Best Jacketed Poems
she had lost the plot long before in an insane labyrinth of her mind
trapped in the rat race of high speed and the volume on full blast
incarcerated shackled and straight jacketed thumb screws and all
contorting denial delusion and psychedelic support to no valid avail
and the wall of her self-imposed prison was barbed with wire of pain
the maze of synaptic connections discharged commands of unreason
torturous wheels of cognition failed to balance fierce contradictions
twisting and hurting she succumbed to a myriad of fake solutions
turning the tourniquet tight to receive the message of brown sugar
winding serpentine paths misconstrued from temptation and promise
and still the garden remained a wasteland of intemperate indignation
she had fallen off the wagon so many times that the engine had stalled
sinews lay bare under a sinuous array of purulent scars and punctures
a tattered puzzle of perplexed bewilderment awaiting the ultimate shot
the heroine submerged in near namesake poison in face of the needle
as the epitaph neared completion and the funeral cortege proceeded
she prayed and surrendered to a white knuckling ride of withdrawal
dragons danced with cold turkeys on her tomb stone but they refused
to relinquish hope for affronted vultures puked at sight of her ghost and
she recalls near death experiences and abstinence as a miraculous gift
25th June 2020
Categories:
jacketed, 5th grade, drug,
Form:
Free verse
Problem solving at 2:00 a.m. in medicinal hell
The alarm's on the bed so I won't fall.
Really I'm able to get to the bathroom.
The Dr. told me it's okay.
Says the nurse "it's not in your chart."
I think: "God, please get me out of here", but if I get
up, the bells with sound and an RN herd
will race down the hall scolding me all the way
like I was a little girl.
Had their ways, I'd be straight-jacketed,
(safe from harm, other than psychological),
and the nurses could take off their clogs
and stay at their station and chat.
I think I'll wet the bed and buzz someone
Problem solved.
Kathryn Collins
January 24, 2014
How narrow can you make a bed?
Categories:
jacketed, natural disasters,
Form:
Free verse
Like a character in a Dr Seuss book
I play the New Years “Push Me Pull You” game
Daily I stretch stubborn limbs
Into pretzel-like shapes
Hoping to mitigate nature’s downward force
I beg my legs to carry me with a ballerina’s lightness
Instead I’m gratified to lumber like an elephant
But just as surely
Gravity returns each night
Tightening my joints’ screws
Pulling my tendons’ strings
Compressing my spine's vertebrae
Ignoring my pleas
To just stay where I put them
Hips refuse to do my bidding
I say, “Swivel!”.
They reply with a half-hearted twist
Like opening a tin with a rusty can opener
They creak and protest
Surrendering minimally to my commands
I pray for rubber-band arms
As I reach behind to unzip
I receive a lock-jaw response
Elbows protrude in disjointed positions
Instead of a ballerina’s plie
My legs respond with twisted screams of agony
My neck once had backward eyes that inspired terror
In kids afraid of being discovered
Now it is straight-jacketed into a forward position
Like a soldier in a parade line
Afraid to get called-out by the commander
Don’t push us too far my muscles yell
Aches and pains too terrible to imagine
Will be your rewards
If you overextend.
Categories:
jacketed, body, humor, new year,
Form:
Free verse
Three truant scholars spending our sabbaticals
in crisp Colorado, we all re-read Walden,
dared to drink from streams so icy clear
the fish seemed suspended in mid-air.
Our flimsy nylon shelters shielded us
from what weather there was to worry on,
as summer slipped to autumn
and autumn waned winterward.
Four full years past we trekked those trails
through stands of timber frequented by fox,
by birds, by deer -- and by growling grizzlies.
We walked well-wooded hillsides
of mixed conifers and broadleaf.
In deep drafts we breathed the earthy air.
Now, when my son hugs his honey bear,
red-jacketed, black-button eyed,
I see the hellish maw, the bloodied claw,
of the darkish-brown raging beast
that tore off my arm and maimed
two sages, amid the yellow quaking aspen
where, yet, that gory grizzly ages.
Categories:
jacketed, introspection, loss, nature, sad,
Form:
Narrative
Gold- looks like drops of yellow sunshine,
that mesmerize the eye.
Gold- sounds like high healed celebrities,
tinkling down a red carpet.
Gold- smells of money and power,
mingled with the odor of white diamonds.
Gold- tastes metallic, yet unlike brass,
doesn’t linger on the tongue.
Gold- feels smooth and cool to the touch,
not as unyielding as bronze.
A gold nugget looks like a pebble of sunshine,
jacketed in the purest yellow.
And resonates with the accompanying subtle sounds,
of emeralds and blood red rubies.
A symbol of wealth, a gold nugget smells of success,
and is as indulgent as the finest white wine.
Without the tangy taste of brass,
gold feels as tactile as bronze,
with the added resplendent glitter of gilt.
Written Oct.31, 2015 by Emile for "Color - Poetry Contest".
Categories:
jacketed, beautiful, color, imagery, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
As Samuel saw vaulted Xanadu of Kublai Khan fame
In smoke-filled corridors of sweat-drenched Opium-eaters
Did I spy a vision so surreal as to render all my sentient senses to nought
And to replace them with a miasma of arcane thoughts.
I glimpsed of things most unimagined through vaporous clouds
Of effulgent smoke from wampums more confusing
than the peace of amity that it connoted.
Through numbing mind yet not fully suppressed
I beheld many-pillared corridors in a dazzling sequence
Of multi-hued columns - Doric, Ionian and Corinthian.
And through this tortuous labyrinthine maze ran
A languorous limpid stream off a meander
From an ox-bow lake, with a murmurous mutter
As it hop scotched the rifts on the floor.
With Cyclopean vision, floating wraith-like, in the distance
I beheld a dazzling high-domed hall,
The dazzle from a myriad gorgeous maidens
Each draped in dresses so diaphanous as to defy its definition!
And a prima donna sang in sonorous counterpoint to the susurration of the stream.
From up on high like a falcon flighted,
In anachronistic contrast I verily beheld
A jeaned and jacketed - Angelina Jolie!
It was then that I confirmed to myself -
My mind had truly busted!
Categories:
jacketed, confusion, gothic, magic, visionary,
Form:
Free verse
Shirley Brown was a very beautiful girl,
And her brunette hair
Hung down her back
And as the wind blew thru the window,
It waved around. It waved around.
She was making sandwiches,
And was packing them with fruit,
And two massive bars of fruit
And nut chocolate.
She lit a cigarette, picked up the basket,
And with a nod of her head,
Waved her hair backwards
And walked out the back door
Into the alley where,
Propped up against a fence
Was a blue mini-moped.
She mounted the bike,
And with a little trouble, started it.
And the rider made a sudden jump
As a horn blew behind her,
And a leather jacketed youth
Sped by on a butterfly motor-cycle.
People turned away
And the music blared on
And the youths talked on.
Then, a park keeper came
But the youths took no notice.
"What are you kids doing?"
The keeper shouted,
"I've had complaints from all over,
Clear off, wilya,
This is a park,
Not a meeting place
For all the Beatniks in San Francisco."
John Hemmings started dancing:
"Cool it, grandpa, get on,
Get going, don't bug me!"
The kids had gone too far
And they knew it.
Some of them turned away,
As the radio blared even louder,
Litter was scattered everywhere.
"I ain't chicken of dying,"
John Hemmings then said,
"We've got to go on,
ALL RIGHT! Who are the crumbs
Who want to chicken out at this point?
Just take your bikes and go.
We're free people now.
Nothing can stop us,
We'll rule the streets,
The young people will triumph."
He was perspiring wildly
And his black hair
Hung down his back.
It waved around. It waved around.
("For all the Beatniks of San Francisco" is based on extracts from one of my earliest
existent pieces of fictional writing, dating from when I was about 15 years old.)
Categories:
jacketed, culture, girl, music, political,
Form:
Free verse
His hair is alive,
serpents writhing, a man Medusa of the tropics,
as if he wore the demons
of colonialism and injustice on his head,
unforgetting,
a dung-brown-and-black hologram of
the ganja-fueled reveries inside,
the broken record of fight and redemption in his ears
masked by an ancient face, all taut leather,
placid with a sheen of absorbed light.
Bloodshot eyes, not insomniac,
but from the weight of things that, once seen,
cannot be unseen,
scleras color-coding history,
the blood of dead slaves on white.
Yet the heat-chilled island calls a daily truce.
In the shade of the commodious palm tree,
the bleach of sun cordoned by a shower of shadows,
even the gluttony of Babylon
and the promise of Zion can share a siesta.
Looking out to the silvering sea beyond the beach,
exchanging a patois-scented greeting
with two passing brethren whose hair hang like roots,
he puts fire to a fat, white-jacketed spliff,
herb smoke curling up,
rising,
rising,
a slow exodus up into the dusty fronds above,
hung with the fruits
of a tender mantra as,
ever,
the spirit of Marley
sings.
Categories:
jacketed, culture, history, memory, slavery,
Form:
Free verse
the stuff legends are made of mysteries from the skies lightning marks the spot as allusive as the thunder birds cry hidden in the rocks of time one warrior leaped through but many treasure hunters lost never find the clues silver and gold they cannot find blinded by their light like the protector of jealous fire do hidden warriors still fight as he saw the shape shifting men dawn their wings and fly like Hiawatha heavenly messenger The Great Peace they hide guarded by legends some are figures of the true but greedy men search for Jonathan swift's mine too on bloody ground maybe hidden in the blue jacketed hills of Kentucky Wyandotte Shawnee Iroquois Mohawks slayed the stories grow mucky or maybe some other ground may lay far through an ice cave rock art showing compass but in winter they lose their way from Solomon's mine or golden cities men do temporally search not leaving it behind like Boone's trail to seek the true church asking Jesus for truth and looking for the day that ends abrupt do not lay treasures upon earth where thieves steal and rust corrupts
Categories:
jacketed, america, christian, jesus, journey,
Form:
Couplet
I riff flecked about thee august
Autumn Equinox 2018,
this polymath learned why,
September Equinox
will be at 9:54 PM,
which spoiler alert thy
learned (courtesy Google),
when Or Sun Wells
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sky
above Earth's Equator
from north to south), a quiet rye
hit moment occurs
Saturday September 22nd, 2018
(at 9:54 PM Eastern
Time) marks onset
of apple cider
and pumpkin pie
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside
eyesore fissured gash - wide
cleft wound, where hide
ding away from
global abuse decried
as feeble effort
ignoring doth decide
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
where precious resources espied
snubbing, and thumbing nose
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
(falling on deaf ears) plea chide
dismissively mocking (bird
den some) prophesying,
whence creator cried
alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
scathing tragic miss guide
did exploitative testament,
where survival of fittest tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
of *****sapiens)
as Mother Nature dost allied
flora and fauna espied
comprising vibrant biosphere
each betrothed nsync, and guide
ding generic hominids shrugging
(Atlas sized fountain head)
off beholden hide
bound wedded bliss
to the other,
this observer awestruck,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorns terra firmae analogous,
qua expectant wedded bride
named Gaia – resplendent
raiment adorned playfully chide,
when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon
legatee - time ran
out for *****sapiens meaning...
salvation to late for human
knit tee, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar cross bones
numb skull pay fealty.
Categories:
jacketed, 11th grade, 8th grade,
Form:
Elegy
Wrinkle at the line
creams for the age gap!
Holiday in France this year
friends, friends fill an hour.
Or two. Home I say:
danced to nostalgia
in boxes and mind pills.
Then straight jacketed.
Sweet as sultanas
The dreams curbed me in.
A beam houses in Ghent,
One you lived with me
wrinkles our deep lines
for filling water
gaps between here and there.
Yet you & I will see.
Categories:
jacketed, introspection, love, nostalgia,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
I toss fire down your throat
pour you your bullet, goblet to gullet
glass-jacketed explosions
line my wall like church organ flues
ablution for absolution from desperation
libation-liberations for exaggerated exhilarations
bottled fevers for believers
kneel your mind
choose your raptures
you’ve come to my altar
now your blood I’ll alter
shaken, stirred, swirled, singed with little bonfires
as potent a potion as you like
each percent speeds your ascent or descent
your thirst it’ll wet and abet
I have spirits to lift yours
a cure in every liqueur
bubbly for the lively
painkillers for loners
oh, I’ll hear your confessions too
earshot with your liquor shot, on the house
no judgement nor penance
just a warped sense of time to let you unparch your soul
salvage the day
and get ready to face the next one
I’m your friendly mercenary-priest
enforcing a restraining order against reality
one more?
Categories:
jacketed, drink, metaphor, night, people,
Form:
Free verse
SPRING RHAPSODY
Spring
like a harp glissando
infecting the air
showering light-dust
bathes the soul
This sudden hurrying
sung by the breeze
the lyrics moist and determined
Out the door!
with rakes hoes gloves
light-jacketed will
Drops
Mother-kissed
ping!
sting!
Shout!
the newborn cry
Pat a fat pink-bottomed cloud
Categories:
jacketed, nature
Form:
Free verse
Singing trills in delightfully through my window
Perched upon my garden wall sits the little brown jacketed culprit, who
Always greets me with cheerful news
Regaling me with stories resounding from deep within his
Ruffled little chest
Often I wonder, as the years pass on
Will I always leave my window open to welcome in your good tidings?
Categories:
jacketed, animals, friendship, happiness, life,
Form:
Acrostic
White-jacketed and stethescoped,
He clicks down the empty corridor
In his loafers and khakis.
The rooms of patients long gone home
To heaven or hell are dark and silent.
‘Round the corner, the janitor waves
But says nothing, noticing the fatigue
In the doctor’s eyes.
Another day gone by, he thinks.
How many more will go?
Too many terminal illnesses have
Crept in
Taking over.
Out in the lot, the Porsche is waiting.
For the first time in his life
The doctor hesitates
Then,
Realizing his sin
He walks.
Categories:
jacketed, people
Form:
Free verse