Best Jostles Poems
The Jackal's line of demarcation ye souls' furlough for interim...
Today, cockcrows perturb in a gala thrice for thee quiescent stay,
God's Park of Ephemera, sashays the daggled the minder harks,
a chest not in to rest, of dais edicts, cudgels so contagious;
haughty wheels peddle rashly between two havocked hearts,
foisting wintry fobs of progeny pleating to let pigeons exeunt,
if bedlam trotting by pothers ye, the cob, yet calmly sings,
"Fare-thee-well, Oh snowflake in dwindle, hallow me next spring,
via crepuscules, cleaved like vacant aulas crescendo conveyance,
wholly abutting city lights, this chimney calling cannot sight!"
Jolly pedestrians twinge at our capitol! Touring a mindful chance,
Ample of verve, knowing mortuary amblers must get their fight!
"Fountains, thawing ye? Janitor, what does the blind really see?"
tryst squelch time, squirm squander squalors n' ante antiquated feet,
Jocund or beh£s belief! Ye! Behind bellicose belletrists by beggars!
When baubles full-fledged, hast consummated thee to hobnob no more,
jongleur sloshed anchors on mimes bare laid laic stoolie, loupe aims,
Headmost, request lasting breaths above broadcasting fortune n' fame,
Then fated fires the Sniper jostles from home to goad n' prod,
Ye kindred stanchion and I, skimmed, the sunset even with me...
I lie,
on my large comfort bed..
counting seconds,
syncing my heartbeat,
with the tick of the great white clock,
above my head.
What I'm thinking,
even I do not know..
Clouds have formed on my thoughts...
Fogs have scathed my vision,
hence, I cannot see beyond
the goose trail of old memory..
The wind whooshes in uninvited,,,
with a knowing air,
It tells me...
Oh.... I have forgotten..
I sit up.. and shake my head ruefully..
This blankness,, this emptiness..
This menace of internal unknowingness...
It eats me up...
I know something pegs at my unsettled mind.. But what??
Oh!!!! I remember now,,, only vaguely though..
The wind,, it had said something..
Something about sunshine..
Sunshine on a rainy day..
I stand up... No longer able to contain
the powerful synergy of energy..
Inside me, this surge occurs..
It jolts me, it jostles me here and there - So I walk
Up and down the entire bedroom..
I'm getting something..
Hazy formations,,, silhouettes,,, outlines....
Then, the first images appear..
Blurry at first, but..
as time passes... clearer they become..
I start to understand..
But....
Suddenly, I'm drawn back into the past...
I recall,,, I remember... The hindsight is too powerful for me..
I jump up!!!
And in a matter of seconds,,,
I find myself dancing..
This thing,
that boggled my pristine mind..
I finally know what it is..
But I do not have a name for it yet,,
It's,,, it's a tune,,, it starts with a rhythm..
A konga drum,,,, chimes,, gongs...
Then,,, larger, thicker, hide-drums...
Then... A beat,, syncopated and enthralling..
It's fast... Strong,,, daring...
Then...
Dancing steps..
Dancing...
A voice, raised from a variegated population...
Heart,, beating in sync..
I discern,,,,
Yes...
Sunshine on a rainy day..
Hmm...
My mind is full.. It's near breakpoint..
I am now eager to name this anonymous sensation..
I think...
I think...
Yes...
The name falls to my small ears....
It startles me... But,,, I receive it
with a heart full of dire hope..
I breathe a sigh and let the name out...
"Yuletide", I say..
And as I pant, recovering from the exhilaration,,,
A figure, in red and white
crosses my window...
Merry Christmas....
Ascending the mountaintop, drawn to the realm eagles glide,
With unfurled wings locked on a cruise, eyes glistening in the sun,
I heave over the crest of crags, my mind, on the dizzy brow,
Pulled by the dew, the sunbath, the soft echoes of rhythmic
Pitter-patter of dew drops, and the charming panorama.
Above the clouds, glossy dew dribbles calmly, chills summer,
Warms winter. Blooming flowers bow at the whiff of the wind.
Honey jets from hives like milk from udders of pampered flocks.
On the plane, my eyes stretch to where the sky embraces the sea—
Blue with blue in lovers' hug. I soak heaven's elixir!
Earth rumbles, jostles for breath, sinking in the mire of death.
I dread... no! Dare I think of the grumble, the jostling against
One another for what is not, what drains off like rain from a rock?
On the plane, I float with the clouds, tanning in the sun.
© 2015 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
Search of Peace
The love which we seek for others
It only gets lost for us
The breath we breathe is just painful it seems
Heavier we feel it’s just a start
The life which we have are just surrounded with profanities
Little to fear as hearts are plonk
The soul we have just made for jostles
Fostering are tried but nothing came up
The dissemble of heart will go for a fraudster
Reiterate will done who are not snobs
The scathing will just prove schism
Tolerance a big deal may come with entente
picking up his pen, cranking the motor
every grass-plot ready to develop a field
the Farmer jostles on, selecting fertile earth
dust lazing up behind his ink-sower
the sky a translucent tent over his head
the visions he plants
like coarse grain ready to sprout
in the onlooker’s mind
his machine treads parallel rows
each line behaving like another
his machine drops pale seeds
each plant-speck a potential thought-harvest
his machine turns at the earthy corners
each boundary concise and defined
his sowing done at this speckled dye-black field
the Farmer turns his pen to another
transforming the wild prairie
into orderly stalks
waving with whispered timbre
As I ride across the high desert plains
an open, arid scenery whisks by.
The sun is heating up rippled windows
on the railroad train, as it jostles riders
to jiggle, jerk and sway
to the click, clack of wooden tracks
towards Tucumcari, New Mexico
Gateway To The West.
Sounds of the Old Wild West
stir up the imagination
like the great train robbery
of Black Jack Ketchum in 1897
near Tucumcari, where he and his bandits
secretly hid their stash of gold
long before the train whistle
blew near the station.
Clickity clack, or could that be horses’ hooves
galloping alongside the old train tracks?
As desert dust kicks up, I envision ghosts of riders
wild west cowboys catching up
with guns out of holsters
shouting, “Stop the train! Get the gold!”
“Next stop, Tucumcari!”calls the conductor
I am shaken out of my daydream and look around.
Humble buildings huddle within the arroyos
people proud of their Southwestern heritage
for here in the desert you’ll not find a heartier folk
than those who live within this great land
of grit and sizzling sun.
From the morning twilight,
the sun rises too highlight,
a beginning of earthly birthright,
and set about the day,
The light, shining firsthand,
shimmers across the land,
as night feels its strife,
light's behemence to life.
The morning dew,
who once condensed,
decamps into air,
as incalescense prospers.
A light breeze jostles,
a branch in season dormant,
life passionately waiting,
this cold season's debarment.
The autumn leaves crinkle beneath my feet
Their radiant colors dulled
I see the reds and yellows as vibrant as they were
The last time we came here together.
I hold you in my hands,
The way you held me when I was a child.
Your urn jostles softly as I scale the cliff
To our favorite spot.
I open it up, and look at you one last time.
Bits of bone sprinkled in the ash,
Like the time we came here after the first snow fall,
The defiant leaves of abundant autumn
Refusing to be masked by light dusting.
Off the tip of the rock,
I turn the urn,
You flow out over our favorite hike,
As you would have wanted.
We pass through this trail
One last time.
Daybreak’s sun awakens a pristine day
My muse somersaults with felicity
Unmarked canvas thirsts eccentricity
Spring flaunting her mesmerizing bouquet
Flirty summons through a garden gateway
May’s perfume is the most seductive plea
Like an intoxicated honeybee
I jump to greet my first vacation day
The calm after the rain jostles my heart
A swift flourish of aromatic blooms
A bounty of inspiration for art
A rave burst of happiness to impart
Concocting to create precious heirlooms
It’s perfect time to play Spring by Mozart
AP: 3rd place 2020
Submitted on July 6, 2018 for contest YOUR BEST SONNET 2018 sponsored by JOHN HAMILTON - RANKED 3RD
Man, seldom a straightforward animal,
Long lost in the deserts of weariness,
Wants to flee from a life of denial,
Wallows no less still in piles of warm ash,
And feeling hurt, he nurses hidden strife,
Busy harming the self his very own
With some weird philosophy of life
That plunges him in world to him unknown.
World’s in world-wide pain as per German tongue—
Weltschmerz, modern word coined by Jean Richter,
And weltanschauung, one more and also young,
A vast field where the world’s lost in welter.
We see pain, angst in many urchins’ eyes
That beg for crumbs and still cherish a dream,
A look that child's raw innocence espies
Still, aims one day to claim his choicest cream.
Eyes of a house-help show this no less clear
Than householder’s deeply dunk in hardship,
Both dream of making good, both gag a tear,
None of them knows to laugh nor freely weep.
Take daily grind— working in rank odour,
Pitiable public passage, crowded
Journeys, jostles—the rush for earning bread,
The woes of world seen seldom ever ere.
Take a mid-age man, ill at ease, in mime,
And women, hair-dyed, face done up, pushing,
Prancing, pretending having a great time,
What with sad eyes, drunk or doped still showing.
In false bluster, all these men and women,
Unable, woes of their harsh life to change,
Mock at the dangers in a disco den,
And behave in ways bordering on strange,
Running away from reality's face,
Hiding their pain, they try hard to escape—
Escape from this never-ending rat-race,
Yet, cannot stop this reality's rape.
The truth of truth: we all passengers are
On a galloping horse on hire, Desire,
Maverick, even as a movie star,
Rich much as poor, all plunged in a deep mire.
Fortunate few that might face no travails—
The rich Americans— spending today,
Which, for long years their progeny might pay,
Who’d survive this rat race that all us ails?
They that cherish weird dreams and chase mirage,
Not else but very own future mortgage.
________________________________________
Ode |05.10.2011, revised, June 2023| dreams
Poet’s note: Weltschmerz: (welt = world, schmertz = pain), apathetic or vaguely yearning outlook on life, and weltanschauung: (welt = world, anschauung = perception), philosophy of life, conception of the world.
Just when it's set to meld
Jumble shake makes trouble
Jingle crescendo clangs
Jangle bangle rattles
Junking love's blind assent
Jarring discordant doubts
Jostles our hands apart
Rain Reigns
In its current forming and craving hunger,
It forms and jostles every tiny vapour,
Changed them to solid,
White cream cotton-like umbrella cloud,
As the clouds cuddle to each other,
And cluster to catch cold not,
Tired of weighing from the tonnes of load embedded in it,
The cloud surrenders its cohesion,
And starts shedding the weak link of it,
Marching like soldiers' war lorry,
The rain splotches its insignia,
As the raindrops,
Chases each other for the supremacy of splash,
Drip! Drop! Drip, drip, drop! The hungry raindrops cascade,
The rain reign...........
Snowflakes dancing with the wildest wind,
Those to enhance footprints destined.
The Barren moor top in virgin shroud,
Mingles and jostles amid darkest cloud.
Snow on ‘Daughton Heights’ Reflecting,
Gleaming dreaming retrospecting.
Upon one’s journey through drifts bound,
The first imprints honest and profound.
A Whiter shade of pale exposed,
Blanket mist, the sun indisposed.
The Crocus the Snowdrop quivers,
Above ground another dawn shivers.
© Harry J Horsman 2011
Cruelty and indifference
gallops away with the winter's
chill
tight-lipped determination and
venomous fragrance
jostles excitedly to escape
affection and scorn rips me
apart
i want to feign sleep or death
i want to rise up
look my best
bring back the charm
of lost love-tickled days
shriveled by cold
looking harmless or arrogant
in intoxicating promises
he's always true to fickleness
i rise and fall
every time i see him
every time the doorbell rings
Recalling memories was difficult.
I presume, today was not my day.
Theme uprooted, I stood for the branches,
the spirit, the truth, the roots.
Do I see more than what was needed?
Only eyes to eyes speak without words, sound,
vision or reality.
All the flowers have shed their petals. Now
seeds are shining. I feel liberated. The
faultline has defiled me. Bilingual insult.
Time leaves the questions in air, suspended.
You have to find the answers, yourself, in the
debris of arguments.
Bell’s palsy. Face, lips distorted, lids drooping,
speech slurred, you clog
the brain with help of anti-depressants,
how many endings you have seen?
I have not lit my dark cell,
moonlight, mauls the window,
jostles to enter
hurts in my face!
SATISH VERMA