wilted with passion
I see the way she cleverly conceals
Lies as vows to you
A veil called "us" she puts on "me"
And I call for mutiny
But youth is vim, vim is now, and now is lies
Every hug from you is just a violet whim
In noisy rooms
My vision is misty
My aura dies little,
Oh if only you could realize your reign
You’re the master, the ringleader
But you’re lazy; you work without zeal, you’re idle and lazy
Eyes glazed, agile hands getting greedier
Have you ever seen
A dearer lion?
He roared, the lonesome rider
Alone, an alien.
Well sometimes you lie
And I dare to become
An oral denier
My radar detects one lie,
Then two...
You become red
Redder than a ****** lion's ear
Adieu, you say, with a gently undefined lilt
My tears speak more reality than your words
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
I want to tell this to you now. But I could never find the words to tell you. I wrote hieroglyphics across your eyelids, stapled memos to your chest, and flew banners in the scenery while you dreamt.
Translations of these words alone will not be sufficient enough to tell you what I want to share. I... Miss you. I miss you like a front tooth on picture day.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
my only dream now
to return to the old preppy garments
and the boisterous hallway
with friendly arms around my neck
breathing the whiff of boisterous energy
to feel the brotherly armor
the friendly kiss of peace
the high jinks
the giggling and throaty beats of husky youths
the naive maturity of free thinkers
filled with optimistic hopes...
Save! what a misery it is to know
to know that my juvenile years
can never return to me.
I pity thyself.
Oh how quickly time fades!
but memos forever remain.
I was only an invisible spectator.
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 2:11 PM UTC
before going to bed it is to be checked thoroughly
if there lays any carbon-paper under the bed-cover
now-a-days some upstart pelicans become so
disobedient it can not be assured if they come
to know the whereabouts of the blood easily
from the copy of the heart
then they distribute the delirium of the high-heel moon
by writing cash-memos at the gate of the locked-out plant
the hundreds of thousands of white clouds
also drink the whirl-water of love
they touch to feel the freshness of the habitat
they touch to feel the can full of smiles
after the explosion they touch to feel
the bier of the deodar-birds
covered with tamarisk plants
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:38 PM UTC
I see thoughts scattered on my desk,
By the window on the crest.
I see memories pasted on the wall,
Along with memos and notices from them all.
I see colors making their way,
To the papers crumbling away.
I see the black ink blotted today,
From last years accident, but the scars remain.
I see my desk will its way,
To beckon me to come,
and write my way.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
If the Messiah they need is a woman
Convince them only men are holy.
If the Messiah they need is black
Convince them only white is holy
If the Messiah they need is same gender loving or non-binary
Convince them only heterosexual is holy
If the Messiah they need is proud
Convince them only humility is holy
If the Messiah they need holds knowledge in their left hand
Convince them the right hand is holy
If the Messiah they need has a ten point plan of righteously defending one's self
Convince them that the only holy answer is nonviolence.
If they ever one day happen to believe that they can define:
Self
By Self
Through Self
Of Self
Convince them that holiness is only attainable through a message and belief of:
Holy and selective Prosperity
Holy and selective Favoritism
Holy and selective
Elitism
If they ever happen to look in the mirror and one day love all that they see
Convince them that the holy standards of beauty deems every and all that makes them what they are ugly
If they ever happened to one day realize that the Messiah that they need is within all of them as a United People
Convince them that the holy Messiah can only lay in one person per generation and then publicly assassinate the person that they believe
Or you have chosen
To be their
Messiah.
© Christopher F. Brown 2018
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
He was the type of boy who wrote memos on his hand because his skin absorbed the words better than paper but they soon came off when he scrubbed her of his skin and from under his finger nails.
Nights are getting heavier and the sky is darker and it feels like the stars could swallow you whole but you have to keep moving.
Memories are long and painful and shots of your image like knives are imprinted on my skull and i can't seem to shift what appears to be your apparent state of mind. Oh what a funny way to live, not knowing if the leaves are turning brown or if our veins run blue but we can't see it.
It's not about me, you see, i can't control my mind it's not full of fields where daisies grow no more. It's full of the thoughts you should run from and people whose hearts should not beat but we must ignore these factors for i am still human. And my blood is warm and my skin is warm and so is the sun. Please love me and show warmth to me too.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
*So where does she go when
she's been fingered and drugged,
abused and sexed up?
That's right, the end of the bar
where they'll never find her,
let alone kiss her.*
Tucked behind her right ear,
blonde hair fell as if a tear
from cheek to chin,
bowling ball to bowling pin;
stacked at the other end.
This poem is for you long-blonde-hair-behind-the-bar-girl, written down by paper and pen.
Your quilted jacket,
leather in material,
won't keep the cold out;
only a white-stick-arm
will warm, guide and
ignite you home.
Fill the wardrobes back up again
with hangers plucked and picked from the
carpeted floor.
Lay the lover down amongst the sheets
only the whisper sweet thoughts and memos and
kind words in low tones
into her ear.
Kiss her neck and grace the thigh,
build
up
the
courage
to
last
all
night.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
A heart waits
While sifting through the questions
piled high in a mountain of doubt,
reaching heights beyond belief
and scraping ceilings of torment
A heart waits…
Now tiring quickly, loosing strength,
finding the walk longer than you expected
Closing one eye to find the other does not see
and falling to dark corners of fear
A heart waits…
As volume amasses upon weakened shoulders,
and pain breaches the avenue
of store front sale signs
on locked door close outs
A heart waits…
When it all seems too much,
memos become lists of forever paper,
words scratched in blood ink
of empty pens spilling
A heart waits…
If you have found that point
where your mind says no more
and you feel that nothing will ever be enough,
please remember…
A heart waits…and that heart is mine
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
It's being told to go to bed at three in the morning.
It's a stained mug of coffee,
refilled again as you wonder,
"When did I last eat?"
and then carried into your room,
sat next to a bag of chips and a used-up pen.
It's walking into school the week before and slipping into a haze of equations and dates.
It's a binder full of papers that you swear you just cleaned out,
notes on topics you've forgotten,
memos from the principal about events long gone
which you read because they're a distraction.
It's sprinting home because a second spent away from your books is a second wasted.
It's finally getting home and crying out,
"Who gives a ****
as you stare at an equation
for the flight path of a spherical chicken,
for the synthesis of some chemical from some other chemicals.
It's missed club meetings and missed socialization.
It's misery in it's purest form.
It *****
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
i cant read
so i just write
i quickly become tired
with your work
i would much rather pace
wear down the blades of grass
in the familiar place
i cant read
because while the graces of poets
philosophers
and scholars
make pretty the page
syllables dancing
atop meticulously pressed parchment
while this happens
through their beauty
i only think of you
toss the tome aside
and imagine all the ways
i can express
the things that capture and drag
the fingertips to their home
back to the place where i feel full
loved and laughed at
where i carouse and cherish
this was never about the "reads"
never about the ratio
of lit to likes
it was only ever about me writing
you love letters every day
ten max though
fact is, half of these ********
scrawlings these
are returned to sender
but crying alone
is far better than pretending
pretending you were never upset
and begging for something you need
begging doesnt only work if there is a listener
i cant read
i cant read our future
i cant give you house keys
a front or back yard
a cat box
a leash
i cant read
i write.
all 106 of them
garbage some think
but its garbage
i sealed with tears
and stamped with a kiss
spritzed with cologne
(if i wore it)
i cant read
star charts
memos
concert bills
calendars
no parking signs
or the expressions of cats
but i can write
pour out every guttural spasm
scribble every inspiration
leer and laugh toward
a glowing screen
mute and accepting
of the drivel banged out below it
i cant read
i can write things though
some things
good things
things
see what i mean??
i cant even write.
"things
good
things"
hay-seuss x-mas!
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
As I reflect on my experience of you
I remember the first time we met.
You were placed in my arms.
As I unwrapped you, you opened one eye,
Sized me up and went to sleep.
In that moment I got to see
The being you truly are – PERFECT.
Unfortunately it was not long until I got caught up in the role
of what I thought a parent ought to be –
Which was not to become like my parents.
I started working on the long list stored in my mind.
The memos that began with "a parent should not"
Somehow were the easiest ones for me to repeat.
Luckily in time, with your help,
I realized I was reflecting myself on to you.
With the result that I was behaving in an inappropriate manner.
I'm now sorry for the pain my ignorance caused you.
Me reflecting my inadequacies on to you,
was my attempt to teach me what I had forgotten,
And that was just how perfect you are.
I also had forgotten how perfect
I was when I too arrived on this planet.
So the game of parenting had begun.
Your training began with me teaching you my faults
which of course I was reflecting on to you.
You in your quiet way stood your ground
and showed me what I wanted to see.
What I admire you so much for,
is that you remembered who you are,
you began teaching me life as you saw it.
I was a puppet in your hands.
With each lesson you taught me,
I landed up richer in experience
And my mind was stretched
into seeing a different aspect of truth.
Today I am able to ask "What is truth?
What you taught me? is that truth is what it is.
And when it comes from an open mind
and a loving heart it is always kind and supportive
and that there always is room in it for growth.
I think that I known that when you were younger
you would have had an easier time.
You gave me so many wonderful opportunities
of seeing life through your innocent eyes.
The games we played together
and the stories we read enabled me to see
many other aspects of life,
As you sponged up experience and knowledge
I little realized that I was absorbing things anew.
The person you are has made me a better person
than I could ever have been without you.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
*Get me a dictionary.
Poetry
Is sorcery to me
Sometimes.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
this space this place
a shelter from the weather
wind the rain unclothed
the deer would huddle
in habitual restlessness alert
except when in the forests’ deepest
dark their great pale eyes would close
today this sheltering of souls
does not escape the weather
but life’s maltreated pattern
its daily flux and disarray
to sit in this observatory
of evening sky’s condition
seeking only quiet and rapture
on high-backed benches
settled as giants enthroned
pale orange light above our heads
glows within an architrave
to reach across the funnelled
ceilinged surface to the aperture -
a heightened vision of the sky
we close our eyes prayer-like
to meet our solitary self
where teeming thoughts begin
mind images stream
discarding all intent and reason
until we raise our lidded sight
to this single square of sky
travelling the past and triggered
by undetermined thoughts
speech ringing in the ears
words flood and spawn
so intense this skied perfection
we are drugged towards
a kind of sleep: time waits
then a wakefulness resumes
and all is sound spun turbulence
from trees above that calm and fill
replacing or confusing thought
inside the noise of rising wind: a single
oaken leaf is tossed within the chamber
where it skids and quivers at our feet
unlike the deer who lack imagination’s marvel
we take our thoughts outside this present space
this containment empty of distraction save ourselves
our so-slightly shifting hands buttocks heads limbs eyes
towards a nether world we have no words to share
the salient features of this dreamscape we might glimpse
that is ourselves: distinct alone apart beyond
slowly shifting colour from grey of day to blue of night
the small square accumulates ephemeral
memos sent from our seated selves perhaps
to fly with the wind-tossed crows to roost
somewhere in nearby trees we cannot see -
with the handshake of Friends the meeting ends
and out of silence shyly we reconnect with speech
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
This brick.
This bulging pocket of blue jean.
This song player, noise maker, memory saver.
Eternal space.
Secret keeper.
It's my life, this brick.
You think you can touch it? have it? hold it?
Let my secrets run along your nerves and scurry in between your brain cells?
No.
I would rather die an ignominious death and
rot a thousand years in the sea than
watch your eyes scan my life.
Search the deep caverns of my soul.
Watch your heart scream and hear the echoes of blood curdling madness.
Your fingers would burn as
you caress the suggestive sentences.
back and forth and
it comes naturally.
Sad truths.
Depressing facts.
You'd rather pour acid on your
eyes
and have them turn to
dust
than read the conversations,
I swear.
The ability to chirp
and make it appear as if it came from my own mouth?
Ridiculous.
I do not believe in ventriloquism.
Weak images
your eyes cannot behold.
I would feel exposed.
Like "The Woman" bathed
in wool and cloth and silk.
And under memos?
The secret to how my brain works.
Why would I desire you to know the short cut
to my vulnerability?
The grey box to my wiring and the scalpel to my heart.
It's the way my soul thinks.
And you can't know that.
This brick, bulge, memory saver,
it's my secret keeper.
The fidelius charm cast over my own self.
The secret is kept within
the very soul of my secret keeper.
Giving the password up is worthy of death.
You will never hold its life on your hands.
You will never see my
soul.
You will never know my
heart.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Tonight,
I am posting memos on the dark side of the moon,
where words spewed in wrong states of mind
can be swallowed up
spit up
into black holes
*******
expressions tasting of bile
and last night's ***** twist.
Tonight,
I'm shooting up
on spite and resentment.
Getting blazed,
blitzed,
baked.
Getting blasted off
to outer space.
And no one
can hear me
scream
Tonight,
I'm scribing prayers
and miracles
that would never be worked
if God is the god
that I believe God is.
Lists of hopes penned in anger
and hedonistic impulse
carved over
the memories
of my deep,
penetrating love.
A love that was like
the sword
that Judas fell on
because he had too much
faith
because he had too much
love
to see Love
(that's the god I believe God is).
But tonight,
there is no grace
And God
I am not.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
**PAPERS! PAPERS EVERYWHERE...
AND NOT A* THING TO READ!**
The thing I remember most about being in the Sea Organization at the Hollywood Org were all the PAPERS! Directives as I was to find. That's what they called memos. We were in a branch of L Ron Hubbard's private little army don'tcha know. Everything, therefore, had a military bent. More specifically we were in the navy. There were personnel who were labeled "bosons". And there were people with the rank of "Supercargo". And Commanding Officers. Actually, LRH would have liked us to be thought of as MARINES. Navy Seals!
He was really THAT egotistical. HIS title was COMMODORE. Yep. His overweening pride took him THAT FAR.
ANYWAY. So there was a storm of paper. Directives EVERYWHERE! Piled on desks. In inbaskets. In boxes. On filing cabinets, which were woefully insufficient for the veritable blizzard of PAPERS! I was forced to read these. DULL AS DITCHWATER. But I was given my own little pile, and a dictionary. Any words I didn't understand could be found in there. I was to look them up. And an extensive memo about the meaning of the Scientogeese which I was to learn. There was an entire LEXICON of THAT, let me tell you! More on that later on. AND we we didn't have TIME to read anything ELSE! Our day was filled with CHORES.... or reading of said PAPERS.
Then I began to notice the other "personnel" around me. NONE of whom appeared to be HAPPY. They were a grayish sort. Looked like the sun very seldom glanced their skin. Glum, yet (for all appearances), VERY dedicated. Then there were folk who seemed to be separate from the other workers. They wore filthy dark blue or black clothing, appeared to run everywhere, and address everyone as "Sir". They were called the RPF. Rehabilitation Project Force. Remember that unit and its abbreviation. For they are to loom large later in my narrative.
But there WAS one person who brought sunshine into my otherwise dreary world...
MARILYN.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
you have to remind yourself that it won't always be like this. that someday approaches (probably faster than you think) and when it arrives, it will wake you up at 6:00 a.m for work you could do better at 9. hopefully, you'll enjoy it. someday will keep you fastened to a desk and cramped in a cubicle, your fingers typing out memos and emails and spreadsheets quicker than your legs ever carried you during your middle school mile. someday might chase away the little things that nudge you in the back of your brain when you remember that there is a world outside your window. someday will make you wish you had the luxury of being nineteen on summer break and calling yourself bored. and someday will come. maybe tomorrow or maybe a few years from now, when you trade in your textbooks for road maps and your goals for yesterdays.
but right now, here you are, calling yourself bored. you are not bored. how can you be, when you are nineteen on summer break with cinnamon hair that has just been kissed lighter by the sun? when you still have fictional characters to cry over or philosophical paradoxes to ponder or world hunger to solve or even just a heart that is still in need of breaking by a boy across the sea. you can't stop someday from stealing peter pan away from your bedroom window and diminishing neverland into a castle of ashes, but you can remind yourself that it's just some day. and right now, you have an infinite number of them in front of you, just waiting to be seized.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC
Two people
Two hearts
Two states
FaceTime
Text
Voice memos
Laughing
Crying
Indifferent
I miss you
I love you
I need you
Hello
Goodbye
Comeback
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC